Myrmidon

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I can do this, Jim Chapel thought.

It was going to hurt. But he’d suffered worse pain before.

A loud, buzzing noise startled him, but he forced himself not to show his surprise. Across the room, the tattoo artist was cleaning out his equipment and sterilizing his needles. The tattoo gun buzzed again, and this time, Chapel was ready for it.

He exhaled deeply and pulled his shirt off. The tattoo artist had been briefed about Chapel and didn’t show anything more than casual interest as Chapel’s left arm was revealed. He’d lost the original in Afghanistan, and the army had replaced it with a prototype robotic prosthesis. It was covered in silicone skin that was airbrushed and studded with fake hair to look just like the arm he’d lost, but the illusion stopped at his shoulder, where the arm flared out into a wide clamp that held the arm on his torso. Chapel flicked the hidden catches that released the arm and removed it, then set it down on a convenient table.

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