Fragments of Another Life

Consciousness returned to Hwak like water seeping through cracks in stone—gradual, reluctant, bringing with it sensations he couldn't immediately reconcile. Morning light filtered through the settlement's perpetual industrial haze, casting strange shadows across the familiar walls of his home. He blinked, disoriented, as his mind struggled to bridge gaps in memory that shouldn't exist.

The date displayed on his worn chronometer couldn't be correct. Two days missing—evaporated like morning dew, leaving behind only the residual ache of a body that felt somehow foreign to him, as though someone else had been wearing it.

A handwritten note lay on the table beside his sleeping mat. His father's distinctive script—economical, no wasted strokes—informed him of an unexpected job opportunity requiring travel for several days. The settlement's informal economy often demanded such sudden absences; opportunities arose without warning and disappeared just as quickly if not seized.

Hwak rose gingerly, each movement triggering cascades of pain through muscle groups he hadn't known existed. His gaze drifted across the room, catching on an object that seemed fundamentally wrong in the context of their humble dwelling—a detached cybernetic arm, its complex mechanisms partially exposed where it had been violently separated from its host. Beside it lay an ocular implant, its lens still faintly pulsing with residual energy.

His heart rate spiked. These weren't ordinary settlement salvage—these were military-grade augmentations, the kind that cost more than his father might earn in five years. More disturbingly, he had no recollection of how they had come into his possession.

"Dad must have found them in the scrapyards," he reasoned aloud, the sound of his own voice providing tenuous comfort. "A lucky find."

Yet even as he formed this explanation, a feeling of wrongness persisted. The cutting-edge technology didn't align with the typical discarded materials that found their way to settlement scavengers. These components hadn't been disposed of—they had been taken.

Hwak catalogued his body's complaints: bruised ribs, strained muscles, minor lacerations across his torso that had partially healed. The physical evidence suggested combat, yet his memory offered nothing to substantiate this conclusion.

"I need medical attention," he murmured, wincing as he stretched. "But first..."

His hand moved instinctively toward where Soniya's sword should have been, finding only empty space. Alarm jolted through him. The weapon—his only real advantage at the academy—was gone.

He searched methodically, checking every corner of their modest dwelling, but found nothing. With each empty drawer and barren hiding spot, anxiety tightened its grip. Without the sword, he faced the prospect of returning to Neonspire weaponless and vulnerable.

As he contemplated his options, Soniya's voice seemed to echo in his thoughts—practical, slightly mocking, oddly comforting in its familiarity. The memory crystalized into decision: he would take the cybernetic components to her. Even if she couldn't fashion him a new weapon directly, perhaps they could be traded for something of equal value.

His enhanced shoes, miraculously still in his possession, remained drained of energy. He donned them anyway, alongside his least conspicuous clothing, and carefully packed the cybernetic components into a worn satchel. The weight felt significant against his side—both physically and symbolically. Whatever their origin, these items represented potential salvation.

The settlement streets seemed unchanged despite his mysterious absence—children navigating garbage heaps in search of salvageable components, adults moving with the particular weariness reserved for those existing at the margins of society. Yet Hwak perceived these familiar sights differently, as though viewing them through a lens that had been subtly altered. Details previously overlooked now registered with unexpected clarity—the socioeconomic stratification evident in clothing quality, the carefully maintained territory boundaries marked by subtle gang symbols, the way settlement dwellers instinctively gave wide berth to academy security cameras.

He limped toward Soniya's shop, each step a negotiation between forward momentum and the protests of his abused musculature. The summer heat pressed against him, an oppressive weight that exacerbated his discomfort.

"Hey, mister lover boy! Where have you been hiding all this time?" Soniya's voice cut through his introspection. She leaned against her shop's entrance, arms crossed, expression oscillating between annoyance and relief. "Suddenly remembered me, did you?"

Hwak sighed, lacking the energy for her particular brand of confrontational banter. "Take a breath for once. One question at a time."

"Your tablet break down? Couldn't send a message?" She examined him with narrowed eyes. "You don't look good. Got my weapon, decided it wasn't enough, and spent the charging time looking for better options?"

"Are you physically incapable of shutting up?" Hwak snapped, surprising himself with the uncharacteristic bite in his tone. "Is there a pause button somewhere? Let's get inside, then I'll explain."

Something in his demeanor must have registered as abnormal, as Soniya's eyebrows rose fractionally before she stepped aside to admit him. Once inside the relative privacy of her workshop, Hwak carefully extracted the cybernetic components from his satchel.

Soniya's reaction transcended shock, progressing immediately to suspicion. "Where did you get these?" Her voice dropped to a whisper, eyes darting toward security measures only she could see. "Who are you working for? Is this... is this blood? Did you kill someone?"

"My god, will you just—" Hwak began, then modulated his tone with visible effort. "I found them in a scrap heap," he lied, the words feeling strange as they left his mouth. He noticed his own hesitation, a momentary pause between thought and verbalization that hadn't existed before.

Soniya hadn't noticed his internal struggle, her attention completely captivated by the components. With practiced efficiency, she secured her workshop, activating signal jammers and disconnecting from external networks.

"Basic security protocols," she explained, catching his questioning look. "These aren't ordinary parts." Her fingers moved with reverent precision across the cybernetic arm's surface, accessing hidden diagnostic panels. "This is military-grade augmentation—black market value easily five million credits."

Hwak's breath caught. The sum represented freedom from the settlement, from the academy's cruel hierarchies, from the daily struggle against systems designed to maintain his subordination. "We could sell them?"

Soniya's laugh carried equal parts amusement and incredulity. "Sell them? Are you suicidal? These components are serialized, traceable. If they belong to any significant clan or organization, we'd be primary suspects in their theft. Best case scenario, arrested. Worst case, our entire families quietly disappear." Her expression hardened. "No, we're not selling these. But we can use them."

Fear coiled in Hwak's stomach, a sudden visceral understanding of depths he hadn't consciously explored. Whatever alternate self had acquired these components had placed him in a dangerous position—one with implications extending beyond his personal safety.

Soniya, unaware of his internal turmoil, had already begun disassembling the arm, her focus absolute as she extracted components with surgical precision. "I can build you something better than that basic sword," she said, not looking up from her work. "Something worthy of these materials."

For ten hours, Hwak watched her transform military technology into personalized weaponry. Despite his physical discomfort, fascination kept him anchored to his seat. Soniya worked with the focused intensity of someone performing sacred rites, her movements economical, her occasional explanations concise and technical.

When she finally straightened, satisfaction evident in her posture, two weapons lay before him—twin daggers with subtly curved blades, accompanied by specialized gloves and a pair of tactical glasses.

"These aren't ordinary weapons," she explained, demonstration mode activating. "The daggers respond to electromagnetic signals from the gloves. You can throw them and recall them within a ten-meter radius—like a boomerang, only lethal. The glasses provide targeting assistance."

She had also modified his shoes, upgrading their existing capabilities. "I've added magnetic polarization to the soles. Activate this function, and friction between you and the ground reduces nearly to zero. You'll be able to glide across surfaces, even up vertical planes if the material contains sufficient ferrous elements."

Hwak tested the equipment, marveling at how naturally the weapons responded to his movements. The daggers flew with deadly precision, returning to his grasp with a satisfying snap as magnetic attraction pulled them home. The shoes allowed him to slide across Soniya's workshop floor as though it were ice, maintaining perfect balance despite the reduced friction.

"There's just one problem," Soniya said, her expression sobering. "This equipment will register on Neonspire's security scans. The academy monitors all weapons and enhancement technology. If they detect unauthorized modifications..." She left the consequence unstated, but its weight hung between them.

"Bring me your academy uniform," she continued after a moment's consideration. "The surveillance systems are integrated into the fabric. I might be able to find a workaround—no guarantees, but it's worth trying."

Hwak nodded, carefully securing his new arsenal. The weapons represented more than tools—they were tangible evidence that he could adapt to circumstances beyond his understanding, that gaps in his memory need not translate to vulnerability in his present.

As he prepared to leave, Soniya caught his arm, her expression uncharacteristically serious. "Hwak, whatever you're involved in—whatever brought military-grade cybernetics into your possession—be careful. The settlement exists at the margins precisely because we don't interfere with upper-level operations. If you're crossing those boundaries..."

She didn't finish the thought, but she didn't need to. The hierarchical structure of their world wasn't merely social convention—it was enforced through mechanisms of violence typically invisible to those at the bottom, revealed only when boundaries were transgressed.

"I'll be careful," Hwak promised, though the irony of pledging caution regarding events he couldn't remember wasn't lost on him.

As he navigated back through the settlement's labyrinthine pathways, new weapons concealed beneath his clothing, Hwak confronted the unsettling possibility that the memories he lacked might be more significant than those he possessed. Someone else—something else—had acted through him, leaving behind only fragments from which he must construct understanding.

The question that troubled him most wasn't what had happened during those missing days, but rather what might happen when—not if—the architect of those lost hours returned to claim his body once more.