The Change is Yet to Come - Paws not Feet
Story by Gruffy on SoFurry
Robert's getting frustrated by his physical limitations.
The Change is Yet to Come - Paws not Feet
*
by
Gruffy
This is a commission for :iconaaron-blackpaw: featuring some interesting content, if I say it for myself- it’s always a pleasure to tackle a hardcore scenario, and not just talking about sex here...you’ll see what I’m talking about. i shall look forward to your feedback, and remember that all votes, faves and watches will help others to find these stories to enjoy as well!
Cheers !
2017
*
FIFTY-SEVENTH DAY
Wriggling toes was not one of Robert’s average activities, but on that morning he was quite pleased to be doing even that. The black digits moved with some precision, which Robert liked to see. He must’ve made an odd sight, he thought, sitting on his wheelchair and staring at his bare feet.
Paws, he reminded himself.
Not feet anymore. The toes were big, rounded and splayed, and even had the shapes of claws on the tips. There was no fur. The surface coating was the same material used on his bionic arms, although pitch black in tint. Robert knew them to be fully mechanical, with none of his own flesh remaining, unlike in his arms. The biological him started around his hips where his gluteal muscles hugged the ceramic composite structures that secured his new legs onto his pelvic bones. Titanium joints resided in the reconstructed sockets. Artificial skin grafted onto his own to make the connection apparently seamless.
Looking at it was still very difficult. He thought he’d gotten used to seeing cybernetics in use after encountering so many of the UBM’s poster boy and girl patients. He’d personally shaken robo-hands with a former NFL player who was now promoting their products after losing his arm in a drunken jet ski accident.
His left hand twitched. Robert huffed as he grabbed his wrist with the opposite hand.
“Crap.”
The hands were not entirely under his command yet. Sometimes they moved on their own accord. The neuroscientists and the cybernetician were looking at adjusting them soon. They hadn’t allowed Robert to do it to himself.
He held onto his wrist and and imagined his hand going flat, flexing and then resting again.
“Robert!”
His hand almost snapped against the control stick of the electric drive of the chair with the surprise of the call. Robert managed to do a more thoughtful maneuver to turn about to face the visitor. He’d recognized him already from the braying voice.
“Theodore,” he said.
Doctor Theodore Triptych was a ram. His fuzzy, shaggy fur appeared to contrast the smoothness of his suit. It was something of an ill fit, and looked odd on him. Robert was too used to seeing him wearing clean suits at the laboratories. it was hard to imagine him wearing anything else regularly.
The sheep was smiling broadly, and for Robert it appeared a bit too much so, like he’d gotten bionic jaws or something. He approached with a few steps but remained some distance away from the convalescent in the chair. Robert wondered if he thought he was going to catch something off him.
“How’re you doing?” Triptych asked.
“Fighting decubitus,” Robert replied.
The sheep looked puzzled.
“I sit on my ass a lot,” Robert said. “Pressure sores.”
“Emmm...right,” Triptych said.
“The physiotherapist suggested a lambskin rug,” Robert said. “I told her I have a personal bias against them.”
His face was entirely stil. Robert knew that ram would not be able to tell if he was serious or not.
“Come on in then,” Robert told his co-worker. “Pick any chair that doesn’t have wheels on them.”
Triptych looked around the room.
“Ah...yeah, sure.”
He chose one near the bed, an armchair that looked less medical than the rest of the furniture available.
“What’s new?” Robert asked once the ram was settled.
“Well…” Triptych chuckled a bit too quickly. “You know. Work!”
“Obviously.”
“Everyone misses you,” Triptych said.
“Been a bit busy,” Robert replied. “Getting these things working takes much longer when you’re the one who’s had them grafted on you.”
To Triptych’s merit, he did not look away from Robert. The man was sure that he presented a gruesome image for the ram, even if most of his injuries and implants were either hidden by skin, bandages, or his clothing. There was no hiding the black-pawed legs or the white bionic arms folded over his lap.
“I...I suppose.”
“There’s a lot of work to be done,” Robert decreed.
The ram’s ears perked curiously.
“Oh?”
“The human-machine interface,” Robert said. “Integration takes much longer than is beneficial for the wellbeing of the patient. I’ve been at this for two weeks and I can just about...drive this thing.”
He demonstrated it by moving forward about a foot, jerkily, and then backing to his original position, with awkward taps on the controls. Triptych watched curiously.
“That is still wonderful progress, isn’t it?” he stated. “Just think that 20 years ago we wouldn’t even dream of something like this. Even the functionality you have now…”
“I know the pep talk,” Robert said. “I know my situation.”
“Sounds like you are getting impatient with it,” Triptych said.
“Do I look impatient?” Robert snapped.
Triptych put a paw into his pocket.
“I might be able to help with that,” the ram said.
He pulled out a stick from his pocket. Robert saw it to be of the proprietary kind used by UBM for ultra-secure data. Robert was pleased that he recognized the obscure item.
“What do you have there?” Robert asked.
“We were thinking that you might want to put your mind at something, to help pass the time,” Triptych said. “So I was authorized to make this stick. It’s got a fair amount of BSP-09510 data on it to...keep you occupied, I guess.”
Robert sneered.
“I don’t know what that is,” he said.
“Uh…”
“Some things I remember,” Robert replied, “Others...gone. Probably for good.”
“I...I didn’t know.”
Robert chuckled roughly.
“Come on, tell me about it then,” he said. “I may have forgotten what that BSP-something stands for, but I might have a hunch about the contents if you give me just a little slack at first.”
“Oh, right, right,” Triptych hurried to say. “Who keeps track of all of that anyway?”
“I used to,” Robert said. “At least I think I did. I don’t remember for sure.”
“Ah..yes. Yes…”
“Show me what you got there,” Robert said. “Use that computer over there. I can work it with the speech interface.”
“Sure, sure!”
The obviously nervous ram set up the data stick on the computer’s port. Robert hauled himself over to the desk. The movement of his chair was jerky. He could see that Triptych noticed too.
“These hands don’t work very good,” Robert muttered.
“I’m sure it’ll get better!” Triptych said, voice full of nervous enthusiasm.
“Hmm...maybe this thing is loaded with plans on how to improve them…” Robert commented on the computer. “It’s asking me for a password.”
“It’s been programmed to open with your password,” Triptych replied, “I’ve got it here…”
He put his hand into his pocket again and brought out a card. The ram placed it onto the desk by the keyboard.
“The...the security department had to lock your account and reopen it. I think they’ll ask you to change the password upon first log-in.”
Robert harrumphed.
“I may look like total shit and probably have forgotten half of the stuff I’ve ever remembered, but me forgetting how to use a computer?” Robert mused. “I don’t think so.”
*
SIXTIETH DAY
“Short steps, Robert! Concentrate on the balance. You know it’s not a matter of strength, it’s about balance. Staying on your two feet is an incredibly complex thing and you’re already doing very well, so just keep going very slowly and steadily…”
Robert huffed.
“I’m suspended from the roof with a bungee cord and still barely staying upright,” Robert grunted. “I think I’m allowed to complain.”
The physiotherapist in charge today was less patient with him than Kayla, the girl who usually came by. This young man had short cropped hair he had dyed purple. This one was called Jacopo. He was standing nearby and held a pad on his hands he used to control the rig above them on the ceiling that held Robert up even when he wobbled.
“You have a pair of legs with integrated gyroscopes, Robert,” Jacopo said. “You’ll only have to learn to let them do the work for you.”
“My brain is supposed to be telling them what to do,” Robert observed in his reply.
“And your brain has to learn how to use them,” said Jacopo. “It’s still early days.”
“I’m sick of early days,” Robert grunted.
“That’s why you have to keep practicing,” the young man said. “Let’s walk some more. Follow the circle on the floor.”
Robert glared at the strip on the floor he was supposed to walk along.
“Right.”
He began to will his right leg to move, to take the first step he craved. He stared down on each claved toe on his new footpaw and imagined those digits moving, rising from the padded floor and then making the crucial first move.
Walk, damn it!
Robert tried swinging his arm forward, in case that would remind his brain on how this whole walking thing worked, and only got a creak from the rig above him when his balance was instantly thrown and he threatened to go down on the floor again. The elastic cord pulled him back into a proper upright position.
“Remember the visualization exercises, Robert.”
“What do you think I’m trying to do?” he replied.
“You’re not concentrating enough.”
“It’s all I’m doing!”
“I can tell!” Jacopo tapped his pad. “Your cerebellar activity is still not within the nominal levels.”
“You try walking with a brain that went through a blender,” Robert hissed.
“You should try to following the circle again.”
*
SIXTY-SECOND DAY
“...I’m afraid that is all I can do now, sir.”
“Right. Well, I suppose so. Should I call again at some point?”
“You may contact us at any time, Mister Foster, but I do not think that a lot will change meanwhile. You do understand that this information is highly confidential.”
“It’s about me, though,” Robert replied.
“I understand, but for reasons of investigation, we cannot disclose anything under these circumstances.”
“I get it,” Robert said. “I’ll call again.”
“Good day, sir.”
Robert stared at his computer in distaste once the line was closed. His phone call to the police had not brought him any comfort. He couldn’t understand why those people were unable to tell him any details about the accident where he had been the only known party in the incident.
“Bastards,” he huffed.
He remained frustrated on his wheelchair for some time until the thought crossed his mind, and he felt satisfied with it.
“Computer, dial...ah…”
“Waiting for input.”
He had to spend some time to make sure he recalled every digit, before reading them out.
“...and...five, zero, six.”
“Dialing.”
The phone rang a couple times before there was an answer.
“Hello? Robert?”
It was voice only.
“Tim,” was what Robert said.
“How are you, Robert?” the voice sounded politely cheerful. “Been a while.”
“There’s been a lot going on,” Robert answered.
“Isn’t there always?”
“A bit more than usual now, Tim.”
Robert detailed the events of the past two months. The one called Tim was very quiet.
“Well, damn.”
“I need your help,” Robert said.
“Anything I can do, sure.”
“I suppose you still know how to get stuff,” Robert said in simple terms. “And information.”
“You could say so” was Tim’s reply.
“I need you to find out everything you can about the accident,” Robert said. “You know what I mean.”
“I think I have a fairly good idea where to start.”
“I knew I could count on you.”
*
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