Page 21 of A Cyborg for the Alien Mercenary

Her stomach growled loudly. She frowned as she rubbed her hand over it, trying to calm it down. She’d eaten only a few hours ago, but she was starving again. The thought of food made hermouth water, but she pushed the hunger aside. She could find something to eat when she’d stopped bleeding everywhere.

She padded into the kitchen, her eyes scanning the room. A dish rack by the sink held clean plates and glasses neatly stacked.

Spotting a row of hooks near the refrigerator, each holding a different-colored kitchen towel, she grabbed a dark blue one and pressed it firmly against her wound. The soft fabric quickly grew damp and warm with her blood.

She hissed through her teeth as she saw red droplets on the tiled floor. Cursing under her breath, she grabbed a paper towel from a nearby roll and bent to wipe up the evidence. The movement made her head spin, and she steadied herself against the counter.

The towel was already soaking through. Her expression tightened. She needed to deal with this wound fast. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped the towel tighter around her arm and headed back to the cloakroom, leaving a trail of tiny red splatters in her wake.

Her footsteps were silent on the plush carpet when she crept through the dimly lit hallway. The air was cool against her skin, heavy with the scent of lavender air freshener. To her left, a half-open door revealed a glimpse of a pristine living room, all sleek leather and polished wood.

She glanced to the right, catching sight of a small cloakroom. Moving that way on silent feet, she slipped inside, her hand fumbling along the wall until she found the light switch. The sudden brightness made her squint.

Coats hung neatly on hooks, and a shoe rack lined one wall. She scanned the room, her gaze landing on a white cabinet above a small sink. Yanking it open, she rummaged through bottles of cleaning supplies and rolls of toilet paper until her fingers brushed against something plastic and square.

She pulled out the first-aid kit, its red cross standing out against the white case. Bingo. Setting it on the edge of the sink, she flipped the latches and opened the lid. Inside, neatly organized compartments held an array of bandages, antiseptic wipes, and other medical supplies.

She spread the contents of the first-aid kit before her, grumbling, “Look, I’ve never done anything like this before.”

But as the words left her mouth, her vision shifted. A faint blue glow appeared around the edges of her sight, and then small text boxes materialized next to each item.

She blinked rapidly, shaking her head to clear her vision. The pop-up explanations stayed firmly in place, though, hovering over each item in the first-aid kit. As her eyes focused on the gauze, a small text box appeared: “Sterile cotton gauze, 4x4 inches, for wound dressing.” She shifted her gaze to the antiseptic wipes, and another box materialized: “70% isopropyl alcohol, for cleaning wounds and preventing infection.”

Her frown deepened as she scanned the rest of the kit. Each item had its own little blue box with an explanation, usage instructions, and potential alternatives. The scissors were labeled “Medical shears, capable of cutting through clothing.” Even the adhesive bandages had a note: “For minor cuts and abrasions, waterproof.”

She reached out, her hand hovering over the suture kit. The pop-up expanded as her fingers neared it: “Sterile needle and thread for wound closure. Use with local anesthetic if available.” Beneath it scrolled a set of step-by-step instructions on suturing techniques.

The information felt familiar, as if she’d known it all along but had forgotten until this precise moment.

Leaning against the vanity, she looked up at the ceiling and breathed out. Her head ached, and she blinked hard to clear all the crap out of her vision, but when she looked down, the blueglow was still there around each item, the pop-ups hiding and waiting to accost her at any moment.

“Seriously. How do I know all this shit?” she muttered again, reaching for the alcohol to clean the wound. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Incorrect. J10-10M3E. Designation: battlefield medic.

“What?” She unwrapped the kitchen towel from around her arm. The bleeding had slowed to a sluggish trickle.

“Okay, so J10-10M3E is me. Right? So I am… I was a medic? For who? What battlefield?” The questions tumbled from her lips as she cleaned the wound with practiced efficiency.

Correct. J10-10M3E. Designated unit medic, section 10,the voice confirmed.

Okay, so now they had section 10. She was getting the hang of talking to it and tried a different tactic as her fingers prepared the suturing kit without the apparent intervention of her brain.

“What unit is J10-10M3E unit medic for?”

The silence stretched out.

Data not available,it finally said.

Hmm, okay… so whatever the voice was, it didn’t know everything.

She stared at the gaping wound on her right arm, her brow furrowing. She was right-handed, and the wound was on her right arm.

“Shit… how am I supposed to do this?” She flexed her left hand uncertainly.

She reached for the suture kit, and something took over. Amazement filled her as her left hand moved with unexpected precision and began to close the wound. The needle pierced her skin, and she winced, expecting pain. In and out, the needle punched through her skin, each stitch perfectly spaced and pulled taut with what looked like the correct tension.

“What the actual…” she whispered, transfixed. The gash slowly disappeared beneath a line of neat, even stitches.

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