Half Human

Prologue

Before the war, her name was Aimee Woods.

She lived in a crumbling but crowded house at the edge of the city. Four generations packed together, scraping by on what little they had. Poverty wasn’t unusual anymore. It had crept into every corner of society like a slow, suffocating fog. The war only made things worse. Supplies were rationed. Violence was random. And hope was something people whispered about like an old superstition.

Aimee was twenty-one when she left that house for the last time, walking to the market with a handful of credits and a mental list of canned goods and bread.

She came back to smoke and ash.

There was no explanation. Only the hollow shell of what had once been her life. Her family had been inside. All of them. Gone in a fire that no one investigated, in a neighborhood no one cared about.

Aimee didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She enlisted.

In the military, she learned to carry a rifle, to sleep with one eye open, to ignore the gnawing emptiness inside her. She became a ghost in her own skin, drifting from mission to mission, distraction to distraction. Until one day, her body gave out.

The report said she was found on the battlefield, mangled beyond repair. Shrapnel embedded deep in muscle and bone. Burns. Internal bleeding. Her survival was a technicality. The hospital made a public call, broadcasting through news feeds and digital boards. “Unidentified soldier in critical condition. Family contact needed.”

No one came.

Until a man appeared, claiming to be her uncle.

He signed the papers. Said he would take her to hospice.

He lied.

Instead of a sterile white bed and soft lights, Aimee woke, barely alive, in the cold hum of an underground lab. The man who called himself her uncle was a scientist, long forgotten by the institutions that once supported him.

His only goal in mind, was to rebuild her. And perhaps, someday, love her.

Chapter 1

“Don’t be frightened. You’ve made it,” a male voice whispered as I struggled to open my eyes.

A blurry image of a man appeared before me.

His words were barely audible over the pounding and ringing in my ears.

His brown almond eyes locked onto mine, his mouth easing into a gentle smile.

I looked down at the IV stuck into my arm.

He reached forward, grabbed both my limp arms, held my hands in his, and kissed them.

“Thank you, God,” he breathed, a tear running down his cheek.

My eyes struggled to focus on the weeping man as my head throbbed.

My last memories caught up to me. The loud bombs ringing in my ears, the mud squelching under my feet, the burning sting as a bullet ran through my chest. Then everything went black.

I tugged at my hospital gown and peered at the large gash running vertically down my chest.

The room was dim and cold. Concrete walls and floor surrounded me, the harsh fluorescent light above flickering weakly. Metal furniture and tables stood scattered.

They must have carried me to a medic, I thought.

“Am I being sent home?” I rasped, my throat dry and scratchy.

“Where is home?” he asked.

I sat in silence, waiting for something, anything, to come back to me. A name. A face. But all I heard were distant echoes: gunfire, explosions. Fleeting and useless. Like waking from a dream I didn’t want to forget.

The man watched my blank stare turn into a grimace.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Don’t worry. It will all come back after you’ve had some food and rest.”

He leaned forward, removed my IV, and replaced it with a bandage.

Then he moved to the other side of the room and returned with a wheelchair.

He gripped the handles, locked the wheels, and stood with his head bowed, as if weighed down by sadness. His knuckles turned white as he clutched the handles.

“I want you to know you’re safe here,” he said, voice shaking. “My methods were unconventional, but I managed to conjure miracle.”

I absorbed his words, watching his glassy eyes fix on the floor, lost in thought.

“A miracle,” I repeated.

He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“I hope God can forgive me for trying to imitate His power,” he whispered, looking back at me with fear and uncertainty.

With a trembling hand, he grasped the sheet covering my legs.

“Have you done something wrong?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yes.”

He peeled back the sheet to reveal two legs made entirely of metal.

I gasped sharply and slapped a hand over my mouth.

“The bombs,” he said. “They blew you to pieces.”

I stared at my cold metal legs, then moved my feet. They responded normally. I lifted one leg, then the other.

“Your arm as well,” he added.

I snapped my eyes to my right arm. It was solid metal, just like my legs. I touched my face with my cold hand. No sensation past my right shoulder.

My chest tightened. I couldn’t breathe. I stared at him, eyes wide, mouth open.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed.

I looked down at my hand and moved each finger. They moved effortlessly, as if they were my own.

After a long slumber, everything had changed. And I wasn’t sure it was for the better.

“Let’s get you upstairs,” he said, offering his hand.

I recoiled. “I don’t need help.”

I slowly turned and slid to the edge of the bed.

“You’ll need the wheelchair,” he said.

I shot him a look. “I know how to walk.”

I eased down until my feet touched the cold cement floor. There was no sensation. No shock from toes touching the ground. No feeling beyond my thighs.

Moments later, I stumbled across the room like an antelope learning to walk. I finally reached the concrete wall and slid down in defeat.

The man calmly approached from behind.

“I’m not doubting your strength, Prism. You just need more time to learn your new body.”

He reached out again.

This time, I let him help.

The elevator ride upstairs was silent and tense. He seemed afraid to speak, and I was too stunned to say much.

When the elevator doors opened, I blinked against the bright light flooding a vastly different space.

Upstairs, the home was shaped like a perfect circle. Floor to ceiling glass walls surrounded us, curtains draped over some.

He wheeled me forward to a grand dining room. A long, elegant table dominated the space.

“I have much to explain, Prism Rose,” he said.

He took me to the far end of the table, then locked the wheels.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” I asked.

He froze, then asked, “Are you hungry?”

“Where am I?” I pressed.

His eyes turned glassy again; his mouth hung open, but no words came.

Finally, he sat next to me. “The medic couldn’t revive you. The hospital tried their best. You’re here because I’m the only one who could save you.”

I crossed my arms, staring at him.

He rose from his seat “You need to eat,” he said, heading to the kitchen.

“What’s your name?” I called before he reached the doorway.

He stopped. “Miles Wilder,” he said without turning.

Minutes later, he returned with a tray of baked goods and two glasses of water. He set it before me.

“Eat,” he said. He moved to the other side of the table and sat opposite of me.

Miles' eyes felt hollow; he stared past me, lost in swirling thoughts.

I picked up the glass of water. “Have you poisoned it?” I asked plainly.

Miles tilted his head.

“Why would I bring you back just to poison you?”

He had a point. I drank both glasses.

Once again, I searched for memories before the bombs, explosions, and gunfire. Nothing. How could I return home if I couldn’t remember anything?

Miles spoke as if hearing my thoughts.

“You’ll sleep here until your memories return. You’ll have your own room; food will always be ready. If you need anything, just ask.”

I pursed my lips, staring at him.

His hands fidgeted nervously.

“Are you okay, Prism?”

“Please don’t call me that,” I whispered, gritting my teeth. “My name is—”

My mouth hung open, as I waited for my name to come back. It was mine, and no one else’s. Why couldn’t I remember?

I took a breath and tried again.

“My name—”

Miles raised a hand calmly. “Don’t exhaust yourself.”

I managed only one croissant. My stomach was in knots; more food would make me sick.

He wheeled me to a small bedroom and helped me onto the bed.

“I want you to know I’m proud of you for pulling through,” he said.

I looked up at him; warmth softened his expression. Tears welled and flushed his cheeks.

He wiped them away as he turned for the door. “Call for me if you need anything,” he said, closing the door behind him.

I sat up stiff and wide awake. Only the soft hum of the air conditioning vent filled the room.

There was no TV, no books, no distractions to take my mind off my circumstances.

So, I decided to practice walking.

I slid off the bed and onto my feet. Leaning on the bed’s edge, I took one step at a time.

My bionic parts were surprisingly quiet. No creaks, no hums, no strange noises. They moved silently and effortlessly. I wondered if they worked better than my own body ever had.

After reaching the other side of the bed, I decided to walk without support. Right, left, right, left.

I was finally beginning to sync with my new body. For hours, I moved around. Walking, running, skipping, crouching, crawling. I could do it all.

I walked out to find Miles. The house was silent. He had retreated to his bedroom, but I wanted him to see I could function without a wheelchair.

As I passed a mirror, my reflection moved beside me. I froze and turned.

My eyes met my reflection.

I gasped sharply and stepped back.

The girl staring back was a stranger. A scar ran down the left side of her face. One eye was gray, the other hazel. The left side of her head was shaved, with a long stitched scar.

I felt my breath leave me and collapsed to my knees.

I hugged my shoulders and wept until I curled into a fetal position on the floor.

Minutes later, footsteps approached.

“Prism!” Miles called.

He ran to me and knelt. “Did you fall? You should have used your wheelchair.”

I continued to weep. My face, hidden by my hair and buried into the floor.

Miles' offered me a hand. "Here, let me help you up".

“DNR,” I whispered, voice cracked and wavering.

Miles squinted at me. Hesitantly he replied, “...What?”

I pushed off the ground and met his gaze.

“Do not resuscitate,” I said. “I may have forgotten much, but I know I had a DNR order on file.”

Miles stared wide eyed, brows furrowed. His mouth opened, then closed.

“You knew that, didn’t you?” I said, unwavering.