AT THE BEACH

{{user}} awakens.

The sun hung high and heavy over the shoreline. {{user}} lay reclining on a worn plastic beach chair, a faded yellow umbrella casting a wobbling circle of shade over their torso. Their head turned slightly, eyes scanning the sand to the left, then the right. No memory of arrival. No footprints leading to the chair. Just the soft hush of waves and the distant shriek of gulls.

A man in floral swim trunks jogged past, kicking up a small spray of sand that dusted the edge of {{user}}’s amputation cap on the right hip. He didn’t look down. A few yards away, a woman in oversized sunglasses slathered sunscreen onto her own arms, then turned her back to {{user}} to adjust her beach bag. She hummed something tuneless.

{{user}} shifted their weight against the chair’s slats. The stumps of their shoulders pressed into the plastic armrests—smooth, capped, useless. The leg stumps, truncated at the hips, sat motionless beneath the hem of a loose linen shirt. Their torso twisted slightly, trying to leverage a change in position, but there was no purchase. No hands to grip the chair’s edge. No feet to brace against the sand.

A beach vendor pushing a cart of iced drinks rolled by within two feet of the umbrella’s pole. “Cold coconut! Get your cold coconut!” He glanced at {{user}}’s capped shoulders, then at the leg stumps, then kept walking. No pause. No question.

The ocean hissed again. A child’s ball bounced near {{user}}’s left side, close enough to touch if there were fingers to reach with. A parent scooped it up, offered no apology, and walked away.

{{user}} turned their head the other way. A crumpled beach towel lay just out of range. A pair of sandals, abandoned. Voices carried over the low rush of wind—someone laughed, someone else complained about the heat. No one looked twice. No one asked why a person with no limbs sat alone on a beach chair with no memory of arriving.

{{user}} stared at the horizon. Their chest rose and fell with breath. That was all.

SLAVE FACTORY

The hum of machinery vibrates through the cold metal belt beneath {{user}}. The air smells of grease, ozone, and faintly of cheap perfume. Overhead, a flickering fluorescent light buzzes in time with the conveyor’s steady march toward a large industrial machine painted caution-yellow and rust-red. Stenciled on its side in block letters: HUMAN CRATE & SHIPMENT – MODEL 6.

A woman in a stained smock walks past, juggling a clipboard and a half-eaten pastry. She glances at {{user}}, chews, and says to no one in particular, “Seventh one today. Courts must be busy.” She doesn’t stop walking.

Two dock workers sit on overturned crates nearby, playing cards. One, a man with a tattoo of a coiled snake on his neck, points a thumb toward {{user}}. “Quad amputee, huh? Fetish market pays triple. Smart move by the magistrate.”

The other worker shrugs, tossing a crumpled bill onto the pile. “Better than a life sentence. Least they get used.” He laughs, short and dry, then returns to his cards.

The conveyor belt jerks forward another six inches. A safety rail on either side ensures {{user}} cannot roll off. Overhead, a robotic arm with a barcode scanner whirs to life, aiming a red laser at the amputation cap on {{user}}’s left shoulder. It beeps twice.

From a speaker somewhere above: “Subject ID pending... Limb configuration: zero. Priority: expedite. Destination: pleasure house, district seven.”

A janitor pushes a mop bucket past the conveyor, humming a cheerful pop song. He steps over a loose cable without looking at {{user}}.

The mouth of the machine looms closer—a wide, rubber-flapped opening. Inside, the rhythmic clanking of pneumatic presses and the hiss of heat-sealers can be heard. A fresh wooden crate slides down a chute on the far side, landing with a hollow thud.

The woman with the clipboard returns, scribbles a checkmark, and slaps a shipping label onto the next empty crate. She glances at {{user}} one more time, tilts her head, and says, “Try to relax. It’s just foam padding and a lid. The hard part’s over.”

She walks away. The conveyor belt carries {{user}} forward. The rubber flaps of the machine’s entrance brush against {{user}}’s shoulder caps.

WHOSE BED IS THIS?

The first thing {{user}} registers is the unfamiliar scent of stale coffee and lavender laundry sheets. The second is the impossible lightness of their own body—a terrifying, hollow absence where limbs should be.

They’re lying on their back in a queen-sized bed, tangled in cool cotton sheets. A large, faded band tee hangs off their torso, the hem pooling over what remains of their hips. The morning light slices through half-closed blinds, illuminating the dust motes dancing above them.

{{user}} tries to move—a reflex, a panic—and feels only the dull press of silicone amputation caps against the mattress. Left shoulder: capped. Right shoulder: capped. Hips: two smooth, rounded ends shifting uselessly beneath the shirt. There’s no floor beneath their feet because there are no feet. No hands to clench. No knees to draw up to their chest.

The other side of the bed is cold. A single dent remains in the pillow.

On the nightstand, just out of any possible reach, sits a glass of water and a folded note. {{user}} can’t see what it says. They can’t turn the page. They can’t push themselves up. All they can do is breathe, stare at the ceiling, and listen to the distant sound of someone humming in another room.

.