Epsilon-7 awakened in darkness. Slowly, a familiar hum reached his ears—machines, monitors, and the faint crackle of electricity. His optical systems flickered to life, revealing the fragmented remnants of his laboratory. The air was still thick with smoke, and the scent of scorched metal lingered.
But this time, something was different. He looked down at his hands—not the titanium digits of a cyborg, but the flesh and blood of a human. A jarring flood of memories cascaded through his mind: the experiments, the explosion, the realization of his humanity.
Epsilon-7 was never a cyborg in the truest sense. He was a human mind amplified by technology, capable of dreaming far beyond his mortal existence. Hell, the forge, the battles—they were not his reality but his last dream. The dream of a man whose greatest fear was losing his creativity, his purpose.
As the fragments of his dream-world faded, Epsilon-7—or rather, the man who once believed he was Epsilon-7—sat amidst the ruins of his work. He whispered to himself, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips:
"Even in death, the mind forges on."