Perspective

The man gestured wildly while he spoke, his eyes wide and manic. He had messy, raw looking scars on one side of his face and neck. The skin was pulled taut and stitched tightly as if stretched to cover the absence of something else.

Some of the people who had gathered around the makeshift stage nodded along as he spoke. As if this was a speech they had heard before.

"They fill you with circuits and chips and tell you this makes you better, but does it? Do any of you feel better?" He pointed at a woman in the crowd with long, unkempt brown hair, and a wild look in her eyes. "You, sister, does that arm you carry around make you better?"

The woman looked down at the thin, wire-stripped silver arm she was holding to her chest with her organic hand. The silver arm hung limply at her side when she let go of it. It was obvious she had long lost the use of it.