Long feminine fingers flexed gently, the tendons of the disembodied arm pulsing slightly near the raw end of the elbow, a nasty mess of bone and electronics that resembled an old world car wreck. Reverent hands caressed the architecture of the woman’s arm; her flawless french tipped nails, untarnished in the ugliness that involved separating her from it, glittered darkly under the harsh infrared surgical light system rigged above the table. Lain open palm, the nano-carbon skeleton of the hand exposed, a maze of complex sensation circuitry, meticulously arranged sensors, chips and data cables running beneath the perfectly tanned skin. The hunched man at the table cast an aggressive shadow against the opposite wall, his eyes dancing across the delicate machinery. 

Bits of information: serial numbers, parts manufacturers, warranty details. Text written in crisp white hovered above the relevant components, appearing and disappearing in the blink of a biological eye. There was a distinct gleam visible within the orbs as the synthetic optics focused in on specific areas, the data processed and stored faster than it could display. 

“New model, top of the line.” He muttered aloud. It was a quality piece, not something he had expected to find in his latest shipment.  

A steady finger lowered toward the artificial forearm, a narrow drillbit emerging from beneath it’s fingernail. Deft movements produced a handful of screws, hardly thicker than a human hair from the mechanism that ran down the synthetic structure of the radius & ulna. 

“Power Cores are intact...Disruptor coils..?” There was a soft grumble spat from the figure. “Mm. Salvageable.”

Practiced fingers cautiously teased bright colored wires from their position lodged in the meat and sinew of the biological elbow they were attached to. There was a soft squishy sizzle as the forearm came free, clotted blood dribbling audibly on the metal surface of the table. As the final adapter was unlatched the artificial nerves tensed the woman’s severed hand into a tight fist, a final gasp of effort before its machine death. The hand went limp as the train screamed past outside.

Without looking up from his work, The Florist dropped the oozing elbow, landing it atop a bin to his side nearly overflowing with scraps and chunks of human flesh, the receptacle decorated by a worn biohazard symbol. With the train still rattling the walls of his cramped subterranean storefront Casio maintained blinding speed and laser-precise technique, the forearm completely disassembled in seconds. The outer coverings, chunks of RealSkin™, bearings, screws, corporate data chips, and hydraulics dispensed into organized piles of similar components.

Flores rolled his shoulders, out of habit more than anything else since he could scarcely remember the last time he felt sore, the glaring red hue of the room morphing to a soft white as the command passed through his Neural Lace. The angular, angry shadows shifted along with the color of the room, illuminating to reveal dozens of shelves packed with cryptically labeled boxes, long sequences of numbers and letters which indicated minute differences between virtually identical components. 

The scientist busied himself distributing the deconstructed pieces into the appropriate receptacles, just as the Warp assimilated Digi-Comm© embedded in his arm lit up. He grimaced slightly, there was an extremely select list of people or organizations who had necessary firewall permissions to access his direct line, and he had a sneaking suspicion the news would not be good.

Casting a glare to his inner wrist to engage the line, the symbiotic processing of his heavily augmented body brought up a holographic display before his eyes. The shifting, swirling visage of a million faces trapped on a single silhouette gazed blankly back at him. The Mouth of The Iron Salamanders. Leader and speaker for the enigmatic group of hackers, though they themselves might better prefer the term 'Reality Manipulators.'

A mechanical chorus of a thousand simulated voices emanated from the amorphous image. “The flowers of fall don’t grow at all.”

“The birds of spring have no song to sing.” Flores replied flatly. 

“Hello Florist.” The display purred.

“Mouth.” 

“The Salamanders carry news.” The Iron Salamanders always did. It was their best quality. There was a pause. “The Queen has shifted the board.” 

“Mm. As predicted?”

“We think you know the answer to that.”

“Mm. Present location?” 

The churning maelstrom of faces distorted with momentary static. “Location Unknown.” It hummed.

“Survivors?”

A buzz echoed off the comm’s speaker, the broiling features expressionless as it transmuted into that of someone Casio had never seen before, Dack. “One.” Casio’s eyebrow arched skeptically. “Indeed. We know nothing of him.”

“Impossible.”

“The data has been encrypted. Buried. Black Brethren’s recent financial maneuverings suggest bribery to UEA Records Database AlphaVectorBravo. Triple Bypass clearance. Level Zero1Niner.”

“Reason to believe he’s being kept alive for a purpose?”

Dack’s face melted away, taking the hologram with it, the symphony of voices fading in pitch as it signed off. “We think you know the answer to that.”