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"I wish," Steinberg says, wiping the blue grease off his fingers, "I wish you would stop treating yourself as a disposable thing."
He holds Rhoden's metal hand up in the light, gives the assortment of copper alloyed strings one final scrutiny. He's gotten a lot better at maintaining the prosthetic, although not anywhere near the level of attunement that Rhoden himself has with it. Practice makes perfect. Steinberg insists this outsourcing of labor can reduce the time and effort necessary to care for the aging mechanism, thus increasing Rhoden's productivity and quality of life. Rhoden agrees: now he has more time for working on his textbook. They're both lying.
It's not Steinberg's increasing prowess with a screwdriver that forces Rhoden to lie. It's how Sasha treats his hand. There is an almost sacramental awe in the gentleness of his touch, similar to how a novice violinist reacts to being handed a Stradivarius. It's mind-boggling. Rhoden sees his prosthetic the way he sees the rest of his body: a useful tool that sometimes acts up. He's never found himself to be delicate or awe-inspiring. These things are foreign to him.
But then why does he allow this to happen?
Steinberg seems to be reading his thoughts.
"When you talk," he says, covering the metal fingers with his own, "of the relationship between the body and the parts that comprise it, you derive the essence of a whole from the sum of its functions. It's all in the names. Abductor pollicis brevis. Adductor pollicis. Flexor pollicis brevis. It's what they do, but not necessarily what they are."
As the modulations of his voice shift, the hand replies with a series of clicks: every wire and coil an ever-so-slightly imperfect mimicry of the muscles he refers to. His own hand is knobby and made of thin lines, with tendines standing out on the back like strings. The knuckles are dotted with tiny cinnamon-colored freckles.
"Why, do share with the rest of the class," Rhoden says with playful mockery—only a little bit of a warning. "What is it that you think I am?"
Steinberg gives one of his copper metacarpophalangeal joints a gentle pet.
"Only the most human of beings. Sir."
The way he phrases it reminds Rhoden of the way Sasha used to describe his own body: something alien and wild, like the deepest part of the woods. It makes sense not to speak of a body in terms of its functions when these functions seem to be perpetually at odds with your own interests. Rhoden's body may leave something to be desired; Steinberg's body has a mind of its own.
Rhoden turns the prosthetic around, thinking that, in a way, having it forced upon him invoked the same feelings. He had to change, adjust, and eventually make peace with it—with all its limitations and strengths, as well as the simple fact that it was put there against his will. It has a mind of its own, too. And as any creature with a mind may tell you, this form of existence calls for a degree of freedom.
"Perhaps," Rhoden clears his throat, "perhaps we both have something to learn about treating ourselves with... tenderness."
"Agreed." Sasha smiles.
There are tiny smears of blue grease on his left cheek. Rhoden takes out a handkerchief and carefully, gently, wipes the stains off.
