My third arm twitches.
Left third arm, that is. From the coat of neural webs I have draped on my spine, long white strands flow from under finger tip. Up, through fluid-wrinkled wrists, goes the hypnic jerk, impulse command rippled from number three involuntarily, and sensory response comes back, reporting about drenched fingers pressing against the inside of a polymer cocoon.
At the neural intercept, second vertebrae, the signal comes out to me via fiber optic cables, and she never finds out that she tried to wake up.
Unlike brain chatter, body data does not need to be desynthesized. It is raw and direct, a literal command, fed into my own bio-adapter through which all of my Locksteps feed their nerves, interloping with my own. This signal is mapped by the anatomy algo, and projects a sensory feed direct to my real left hand.
Brushing up against, stretching out, a yearning towards, and through a viscous bag, polyether wall, like a wet suit, bath-tub sized, and full,…