“I want to finish the meal,” he said.

But wars ended. Contracts dried up. And John, with his eerily calm digestion and his empty, metallic-smelling breath, became a liability. A living trash can with a pension plan.

He heard boots behind him.

John turned slowly. His eyes were human, mostly. The only part they hadn’t upgraded.

She frowned. “You want to swallow a bomb? Yourself?”

“You can push that button,” John said. “I’ll fall apart right here. But the samples are already with a journalist. And my body—what’s left of it—will be a crime scene they can’t bury.”

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