Grey's metal arm (new, powerful, are those the same bones he snapped fifteen years ago?) proves too powerful for a tug of war. The metal cuts, tears into his gloves, and he releases it, the cord whipping down to the ground. It is still attached to the spool in his pocket, but there are other, more pressing matters to attend to.

The future is pulsing in his head, images ghosting out from other images, possibilities erupting into new possibilities like trees or veins. He sees the kick coming, but again, the narrow space works against him. He is aware of the pressure, but not the pain, as the metal blades pound into his skin, impaling muscles, scraping bone.

He is better than pain. He is beyond pain.