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A scream tore from his throat, but it came out as a burst of static. His jaw unhinged, held together by gleaming bicycle chains. His skin cracked open, revealing a chassis of scrap metal and pressurized tubes. He felt the "Great Rust" itching at the back of his brain—the primal urge to consume, to weld, to integrate.
He stumbled toward the window. Outside, the world was soft, fleshy, and weak. It needed to be reinforced. It needed to be hard. Tetsuo: The Iron Man
By midnight, the apartment felt too small, too organic. The drywall seemed to breathe with a moist, suffocating heat. Elias collapsed against his workbench, his breath coming in ragged, metallic rasps. Every time his heart beat, it sounded like a hammer striking an anvil. Clang. Clang. Clang. A scream tore from his throat, but it
He tried to peel it away, expecting a scab. Instead, he felt the sickening, grinding slide of a piston under his ribs. He felt the "Great Rust" itching at the
"We will turn the world into a storm of steel," the static in his head whispered. He didn't walk into the night; he accelerated.