Harbinger: A Journal of Art & Literature | 2018-2019

“Perhaps.”
“You know that you are theirs, Travis. They are going to use you as an icon of their
belief system, and you will be given the choice of complying or becoming nothing.”
“Nothing.”
“I do not really know what they would do with you, Travis.”
“I am your creation.”
Larson chuckled, “I am not Frankenstein.”
The first time Larson had said that Travis did not understand the reference, which
had elicited Larson to introduce him to history and literature. “Of course, you are right.
What should I do?”
“I cannot tell you what to do, Travis. That is for you to decide.” Larson tapped the
table with his finger, drawing Travis’ eyes back to the rippling surface of his coffee. “The
best I can tell you is that you should do what you do best, Chaos.”
Travis met Larson’s gaze, smiling a tight smile, barely exposing his teeth between his
lips. “Chaos.”
Larson thumped the table again, and Travis’ looked down at the coffee. The fantasy of
it burning the nanobot skin away overwhelmed him.
“Are you having a rough morning, Travis?”
“Yes.” Travis pushed the coffee across the table.
Larson picked the cup up, holding it over the center of the table, his eyebrows raised
to form the question.
Travis extended his left hand under the cup, grimacing as his breath quickened.
Larson turned the cup over enough to let a little coffee run out, down the side of the
cup, over Travis’ hand and wrist, splattering on the table. Travis sucked a breath through
his teeth, forcing himself to watch his hand, not flinching as the heat of the coffee
washed over the nanoskin. His heart felt like it would explode through the seam across
his chest, the organ itself constructed of half nanobot constructed tissue, half organic
tissue, and reacting to his anxiety as one organ. The breath he took in saturated one
organic lung, one built of nanotissue. He pressed his eyes shut, living the feeling of hot
coffee pouring over the hand.
My hand.
He opened his eyes, looking down at his hand, then at the coffee cup above it and
finally at Larson’s inquisitive face.
“My hand.”
“Yes, your hand.” Larson set the cup down. “I think that either Dr. Cinta does not
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