Broken

The cold barrel of the gun presses against my forehead. I would imagine it is cold, anyway; it's a whole 11 degrees below my body temperature. Fear constricts my chest, but then I realize something.

I grin. "You wouldn't actually, though. Would you now?" "What makes you so sure?" The sergeant's voice is cold and hard, like the metal chair beneath me.

"Because," I say nonchalantly. "If you shoot me, you'll have nothing from the world unknown to prod at." Gotcha. "We could always prod at your corpse." Don't gotcha. "But you won't be able to see how a living cyborg functions, now would you?" Gotcha.

"That's right, 21412. But if I were you," He fires. Spots and red warnings dance across my vision. LEFT ARM MALFUNCTION bores into my eye socket as I land on the hard
floor. MINOR CONCUSSION. Great. "I would watch your step." He kicks my side, and I groan. I watch through half-open eyes as my future killers walk out of the prison before the world silently fades to black.

Don't gotcha.