Precision

My hair began to move in response to the particle emissions, dancing the electric dance I'd lived for my whole life.
Children screaming with dogs that guided them through mazes of poison chocolate while telling stories of the wolves they used to be.
Mommy called the night before complaining that her tumors were talking again and then she hung up, saying that she couldn't hear me above the racket.
Nanotech.
So I lost myself.
Beautiful palm trees swaying in purple breezes tickled my cheeks and whispered. The boy next door smiled at me with photomosaic teeth and wandering eyes.
His erection was huge.
Cervantes was at the workdesk, reverse-engineering the toys he'd stolen, in hopes of reverse-reverse-engineering them into something whole, composite, more. Backwards gestalt. I laughed at the dinosaur struggling under his sonic screwdriver. The dinosaur screamed as well.
The man came up from behind me, touch-tablet in hand. He placed my palm on the device to certify my presence. To open the door to the battle. I hefted my axe for a minute, its weight sure and confident. The chrome-concrete barrier would not hold against the horde.
My job was slowly killing me. Hooked into the distributed processing system with four dozen others, my mental resources collected for the analyzing of video picked up and compiled from every imaginable source across the globe, looking for tell-tale signs of whatever our clients wanted. Looking for causes and effects. Watching for the patterns to emerge.
So I lost myself.
Her skin was a perfect white. The eyes the color of elephant tusks grown to massive sizes, used for entry-way decorations and for mounting on improvised combat vehicles. She was perfect. She stood above me as I took three steps to the left, and slit open the darkness with precision I previously could only dream about.
She would never leave me.
I would be the hand.