I repeatedly smack my arm in a desperate attempt to cancel what it's about to do. I try shutting it off but the touch screen doesn't respond. I try yelling "cancel" at it. I try prying the fingers off of the stretcher but they're locked like a bank's vault. My arm gives me the same thrust of backlash as when it punched the door hinge and that's when I know it's too late.

The arm rapidly extends, thrusting the stretcher into the air at tremendous speed. Admiral George releases a (slightly underwhelming) scream as he flies into the ceiling with a loud thud, followed by the sound of bones cracking when he hits the floor.

The nurse and I stare at the bloody mess in shock. Everyone else glares at me. My arm lets out a beep, as if it's content now that it's murdered the head of the US Army.

But of course, the blame is gonna be on me.

-----{~~~}-----

The entire bar is filled with soldiers trying to forget about the incidents earlier today. Most of us aren't really talking much and the music isn't playing in mourning for Admiral George's painful death. However, for me, Tyrone and Jackson, it's more for Fluffy's death. We sit in the farthest corner by the bar tender holding back our tears.

Tyrone is the first to speak. "So why'd your arm extend like that?"

"When the nurse said 'to some extent,' the arm must have taken it as a voice command for 'extend'."

"Why didn't you just say 'cancel'?"

"I did. It's not like I wanted Admiral George to die or something." Well, that's only half true. I definitely didn't want to be the cause of his death, though.

The soldiers surrounding Lieutenant Andrew glance at me from time to time, sneering as they do so. They now look up to Lieutenant Andrew just because he called the ambulance. I think they forgot who saved them from having all of their faces blown up.

That's when Lieutenant Andrew gets up and walks over to us. He definitely thinks I meant to do that. His whole group is looking this way as well, smiling and snickering.

He clears his throat. "Nice job out there. Proud of what you did?"

I stare at him straight in the eye. "It's not like I did that on purpose. That should have been obvious from my various attempts to get the arm off of the stretcher."

"Yeah. Or you could have just said 'cancel'. You know, instead of trying to smack pure metal machinery." His group laughs behind him.

"You'd have to be deaf to not hear me yell 'cancel' at it."

Andrew furrows his eyebrows. He's got nothing left to say. Instead, he gives me a light smack and tries to walk away.

I'm not letting him get away with that.

I push myself off of my stool and kick him behind the knee. He falls to the ground and yelps when he hits his head on his bionic arm. He looks up at me and tries to spit at my face. Probably the smartest thing he's ever tried. The spit falls back down and lands in his eye.

I laugh at him to show how easy that was. He lets out a puff of air and sweeps my legs out with his regular arm, then pushes himself up with an extension of his bionic arm. I must admit, that was pretty cool. I fall backwards onto the bar tender's counter and feel my head breaking a shot glass or two. Why does she keep them there again?

Before I can push myself off of the counter, Andrew pins me down by pressing his bionic hand into my face. I struggle to push him off but he keeps his stance. He shoves my head left and into the other shot glasses, pushing them off of the counter and onto the floor. I hear glass breaking and his group laughing. That only encourages him to shove my head right, toppling the beer pitcher over and spilling beer all over the counter and getting my hair wet. Seriously, I don't remember any of this being there.

Finally, I knee him right in the sweet spot and he stumbles away, barely keeping his balance. I look over to Tyrone with my glass-pierced, bleeding face and beer-soaked hair and nod. He immediately pushes himself up and charges into Andrew with a nasty tackle. He learned that from his years of playing football in college. Andrew slams onto the ground face first and moans. I remember the door this morning and press the "Extend" button on my arm again. Sure enough, the arm beeps and the middle finger slowly raises up as I look right at Andrew's group, grinning from ear to ear.

I'd call that a win.

Andrew's group all exchange glances. They weren't expecting that for sure.

Then, the bar door bell rings. Major Martin appears in the doorway and walks in holding a sticky note. "I'm looking for..." He adjusts his reading glasses and holds the sticky note closer to his face. "... Lieutenant Andrew Morris?"

Crap. This can't be good.

Private Jackson speaks for the first time since we've been in this bar. "He's over 'ere but he might be dead. The good news is, Tyrone just made, like, the PERFECT tackle. You shoulda seen it! First, Andrew tried to smack Bentley but then Bentley sweeped 'im out and Andrew tried to spit at 'im but-"

"What on earth happened?" Martin interrupts.

"I was just..." Private Jackson attempts to speak again, only to be interrupted once more.

"Nevermind, someone just bring him to my office."

Everyone looks at me. "Alright, I'm on it. Jeez."

Martin holds the door open and I throw Andrew over my shoulder. Martin doesn't seem to care that we're both beaten up. I like that.

"Good thing he don't have no stretcher, am I right?" one of Andrew's friends yell from across the room, followed by a, "That was lame, Eugene," from another one.