A tight spider web of cracks tapered a sheet of ballistic glass outward. A dried brown smear of blood could be seen on the inside of the outstretched curve as it funneled out of the 77th story penthouse office to the world outside. This is where Gradius Byun began his journey into death.

Geracht stood at the office door, arms crossed over his massive borg chest. He was exactly twenty-nine feet from the workers that he was monitoring. He stood firm, unmoving and unflinching.

His body was a wide frame of metal parts. The only thing in him that was still human, was his brain. Even that had been heavily modified, and as time progressed he had begun to realize that something important was missing. He just couldn’t remember what that something was.

He watched as the workers prepared their tools at the broken window. The broken window... It was a job well done. He could view it all again if he wanted to. The way Gradius died. It was recorded in his memory, as is every moment of every day since he’d had his cybernetic eyes tied to his central memory core. However, to him, it wasn’t really worth remembering. It was just another task, on just another day. About as meaningful a memory to recall as picking your teeth or scratching an itch.

He watched the workers in absolute silence. No breath. No heartbeat. No twitch of the nerves. He watched. Unblinking. Observing.

The workers began to strip the weather seals from the glass. Their discomfort was mounting with each moment as the borg watched. A platform had been set up outside of the window. Workers on both sides placed supports along the top and bottom of the pane. Then wrapped each side with heavy adhesive sheeting to hold it all together. The weight of the glass was immense, requiring the assistance of a small roof-mounted crane to lift it away.

Hours passed, and still the borg watched them, unshifting. As the workers guided the new pane of glass into place, one of the men noticed that the borg had moved forward. The man was so shocked that he slipped and was caught by his tether. The rest of the workers looked back at the borg, noticing that he was closer, and none of them had seen him move.

Geracht watched from his new vantage point. His silent observation continued. He watched as the man was pulled up by his tether and given a moment to sit and collect himself again. Geracht saw their frailty. He felt their fear.

Eventually, the team completed their work. A supervisor approached the borg with a phone. “I need a signature,” he said slowly, deliberately.

Geracht’s eyes rotated downward to look at the man. Then he took the phone and confirmed the completion of the work with his credentials.

“Thanks,” the man said, swallowing hard.

Geracht’s mouth shifted lightly, then opened. “So frail,” he said softly.

“The glass?” the man gritted his teeth in a moment of cringing doubt.

“You.” Geracht responded.

The man was alone with Geracht now. His team had already begun their ascent on the platform towards the roof. He looked up at Geracht, like a toddler to a bull.

“So frail.” Geracht caressed the man’s cheek with a cold steel hand. The man winced at the touch, his pants beginning to soak through as he wet himself.

Geracht rested his hand on the man’s head, splaying his fingers to wrap around its top. The span of his grasp stretched over both of the man’s ears. The pressure of the fingers built along the sides of his scalp.

Tears of pain and fear collected in the corners of the man’s eyes. Geracht watched intently, staring deeply into them.

“I have calculated the density of your skull.” Geracht says in a gentle tone. “One more ounce of pressure would crush it like an egg.” Geracht slid his fingers up the man’s head, tearing strands of hair and skin as his fingers clamped together at the peak. “So frail.”

A neuron fired from some human place in Geracht’s brain. It had been so long since he’d felt something like it. Like… sympathy. Geracht pulled his hand away from the man, and softened his stance and then walked away.

The man simply watched, holding his breath. He stood for ten minutes or more, shock holding him in place. The urine in his pants had gone cold. He looks down at the wet spot. Then he reached up to his head and felt the slick lines where the fingers scraped along his scalp. There was blood there, in his hair. His breath wavered, shaken. He took a number of stiff steps toward the elevator. Shuddering and glassy eyed, he got into the elevator and left.