by Nick Gisburne
Another day, another grim repair,
But this one more mysterious than most.
The cryptic scab of skin beneath the hair
Refuses to be parted from its host.
They never meant these models to exist;
Too dangerous, too volatile, too strong,
But she, a perfect prototype, was missed.
Her mind is mine. To me her dreams belong.
Deactivated, suddenly, by shock,
Encrypted circuits paralyse the brain.
With stolen probes, illegal, I unlock
The centre of her sentience, insane.
My talents teach her how to kill, and who.
The syndicates pay well for what I do.
