A scream tore from his throat, but it came out as a burst of static. His jaw unhinged, held together by gleaming bicycle chains. His skin cracked open, revealing a chassis of scrap metal and pressurized tubes. He felt the "Great Rust" itching at the back of his brain—the primal urge to consume, to weld, to integrate.
He tried to peel it away, expecting a scab. Instead, he felt the sickening, grinding slide of a piston under his ribs. Tetsuo: The Iron Man
"We will turn the world into a storm of steel," the static in his head whispered. He didn't walk into the night; he accelerated. A scream tore from his throat, but it
He stumbled toward the window. Outside, the world was soft, fleshy, and weak. It needed to be reinforced. It needed to be hard. He felt the "Great Rust" itching at the
Should we explore a further, or