In my father’s small village, there was a man named Rukil.
Old Rukil was an amazing artist, painting these vast landscapes and beautifully vivid canvases. Every one of them was presented to his wife, who cried with joy at them every time.
As a boy, I would sit in awe as he worked his magic on the porous paper. But one day, as I had grown older and bolder, I noticed something that troubled me.
Rukil only painted with two colors.
Black and white.
So I asked him, “Rukil-San, why don’t you add color to your beautiful art?”
He merely huffed at my candor, and pointed to his wife.
“My boy, she is colorblind. To her, the world can never be more than black and white. To add more would not only go unrecognized, but it would insult her very core.”
“But what about others who would look upon the paintings?” I asked, not yet understanding.
I still remember his smile to this day.
“I do not paint for them. Just as she cannot understand what they see, they will never understand her vision.”
That lesson has stuck with me for many reasons, Vigour.
For many years, I have labored. My life’s work has morphed into that of an artist. But my canvas is the human body, my paints are metal, and my brush is the tool I use to graft my implants.
Every one of them that I bestow upon someone is a gift, a treasured creation for someone I consider to be as close as a brother. Or even closer.
Yet here you come, a foolish boy, emboldened with purpose you do not yet understand. And you asked me for help, both recognizing my talent yet refusing to see the truth behind it.
It brings me some amusement to hear my words echoed back to me, yet their meanings have been reversed.
You see, in this instance, you are the colorblind one. I paint with many colors, crafting a rainbow’s assortment of cybernetics.
Yet you only see black and white.
There is so much more, Vigour.
Just as Rukil’s dear wife, your world will never go beyond that which you were born into. That monochrome existence is one that you have sought to defy since coming to this world, but the truth is that you cannot recognize the colors around you, even after all this time.
You’re blind to any purpose but your own.
But unlike Rukil, I don’t give a damn about insulting you with my art.
So as you square off against me, I bid you to look upon the many colors my art is adorned with.
Purple. The color of the bruises they will place upon your face.
Blue. The color of your face as they clamp around your neck.
Red. The color of the blood dripping down your face.
All of those colors, Vigour. Each of them creating a work of art.
Yet the tears you cry will not be of joy.
They will be of pain.
When you beg for mercy, you will find I have none.
My vision is beyond you.
As am I.