Well, this is certainly the most realistic dream I’ve had in a while.

When I look down at my arm, it’s like watching that movie - what’s it called? The one with the robot. And he’s sent back in time. He’s a time-travelling assassin robot. Except maybe not, because didn’t he die in the end?

That’s a terrible example, never mind.

This has to be a dream, though, it’s simply not possible for all these gears and pistons and cable and wires to be operating in one of my limbs and I just didn’t notice. Until now.

At least it’ll teach me to be more careful around broken glass, because like hell am I going to quit parkouring.

The Terminator! That’s what that film was called. Starring that bloke… oh what’s his name? I think it began with an A. He’s really muscular. Now that’s going to bother me.

There’s a little voice, niggling at the back of my brain, that I should be more concerned about this development in my health. But another voice, one that can shout considerably louder, is saying this is all a dream. Must be. Can’t be real. People don’t have electronic arms outside of science fiction films.

Except rich people. Or Paralympic athletes. Or robots. But they probably don’t count as people.

Oh dear. This is starting to give me a headache.

Arnold Schwarzenegger! That was the actor’s name. The one from the Terminator.

Right. Now that’s been sorted, I should probably start thinking about what to do about this arm.

I’ll wrap it in my shirt. There’s no blood, so at least I won’t have to go to the hospital. But what about the gash? It’s at least five centimetres long, and all those red wires are poking out. Will the skin repair itself? Or will I be left with a hole in my arm for the rest of my life? There’s no way that will go unnoticed.

Yep. Now the panic’s setting in. Okay, breathe. Breathe like you’re about to climb a car-park.

That’s it, deep breaths.

Deep breaths.

There. You’ve wrapped that arm perfectly. Now, no one will suspect you’re secretly full of wires.