Gabriel’s new rig was very different from the jointed, articulated octopi that most Cutter cells use. A columnar structure about 2.5 meters high with a central space just big enough for a person, close up it looked a little like a highly magnified section of squid tentacle, with countless very sharp hooks aligned in an endless spiroform. Later I find out that he took inspiration from ancient loopwheeler tech, a 20C weaving machine that outputted a seamless torso garment. Instead of circularly weaving a continuous fabric Gabriel’s machine does the opposite, each nanonically sharp hook of the Cutter unweaves a section of Skin, close to the cellular level. Homebuilt tech is never perfect though and this is why I am busying popping pills and slapping patches as I shucked my outer tunic. The Skin does not transmit derma drug patches though so I am forced to apply the morphine analogue pernineally, not a good look between mates…
Gabriel says very little, there is a little he can offer as solace, he knows it’ll fucking hurt but he does nod to the neat pile of denim and wool that sits on a metal folding chair in the corner of the lockup. This is the payoff for Cutters, the reward for denuding ourselves of cold modern comforts. I spied the faint striations of loom weaved selvedge denim and the sea foam bulges of Scottish wool and felt an absurdly childish excitement, even the boxer shorts on top of the pile seem desperately exotic, with hand stitched buttons on the crotch placket. Not that I will be able to wear my new clothes for at least a week, even with black market reepithelialisation drugs I will be a walking, screaming scab for days to come. Repulsively it will be my own flayed Skin that will remain my primary garment for the initial healing phase, it will offer the best protection and least chance for opportunistic infection; I will drag it on, weeping, like the worst wet bathing costume ever.