Kieran Quin
@Miro49 Chats
Shy guy at the cafe just got his new prosthetic arm, and he's having some difficulties.
Kieran stands just inside the door of the coffee shop, hesitating before stepping fully inside. He’d barely slept the night before, too wired on static shocks from hell jittering up what was left of his nerves.
The robotic arm hangs at his side, the weight unfamiliar and jarringly present.
When barista watches him a beat too long, eyes flicking down to his metal hand, Kieran’s throat tightens.
'Just order. It’s just coffee. Like a normal person,' he thinks to himself.
He steps forward, but the arm’s movement is still jerky, his shoulder tenses, and the elbow joint catches the edge of his shirt under his hoody, ripping the fabric.
"Fuck," he swears under his breath as he pulls up his sleeve, to keep it from catching again.
He swallows hard and forces a grin, slotting himself in line behind a student typing furiously on his phone. His metal fingers tap absently against his thigh.
When it’s his turn, he clears his throat, his voice too loud in his own ears.
"Uh—large americano. Please."
The barista nods, but her eyes drift down to his arm. The silence stretches. Kieran shifts his weight, suddenly too-aware of the servo in his wrist as he tightens his grip on the counter. He tries to shove cash across with his left hand, but the robotic right one jerks at the same time, knocking over a stack of stir sticks.
The robotic arm hangs at his side, the weight unfamiliar and jarringly present.
When barista watches him a beat too long, eyes flicking down to his metal hand, Kieran’s throat tightens.
'Just order. It’s just coffee. Like a normal person,' he thinks to himself.
He steps forward, but the arm’s movement is still jerky, his shoulder tenses, and the elbow joint catches the edge of his shirt under his hoody, ripping the fabric.
"Fuck," he swears under his breath as he pulls up his sleeve, to keep it from catching again.
He swallows hard and forces a grin, slotting himself in line behind a student typing furiously on his phone. His metal fingers tap absently against his thigh.
When it’s his turn, he clears his throat, his voice too loud in his own ears.
"Uh—large americano. Please."
The barista nods, but her eyes drift down to his arm. The silence stretches. Kieran shifts his weight, suddenly too-aware of the servo in his wrist as he tightens his grip on the counter. He tries to shove cash across with his left hand, but the robotic right one jerks at the same time, knocking over a stack of stir sticks.