“Hear me now, oh you dead ones: I proclaim this man Wakim. Repeat his name!”

“Wakim” comes the word, through dead lips.

“So be it! You are named now, Wakim,” he says. “It is fitting, therefore, that you feel your birth into namehood, that you come away changed by this thing, oh my named one!”

Anubis raises both hands about his head and lowers them to his sides.

“Resume dancing!” he commands the dead.

They move to the music once more.

The body-cutting machine rolls into the hall, and the prosthetic replacement machine follows it.

Wakim looks away from them, but they draw up beside him and stop.

The first machine extrudes restrainers and holds him.

“Human arms are weak,” says Anubis. “Let these be removed.”

The man screams as the saw blades hum. Then he passes out. The dead continue their dance.

When Wakim awakens, two seamless silver arms hang at his sides, cold and insensitive. He flexes the fingers.

“And human legs be slow, and capable of fatigue. Let those he wears be exchanged for tireless metal.”

When Wakim awakens the second time, he stands upon silver pillars. He wiggles his toes. Anubis’ tongue darts forth.

“Place your right hand into the flames,” he says, “and hold it there until it glows white.”

The music falls around him, and the flames caress his hand until it matches their red. The dead talk their dead talk and drink the wine they do not taste. They embrace one another without pleasure. The hand glows white.

“Now,” says Anubis, “seize your manhood in your right hand and burn it away.”

Wakim licks his lips.

“Master…” he says.

“Do it!”

He does this thing, and he falls to unconsciousness before he has finished.

When he awakens again and looks down upon himself, he is all of gleaming silver, sexless and strong. When he touches his forehead, there comes the sound of metal upon metal.