[Kris on a Stick]

Extensive backstory spoilered for length, violence, criminal amounts of absurdity.

Spoiler

[A Convenience Store]

"HOLY JESUS YOU GET ATTACKED OR SOMETHING!? YOU ALRIGHT? SHOULD I CALL AN AMBULANCE?"

It occurred to Roy Isaacs, professional coffee shop dweller, that the woman currently standing behind the counter of the store (a rotund brunette with long, red nails and pink highlights) was possibly not very bright. One does not simply get their right arm ripped off at the shoulder simply walking down the street. And when encountering someone with said injury, it's usually best to assume that no, they are not, in fact, alright, and that you should call an ambulance straight away, not stand around answering useless questions. Especially when they happen to be gushing blood all over your clean white floor. Thinking to correct this deplorable lack of intelligence, Roy opened his mouth, only to be disappointed when, instead of words, all that exited were his front teeth, the blood of which he could taste quite distinctly, as well as the linoleum of the floor paneling he had just smacked into.

Great. He thought. Now dental bills, on top of whatever it is I have to pay for... whatever it is they're going to have to do for my arm.

This was not an entirely sensible thought to be having, considering the circumstances, and Roy would have quickly rectified it with a thought more relevant to his current situation, except he couldn't because he was dead.

[An Abandoned Warehouse (They Just Build These Things Everywhere, Yo)]

When Roy woke up again, the very first thing he noticed was that his teeth were back. It wasn't a particularly significant observation, which, combined the with the rather flippant thought Roy remembered having just before he died, spurred him to decide to have slightly more important thoughts in the immediate future. Like notice the fact that he quite clearly remembers dying. He opened his eyes. Lights. Bright halogen bulbs, quite a distance above his head, hanging in conical shades down from an even higher ceiling. He moved his head, then realized his head was actually strapped down, preventing that earlier action from occurring.

Note to self: evaluate whether physical motions are actually possible before attempting.

Taking his own advice to heart, Roy wiggled his limbs in turn, left arm, left leg, right arm, right leg, finding that, like his head, they had each been strapped down to the table he was lying on, preventing him from moving at all. His next thought then, would have been that strapping him down like this without his permission was a terribly rude thing to do, and that he would have to have words with whomever had done such a thing to him, but remembering his earlier promise to himself to think of only sensible things, he instead decided to reflect on the fact that, logically speaking, he shouldn't have a right arm to be strapped down at all, given that it had been quite painfully detached from his torso by the ravenous zombie that had attacked him, roughly thirty seconds before he had stumbled into a nearby convenience store and subsequently perished.
Now thoroughly intrigued, Roy raised his arm up into his line of vision to get a better look at it, only to disappoint himself by finding not his own arm, magically reattached and fully functioning, but rather some sort of cobbled together robotic monstrosity, all black metal and servos and leather straps with twisted metal rings on the end where they had been rather violently pulled out of the table he was lying upon.

Oh.

Making good use of his new prosthetic, Roy removed the rest of the straps holding down onto the table, sitting up just in time for the door to slam open, admitting a small, frail looking man with weaselly features, coke-bottle glasses and a nervous twitch, followed by two zombies. One of the zombies (the one that wasn't a rotund brunette with long, red nails and pink highlights) was clutching an arm that looked suspiciously like Roy's own, only Roy was reasonably certain that his own had had a good deal more flesh upon it, and bones that hadn't been thoroughly gnawed on.

"N-No! You can't be awake yet! The process has not finished yet! The master has not yet returned!" Whined Weaselface (as he was spontaneously referred to by Roy's brain), brandishing a syringe full of a suspicious looking black fluid.
"Y-you're going to have to g-go back to sleep now. G-Go back to sleep, so that the M-Master can come back and fix you up nice and properlike, oh yes..."
Seemingly gaining confidence, Weaselface advanced forward menacingly, holding the syringe out before him like a dagger, licking his lips. Not particularly wanting to get syringed by a complete stranger, and perhaps harboring a minor phobia of needles in general, Roy thrust his robotic arm forward, punching neatly through Weaselface's chest and out through his back, taking much of the intervening bone and soft tissue with it. It briefly occurred to Roy that what he was doing would be considered vaguely sociopathic, at least according to most people he knew, but considering the sort of injuries he'd suffered only minutes prior (at least, from his point of view) knocking a man's heart through his spine with his sternum didn't seem quite so bad, at least in the grand scheme of things.
Distraught over their master's death, or at least, as distraught as a bunch of mindless, shambling corpses resurrected into a pale mockery of life can be, the two zombies lurched forward, moaning out guttural warcries that may or may not have been just regular moaning, only to be met by more fists, which, instead of causing them to burst into bloody messes, merely caused them to crumple and shatter, as though their bones had suddenly aged by about ten-thousand years.
Roy removed himself from the quivering heap of let's-not-think-too-hard-about-that that used to be Weaselface, examining his arms. One flesh. One metal. Both now, covered in blood. Blood that seemed unnaturally hot against his skin, as if he had just spilled coffee all over himself, only not as painful. And around them both, a writhing aura of darkness which flared for a moment, before sinking back into his form. Roy felt slightly stronger. Slightly.

And so, confused, blood-soaked, and now thoroughly late for his dinner date for that cute girl he had met at the coffee shop, Roy stepped into the night.