[ OT ] Sunday Free Write : Flights of Fancy Edition

He opened his eyes. Bright. White light. He could hardly see. It was as if he had been asleep for decades and was experiencing light for the first time, or as far as he could remember. After his eyes adjusted to the light, he could observe that he was in an empty room, except for himself and surface he was laying on. He sat up. The room was stark white. Who was he? Where was he? He looked down at his hands and legs. Not unfamiliar, he thought. The hands were pale, but they had dark creases along the joints. He bent his wrist as far he could and held it up to his eyes. At the apex of the bend, he saw a gap between where his hand ended and his forearm began. He pulled this hand with the other, and with a popping a noise, removed it. The underside of the hand where it connected to the arm was smooth and round. It fit perfectly into the concave depression where his hand should be. He put the hand back in place. 
 
 After some thorough investigating, he discovered that all his limbs were connected in a similar fashion, though he did not dare remove his head. Head. Face. What did he look like? The room had a matte finish on all of its surfaces, so he could not make out even the slightest reflection of himself. He decided to have a look around the room. He slid off the table, onto his feet. Everything was crooked. Looking down, he saw that his right leg was about an inch-and-a-half shorter than the left. He did his best to hobble around the room on his uneven footing, but he tripped and fell before he could reach the wall to steady himself. 
 
 “ I ’ m terribly sorry about that, ” a female voice crackled over what sounded like an intercom system. To him, it felt as if the whole room was speaking. “ We seem to have mismatched your legs. Don ’ t panic, I ’ m sending a replacement up to your room now. ” Not a minute later, he heard a hissing noise. A panel opened in the floor about a foot away from him. From the hole in the floor rose a pedestal, atop which sat a chocolate brown human leg. 
 
 “ The color ’ s wrong, but at least you ’ ll be able to walk properly now, ” said the voice. “ I ’ ll have to place an order for some new leg kits. Lower leg, caucasian, two-point-five feet. ” He thought he ’ d try to speak. “ W-what the hell is going on here?, ” he asked the voice. “ What am I doing here? Where am I? Who am I? ” “ What you are doing, ” the voice replied in a condescending tone, “ is replacing that bum leg of yours. Go on. I saw you playing around earlier, you should know how this works. ” 
 
 He removed his right foot. The voice interrupted him. “ Ah, no. I should ’ ve told you. That ’ s the wrong leg. We ’ ve sent up a leg that ’ s one-point-five inches shorter. Sorry about that, but it is what it is until we get another set in. I can ’ t imagine where your rightly sized leg went. ” He put his right foot back in place and went to work disassembling his left leg instead. He removed his left foot, followed by his lower leg. “ Place the lower leg on the pedestal, thank you. ” After his leg was all in order, he got up off of the floor. Everything was perfectly straight, albeit slightly lower. “ There, all better now, ” said the voice cheerfully. “ Now, I believe you had some questions? ” “ What is this place? What ’ s happened to me?, ” he immediately asked. “ I can not answer those questions yet, nor are the answers relevant right now, ” said the voice. “ Okay, what about who I am? Do I have a name? ” he asked. “ There ’ s a question worth asking. A question with a tangible answer.'' `` Remove your head, ” the voice commanded.
