You walk with a limp as you try to get used to the temporary prosthetic foot the docs at the VA hospital gave you. You stumble but catch yourself as you navigate the gravel path through the park. You hear shouting and the sound of tear gas bombs exploding.
An old Middle Eastern woman sitting on a bench rises and approaches you. She holds out a hand made necklace and puts it over your head.
"You lost your foot when you jumped in front of a child to shield him from a bomb," she says, "He is my godchild, and so you have earned this reward."
"Uh, how did-" you ask as the necklace drops around your neck and rests on your chest. There is a loud scream and the sound of bushes being broken behind you. You turn toward the noise, and see a young war protestor running toward you. He's one of those guys who where their pants low, and he trips and ploughs into you. You look around for the woman, but she has vanished.
You're in your uniform, and the punk spits on you. Even with your prosthetic foot, you're able to get to your feet while the punk is on all fours with his pants and boxers around his knees. His bare butt is exposed to you. You can't resist. You swing your prosthetic foot and kick the jerk squarely in the ass. Your prosthetic foot toe disappears to your heel buried in the kid's rectum.
He screams and flays wildly. Amazingly, as you watch he rapidly shrinks. The metal and plastic of your prosthetic foot melt away as the flesh of the protestor pulls out of his now empty clothing and reshapes to become your living foot. A puddle of metal, plastic and parts lie under your bare foot. You walk over to the bench where the old woman had been sitting.
You sit on the bench and wiggle your toes. They're real. It's incredible. You tickle your new sole. You can feel. An odd thought enters your head.
Where am I? What happened? Ew, gross, I'm a foot.
"You're a foot?" you ask.
Uh, you can hear me? Hey, what did you do to me you, war monger?
"I-" you pause and think at the foot. I didn't do anything, but kick your ass. You're the one who changed and replaced my prosthetic. You seem to be totally my foot.
You run your hands over the former protestor. You sort of feel sorry for him. But his loss is your gain, and he did spit on you. Though it could be a bit awkward living with a talking foot-well, thinking foot.
Awkward! screams the foot. You better take good care of me. I don't want to get athlete's foot or stubbed. Oh, and no shoes. Just sandals. I want to see where I'm going.
Mandals? No way, you're my foot. You'll wear what I want. Got it!