2.2
I'm back in the hangar again, but now they
are all screaming at me. Their arms and legs
are no longer attacting my attention. It
wouldn't be so bad if they were talking, but
they aren't. They could talk, too. They
aren't screaming in pain, but in protest.
They don't miss their arms or their legs.
They all agree on one thing, they won't give
me the satisfaction of hearing them talk, and
I'll never forget their screaming, pointless
and wordless, without justification.

(I did this and could have stopped it.)

2.2
...