"Never teleport your brain out of your own skull without a backup plan. No good will ever come of it." -- Anon Guest
The last thing he smelled was ozone. Then there was an alarming darkness. There was no pain, any more. The eyes came online, first, showing him a fine view of his own dead body. Right now, the skull cavity would be filling up with blood as his heart went through its last, spasmodic beats. And as his blood pressure evened out within the sealed vessel of his vacated skull.
Next, sound. The buzzing of his new, artificial body as servos warmed up. It was annoying, but his brain would learn to discount it. Right now, a multiplex of artificial means was kicking in to keep his brain alive. Chemically-made blood swooshed around an artificial heart, through a system that mimicked lungs, and added nutrients to keep his brain satisfied with the state of things.
He rolled forwards on all-terrain, full-motion wheels. Carefully disconnected his new body from its place in the array of machinery. Picked up the phone from where he'd left it on the desk and carefully dialled up his assistant.
"Monty," he said with his new voice. "The experiment was successful. I am free of my flesh prison. You may announce that mankind has begun its ascension towards technological immortality. I am become the first Transhuman being."
Monty... did not react well.
Instead of arriving to congratulate him, Monty called the police, who treated the body death as a murder. Then as a suicide.
And when he tried, so patiently, to tell them that he had transported his own brain into the machinery before them... they wanted to treat it as a murder again. They thought that the machine had killed him. Impossible. It wouldn't work without a human brain.
He tried to tell them as much. Tried to show them the things that would make it clear. But they did not understand. They thought he was a malfunctioning machine. He argued his case. Passed the Turing test again and again. Warred verbally with anyone who crossed his path.
Right up until they disarmed him like a bomb.
The machine that kept his brain alive shut down. And then he did, too.
(Muse food remaining: 26. Submit a Prompt! Ask a question! Buy my stories! Or comment below!)