Most of the team thought they were prosthesis. He was okay with that. He certainly couldn't get around easily without them, and he didn't take them off outside his room. It was one of those things that people assumed about him. That he let people assume about him.
Lucio told himself it was easier that way, and maybe it was. They didn't need to know that he did still have his legs, even though there were days he wished he didn't. That what they thought were prosthesis, were actually an exoskeleton that kept him upright. That Vishkar had hurt him so badly he couldn't walk on his own. That his legs hurt, all the time, endlessly.
The days it was the really bad, he kept still at his workbench and played his healing songs on loop. Most days he got through by listening to the song he developed as a painkiller. It was half placebo, half Vishkar-based mind control tech. Lucio took some bitter amusement from turning the technology that had once kept his people passive, into something that dulled his pain. He never used that kind of thing in the field. It would make him like Vishkar, and that was a line he would never cross.
People assumed him constantly listening to music, was a musician thing, and it kind of was. But it was more that he could no longer stand silence. Silence made him think of the cell Vishkar had dumped him in. It was a sensory deprivation tank, really. It had almost driven him mad. Probably had, a little. Worse than the silence had been the lack of color, from anything but his own voice. His synesthesia had kept him from doing something drastic in that cell. They had broken his legs in over a dozen places each. Had left him, untreated, in that torture chamber, for a week. They had only let him out because they thought he had broken. Had dumped him on his family's doorstep and tried to turn it into a symbol.
The only reason he had struggled through recovery, was because he refused to let them win.
That was another thing people assumed about him: that he was optimistic and naïve. Truth was, Lucio knew the worst the world had to offer, he just refused to let the it affect him, crush him, break him. He had out-stubborned an evil mega-corporation as a teenager. With his community and his music and his people with him, he had become a force of nature. Now, as an international celebrity, he was a symbol of freedom and joy and youth. He knew the importance of symbols. So he let people think he was constantly happy. Let people think that the music was purposeless. Let people think that his legs had been completely (near painlessly) removed.