Cold floods my arm, then heat, then a crawling sensation under the skin like ants moving through muscle. My fingers spasm involuntarily. The blade wobbles as the machine compensates.
A tremor ripples through my hand.
My jaw locks harder.
I recognise the compound by feel alone. Neuromuscular disruptor. Not paralytic. Not sedative.
Precision killer.
They aren’t trying to stop gross movement. They’re attacking fine control.
The thing I rely on.
The tremor worsens, spreading from my fingers to my wrist. I flex experimentally, slow and careful.
The movement is there. Strength intact.
Accuracy is gone.
The voice speaks again, closer now. “We are assessing the degradation threshold of motor precision under chemical interference.”
I stare straight ahead, refusing to look at the blade.
If I look, they win twice. Data and satisfaction.
The tremor increases. My hand shakes visibly now, a betrayal I can’t hide.
Another injector hits my left arm.
My fingers curl reflexively, nails biting into my palms. I force them open again, slow and deliberate, refusing to clench into useless fists.
The blade inches closer.
Four inches.
My breathing remains even, but something ugly coils low in my gut. Not fear.
Fury.
They know exactly what they’re doing.
They’re not hurting me because they want pain. They’re hurting me because they want frustration. They want to watch the moment rage realises it has nowhere to go.
The blade stops two inches from my fingers.
A screen flickers to life on the wall in front of me. I hadn’t noticed it before. Grey on grey. Easy to miss.
Now it lights up with a live feed.
Me.
My hands, magnified. The tremor, visible in humiliating detail. Data scrolls beside the image – angles, velocity, deviation.
They’re not just restraining me.
They’re dissecting me.
“Attempt to grasp the object,” the voice says calmly.
