“So you’re going to break me,” I say.
“Yes.”
“And put me back together.”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Until the data set is sufficient.”
I let out a breath through my nose. “You could have asked.”
“We did,” the voice says calmly. “You declined.”
Fair.
A mechanical arm descends from the ceiling, stopping a safe distance from my left forearm. It holds the bone stressor, adjusted to size.
“Before each test,” the voice continues, “you will be asked to predict outcomes. Estimated pain level. Structural damage. Recovery time.”
“And if I don’t?” I ask.
“You will still undergo the procedure. However, predictive accuracy is one of the variables we are measuring.”
They don’t just want my body.
They want myunderstandingof it.
I look at the device, then at the schematic still rotating on the wall. Radius and ulna highlighted now, glowing faintly.
“On a scale of one to ten,” the voice says, “estimate your expected pain.”
I consider. Not philosophically. Clinically.
“Six,” I say. “Sharp onset, localised. Manageable.”
“Structural damage?”
“Microfracture. No displacement.”
“Recovery time?”
“Functional within forty-eight hours. Full density restoration in ten to fourteen days.”
The mechanical arm hums softly.
“Proceeding,” the voice says.
The device clamps around my forearm.
Pressure builds. Slow. Controlled. Precise.
The pain arrives exactly as predicted – clean, bright, contained. My jaw tightens but I don’t cry out. There’s a distinct sensation of something giving way inside the bone, a vibration more than a sound.
I inhale through it. Exhale. Catalogue.
The clamp releases.
