I look down at my arm. No blood. No visible deformity. Just a deep, throbbing ache and the knowledge of damage beneath the skin.
The display updates.
“Prediction accuracy: high,” the voice notes. “Pain assessment within acceptable variance.”
“Congratulations,” I mutter.
A second arm descends, this one holding a scanner. It passes over my forearm, mapping the damage in real time. The schematic updates, a fine crack glowing where I know it should be.
They’re not guessing.
They’re confirming.
“Recovery protocols will begin now,” the voice says. “You may experience discomfort.”
A different injector presses against my skin. I feel the cold sting of something entering my bloodstream – accelerants, stimulants, god knows what else. The ache in my arm shifts, deepening, heating, as the bone responds.
I grit my teeth.
They watch. Of course they do. Every micro-expression, every twitch.
Time passes measured in heartbeats.
“Next test,” the voice says.
They don’t ask if I’m ready.
This time it’s my tibia. Then my ribs. Then my collarbone.
Each time, the same ritual. Prediction. Pressure. Pain. Data.
I get most of them right.
That’s the problem.
I sit back on the table between tests, sweat cooling on my skin, body aching in ways that overlap and blur. They give me water. Not kindness. Maintenance.
“You are adapting,” the voice observes after the fifth fracture. “Your predictions are becoming more precise.”
“Practice,” I say. My voice is tight now, edges fraying. “I learn fast.”
“Yes,” the voice agrees. “That is why you are valuable.”
There it is. The word.Valuable.
I laugh, a short, humourless sound. “You know what’s funny?”
The voice does not respond.
“You think this is efficient,” I continue. “But you’re missing a variable.”
“Specify.”
I look up at the glass ceiling, at my own faint reflection staring back, fractured and whole all at once. This is new. It’s different.Why?
“Pain teaches,” I say. “But it also lies.”
Another pause.
