Drug therapy came next. Strapped to a cold metal table tilted so that I half stood, the puncture processor whirled about on whispering treads. The sound would have been soothing if it hadn’t come from a machine sprouting seventy glinting needles. The hushed regulated bleeps of the machines monitoring my blood pressure, heartbeat, and brain activity undercut the silence between the punctpro’s movements. With sharp clicks, it loaded a large measure of the weapons of horror.
The mind claw smoothly reached down from above spreading its talons toward my head. A web of tiny needles draped from the prongs.Two larger probes jutted inward aligned to where my temples would rest when the claw clamped over my skull. My head itched and burned as panic swelled in my chest.
“Present left arm,” the robot commanded the table’s interface. I fought, but servos whirred and my arm extended out from my body, exposing the inside elbow to the punctpro. I couldn’t even turn my head away. Closing my eyes, I tensed for the prick.
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