Mars, Unknown Facility

  She’d come before.

  The first time was the worst. The world crashed into her consciousness, giving her no time to process, shattering it like glass under a boot. Panic flooded her like icy water. She thrashed, tried to break free, but the metal clamps didn’t budge. Sharp edges dug into her wrists, her ankles, cutting into her skin until hot drops trickled down her arms. She screamed, tore her throat raw until her voice crumbled into a rasp. But the walls stayed deaf—no one came, no one answered. Only the indifferent hum of machines and the faint hiss of a drip pushing something cold into her body.

  She fought until her muscles gave out, until her lungs shrank into a dry, aching lump, until darkness grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back under. And now—another awakening.

  Consciousness returned slowly, clawing through a thick, sticky blackness, like wading through cold, congealed oil. Somewhere on the edge of perception, muted sounds flickered: the steady buzz of equipment, the barely audible beep of biomonitors, the rustle of mechanized arms. First came the cold—not sharp, but deep, as if the metal surface beneath her was soaking up the last of her warmth. Then the pressure: heavy, merciless, pinning her limbs, not letting her so much as twitch. The cold hit again—not biting, but seeping, like the metal under her back was draining heat from her very core. Then the pressure: heavy, unrelenting, locking her limbs in place, holding her still. Thoughts surfaced and sank again, as if her mind was trying to boot up but something blocked it—something alien, unseen, but inescapable.

  Her body was pressed against the cold surface, arms and legs bound by rigid metal restraints. Her wrists were squeezed by auto-tightening cuffs, her thighs held by stabilizers that ruled out any chance of movement. Her head rested in a hollow, clamped so tightly she couldn’t even turn it.

  The air felt artificial, sterile. No hint of ozone, no faint tang of rust from old filtration systems—just antiseptic and a slight chemical taste of technical oils. Ventilation droned overhead; every so often, a faint click sounded from the gear tracking her vitals. The light was even, white, cold—no shadows, no corner for her gaze to latch onto.

  She tried to breathe deeper, but her chest struggled to rise. Warmth spread through her unnaturally—with each heartbeat, an alien pulse throbbed from the drip embedded in her vein. The lower half of her body felt distant, numb. Awareness crept in, bringing a sickening sense of helplessness: catheters. Even that was taken, automated, underscoring that her body no longer belonged to her.

  Footsteps.

  Each one echoed in her head, rolling over her like waves on a helpless form, leaving no chance to escape even in thought. She froze, but inside, everything churned—her heart skipped beats, her breathing faltered, blood pounded against her temples. Those steps carried a meaning she didn’t want to grasp. Precise, measured, like a metronome. Relentless, exact, like a working machine. Her breathing hitched; her chest jerked, trying to shrink from the sound, but the straps held her fast. Her heart raced, hammering out a painful rhythm of dread. There was no randomness in that sound, no hesitation—just a flawless method. He didn’t rush, didn’t slow—his movements as inevitable as a closing door.

  He stopped at the edge of her peripheral vision but didn’t speak right away. His silence held no curiosity or doubt—just patient waiting, like a sculptor before unformed stone.

  “Good morning.”

  His voice was even, soft, but devoid of any human warmth. He wasn’t speaking to a person, but to an object needing attention. With a practiced motion, he brushed his fingers along her temple, as if checking something.

  “Here.”

  A light press, and a sharp, pulsing jolt of pain shot through her nerves. Her body jerked, but the restraints wouldn’t let her move.

  “This is the interface point. An embedded sensory module, linked to your nervous system, reaching into the deep layers of perception. It doesn’t just track pain, temperature, or pressure—it catches the tiniest flickers of neural impulses, anticipating your reactions before you even register them.”

  He watched. Calmly, with interest, but without emotion.

  “Do you feel that cold under your skin? That’s not your nerves. Those are sensors wired into the core nodes of your sensory network. Now every sensation you have isn’t just a signal in your brain. It’s recorded. Analyzed. Modeled. It can be replayed. Amplified. Extended. Or erased entirely.”

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  He said it like he was running a routine tech check—with the cold precision of a mechanic gauging a system’s specs. But inside her, everything screamed. Her stomach clenched into a tight knot, her heart beat unevenly, wildly, like a bird trapped in a cage. Her fingers, locked in steel cuffs, tried to curl into fists, but her limbs wouldn’t obey—just a faint tremble, proving her helplessness. He saw it. And kept talking like she wasn’t a person, but another test subject. No threats, no pity—just the method of someone used to total control. She, pinned motionless, felt the metal beneath her meld with her skin, goosebumps racing along her spine, his every word settling as sticky fear deep in her mind.

  He nodded, satisfied with her response.

  “You’re starting to understand. Personality is just a set of parameters, albeit a large one. Some can be altered. Some were erased. Some are rewritten. This isn't a theory. It’s a process.”

  She tried to swallow, but her muscles wouldn’t comply. Her body was still hers, but she couldn’t command it anymore. He noticed her attempt to move and smirked.

  “It’s inevitable. Easier to accept it now than fight what’s already decided. Your resistance is just an echo of habits that’ll soon fade. The sooner you let them go, the smoother your transition will be.”

  His fingers slid lightly across her cheek—cold, dry, like shards of metal. The skin beneath them felt alien, numb, as if it wasn’t her body but a lifeless shell. Yet deeper, where her mind still clung to the last scraps of control, everything tightened, twisted into a painful knot. Her throat clamped shut, and for a moment, it felt like it’d ceased to exist, like air couldn’t pierce that choking void. Thoughts flared chaotically, like broken frames on spoiled film: break free, scream, do something… but her muscles wouldn’t respond. They’d betrayed her, like a body sinking into icy water, every move locked by paralyzing helplessness. Her breathing grew short, ragged, each moment stretching into eternity. It wasn’t just unpleasant—it invaded, blurring the line between her and that touch, leaving a clammy trace like an electric shock. She wanted to turn away, but her muscles wouldn’t budge; every cell absorbed that contact in frozen horror, powerless to pull back. And he knew it, no doubt. Her skin burned, as if branded by hot metal, but her body wouldn’t let her flinch, wouldn’t let her hide. He felt her fear, her revulsion. And he liked it.

  He circled the table slowly, like studying an exhibit, with the lazy precision of a pro who knows no detail will slip past.

  First—the feet. His gaze traced the arch, the tense toes trembling faintly. He ran a fingertip over the skin, testing sensitivity, watching tiny muscles twitch involuntarily. Then—the calves, firm tendons under smooth skin, a light press on the calf muscle, gauging the response. The cold metal table seemed to amplify her body’s tension, refusing to let even a scrap of warmth linger in her limbs.

  He paused, slid his fingers along the inner surface, lingering where the skin was softest. He probed the muscle structure, the tissue’s strain. Her breathing faltered, but she couldn’t even try to pull away. He studied, memorized. Every move locked into his mind, like a mechanism needing calibration.

  The pubic area—a muted, almost sterile intimacy to the examination, but her skin reacted differently. Each movement of his fingers sent an unpleasant shiver rippling through her, hidden beneath her forced stillness. She felt everything inside her clench, a wave of instinctive revulsion surging, but her body remained submissive. He pressed a little harder, as if testing, and her breath hitched for a moment before she forced herself still again. No fuss, no emotion, yet in this scrutiny lay an unrelenting power. He examined her like a machine before startup—thoroughly, unhurriedly. His fingers gripped the catheter protruding between delicate folds; a shudder jolted through her. With a light motion, he made her bound body twitch, a faint whimper-like moan echoing through the room. He ran his fingers along the curve of her pelvis, pressed as if gauging bone density, then slowly moved upward.

  The abdomen. Smooth skin, subtle traces of tension beneath the surface, as if her very body fought against the instinct to stay still. A gentle push below her solar plexus—his palm felt her heartbeat. Ribs—jutting arcs under her skin—contractions of intercostal muscles, light touches making her heart skip beats. He noted the small, trembling spasms, her body’s intuitive attempts to evade contact.

  The chest. He studied the shape, the structure—small but defined glands beneath young, velvety skin. He tracked changes in her breathing, the tautness of the tissue. Lingered for a few seconds, tracing fingers around a neat nipple, observing how her skin reacted instantly to shifts in temperature and pressure. It was a mechanical exploration, no wasted motion, yet his touch carried something more—something beyond simple analysis.

  The neck. Smooth lines of tendons, the pulse throbbing under his fingertips. He checked the angle of her head, the security of the restraints, leaning in slightly, sensing the warmth of her breath. He paused, as if listening to the silent melody of her helplessness.

  The arms. Shoulders, forearm muscles, slender wrists locked in metal clamps. He parted her fingers slightly, as if testing their mobility, then squeezed, measuring resistance. Checked the skin’s density on the inner wrist, like he was searching for faint traces of old cuts or bruises. Noted the structure of tendons, the strength of her grip, even if she couldn’t fight back.

  Only then did he step back, taking her in with a full sweep of his gaze, as if appraising his work. Then he straightened, satisfied.

  “Now rest. We’ve got plenty more work ahead.”