“Then let’s put our heads together and go over the delta patterns from the hippocampal anomalies. I think you’ll want to see what’s shifted.” Monroe paused for a beat. “It’ll take time.”
Sybil sighed. “Fine. Give me twenty minutes. Close the door.”
Monroe nodded, stepping inside and quietly closing the door behind her.
Moments later, in one of the dim, sterile mid-level procedure chambers, there was a flurry of activity. The whirr of machines punctuated the silence. Alex lay unconscious, face-down on a surgical table. His wrists, ankles, and torso were bound withtight synthetic restraints. Electrodes flickered gently along his spine.
Two technicians—one older and cautious, the other barely holding it together—exchanged looks over the tray of instruments.
The first technician whispered, “We shouldn’t be doing this without clearance. Dr. Vance would?—”
The second technician glared. “According to Monroe, Dr. Vance is otherwise engaged.”
The airlock whooshed. Monroe entered, pulling on gloves, her tone a scalpel of cold precision. “We’re on schedule. Begin sterilization of the area at C3 and L1. Prep the spine. No deviations.”
The technicians obeyed, though the second tech’s hands trembled slightly. Alex stirred beneath the restraints, a weak groan escaping his lips.
“Monroe, he’s waking up. Heart rate’s fluctuating. He’s responding to peripheral pressure,” the second technician said.
“Good. I want the nervous system responsive. We need to see the failure curve.” Monroe lifted a chrome case. Inside, a segmented device—sleek and sinister—rested on black foam. Its ends were barbed, a tiny LED glowing red at its core. “This interface wraps C3 and L1. It'll map his reflex loops and allow selective interruption—plus injection access to cerebrospinal fluid.”
The first technician warned, “He could go into respiratory arrest if?—”
“Then resuscitate him.” She leaned in, placing the device gently along Alex’s exposed spine. A click. Then another. His body twitched violently as the interface locked into place with a hiss of pressurized sealant.
The second technician called out, “Vitals dropping. Pulse erratic.”
“Now the final phase.” She ignored Alex’s erratic vitals as she retrieved a slim vial. The fluid inside was dark blue—almost black under the surgical light. “Neurophase Compound Delta. This will push the limits of his CNS adaptability.” Without hesitation, she inserted a needle into the device’s central port.
When the fluid disappeared into Alex’s spinal channel, he convulsed.
“He’s crashing. BP’s nosediving!” the first technician called out.
Alex’s voice was a strained whisper, “Please… don’t.” His body arched unnaturally against the restraints, veins darkening beneath his skin.
The second technician cried, “We’re losing him!”
“No. We’re remaking him.” Monroe smiled a perverse smile. She watched, her expression unreadable as Alex's breathing slowed and eyelids fluttered. Monitors screamed. Then plateau…followed by the flatline tone.
“Let’s see what survives. Take him back to his chamber. Attach the medication dispenser systems.”
It didn’t take long.The alarms screamed through the corridor—sharp, shrill tones that pierced the sterile silence like sirens in a war zone.
Red lights strobed across the white walls as Dr. Sybil Vance and Bray Maddox strode quickly down the hallway, their footsteps echoing with purpose. Sybil’s jaw was clenched, her clipboard forgotten under her arm, her coat flaring with every step. Maddox, taller, broader, silent, flanked her, his hand hovering near the secure access controller clipped to his belt.They didn’t need directions. The alarms told them exactly where the problem was.
Chamber 9. Subject: Marcel, A.
When they reached the door, it hissed open automatically, its bio-lock overridden by the emergency protocols. Inside, it was chaos masked by stillness.
Alex hung in the center of the room, suspended, limp, a marionette with his strings half-cut. Sweat poured off him in sheets. His head lolled to one side, neck straining. His breathing was shallow, erratic, and loud in the silence that followed the fading alarm.
And standing behind him, injecting something directly into his spine at the base of his neck, was Monroe.
Sybil stopped cold. “What the hell is this?”
Monroe didn’t flinch. She withdrew the needle slowly, watching Alex twitch under her hand like a specimen on a slide. “Necessary escalation,” she said coolly. “He was resisting conditioning. This is a booster—neural rewrite accelerator.”
Sybil’s eyes blazed. “You’re bypassing metabolic thresholds. Monroe, you are disregarding everything this program was authorized to do. His vitals are dangerously abnormal.” Her breath caught. “Spinal transmitters? These aren’t tested.”
