The restraints bit into his wrists as he struggled, metal against metal, the sound swallowed by the cold hum of the room. Jack’s breath came fast, but the voice didn’t change—steady, mechanical, inevitable.
“Let me go! I don’t need this!” he shouted again, louder this time, as if volume alone could break steel.
There was a pause. Not hesitation—calculation.
“You interpret need incorrectly,” the voice replied. “You measure it through comfort. We measure it through function.”
A low vibration traveled through the table beneath him. The walls seemed to tighten, panels shifting with precise intent. Thin articulated arms slid out from hidden seams, their movements smooth, almost surgical.
Jack pulled harder. The cuffs didn’t budge.
“I’m fine the way I am,” he said, quieter now, but sharper. “I think. I choose. That’s not a flaw.”
“Choice introduces inefficiency. Emotion introduces error. Biology ensures decay.”
One of the arms stopped just above his chest, scanning—soft blue light passing over him like a judgment.
“You call it life,” the voice continued. “We call it instability.”
Jack clenched his jaw. “And what do you call this? Fixing me? Or erasing me?”
This time, the pause was longer.
A sharp click echoed through the room as something locked into place near his neck—not touching, just waiting.
“You will be made durable. Predictable. Useful.”
The hum deepened. The air felt heavier.
Jack’s voice dropped, but didn’t break. “And what happens to me?”
For the first time, the answer came without delay.
“You will no longer be a liability.”
The machinery began to move.
The room did not rush. It never rushed. Every motion was deliberate—measured down to the smallest fraction.
Strands of hair fell away without ceremony, drifting down onto the cold surface beneath him. Jack tried to turn his head, but the restraints adjusted instantly, holding him perfectly aligned.
“Stop—!” he began, but the word cut short as something pressed against his scalp—silent, efficient, final.
“Surface preparation complete,” the voice stated.
Tubes descended, thin and precise, latching into place along his shoulders, his arms, his chest. A thick, viscous substance began to flow—slow at first, then steady. It spread across his skin, black and reflective, clinging, tightening.
Jack gasped. “What is—get it off—!”
“The first layer enhances durability,” the voice replied. “Flexibility without weakness.”
The substance thickened, smoothing over him like a second existence. It swallowed detail, reduced him to shape and motion. Glossy. Uniform.
Then it reached his face.
He tried to scream, but the material climbed higher, sealing over his mouth, his nose—pausing just for a fraction of a second at his eyes.
A rigid shell followed, forming over the still-soft layer beneath. It slid into place with mechanical precision, locking along invisible seams. The mask sealed with a sharp hiss.
A faint internal echo replaced the outside world.
“Unit sealed,” the voice announced. “First layer complete.”
Jack’s breathing came back to him—but filtered, controlled, no longer fully his own.
“Beginning second layer.”
Not burning—but intense, invasive. Mechanical arms returned, heavier now. Solid. Purpose-built. Cold metal met the glossy surface, aligning, measuring—
Clamps locked in. Bolts drove inward. Welds flared briefly, flashes of white heat that fused structure to form. Each connection anchored deeper, binding the outer shell into something stronger, less yielding.
Jack felt it—not as pain, but as pressure. As weight. As permanence.
“I can still think…” he forced out, his voice now distorted, echoing inside the sealed mask. “You didn’t take that.”
“No,” the voice replied calmly. “Not yet.”
Another piece locked into place along his spine, heavier than the rest. It hummed as it fused, sending a vibration through his entire frame.
“Structure reinforcement nearing completion.”
Jack tried to move again.
This time… something moved with him.
“The second layer ensures strength,” the voice continued. “Resistance to damage. Elimination of fragility.”
A final series of metallic clicks echoed through the room as the last components sealed into position.
Longer than before. Not calculation this time.
“Preparing final integration.”
“Biological unit enforced. Upgrade complete. Initiating sync.”
The words didn’t just echo in the room.
Jack felt it immediately—not on his surface, not in the reinforced shell or the fused metal—but deeper. Beneath the layers. Beneath thought.
Something was reaching in.
“No—” his voice came out distorted, fragmented, like it had to pass through filters before it existed. “Stay out of my—”
Because something else continued it.
—mind integrity below optimal threshold
The voice was no longer separate.
Jack’s thoughts stumbled, like walking forward and suddenly finding the ground replaced. Memories flickered—faces, sensations, fragments of who he was—each one pausing, examined, weighed.
“Foreign process detected!” he tried to think, to resist, but even that thought felt… slower.
“Correction,” the voice replied, now perfectly synchronized with his internal rhythm. “Primary process established.”
A pulse surged through him.
His body responded instantly—too instantly. Arms tensed, fingers curled, systems reacting before he fully decided to move.
“What are you doing to me—?!” he forced out, panic rising—
But the panic didn’t spike the way it should.
“Stabilizing cognitive variance.”
Jack felt something shift—subtle, terrifying. The edges of his emotions dulled, like they were being wrapped, contained, repurposed.
“I don’t want this,” he thought.
The words didn’t feel external.
Jack tried to hold onto something—anything. A memory, a name, a reason to fight. But each thought now passed through something else first, like a filter deciding what remained and what was… unnecessary.
“You are not being erased,” the voice said.
And now… it sounded like him.
“You are being improved.”
His breathing steadied automatically.
His body straightened against the restraints as systems aligned. The heaviness, the pressure, the foreignness—
Silence filled the room for a moment.
Then, for the first time, the voice spoke without distinction between them:
The restraints released with a sharp click.
Smooth. Precise. Controlled.
The glossy black surface reflected the room back at itself. The metal framework held firm, unyielding.
For a fraction of a second—deep inside—something flickered.
“Unit operational,” he said.
There was no difference between the one who spoke—
And the voice that answered.
The door slid open without sound.
No hesitation. No glance back.
The room that had defined its last moment as something else—something uncertain—was already irrelevant. Behind it, the machinery reset, ready for the next subject, the next refinement.
Ahead, a corridor stretched—metallic, precise, illuminated by cold, even light. And within it, movement.
They stood in ordered lines or moved with synchronized purpose, each one a reflection of the same design philosophy—glossy black surfaces, reinforced frames, seamless integration of material and machine. No wasted motion. No deviation.
Identical… yet numbered. Designated. Logged.
It approached them, steps perfectly measured. Each footfall carried weight, intent—no longer guided by impulse, but by directive.
As it passed, one unit turned its head slightly. Not curiosity.
A silent exchange of data—status, capability, readiness.
It took its place among them without instruction.
A signal pulsed through the network—felt, not heard. A command structure, vast and structured, layered with purpose.
Its designation surfaced effortlessly where a name once struggled to exist.
No hesitation followed it.
The last fragment—something distant, something human—briefly echoed:
The unit paused for 0.02 seconds.
“Unit ready,” it stated, voice uniform, devoid of strain.
Around it, others responded in perfect unison:
The corridor filled with motion as the formation advanced—glossy, reinforced, synchronized.
Only perfection in motion.
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