Read Online Markram Battles: Omens of Doom (Part II) by M.C. Muhlenkamp - Free Book Online
Authors: M.C. Muhlenkamp
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loosely against my back begin to lift of their own accord and I freeze. The unseen force tugs, twists, and pulls, plaiting one lock on top of the other. I swallow the eerie sensation spreading through my limbs, as I always do whenever an assessor with the ability to move objects with his mind plays with my hair. I feel like a doll, a child, a little girl surrounded by ghosts.
The assessor walks back to where I sit, observing the tips of the last few threads knotting together. His iridescent green eyes turn their attention to the last unopened compartment on the wall, and the door slides away as if he had personally pushed it opened. My chest contracts in anticipation as the black suit comes into view. Cold fingers pry the skin at my hips, making me turn around. One of the physicians assigned to our unit, a woman with a round face, iridescent hazel eyes, and long hair tied into a ponytail, lifts my top and slips her hand into the side of my waist, stroking each rib with her thumb. My legs wobble as the pain shoots through my spine again.
The physician nods to the assessor and he approaches. “This will hurt,” he says. A second later a splintering sound reverberates inside my ears, together with the sound of my own screams. “Stay still.” His commanding tone ricochets off my mind and my muscles take control, flinching away from his touch.
“Thirteen.” Seven’s voice enters my eardrums and my body responds, freezing immediately.
My limbs shake out of control, but the pain begins to subside, gradually being replaced by the warm touch of the physician. Her palm rests against my skin, healing the rib the assessor broke with his mind. My ragged breathing steadies, and only after I regain complete control of myself do I realize my fingers are wrapped tightly around the physician’s other arm.
Her hazel eyes meet mine, twinkling in understanding. “Your rib hadn’t been healed properly. We also need to replace your plaque. The fact that it didn’t notify us of your rib’s condition means it isn’t working properly.”
I clench my teeth together, remembering my first experience with the insertion of the plaque. I had just arrived at the training facility, almost a year ago to the date. Each new recruit had taken her turn, sitting in a very similar room, while one assessor tore her skin open only by thinking of it, pressed the integrated circuit into the tissue underneath, and sealed the wound closed. I shake my head and the dreadful memory vanishes.
My lungs expand and collapse in preparation of the pain I know will soon follow. The assessor has already taken control of my forearm, and though he stands a few feet away from me, his mental grip holds my arm firmly in place. His mind begins to dig into my wrist, puncturing the layer of skin with the utmost care and precision. Every muscle in my body cringes in protest, tensing in panic. No blood drips out of the wound. The perfect coordination and control of the incision would almost be enough of a distraction from the throbbing pain, if it weren’t for my shaking limbs.
I can barely keep my eyes open as I watch the exposed plaque. My vision blurs and I bite down in an attempt to control the impulse to yank my arm back and dart away. I can feel the temptation sinking deeper, encircling my will. I won’t last much longer. My fingers clamp tighter around the physician’s arm, trembling uncontrollably. “Part of your muscle tissue healed around the existing plaque, and he will need to cut through that as well in order to replace it. But he is almost done.”
My legs wobble at the announcement and she has to steady me. I feel her free hand pressing against my back, though not in a comforting way. Her expressionless demeanor unsteadies me. How can she stand there perfectly poised, as if the assessor was simply drawing a picture on my arm? The trembling in my body intensifies. I shut my eyes, breathing in slowly and shivering as
The assessor walks back to where I sit, observing the tips of the last few threads knotting together. His iridescent green eyes turn their attention to the last unopened compartment on the wall, and the door slides away as if he had personally pushed it opened. My chest contracts in anticipation as the black suit comes into view. Cold fingers pry the skin at my hips, making me turn around. One of the physicians assigned to our unit, a woman with a round face, iridescent hazel eyes, and long hair tied into a ponytail, lifts my top and slips her hand into the side of my waist, stroking each rib with her thumb. My legs wobble as the pain shoots through my spine again.
The physician nods to the assessor and he approaches. “This will hurt,” he says. A second later a splintering sound reverberates inside my ears, together with the sound of my own screams. “Stay still.” His commanding tone ricochets off my mind and my muscles take control, flinching away from his touch.
“Thirteen.” Seven’s voice enters my eardrums and my body responds, freezing immediately.
My limbs shake out of control, but the pain begins to subside, gradually being replaced by the warm touch of the physician. Her palm rests against my skin, healing the rib the assessor broke with his mind. My ragged breathing steadies, and only after I regain complete control of myself do I realize my fingers are wrapped tightly around the physician’s other arm.
Her hazel eyes meet mine, twinkling in understanding. “Your rib hadn’t been healed properly. We also need to replace your plaque. The fact that it didn’t notify us of your rib’s condition means it isn’t working properly.”
I clench my teeth together, remembering my first experience with the insertion of the plaque. I had just arrived at the training facility, almost a year ago to the date. Each new recruit had taken her turn, sitting in a very similar room, while one assessor tore her skin open only by thinking of it, pressed the integrated circuit into the tissue underneath, and sealed the wound closed. I shake my head and the dreadful memory vanishes.
My lungs expand and collapse in preparation of the pain I know will soon follow. The assessor has already taken control of my forearm, and though he stands a few feet away from me, his mental grip holds my arm firmly in place. His mind begins to dig into my wrist, puncturing the layer of skin with the utmost care and precision. Every muscle in my body cringes in protest, tensing in panic. No blood drips out of the wound. The perfect coordination and control of the incision would almost be enough of a distraction from the throbbing pain, if it weren’t for my shaking limbs.
I can barely keep my eyes open as I watch the exposed plaque. My vision blurs and I bite down in an attempt to control the impulse to yank my arm back and dart away. I can feel the temptation sinking deeper, encircling my will. I won’t last much longer. My fingers clamp tighter around the physician’s arm, trembling uncontrollably. “Part of your muscle tissue healed around the existing plaque, and he will need to cut through that as well in order to replace it. But he is almost done.”
My legs wobble at the announcement and she has to steady me. I feel her free hand pressing against my back, though not in a comforting way. Her expressionless demeanor unsteadies me. How can she stand there perfectly poised, as if the assessor was simply drawing a picture on my arm? The trembling in my body intensifies. I shut my eyes, breathing in slowly and shivering as
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