Sans Terif

This was unprecedented. The things that used to frighten Martin no longer had an effect on him. Success? The doctors couldn’t illicit a response at stimulus level 9. This was with Martin’s latest scans on record, so they knew they were using the big guns. Martin’s heart rate never went over 60.

He wasn’t bio-parented, so he had no rights. The fact that he even had a name was unusual. It doesn’t seem right to name something you’re essentially going to torture.

He was in a dental-looking chair with medal appendages fanning out over his head. Lights winked on and off, and soft, rythmic beeps reported that his physiology was maintaining its current docile patterns. It was very quiet. He stared straight ahead, into the dark, tight little room, and regarded the scene in his head.

For a time, he sat, half-lidded and unmoving, processing information.

What he saw would cause any normal, socially well-injected person to permanently lose the ability to speak.

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