Page 104 of Godslayer
“Well,” Epsilon laughs. “That’s not what I meant. But… whatever.”
Luther wrings his hands, practically shakin’ with anticipation. “Can I start now? Can I? Can I?”
Epsilon tilts his head. Then—like a conductor cueing an orchestra?—
He lifts a finger. Snaps it.
“Run the program.”
“This is Delta Tymothy Jarvinen.”The threadmaster’s voice is cold and clinical. “Age fourteen point five. Height one-point-seven-five meters. Mass sixty-three point two kilograms. Baseline vitals within operational range.”
A pause. A soft beep as the system records.
“Subject classification: Sweep Recruit,” the threadmaster continues. “Augmentation tier: Standard Combat Integration. Genetic deviations: None detected. Prior medical modifications: None.”
Another beep. Another pause.
“Cognitive assessment: Above baseline. Reflex index: Ninety-fifth percentile. Neural resilience: Pending evaluation.”
Pendin’? What’s that mean?
“Pain tolerance: Unverified. Psychological stability: Unverified.”
Unverified?
“Subject prepped for initial puncture.”
Am I… not suitable for?—
“Beginning sequence now.”
A hiss.
Then the needles.
I hear the machine before I see it. A low mechanical hum, the kind that makes your teeth vibrate if you get too close.
Then it moves into position above me. A rig of metal arms and cables, shiftin’ above me like a spider’s nest unravelin’. It lowers slow, methodical, every piece movin’ with clinical precision. At first, it just looks like wires. Thin, silver strands hangin’ from the frame, swayin’ slightly as the machine adjusts.
But they aren’t wires.
They’re thousands of spark needles. Maybe more. Thin as hair, long threads that are as sharp as scalpels. They glint under the surgical lights as they descend. Shakin’ like tentacles. Like they’re alive. Like they can already sense me.
My hands twitch against the restraints. Not fear. I’m not afraid.
I refuse to second-guess this decision.
It’s just… the thing above me looks like a cage.
Not just somethin’ meant to augment me.
Somethin’ meant to trap me.
The machine whirs to life.A hiss. A click. Then the first wave of punctures.
Needles sink into me—neck, spine, arms, legs. A thousand, maybe more. Tiny, hair-thin threads slide under my skin, wormin’ their way through muscle, veins, nerve pathways.
Micro-spark injections.
