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Consciousness, the state where reality does its worst to you. The light in this reality was certainly trying to do its worst to the figure on the bed. It blinks in the brightness, looking around to take in its surroundings. The room looks much as it did when the figure went under, a reputable private surgery in one of the nicer parts of town. The large mirror dominating much of the far wall reflects the figure's face. The smooth-shaven face and square jaw turns this way and that as the individual takes in the sight. They seem impressed by what they see, as if this is the first time they have seen this perfect visage.
At this moment the door opposite the mirror opens and in comes another figure. The strikingly tall, slender female frame is covered with an equally long white coat. The stethoscope around her neck, and patch pack she carries, clearly identifies her as a doctor.
"Well," the pause is obvious, "Mr Smith. The surgery was a great success. Now all we need do is check to see whether the primary implants are working, shall we?"
Taking a small curved device, she places it upon the forehead of the patient. It sticks to the skin with ease. Further devices are attached to the base of the neck above the collarbone and either side of the spine. To these devices the doctor attaches wires, plugging them also into some kind of handheld device she retrieves from her left pocket.
"Ready?"
The man on the bed turns to her, his pleasant tenor voice barely a whisper, "Let's go for it."
Suddenly the man's world is turned inside out, tenor voice screaming in pain as the doctor's fingers move nimbly over controls on the device in her hand. He writhes and arches his back, hands bent in on themselves, distorted into claws. The screaming dies down into a gurgle and the man rolls from the bed, crashing to the floor. His breath is shallow and crimson blood oozes from between his lips.
Placing the control box purposefully onto the floor next to the prone body, the doctor kneels down so her mouth is close to an upturned ear.
"I'm so sorry to do this, but I assure you I have no personal grievance with you."
He tries to move his head so he can see her properly, but the pain of his contracted muscles and tightening limbs stop his futile efforts before they even get started.
"W-why?" he manages to croak.
"Well, it's a cliché and I know it," she replies, "but the pay cheque is beyond a doubt the biggest factor."
And with that she stands up and brings her foot down hard on the controller in one swift movement. She closes the door on 'Mr Smith' as his final screams and death spasms cause several of his bones to break with sickening cracks, and his figure to be drawn into a hideous caricature of a man.
Paul Taylor, 12/10/00
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