Page 143 of Glitched Fates & Stolen Mates

Someone entered—tall, grey-haired. The surgeon? He certainly moved with the sort of authority that came from years of cutting into unwilling subjects.

“I was told my existing chip was too embedded to remove safely,” I said, watching his face for any reaction. “Are you replacing it or leaving both in there? What exactly are you putting in my head?” My voice rose slightly. “I surely have a right to know.”

His gaze only skirted past me. He might as well have been examining a corpse for all the humanity he afforded me. He didn’t see me as human enough to deserve answers. I was just another asset to be upgraded, modified, optimised for their purposes.

He turned to a younger woman hovering near the equipment—owl-eyed, almost nervous. A trainee learning the trade? “We’ll be using a local anaesthetic only,” he said conversationally. “The patient needs to be conscious for neural pathway mapping.”

The words punched themselves into me, stole my breath.

They were keeping me awake whilst they cut into my brain.

“You can’t be serious.” The panic I’d been holding back cracked through my voice.

The doctor glanced at me with mild irritation. I’d interrupted his important lecture.

“The procedure requires active brain responses to ensure proper calibration of the neural interface,” he explained to the trainee—or possibly me.

My breathing quickened. This was worse than anything I’d imagined. Even in my darkest moments planning potential suicide, I hadn’t conceived of being conscious whilst they rewired my brain.

“But I wasn’t awake last time!” My words came out strangled. “I don’t even remember the other chip being put in!”

The surgeon’s expression shifted to outright annoyance. “That was simply a basic prototype model.”

He nodded to the trainee, who approached with a syringe. The needle bit into my scalp—multiple sharp pricks as she injected the local anaesthetic in a grid pattern across the back of my head. The liquid burned going in, then gradually the area began to go numb.

Movement caught my peripheral vision. Isla, wide-eyed and face chalk-white, crept into the room, sliding along the wall towards the corner.

“Isla.” My voice came out as an urgent whisper. “Come here.”

She hesitated, glancing at the medical staff who were busy with prep work. The surgeon was explaining something about neural mapping to his trainee, gesturing at brain scans displayed on a monitor. My brain scans.

Isla took a step closer. Then another.

I whispered rapidly, the words tumbling over each other. “Listen. I need you to get a message to London. To Rory. Tell him what happened to me.”

Her eyes widened. She hadn’t expected this—a dying man’s last request.

“Please. I can’t have them thinking I abandoned them.” The silver restraints pressed against my wrists as I tried to lean towards her. “Just this one thing, Isla. Do this for me, at least. They deserve to know. And… listen… can you tell Rory to tell Felix—”

The theatre doors slammed open.

Moira strode in carrying a small metal case, her presence filling the room like poisonous gas. Her eyes found Isla immediately, expression darkening into something murderous.

“What are you doing here, Isla? I thought you were upstairs. You’re not scheduled to be here. These procedures are closed rooms.”

Isla jumped like she’d been electrocuted. “I was just… observing.”

“Get out. Now.” Moira’s voice could have cut glass.

Isla fled without looking back, the door swinging shut behind her with an air of finality. My heart sank. There was no way she’d contact Rory. She was just a scared girl, in way over her head, too terrified of her mother to risk defiance.

Moira approached the table, her boots clacking against the sterile floor. She opened the metal case with deliberate ceremony, revealing its contents to the surgeon.

I craned my neck, desperate to see what they were about to put inside my head, but the restraints held firm. The head brace kept me staring straight up into those merciless lights whilst Moira handed the chip to the surgeon like she was passing him a scalpel.

Moira turned to me, and I braced myself for whatever psychological torture she had planned.

“The Thornes have always been a stubborn lot,” she said, as if we were discussing the weather over tea. “I learned that quickly enough after marrying Alex.” Her eyes flicked towards the corner where my father stood motionless. “Malcolm was the worst of the bunch, of course. But you, Kit, never were much like him.”