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His large frame overshadowed the array of machines and monitors.
His predatory grin was more pronounced than ever, his teeth glinting in the harsh light.
The smugness in his posture was palpable, and I felt a surge of disgust.
The odor was so strong that it made me want to gag.
“You know,” the Supervisor began, his voice dripping with false cheer, “you’ve made me a very happy La’ok, Ceara. Those lottery numbers you spilled? Bang on. But don’t you worry,” he chuckled, “I didn’t buy a ticket. No need to draw unnecessary attention. You, my dear Ceara, are worth far more than mere credits. We, together, are going to rewrite the course of the galaxy.”
His words were meant to inspire hope, perhaps even camaraderie.
But every syllable was a twisted dagger, reminding me of the prison I was ensnared in, the future I had been robbed of.
The Supervisor motioned for the guards to strap me into the machine once again.
As the cold, metallic restraints clamped around my wrists and ankles, I felt an odd sense of calm wash over me.
Maybe it was resignation or maybe it was the clarity that often comes before a storm.
The machine whirred to life, its monotonous drone gradually amplifying.
A familiar tingling sensation coursed through me as the electrodes on my temples activated.
The once-muted visual cascade inside the holo-screen began its dazzling dance.
Colors, shapes, possibilities began to swirl and merge.
But this time, the visions were different.
There was an intensity, a vivacity to them.
It was as if they were demanding to be seen, to be acknowledged.
But I wouldn’t.
I wouldn’t give the Supervisor the satisfaction.
My heartbeat echoed in my ears, a rhythmic drum pushing me forward.
With every beat, I focused on the anger, the betrayal, the loathing I felt for the Supervisor.
The sensation of the smooth metal against my skin, the sharp scent of antiseptics, it all faded away, replaced by a singular, intense emotion:
Hate.
It was that hate, that pure, unadulterated loathing, that shielded me.
It became a wall, a barrier against the barrage of images, against the intrusion into my psyche.
After what felt like an eternity, the machine slowed its frenetic pace, settling into a more regular rhythm.
The Supervisor, impatient and eager, leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “What do you see, Ceara?”
With great effort, I lifted my head to meet his gaze.
Despite the exhaustion, the physical and emotional toll of the machine, I managed to muster up every ounce of defiance I had left. “Nothing,” I whispered, the word dripping with triumph.
The Supervisor’s grin faltered, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, ‘nothing’? Tell me what you see!” he demanded.
