The gavel falls with mechanical precision, each strike driving another nail into the coffin of free will.

"The court finds the defendant guilty of corporate espionage, data theft, and violation of the Cognitive Property Security Act."

You sit rigid in the defendant's chair, fingers white-knuckled on the table's edge. The verdict was predetermined. Everyone in this courtroom knows it. Axiom Industries's lawyers fill three entire rows, their suits more expensive than most people's cars. The public defender assigned to your case lasted exactly two sessions before being mysteriously reassigned.

"Under Section 7 of the Neurological Correction Act," the judge continues, voice devoid of emotion, "this court sentences the defendant to mandatory corrective treatment via neural interface technology. Treatment parameters and duration to be determined by qualified medical professionals designated by the victim corporation."

Your mouth opens to protest--to scream about conflicts of interest, about the classified documents you'd found, about what "corrective treatment" really means when Axiom Industries administers it. But the bailiff's hand on your shoulder is a warning. One more outburst and you'll be held in contempt. Not that it matters anymore.

"The court recognizes Dr. Vincent Voss and Dr. Elise Voss as the appointed medical supervisors for this treatment program."

There they sit, in the gallery's front row. The power couple of Axiom Industries's Neural Research Division. Vincent, tall and angular, watches with the detached interest of a scientist observing a lab rat. Elise, petite and immaculate, doesn't bother hiding her satisfaction. Her manicured fingers intertwine with her husband's, and when her eyes meet yours, her smile is all teeth.

You know exactly who they are. Their names were all over the classified documents--the ones that never made it to court because Axiom Industries's legal team had them sealed, classified, destroyed. The ones that detailed things that made your hands shake when you read them.

"Defendant will be remanded immediately to the Axiom Institute. Treatment begins tomorrow morning."

You find your voice at last, desperation overriding caution. "Your Honor, please--they're the ones I was investigating! You can't let them--"

"The defendant's concerns are noted and dismissed," the judge cuts you off. "This court has full confidence in Axiom Industries's medical ethics board. Bailiff, remove the defendant."

As you're dragged from the courtroom, you catch Elise Voss's expression. Her lips curve in a smile that promises things worse than death. Vincent leans down to whisper something in his wife's ear, and she laughs--a sound like breaking glass.

The anesthesia wears off slowly, like surfacing from deep water.

Cold. That's the first thing you register. Not the sterile white ceiling or the blinking camera lights in the corners--just cold. The kind that makes your skin prickle and your body instinctively curl inward seeking warmth that isn't there.

Your eyes flutter open fully. The recovery room is small, windowless, and kept at a temperature just uncomfortable enough to be deliberate. You're naked beneath a thin sheet that's been pulled down to your waist, and the air conditioning hums with relentless efficiency.

The back of your skull throbs with a deep, invasive ache that radiates down your spine. Something feels wrong. Different. Changed. Your hand reaches back instinctively, fingers finding the small bandage at the base of your skull, feeling the slight hardness beneath where something sits flush against bone.

What did they do to me?

You try to sit up, and your muscles respond sluggishly through the lingering drugs. The room tilts slightly before stabilizing. The sheet falls away completely, and the cold air raises goosebumps across your exposed skin. There are cameras in every corner, red lights blinking in synchronized observation.

The door to the recovery room remains closed. There's a call button beside the bed, a small bathroom visible through an open doorway to your left. And draped across the foot of the bed--two hospital gowns. One is pale blue, the other soft pink. The blue one looks slightly broader in the shoulders, the pink one more tapered. Standard institutional garments, the kind designed for easy access and maximum indignity.

Embrace The Curator

// play_it