Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 144277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 721(@200wpm)___ 577(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144277 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 721(@200wpm)___ 577(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
A real soldier. A Sweep Augment. And not just any augment—a god’s soldier.
Delta’s augment.
I hate that fucker, but if you’ve got to pick a team, you want to be on his.
My skin is buzzin’. Like static electricity before a sand storm. Expectant, and eager, and impatient. I just want to get on with it. I just want to be better.
I just want to matter.
The door bangs open and Epsilon returns. This time he doesn’t stay out of my peripheral vision, but hovers right over top of me. I nearly gasp because he’s… meltin’. His face, it’s scarred beyond recognition. Nothin’ like I’ve ever seen before.
Well, not true. I saw him on the tracks when they lured me into their trap.
He’s the Corrupted God.
The one Myra used to tell stories about.
The story I never let her finish.
Excited, Epsilon rubs his hands together as he checks Luther’s work—which is complete now. All the needles the thread-like tubes have been inserted into the cage hoverin’ above me.
The god claps Luther on the back. The sound is wet—too heavy, like Luther’s bones are softer than they should be. “I love it when you follow orders.”
I catch Luther grinnin’ out of the corner of my eye. He’s such a twitchy, sketchy thing. He doesn’t make sense. “I did it just like you said. I set it all up, just like you said. Needles and thread. Needles and thread!” He cackles. “We’re gonna thread you with some spark!”
“Shhhhhh,” Epsilon hisses, movin’ to the machine, fingers grazin’ the threads, the wires, the ugly cage of metal hangin’ over me. “We don’t want to upset our new brother, Luther. Remember what it was like when you were on this table?”
Luther whines like a puppy. “I do…” He hesitates. “But I don’t want to.”
“That’s OK,” Epsilon hums, petting Luther’s greasy hair. “You don’t have to remember your pain, just what a relief it was when your threadmaster was congenial during the process. You don’t have to be kind—just empathetic.”
“Yes, yes,” Luther eagerly says. “I understand. I do. I understand. Be nice, Luther. Be nice! And if you’re nice, someone will be nice to you back.”
“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.
At fourteen, I didn’t understand what this was. But now, I know exactly what they’re doin’ to me. It’s called threadin’. Lacing my body with conductive pathways—wires of spark so thin they dissolve into my nervous system. Mergin’ with it. Rewritin’ it.
A jolt. A snap. Somethin’ burns along my spine.
Luther giggles. “It’s in! It’s in! Marker one reached!”
The machine adjusts. More threads. Deeper. Into the bone now. It has to fuse.
Pain blooms—a sharp, searin’ heat runnin’ the length of my limbs, twisting in my joints, burrowin’ into the marrow of my bones.
Luther is mutterin’. “Needles and thread, needles and thread, just like the dollies.”
Marker two.
The pain changes. Becomes brighter. My nerves are conductin’ spark now. It’s in my bloodstream. In my cells.
Here’s the problem with all this—I mean, there are like a hundred fuckin’ problems happenin’ all at once right now—but this is the main one: