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As your panic mounts, you find it harder to get as agitated as you feel you should. Then it falls into place... It's not just that the voice that sounds calming, it's been adding anaesthetic to the air. You want to protest, as your limbs start to feel heavier, and heavier, your mind more and more sluggish.
Fighting to remain conscious, you distantly hear the voice glitch once more. Before coming back with a peppier tone, "Welcome to your breast augmentation appointment Ms. Rachel James."
You try to protest, to object that's not your name. Hoping against hope that the machine is working properly now, and can understand. But, the words refuse to come, your throat struggling to even form sounds. You whimper, as your eyelids get heavier and heavier.
The pathway jerks to a stop, and you feel yourself lifted higher. A blinding light above you, and you pray for divine intervention. Alas, it's the ceiling mounted auto-doc that you're left beneath. A multitude of articulated arms, blades, injectors and unknown devices has you softly wailing. The stuff of nightmares, jerks into life, as... as...
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