The P.A.C.I.F.I.C. Sector 2 Medical Bay was a masterclass in engineered intimidation. It was a sprawling, circular room constructed entirely of blindingly white poly-glass and brushed steel. There were no shadows. The overhead lighting was algorithmically calibrated to eliminate all contrast, creating an environment so aggressively sterile that it made the eyes water. The air smelled of sharp antiseptics and the faint, metallic tang of ionized scrubbers working tirelessly to keep the atmosphere hermetically pure.
Tyson sat shirtless on a reinforced diagnostic table in the center of the room.
He was surrounded by three corporate scientists in immaculate white coats, their faces illuminated by the soft blue glow of hovering diagnostic tablets. They were not looking at Tyson as a man, or even as a soldier. They were looking at him as an impossible, terrifying math problem.
Their obsession was his left arm.
