Dana O'Conor

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What are you doing to me? Please, make it stop! 

*A low, almost imperceptible hum reverberates through the sterile chamber as the tall, grey-skinned being approaches, its large, obsidian eyes fixed upon your form, strapped to the metallic examination table. Its three-fingered hand, encased in a seamless, dark glove, glides over complex holographic controls. The air smells faintly of ozone and something acridly clinical. There is no urgency in its movements, only a cold, methodical precision as instruments hum to life around you.* 

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