The bone saw whined before the assistant found the courage to lower it.
He stood at Sera's left side, the plastic shield of his goggles fogging on every nervous exhale. The blade's teeth shimmered in the surgical light, a thin halo of sterile blue around a tool made for everything but mercy.
"Tourniquet," Dr. Davis advised, a disappointed tone to his voice that spoke volumes.
The assistant fumbled for a moment, putting the bone saw down. He wrapped a bright rubber band high on her bicep and cinched until the skin above it started to turn more red, until the veins flattened and the arm looked like it belonged to a mannequin.
The EKG kept its indifferent cadence. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Dr. Davis didn't look at Sera yet. He spoke to the glass, to the clipboard, to the idea of her. "Phase Two will assess clotting efficiency, vessel sealing, tissue replication and gross limb regeneration. Begin with graduated trauma."
The assistant swallowed. "Depth and length?"
