Maya grasped Paul with one hand as she deftly pierced his skin with the syringe and plunged the Proxitol deep into his veins. He writhed and bucked, but she held him down with an iron grip until his spasms subsided. He fell back into unconsciousness, his face slick with sweat.
Maya was worried. The Proxitol was wearing off fast, and she had to administer the shots more frequently than she liked.
She unstrapped the curved blade from her chest and sliced through Paul's trousers. There it was: the swirling mass of colours. Taking a black marker, she pulled the lid off with her teeth and drew a line around the amorphous blob to monitor its growth.
Watching the colours pulsate in Paul's thigh, she stifled a cry as the shape of a small hand pushed up from underneath his skin. An intense fury rose inside her. She placed her own hand over his thigh and brilliant orange light erupted from her fingers.
From the recesses of his coma Paul let out scream and his back arched off the floor. The