“I do not consent to being sedated again,” Askatla objected adamantly, glaring at the anaesthetist standing awkwardly in the dark behind her sister with a mask of nitrous oxide and a needle, the stark surgical lights overhead giving the rest of the operating room a disproportionately dim and cavernous atmosphere. Devoid of all the decorative opulence that filled the other chambers, the OR was as visually spartan as it was modern. What little of it she could see from beneath the surgical lights was built almost entirely of customizable panels, some on the ceiling she knew housed robotic arms for…