Not to have done so would have meant death.
But there was still ... resistance. The personality that had been Stanley Martin wasn't entirely gone. There were still shattered fragments of memories and wishes and desires that hadn't been entirely obliterated. Tiny fragments that made him unreliable.
On the last day, he was strapped into a machine with clamps that fastened tightly to his head and chest.
The lights dimmed and he was alone in the darkness.
"What is your name?"
The tiny fragments of personality struggled and thought and then collapsed in bewilderment.
"I ... I'm not sure."
The voices from nowhere continued.
"You have a family. You hate that family."