NaShoStoMo: Success
So, yeah. Gonna do this NaShoStoMo thing. I'll publish something here if I think it's interesting. This story is terrifying to me because I wish it could be true....
NaShoStoMo Day 2
Success
Doctor Samson tapped his metal fingers on his desk, like tiny gavels. "Try it again," he said. "What do you want?"
"I don't want to be smart," I said. "All my life, everyone's told me I'm smart. But I'm washing dishes at the Night-Timer when I can't get a shift waiting tables. Does that sound smart? I don't want to be smart."
"I'm afraid I can't help you with that," he said. His gentle face wrinkled slightly into a kind smile. "You're not listening to me."
"I AM listening to you. I-"
He rapped his fingers again on his desk, interrupting me. "Try it again. Tell me. What do you want?"
I blinked, then tilted my head. "What DO I want..." Doctor Samson nodded encouragingly. "I... I want to be successful," I finally said. "And happy."
"What if you can't be both at the same time?"
"Then I pick successful."
"An odd choice. Why not happy?"
"Because I think if I can be successful, I can figure out happy on my own."
Doctor Samson's white eyebrows went up. "Now THAT is the most interesting answer I've heard all month! All right. To business, then."
"You'll help me?"
Samson straightened up in his chair. He spoke loudly, no doubt for a logging microphone. "My name is Doctor Emmanuel Samson. I am a licensed electrophoropathist, and I consent to treat Aaron James Francis-" he looked meaningfully at me, eyebrows raised. I nodded. "-for Type II depression and an interesting case of Type II demotivation. Aaron James Francis, do you consent to treatment?"
"Yes."
Something behind me in the room made a tiny, disapproving buzz. "State your name. It's a binding contract. And a little louder, if you please. The pickups in here aren't so good. Aaron James Francis, do you consent to treatment?"
"My name is Aaron James Francis! And, um... yes!"
He paused, and when the room said nothing back, he seemed satisfied. He rolled up his sleeves, and I could see the graft line on his forearms where the full cybernetics began. He dipped his hands into a greenish antiseptic fluid, then opened a drawer and withdrew a bundle of electrodes and a paper gown.
"If you want to be successful, change quickly," he said. I did, and returned to the chair.
He smiled kindly again as he approached me. "Don't be alarmed." He began fastening restraints around my arms. The chair had unrolled webbing by my hands and feet. "You have Type II implants," he explained. "This... will take a while."
Three days. Three days I'd been in this madman's office. The chair would shock me if I tried to sleep, and I hadn't eaten. He'd come in only to give me water and change the bedpan. I'd shouted at him, cursed him, called him a quack. He never spoke. He seemed to be waiting for something.
The door opened and Doctor Samson came in with my water.
"My name is Aaron James Francis and I no longer consent to be treated!" I shouted.
Doctor Samson laughed, the first sound I'd heard in three days. "Your consent has already been given," he said. Then he left. With the water.
Later. Much later. My thirst felt like it was burning a hole through me. Samson came in. On the tray, the single glass of water.
Samson paused. I said nothing. I just wanted the water.
He seemed satisfied with this. "I'm sorry, Aaron. I really am. I don't want to do this to you. But I'm afraid that all this is necessary. Type II implants are notoriously stubborn," he said, as he held the water close to me. "They can't be reprogrammed directly. You can only access them through the neuronal axes. Once you stop fighting me we can begin."
I just wanted the water. "I won't fight," I said. "Please, just let-"
"Shhh," he said, as he lifted the glass to my lips. "You're not ready yet, but you want to be. That's a good start."
Later. No idea how long. My personal brain butcher was back. "How are we feeling today?"
"Fine," I lied. "I'll do whatever you say. Just do your thing and let me go."
Samson made a clucking noise. "Such stubborn little implants, aren't they?"
"How are we feeling today?"
"Awful," I said truthfully. "Look, I get it. Brainwashing. Can you just program me to kill the President or whatever it is you're trying to do and get it over with?"
"Goodness! I don't even want that thought in your head," he said and turned away.
"Wait!" I cried, but the door was already closing. "I'm sorry!"
He was gone a long time.
I hated my implants. Stubborn, he'd said. They were the reason I was stuck in here. I needed to get them out, that would be the first thing once I got out of here. If I ever got out of here.
I realized Samson was flashing a light from one eye to the other. I had no idea how long he'd been there.
"Ah, you're lucid," he said. "How do you feel?"
"Have to... get implants... out...."
"I know, I know," he said, like a grandparent consoling a child. "And maybe someday you'll even be able to afford that. Won't that be nice?" He patted my hand and I gasped as waves of sensation shot through my body.
"Yes!" I cried. "Please! Anything!"
"Almost ready," he said, withdrawing his hand. Emptiness filled me immediately.
"No!" I sobbed. "Please... anything!"
"Almost ready," he said.
He was back, and this time I knew he would help me. Not like before, not like when I was bad. Not even like when I knew he would help me and then he didn't. This time I knew. I was ready. This time I knew.
"Aaron," his voice said. So kind. So protective. "I'm going to tell you to do something."
"Yes," I said.
"I'm going to tell you to do something, and you are going to believe with every fiber of your being that you have to do it."
"Yes."
"And you WILL do it. As much as you can, as hard as you can."
"Yes."
"You will be happier, and more successful as you do it, Aaron."
"Yes."
"Are you ready, Aaron?"
I knew it! This was it! "Yes!"
He touched my face and neck, pressing metal fingers against my skin. A tingling sensation flowed through my whole body, pleasurable, almost painful. My entire being was keyed up like a microphone ready to receive. He would speak, and I would become whatever he wanted. Anything.
"AARON JAMES FRANCIS?" he said slowly. The sound of his words thundered through my soul and I could feel tears begin to stream from my eyes.
"Yes," I gasped. "Yes, please, yes?"
"WORK. HARDER."
I screamed.
NaShoStoMo Day 2
Success
Doctor Samson tapped his metal fingers on his desk, like tiny gavels. "Try it again," he said. "What do you want?"
"I don't want to be smart," I said. "All my life, everyone's told me I'm smart. But I'm washing dishes at the Night-Timer when I can't get a shift waiting tables. Does that sound smart? I don't want to be smart."
"I'm afraid I can't help you with that," he said. His gentle face wrinkled slightly into a kind smile. "You're not listening to me."
"I AM listening to you. I-"
He rapped his fingers again on his desk, interrupting me. "Try it again. Tell me. What do you want?"
I blinked, then tilted my head. "What DO I want..." Doctor Samson nodded encouragingly. "I... I want to be successful," I finally said. "And happy."
"What if you can't be both at the same time?"
"Then I pick successful."
"An odd choice. Why not happy?"
"Because I think if I can be successful, I can figure out happy on my own."
Doctor Samson's white eyebrows went up. "Now THAT is the most interesting answer I've heard all month! All right. To business, then."
"You'll help me?"
Samson straightened up in his chair. He spoke loudly, no doubt for a logging microphone. "My name is Doctor Emmanuel Samson. I am a licensed electrophoropathist, and I consent to treat Aaron James Francis-" he looked meaningfully at me, eyebrows raised. I nodded. "-for Type II depression and an interesting case of Type II demotivation. Aaron James Francis, do you consent to treatment?"
"Yes."
Something behind me in the room made a tiny, disapproving buzz. "State your name. It's a binding contract. And a little louder, if you please. The pickups in here aren't so good. Aaron James Francis, do you consent to treatment?"
"My name is Aaron James Francis! And, um... yes!"
He paused, and when the room said nothing back, he seemed satisfied. He rolled up his sleeves, and I could see the graft line on his forearms where the full cybernetics began. He dipped his hands into a greenish antiseptic fluid, then opened a drawer and withdrew a bundle of electrodes and a paper gown.
"If you want to be successful, change quickly," he said. I did, and returned to the chair.
He smiled kindly again as he approached me. "Don't be alarmed." He began fastening restraints around my arms. The chair had unrolled webbing by my hands and feet. "You have Type II implants," he explained. "This... will take a while."
Three days. Three days I'd been in this madman's office. The chair would shock me if I tried to sleep, and I hadn't eaten. He'd come in only to give me water and change the bedpan. I'd shouted at him, cursed him, called him a quack. He never spoke. He seemed to be waiting for something.
The door opened and Doctor Samson came in with my water.
"My name is Aaron James Francis and I no longer consent to be treated!" I shouted.
Doctor Samson laughed, the first sound I'd heard in three days. "Your consent has already been given," he said. Then he left. With the water.
Later. Much later. My thirst felt like it was burning a hole through me. Samson came in. On the tray, the single glass of water.
Samson paused. I said nothing. I just wanted the water.
He seemed satisfied with this. "I'm sorry, Aaron. I really am. I don't want to do this to you. But I'm afraid that all this is necessary. Type II implants are notoriously stubborn," he said, as he held the water close to me. "They can't be reprogrammed directly. You can only access them through the neuronal axes. Once you stop fighting me we can begin."
I just wanted the water. "I won't fight," I said. "Please, just let-"
"Shhh," he said, as he lifted the glass to my lips. "You're not ready yet, but you want to be. That's a good start."
Later. No idea how long. My personal brain butcher was back. "How are we feeling today?"
"Fine," I lied. "I'll do whatever you say. Just do your thing and let me go."
Samson made a clucking noise. "Such stubborn little implants, aren't they?"
"How are we feeling today?"
"Awful," I said truthfully. "Look, I get it. Brainwashing. Can you just program me to kill the President or whatever it is you're trying to do and get it over with?"
"Goodness! I don't even want that thought in your head," he said and turned away.
"Wait!" I cried, but the door was already closing. "I'm sorry!"
He was gone a long time.
I hated my implants. Stubborn, he'd said. They were the reason I was stuck in here. I needed to get them out, that would be the first thing once I got out of here. If I ever got out of here.
I realized Samson was flashing a light from one eye to the other. I had no idea how long he'd been there.
"Ah, you're lucid," he said. "How do you feel?"
"Have to... get implants... out...."
"I know, I know," he said, like a grandparent consoling a child. "And maybe someday you'll even be able to afford that. Won't that be nice?" He patted my hand and I gasped as waves of sensation shot through my body.
"Yes!" I cried. "Please! Anything!"
"Almost ready," he said, withdrawing his hand. Emptiness filled me immediately.
"No!" I sobbed. "Please... anything!"
"Almost ready," he said.
He was back, and this time I knew he would help me. Not like before, not like when I was bad. Not even like when I knew he would help me and then he didn't. This time I knew. I was ready. This time I knew.
"Aaron," his voice said. So kind. So protective. "I'm going to tell you to do something."
"Yes," I said.
"I'm going to tell you to do something, and you are going to believe with every fiber of your being that you have to do it."
"Yes."
"And you WILL do it. As much as you can, as hard as you can."
"Yes."
"You will be happier, and more successful as you do it, Aaron."
"Yes."
"Are you ready, Aaron?"
I knew it! This was it! "Yes!"
He touched my face and neck, pressing metal fingers against my skin. A tingling sensation flowed through my whole body, pleasurable, almost painful. My entire being was keyed up like a microphone ready to receive. He would speak, and I would become whatever he wanted. Anything.
"AARON JAMES FRANCIS?" he said slowly. The sound of his words thundered through my soul and I could feel tears begin to stream from my eyes.
"Yes," I gasped. "Yes, please, yes?"
"WORK. HARDER."
I screamed.