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[Psychomindfuck] [more old, edit, shit, fucked up, need beer now please.]
Psychological conditioning can take a long time.
It requires periods of calm adjustment alongside more direct approaches. The very mind has to be unravelled. Taken apart, the links between ideas that have been grown and cultured since birth ripped down and rebuilt in a new image. Your self, your very being, is moulded like clay in some insane potters hands, spinning on his wheel, lathed into new and bizarre shapes.
Your personality is literally raped.
Of course, it all takes time. It takes days to add a new, simple conditioning, and many repetitions. Weeks, months even to add a complex series of conditions to the mind, more if it struggles to resist, if it's clever. Months, to rip down your personality, tear it up, and vomit it into something new.
It takes many people to effect this, too. Specialists.
You can buy them on a single disk, now. A small square of impact-resistant plastic casing surrounding a circle of pure, insidious data is all you need.
Every person you can ever need to mentally rape someone on a nice, small disk. Easy to install and configure, and much, much faster to run.
You see, you don't even need the person to be in their body when you rape their skull, when you claw deep into their mind. You can unplug them from that, syphon their consciousness into a computer. And what runs for a minute of real time can be many, many hours in subjective time, within the computer's electronic guts. You don't even need a huge amount of hardware to do it, anymore.
Two days of downtime, an empty body, comatose, has to be looked after. Simple.
Two days of downtime for them. For you, you've got years of your mind being fucked. All the human condition wiped from the very edges of your mind. Scraped the fuck clean. Washed out.
Then they replace it. You're not human anymore, you might as well be a different species. Yeah, sure. You walk the same, talk the same, eat, drink and fuck the same, but you're not the same. You think different. You're a psychopath, but a refined one. Then you get spat back into your body.
That's when you finally realise what they've done to you.
You're angry. You get provoked, you react. That's what they've made you do. You're instinctive.
Do you understand that? You act on fucking instinct. You're an animal.
Cause-reaction-effect. Someone provokes you, you tend to lash out.
You know it's easier to actually kill someone than stop yourself? That's what the conditioning does to you. Usually, a human doesn't want to kill another, unless they absolutely have to.
They haven't made you want to.
They've just made you not care if you do.
And so you stand there, in the
Always the same.
The conditioning, the deeply ingrained training, that's your edge. That's what makes you different to everyone else around you. The constant virtual time, the training. Over a hundred different ways to kill a man with your bare hands. Weapon recognition systems, navigational algorythms. Survival skills mixed with political jargon. You know how to find water in a desert, how to treat a flail chest, splint broken limbs. You know how to talk your way out of a situation, and how to shoot your way out. You're governed by instinct, reaction. You plan for everything, then let your body flow into the dance. You move like a gymnast, a trained fighter. You are both. Muscle memory doesn't count for much when it's burnt into your very skull. But that's not enough.
You're chipped up, got current passing through your brain. Got nerves replaced with chemical carriers, got systems racked up inside your body that cost more than the GNP of a small country. Got systems, chips, chemicals, wiring, implants, bio-technological wonders too numerous to mention. Your bones aren't your own, your muscles are grafted with complex myomer systems. Tendons and ligaments have been played with and replaced, but you're still meat. Meat, tied into an extensive machine database and structure. The meat, the pure thought trapped within the meat, is plugged directly into the machine. It intermingles. You dwell in a half flesh, half electronic world, consciousness drifting easily between the virtual and the real. You can plug yourself directly into a system, talk to it. You're packing enough ICE to burn anything short of a major military installation. You can see well past the visible spectrum, both ways. Chipped directly into your optical nerve, you get dreamlike laser flashes up on your vision, crystal-clear high-resolution imagery. Three sixty vision. Proximity sensors, physical and mental. Even without the implants that burn their way through to you, the direct neural plugs winding into your body, you'd be bordering on the impossible.
You're programmable. You can plug in, upload. Download. Get told your specs without ever having to return to base. You can self-repair, supply yourself with ammunition. You can put a hole clean in the middle of a target without even having to direct your attention. You've got systems aiming for you, on top of your chemical, electrical augmentation. The machine knows what it's doing, as does the meat. It's almost a symbiotic relationship. They help each other. They intermingle. They live together in one organism.
You're a tool.
You're a fucking device. A gestalt creature, made for an obvious purpose. You're a freak.
The conditioning's your edge.
You know what it is. You know what they've done.
They haven't fucking broken you.
And so you stand there, in the
And you know the truth.
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