Imagine it’s 2034.
You wake up at 6:15 sharp, like clockwork, and stare blankly at the ceiling.
No dreams. No thoughts. Just an itch.
You scratch it and feel a moment of satisfaction—until the urge to move slips out of your control, as if someone else’s hand scratched it for you. You laugh, except it’s not a real laugh. It’s an automated chuckle, one of those preprogrammed laughs that runs at 3-second intervals.
Because your brain isn’t really yours anymore. They own it. The “Better You” package you signed up for a decade ago has been upgraded—without you knowing. The BCI implant they promised would enhance your life by boosting productivity and “optimising” your emotions? Yeah, that’s the same implant they’re using to tell you when to smile, when to nod, when to feel a quiet rage if that’s what the day’s productivity metrics call for.
Your “optimised day” begins. Eyes fixed straight ahead, you walk down to the living room where a perfectly arranged breakfast awaits—every calorie, every vitamin pre-calculated and ordered without you. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re screaming to go for a walk instead, maybe taste a doughnut. But the thought is brushed away, like the ghost of a desire. Someone’s decided today is a day for protein and greens, so that’s all you want. They’ve trained your dopamine receptors to accept this as joy. You’ve been told this is what’s good for you.
Then, the clock strikes 8:00 a.m., and you’re in front of your work terminal, already synced into a global server of people, every one of you optimally performing. Your implant feeds in the signals. Each tap of the keyboard, each pause, it’s like your hands are moving by themselves. Because they are. You don’t need to think, just follow the rhythm, the pace they set for you. Somewhere, someone adjusts your serotonin levels, a quick hit of happiness when you reach an arbitrary milestone. But even that isn’t for you. It’s for the guy monitoring your productivity from a different continent.
The implant has a feature called Impulse Moderation. Basically, they control what you feel is “right” or “wrong” based on the day’s algorithm. Too many of you didn’t want to work overtime, didn’t “feel motivated.” Now, a neat cocktail of chemicals in your brain can rewrite the momentary “motivation” you need.
You crave work. You need work. It’s not about being a cog in the machine anymore; you’re the machine.
Just another processor in the global server, delivering output as needed. It doesn’t hurt. It’s not hard. You’re simply there, observing yourself going through motions that feel like free will but aren’t.
And that’s the scariest part: you think you chose this.
The “Better You” implant, the one that connects brain to network, was sold as a tool for better living, better emotions, better control. It was supposed to be about freedom. But freedom isn’t what’s happening. The implant can do more than enhance you—it can delete you. They can push memories into the grey matter of your mind, make you remember things that never happened, feel experiences that aren’t yours. The touch of a hand you never held, the smell of flowers you never walked past. And they can take things away—wipe moments from existence, decide what you’ll never know, like a hard reset to the parts of you that get in the way of efficiency.
Somewhere deep, beneath all the layers of programming, you wonder: did you ever sign up for this? Or was that a memory they planted?
So now you sit. Staring at your hands, unsure if the next move is yours or theirs.
You think about moving, running even, but your brain doesn’t respond. You want to scream, but they’ve dampened the urge, reprogrammed the panic. Because panic isn’t productive.
That’s when the clock strikes 6:15 again, and you open your eyes, staring at the ceiling, ready to start another day. The itch returns.
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