Mental Programming - Tumblr Posts

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New Youtopia: Career Decision

The chair creaked heavily as McFarland sat down. The bright white lights flooded from the many tiles surrounding the room, leaving the occupants with no sense of time or place. Some scrawled over data pads. Others stared into the empty void and mumbled under their breaths. Others still slumped in their chairs as audio data ports plugged into their ears and filtered information directly through their ear canals.

There was little to tie the occupants together. Race, age, income. No matter the qualifier, the range was vast and diverse.

As it should be.

McFarland laid his forearms on the desk and folded his hands together. The cycle of the ventilation system tickled the mostly bare skin on the sides of his head. He had received it during his fifth visit to this room, and had been careful to maintain it every since. His beard had been carefully styled to offer the sharp angular impression that showed off his masculinity. The chain about his neck hung somewhat loosely against his chest as he hunched slightly. The green fabric of his shirt clung tightly to his shoulders and biceps.

The desk flashed its digital display as a compartment opened to reveal a pair of dark glasses.

Wear these.

McFarland took them without a second thought. Seconds later, the world was tinted as a stream of numbers, letters, and images flashed over the lenses. McFarland endured them patiently. It was not his place to question. He had learned that after his initial orientation at the facility. He had attended every class, followed every instruction, passed every test with equal diligence. It was his duty. It was his responsibility as a future citizen of The Nation to do his part and contribute, as all future citizens and new adults who came of age were required to do.

Congratulations, Future Citizen McFarland. You have faced much hardship and opposition in your quest to join The Nation. You have passed through phases, tests, and trials, each designed to hone your biological advantages and delete that which was detrimental or unnecessary. You have forsaken past ties to your old life. To family, to friends, to disorder and anarchy.

“Yes,” he lowed softly in a deep voice. A flash of memory passed through him. The guards in their pristine white uniforms. The reflective visors obscuring their faces. Surrender at the gates. Petition. The waiting room, so much like this orientation chamber, only designed for a single occupant and a few observers.

His voice had been higher then, his body frail, his clothing loose. Injections, exercises, and a strict diet changed that. They had changed many things. His voice had gone first as the injections forced the muscles in his neck and shoulders to grow and swell. What started as simple repetition soon became mantra.

You have thrown yourself into integration, into the greater whole for the greater good.

“For the greater good,” he repeated. And pleasure flowed again as he sank into that pleasant space that wasn’t quite dreaming, but wasn’t quite awake either.

Going deeper was his goal, his obsession, his duty. Every week, he would hear his voice compared with the first. Going on and on. He would listen. He would follow. And an inexplicable thrill would come over him the lower his voice became. It was pleasurable. It was good. It was for the better, because it made him feel better. It was for the greater good.

Deeper voice. Deeper listening. Deeper exercises. The ache seeping deep into his muscles. The men leading him deeper into the compound. Fitness was key. Classes were given. Holographic projections. Tactics. Arms handling. Martial arts. All vital training. Vital to grow. Vital to mold. Vital to transform.

He had been so thrilled when they presented him with his first set of clothing. No handmedowns. No wear and tear. No dust or blood. The garments were clean, pristine. And they were a perfect fit.

Fit for a growing young man. Fit for a future citizen. Fit to be worn. Fit to be borne. Fit to be torn and replaced. Fit for the cycle to begin again.

Your transition is to be commended. You have cast off barbarism for civilization, weakness for strength, ignorance for knowledge, rebellion for conformity, dissension for obedience, delinquency and disruption for discipline and control.

“Deep Control...”

And Chaos for order.

Rigidly marching. Following others. Training simulations under those flashy helmets. Exercises. Fitness. Martial arts. All escorted at one pace, one rank, one file. Guards on either side. Marching, pacing. What was first difficult became simple, routine, automatic. The pace that had been such a pain lengthened his stride as legs grew taller and thighs thickened.

The face that had writhed with anxiety over the silence soon settled into perfect angular symmetry. Silence was not to be feared. Silence was order. Order was maintained by discipline and control. Discipline and control were gained through obedience. Obedience was demonstrated by conforming to rules, schedule, and regulations, safe in the knowledge of the strength in numbers, in unity, in civilization. 

And civilization was The Nation. The Nation was utopia.

All will find peace in The Nation. All will find utopia.

“Long live The Nation. Long live the utopia...”

The tromp of heavy booted feet came to a halt on either side of him. McFarland waited patiently. He had not been given leave.

Your transition into Citizenship is nearly complete. There is one more task before you are prepared for integration and your lifelong assignment. Rise. Follow.

McFarland obeyed. The chair scraped back. He replaced it, then turned as one. Shoulders met pauldrons. Feet met floor. Tromp. Stamp. Tromp. Stamp. The trio strode past men in white robes, in goggles and jumpsuits, with scanners and note pads. Doctors, engineers, mechanics, and more waited in this room to be born, to be mentored, to be molded and integrated. Eventually, he and his escort left to pass through the maze of halls into a locker room. They stopped at a locker first.

Present tags.

McFarland pulled the chain from between his pectorals. A set of blank tags hung against his curled knuckles. He held the tags in front of the door. Mechanical arms seized the metal and pulled them to a series of lasers that surrounded the iris of the locker’s optic sensors. When the engraving was complete, the chain fell softly against his chest. The door hissed open. Seamless white shone dully in the artificial light that buzzed above them. 

Don uniform.

McFarland slipped piece by piece. He peeled off his current clothing and donned the body suit first. The tight white material hugged and emphasized every muscle, showed off every piece of tone. When he first arrived, he may have taken the time to admire the figure he now sported. But that was not the directive. He slipped the armor pieces next: boots, leg plate guards, belt and empty holster, chest plate, pauldrons, arm plates, protective gloves. But there was no helmet.

Report to mirror.

He performed a smart quarter turn and marched to the sink and the mirror that waited over it. His escort stood on either side, each before the mirrors. Red light scanned their faces. McFarland’s pupils were obscured by the reflective lenses of his glasses, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was reporting. He had reported. Now he would wait.

A new series of arms extended from the sides of the mirror. These reached for McFarland’s face. He held his ground. A warm sensation brushed over his skin as red light bathed his cheeks, lip, and chin. Hair follicles fell like snow and drifted into the porcelain, staining it black. The arms retracted, and McFarland was graced with a perfectly clean-shaven face. His jaw held the same profile as his fellows. His gaze drifted to the basin, and he watched as the hairs swirled through the water and down the drain to wash away those remnants from his old life and training.

Next came the armory. A bare hand registered on a pad to synch his DNA in the database. All armory weapons would now function for him. All ammo stores would open at his input. The stun pistol signed out by the armorer matched those of his McFarland’s fellow exactly.

“Uniformity is conformity,” he said.

McFarland’s response was immediate, and echoed in stereo with his escort. “I conform to my uniform.”

Pride swelled in McFarland as he strode side by side with his brothers. He was so close. So close now. All he required was the helmet.

They arrived in front of a reinforced metal door. The portal slid open to reveal a man with a dirt-smudged face and long greasy dirty-blond hair. His clothing was a hodgepodge of discarded materials cobbled together to create a form of cluttered trash armor. The sight was vulgar, offensive, chaotic. This was not order. This was not of The Nation. This was wrong.

The offender’s eyes widened and brightened when they saw you. “McFarland? McFarland, is that you? Damn, is it good to see a friendly face. This is all a big misunderstanding. So, do me a favor and maybe get me out of this place?”

The man’s body was lean and toned. How long had he wandered the wastes outside civilization? He had been successful enough to not be the weak, pathetic lump McFarland once had been.

“Prisoner 40612, you have been found guilty of the crimes of breaking and entering, illegal entry into The Nation, Theft, Grand Theft, Larceny, Attempted Terrorism, and Espionage,” the left guard said.

“I told you, fellahs, I just got lost. I wanted to see an old friend; that’s all. Mickey, come on, tell them!”

McFarland stared uncomprehendingly at the man. He was ... familiar somehow, but he couldn’t quite remember why.

The guard on the right picked up where his brother left off. “As such, you are sentenced to serve as a security conscript for a period of no less than five years, during which time you shall be rehabilitated as part of your community service. At the conclusion of your five year sentence, a review will be conducted to ensure reformation is complete.”

The sound of mechanical arms descending hummed through the air. A long silver needle you recognized only too well dripped with the solution that had helped you on your path to citizenship. A second arm descended and laid a helmet complete with visor on the table out of the prisoner’s reach. The glasses flickered again as a new message scrolled across the lenses.

Final Task: Execute prisoner sentence.

McFarland jerked into action and strode next to the terrorist. The fear and indignation in the man’s gaze gave him pause for a moment.

“Mickey, come on. You know better than this. This isn’t you. This isn’t what we do.”

The familiarity disturbed McFarland. But ... he hadn’t done anything against The Nation. He had appealed for their aid. He had come and willingly gone through the process to attain citizenship. He had found purpose. He had found unity. He had found strength.

“Easy in, easy out. We take out their central control processor and reclaim our city.”

McFarland shuddered. The voice was the prisoner’s. The grim expression in his mind’s eye. “... Reclaim....” He furrowed his brow in confusion as the beginnings of a headache jabbed between his eyes.

“That’s right. Come on, man. You remember me, right? You remember.”

McFarland laid a hand heavily on the table. The other guards’ hands rested calmly, casually on their stun pistols.

Laughter. Faces. Some blurred, some not. A city under fire. Stunned men, women, and children harvested. Stacked and dragged. The loud announcement of safety, of protection. “You are under the protection of The Nation. Do not resist. We are here to help you.” Running. Wastes. Sand, dust, cloying. Tunnels. Heat. Cold. Bunker. Shelter.

“We need a sacrificial lamb....”

“... Keep them occupied....”

“Easy in, easy out.”

“Reclaim....”

Harsh sands. Safe, clean facilities. Merciless weather. Climate control. Barren land. Flourishing greenhouses and gardens.

“Take back ... Reclaim ... Take back ... Reclaim ... Take back ... Reclaim.”

Strength. Exercise. Unity. Brotherhood. Happiness. It was all there. Why ... why take back a city, if it already took him back? Why attack, when there is pleasure in unity and obedience? Why complain when he is fed, clothed, and trained?

...

Why destroy that? Why deny the pleasure? Why deny the system that works? Why question what is perfect?

“Reclaim what we lost.”

Lost soul. “Reclaim....” Wandering alone.

The stranger that wasn’t a stranger smiled. “I knew you could set ‘em straight.”

It is not good to be alone. “Reclaim,” McFarland said again. He stood next to the prisoner. He pat his hand on the man’s shoulder, squeezed for support. He smiled. “Brother.”

And then he plunged the needle home.

The plunger depressed. The injection flooded through the man’s neck. His eyes widened in bewildered surprise. His muscles spasmed briefly. And then the light faded from his eyes as he slumped forward in his restraints.

McFarland strode confidently to the table. He removed the glasses to reveal gray eyes that swam murkily with his expanded pupils. He seized the helmet and placed it firmly on his head. The visor booted up and soon began to pulse. The pleasure rebounded as his escort flanked him on either side. A smooth voice carried through the receivers in the helmet’s radio.

“Congratulations on your new citizenship, Private McFarland. You have been assigned the duty of Security Officer and Military Operative.”

McFarland smacked his legs together and saluted. “Orders received and acknowledged. Private McFarland reporting for duty. Private McFarland, ready to serve.”

“Welcome to The Nation. Welcome to the new utopia.”