We’ve faced threats before, but never like this. Vietnam had its own set of problems—media influence twisting public perception, and underground ambushes that could tear a squad apart in seconds. The Gulf War? You just prayed you didn’t step on something that would scatter you across the desert. World Wars I and II were nightmares in their own right, spreading across continents, and dragging millions into their brutal wake. But this? This war is something entirely different:
It’s a war of the mind. No trenches, no landmines, no bombers flying overhead—just a battle inside each person’s head. Every individual is their own front line, and all the government can do is try to contain it. The entire world is the battlefield, and it’s silent, until all hell breaks loose.
I marvel at the mountain as the government vehicle slips inside. The security here is as tight as it gets. Brainscan negative—I’m still me. That’s always the part that gives me a small dose of comfort, like a fleeting reminder that I still have control.
Multiple salutes come my way as I move through the airlocked doors, soldiers stiffening as I pass. It’s all for show. We’re outmatched, and everyone knows it. I sink into my seat at the console, in front of a sleek, high-tech array of flashing buttons, trying to project confidence I don’t feel.
On the other side of the two-way glass, a woman is strapped to an electric table, her fiery red hair a wild contrast to the sterile environment. With an inhuman intensity, her green eyes dart around the room, taking in every detail. I wonder, not for the first time if life would be better with them in charge.
Her pupils dilate suddenly, then her eyes move frantically like they’re searching for something.
“Help!” she cries out, her voice cracking as she struggles against the straps holding her down.
This is the host, begging for permission to come out and play. Pathetic. It’s why we’re losing. I press a button on the console, my voice steady despite the dread pooling in my gut.
“Are you the dominant consciousness?” I ask, knowing the answer before she even speaks.
“It takes over when it wants,” she says, panic creeping into her voice.
“Are you a Storyville resident?” I continue, already piecing together the rest.
“Yes,” she responds, her voice trembling.
A tablet is handed to me, and I skim through her file–She was picked up from a Storyville apartment with no clothing. The next detail catches my eye—unusual for someone from Storyville, very unusual.
“Did you murder someone today, Ms. Taylor Bruchelly?” I ask, my voice cold.
She doesn’t answer, squirming harder against the restraints, clearly unnerved.
“You’ve been harboring a faulty consciousness in your vessel,” I say, my tone hardening. “This is an act of treason against the United States of America, punishable by ejection.”
“My ear itches…” she mumbles, her voice breaking. “Just let me scratch it, please. I need to scratch my ear…”
The alien consciousness is allowing the host consciousness to cower to gain an advantage. It has her locked in. She would do whatever the alien consciousness asks.
‘You want to touch your ear so you can save it to your network.’ I say sensing her desperation.
Desperation turns to violence as she yanks her arm against the restraints, her strength growing with each tug. Her eyes go wild, the same as when I first saw her. There’s something terrifyingly powerful about the alien consciousness fighting to take over, and for a moment, I can’t help but admire it. But the feeling is fleeting, quickly replaced by a heavy sense of remorse. Ms. Bruchelly is a casualty in a war no one signed up for.
When we jail the alien consciousness, it won’t go down quietly. It’ll fight until the very end, and in doing so, it’ll take Taylor’s mind with it. Her thoughts, her memories—everything that made her who she is—will be wiped out, leaving nothing behind. The woman who once was Taylor Bruchelly will die on that table, her consciousness obliterated.
I glance over at Cential Landers, who oversees these operations, and a wave of depression washes over me. His face is grim, his eyes hollow, as if he’s already mourning the loss of another human soul. It’s a look I’ve seen too many times in this war.
“Sorry, Ms. Bruchelly…” I say softly, a sad weight in my voice. “Contain the consciousness,” I order, watching the engineer flick a red switch on the console. A high-tech probe device lays over Taylor Bruchelly’s head, surrounding it.
As the lights flicker on the console, the silent battle rages one final time within Taylor. The war goes on, but with each battle won, we lose a little more of what makes us human.
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