Somehow, despite logging in yesterday, I can't remember my password and there's a problem with that e-mail address so my Shadow000 is basically off limits for me for now. So, here is a new account. I want to upload the revamped version of my story Bait.
452, having completed her most recent Psy Ops session, was being held under observation in med-bay until her EEG reading settled down. She looked pale, exhausted and had swollen, bloodshot eyes but didn't seemed particularly distressed.
Re-conditioning didn't work too well on several X5 units including 452. They submitted to it willingly enough, after all they was bred and trained to be obedient, but the mental re-patterning just didn't stick with some of them.
For 452, it wasn't so much her psychological make-up as her physiological neurochemistry that made her resistant to re-indoctrination. The stressors, psychological and pharmacological, necessary to induce new thinking and behaviours also induced critical seizures. The alternative non-fatal version of reprogramming just wasn't as effective, not for her personality.
Even as a young child, she always watching, listening, evaluating. Not questioning though. At least, not explicitly. This behaviour had been successfully extinguished her. This evidence was enough justify non-termination, proof that she could be permanently modified and controlled with the right handling.
Left unchecked, 452 defaulted back to her normal patterning and behaviour but it was simple enough to schedule regular Psy-Ops top ups required to keep her in line. Then there was a session like this one that went FUBAR and resulted in a grand mal seizure.
452 didn't notice Lydecker straight away when he entered med-bay. Instead, she was staring intently at a half-eaten turkey sandwich as if she could wish it out of existence.
"Good morning, Max," said Lydecker.
452 flinched and would have knocked her tray to the ground except that Lydecker quickly steadied it. The ECG machine attached to her beeped and displayed erratic spikes in her heartbeat. More worryingly, there was a sharp fluctuation in the EEG machine too.
"Good morning, s-s-sir," she said, eying the machines too.
Pushing the issue would certainly only exasperate the stutter so Lydecker let it drop without further comment. Instead, he asked: "How are you doing?"
"Okay," she said, not especially convincingly.
"I want to have a little chat. Off-the-record. Are you up for that?" Lydecker asked, settling down on a chair beside the bed.
Without waiting for her agreement, Lydecker produced a folder containing several pictures of different bodies tattooed with 493's barcode on their neck. 452 flipped through them looking a little wide-eyed and incredulous but didn't say anything.
"Our best intel suggests that 493 will develop into a serial killer and cause considerable damage to Manticore in the process," Lydecker explained. "There are significant resources being put together to stop this. You could be one arm of this operation. Such as assignment would be voluntary. Right now, we're looking for your observations and insights. I'll let you think about it."
As a rule, Max didn't get long-term undercover operations. Although it was never made explicit, she understood it was because she was too risky. A few years ago, her psy ops handler, Dr. Erikson, explained to her about her fragile neurochemistry and labile behaviour patterns, her special treatment.
"The basic program just doesn't stick with some of you. Exceptions to rule. That's fine. Our other programs, which work beautifully on those outliers, are too brutal with your seizures. No reprogramming, you default to being a feral monster, too much reprogramming you're dead. You see the dilemma here?"
"Yes, sir."
"We compromise," he continued. "Treat you like goldilocks, find the porridge, chair and bed that isn't hot, cold, high, low, hard, or soft. This translates to regular reprogramming, constant low-level drilling. You're hearing 'constant punishment', maybe feel that's a little unfair, but it's really special privilege you've been granted. We decide it's more hassle than its worth? The end. You're fucked. Any questions?"
"No, sir."
Max got with the program. It wasn't so bad. She got used to the lingering headaches, the dry eyes, the tremors and the fatigue that never quite vanished from one session to the next.
It was all quite mundane. For convenience, Erikson even gave her the access code and suggested she get settled in herself without needing a guard and technician. It was usually just the two of them, no techs or nurses.
Except the annual intensive session. That was a nightmare. It was the authentic Psy-Ops experience faced by all other X5s, except with the added bonus of nearly fatal seizures that put her in med-bay for days.
Erikson didn't administer these annual sessions, citing inconsistent preferential treatment between X units that he regularly treated and farmed it out to different handler. Standard practice.
Erikson certainly checked out her file though, probably was even bought in to consult when things went sideways. Max didn't ask and he didn't offer this information.
There was no better person to ask about 493 than him even if they didn't have a scheduled appointment. After being released from med-bay, Max let herself into the Psy-Ops department using the access code and tracked him down to kitchen.
"Ah, Goldilocks, social call?" quipped Erikson. He gestured for her to join him in the kitchen, where he was making, of all things, porridge, and looking much too pleased about this.
Max shrugged, feeling tongue-tied, stiff, and slow like she did after intensive Psy-Ops, and didn't obey, not right away.
The kitchen was out-of-bounds.
The gesture was an order.
Mutually exclusive impossible orders to obey.
"I'd offer you some, but it's probably too lumpy for you," he continued, unconcerned about her freezing in the doorway, acting like his usually snarky, casual self.
"Tell you what, I'll make you some hot chocolate," he offered. "You're shaking. If it's physiological, the milk will help you, and if it's psychological, the hot chocolate has magical powers. Let's go to my office."
After Max drank the hot chocolate, Erikson insisted on checking her vitals even though she was wearing a medical wrist band and portable machines. He jotted them down on a post-it and patted her on the shoulder. "You seem fine to me, Goldilocks, why are you here?"
Max handed him the file the Colonel had given her yesterday in med-bay. Erikson flipped through it quickly, as though he had seen it all already and frowned. "How did you get these?"
"Colonel Lydecker, sir."
"Were you asked about 493 in your annual?"
Max shook her head.
"Looks like the Colonel is handling you with kiddie gloves for now," Erikson remarked. "Tell him what he wants to know."
"I don't know anything."
"Or maybe you don't know what you know," Erikson countered. He drummed his fingers on the file and looked thoughtful.
"Okay, don't freak out, these killings have elements of a superstitious ritual that we can trace back to your unit. The missing teeth. It was this weird fluke operant conditioning thing developed in your unit," said Erikson.
Max nodded, matching his words with fuzzy static-y memories.
"Interesting, psychologically, but it was extinguished in most of you fairly readily. 493, I suspect, is undergoing that extinguishing now with the frantic burst of behaviours. The question is how much damage he'll do before it stops? And, knowing his pattern, can we get to him sooner? This is where you might come in. You will know much more about the story. Think about it. Tell him."
"I mean, yeah, but…I don't want to get into trouble. Special privilege, too much hassle, you're fucked etc."
The monologue had made an impression on her.
"You feel you're in a tricky spot, damned if you do, damned if you don't," Erikson surmised. "How about, you keep your secrets, no need to share, but you solve the 493 problem without back up? I'll handle your mental fallout like I did before and you'll be back to yourself in no time."
"You can't promise any of that," said Max, shaking her head, not even considering the possibilities, just hearing the sheer implausibility of it all.
She wasn't even cleared for basic undercover operations let alone a black operation like this.
Max did micro operations, basic security and babysitting jobs for the rich and paranoid. These usually amounted to her looking pretty and unthreatening in a nice dress at fancy functions while keeping an eye out. Regularly enough, she was drafted by the FBI or CIA to be a teenage human prop for a few days.
"I can ask and you know that I'll ensure things proceed on the agreed terms whatever they may be." Erikson picked up his phone and looked at her expectantly, waiting for the answer.
"I-I don't know, please, don't," Max pleaded.
Max was finding it very hard to breath all of a sudden. Like there was no oxygen in this room. It felt a bit like being under water. The words were distorted and muffled. Her head was pounding too.
"Calm down, Goldilocks," said Erikson. He dropped the phone and had his hands raised passively, unthreateningly, in the air. "Breathe. Don't make me whip out the cliché paper bag or oxygen mask."
Once Max had obeyed, Erikson resumed their previous conversation without any commentary on the panic attack.
"You have a couple options here. Pretend like none of this is happening is not one of them."
"Fine," Max muttered. "Call him."
452, although released from med-bay, was still under significant observation. She wore a mobile EEG headset, finger tip oxygen monitor, portable heart monitor and medical sensor band. She was sitting cross-legged in the chair across from her Psy Ops handler with her back to the door.
Dr. Dean Erikson was as much as godsend as he was a pain in the ass. Erikson had apparently never heard a rule that he liked and went out of his way to disregard regulation but Lydecker couldn't argue with the effective results the man produced.
452 immediately stood at attention and saluted when Lydecker joined them. It was awkward gesture while wearing a headset and pulse monitor, but she managed it smoothly enough. Although Lydecker noted the tremor still in her hand and the color drained from her face after she jumped up so quickly.
"At ease," he instructed. He gestured back at the chair. "Sit."
452 sank back down. Lydecker sat on her other side. He spotted the telltale open file on Erikson's desk, confirming that they had been discussing 493.
"I see you've looked at the file," Lydecker commented mildly. "Anything to share about why X5-493 is running around murdering civilians?"
"Lousy childhood?" she mumbled.
Lydecker ignored the attitude. "Do you empathize? Same childhood, same chemical imbalances."
"No sir," she said, subdued.
"I suspect 493 has always been a little bit more bloodthirsty, whereas 452 is…squeamish," Erikson offered.
"Squeamish?" she echoed, a little indignant.
"Sensitive, fragile, you know what I mean," said Erikson, dismissively. "Don't look so surprised. Why don't you think you haven't been up for assassinations? I'm not saying you can't or won't, I'm sure you would, but it would upset your mental patterning. You won't develop 493's murderous tendencies, even if you had the opportunity like he has to physically manifest it. I'd guarantee it."
Erikson had already reassured Lydecker of this fact. He had speculated the psychosis was isolated to 493 only and didn't express concern about the other escapees. Or, at least, any concern greater than them roaming unmanaged as they already were doing.
"Because 452 is so delicate, I recommend her role be minimal or completely autonomous in the 493 situation," said Erikson.
452 bristled at the word 'delicate' but kept her mouth shut this time. Erikson was goading her, manipulating her under the guise of his casual messing, just like he promised Lydecker yesterday. He had never used these sorts of terms to describe her personality before. He chose 'perceptive', 'discerning' and 'introverted' instead and rounded it off with 'wilful' and 'reactionary'.
"Surely autonomously is the worst solution for a fragility? Sounds like a protocol for being overwhelmed and incapable," Lydecker argued.
"Fortunately, you've trained her to be resilient despite her sensitivity," Erikson acknowledged. "She will manage quite effectively, if she can personally control things, but nonetheless will find it distressing and need considerable support and re-education to regain her approved optimal mental patterning."
452 was studying Erikson, head cocked to the side, and looking thoughtful, if a little annoyed, but nodded in agreement.
"You're proposing all or nothing. What does that mean?" asked Lydecker.
"She goes undercover as a rogue to retrieve 493. Or she forgets this conversation ever happened," said Erikson. "I do see your point about moderate contribution being reasonable but 452 isn't much one for moderation or being reasonability. It will backfire."
"You understand, Max, that you're uniquely qualified to handle his situation and also fuck up?" asked Lydecker.
Here was the sensible opportunity to back down. But 452, with her reactionary tendencies and impulsive streak a mile wide, was incapable of taking this course of action after Erikson's goading, after years of only getting short-term jobs and being passed over for undercover operations, final given an opportunity to regain Lydecker's approval.
"I'll do it," 452 said quietly. Clarifying, she added. "Retrieve 493, sir."
So what do you think? For this version, I really wanted to play up the more subtle insidious brainwashing happening at Manticore. I think this explains how Max in this story (and many other soldiers like Alec in canon) could be loyal to Manticore without being stripped of their personalities. They're definitely indoctrinated, just not quite as excessively as Brin. For Max, it might look something like this.