Do you know what it means to be an empath? You probably don't. I think almost no one does. Even I'm not entirely sure how it works.
I think the doctors and scientists at BioCorp long ago came up with something that could be included in a publicly available database. I can see it now: 'Empathy (...) a chemical or psychochemical process that allows you to decipher the map of other people's emotions... blah, blah, blah. All nonsense written for the common folk. But they don't share their knowledge. Not for free. Besides, no damn brainiac will tell you what it's really like. Want to hear it? I'll tell you. Besides, you don't have much choice anyway.
You see, unlike the psychos at the prosecutor's office, no one ever taught me how to use my gift. 'GIFT'—well, if you think about it, I don't know; maybe it's better to call it a curse.
When I first felt it, I was about your age. A brat who thinks the world exists to be enjoyed to the fullest until he runs out of strength. And let me tell you, I was young before the War... and the world was a much better place then. The only difference between us two is that I never crossed the line of law and morality to fulfill my whims.
Are you laughing? Oh yes, I forgot... You're too young to remember the times when people were guided by 'honor' and 'morality'. To you, the scumbag, those words are as empty as your steel-encased head. The worst part is that the 'greats' of this world perceive them exactly the same way. But oh well, new times require new customs, and it's not up to me, a low-ranking 'official', to judge whether those customs are good or bad.
Let's get to the point. You wanted to know how it all began.
The first time, I remember, I was incredibly surprised. I was sitting in a small pub in the center of Old Poznań. I think it was called 'Totoda'. No, it's gone now. They destroyed it during World War III. A cluster bomb. No one survived.
'Totoda' was a so-called atmospheric pub. That meant that every now and then, friends of friends would play various rock songs there. It was decent music. Not like today... holographic idols and that subconscious-influencing crap you call technopop.
I spent an incredibly pleasant evening over a beer, chatting with the 'future mother of my children.' I'll tell you, I still remember her as clearly as if it all happened yesterday.
One hundred percent beautiful, intelligent, and most importantly, pure woman. No cables, no scrap in her bones, no chemicals in her skin. Even her hair was naturally black. And those eyes... huge, dark, so deep you could drown in them. I wouldn't trade them for the most expensive Shinen Tech implants. Simply pure.
Returning to the main point of the story, we chatted about nothing. You know, like when you try to find out your partner's interests without asking a thousand idiotic, boring questions. A little jokes, a little snark...as usual. Actually, she did most of the talking. You see, I'm not a fan of idle chatter, unless it's from lunatics like you.
I was concentrating more on listening and observing her gorgeous face.
Hmm, 'gorgeous' might not be the best word, but I don't feel like searching for more poetic descriptions right now. Suffice it to say that hundreds like you were willing to break heads for a single smile from her. I'm
getting too far off topic, and we don't have that much time before the prosecutor arrives and we begin the 'operation.'
Yes, I'm sitting with her in that pub. The orchestra plays another wistful tune in the style of Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters" (you probably don't even know that song...), and I feel a wave of heat.
For a moment, I thought it was a heater or something, but there was nothing nearby.
Well, I ignored the feeling... for about two minutes.
Another wave of heat almost deafened me. An emotional tsunami rolling through my head. For you, it's like... when those psychos in the strike team hit you with EMP grenades. Right before you fry.
I was a stupid kid and didn't immediately realize what was happening.
My interlocutor spoke slower, quieter... so I had to lean toward her. Every now and then, she would approach me, seeking contact.
At first, I thought the heat was me. You know, in normal, unwired people, hormones are uncontrolled. And I had a lot of hormones at the time, and they were constantly talking to me.
After a while, I realized, however, that the heat was coming from outside. Trying not to lose the thread of the conversation, I tried to pinpoint its source.
Then she touched my hand. I thought I'd fall off the chair. The effect was devastating. It was as if someone had suddenly pumped white-hot metal into my veins, only much more pleasurable. Looking at all the junk you'd filled yourself with, I suspect you'd experienced something similar. Well, maybe more painful.
The world suddenly turned a distastefully pink. She simply radiated excitement. If someone had thrown a lit match between us, no bombs would have been necessary.
Maybe now, it doesn't seem so strange. After all, ordinary people feel strong emotions too, and especially with bio-stimulants... but... Well, there's always a 'but.' Ordinary people don't visualize feelings. They don't cause bleeding, nausea, or even blackouts. Unless you get really high, but I can swear to you that day I was as pure as the Malaysian sea, back in the day.
What did I do? What any kid would do in my shoes. I got scared and ran away. That was it.
It wasn't that I was afraid of the girl or what might happen next in my dark student dorm room. I was more afraid of everything that had befallen me. It was as if an additional sense had suddenly been unlocked within me. As if a blind man had suddenly regained his sight and was terrified by the reality, the intensity of the world.
As you can see, I got used to it. It took me a few years. Years of hard work, avoiding crowds, nightmares, loneliness. I finally reduced my interpretation error to 0.5%. That's a lot, but no one is perfect.
I never saw her again. I don't know what happened to her. I heard rumors that she survived the War and went to Chiba City. Maybe she lives in a better world than this shit we have.
The funniest thing is that 'it' affects everyone differently. And the more intense the feeling, the more intense the kick you get. Better than pure synthBlue. You're getting close to the edge...
I was called in once to see a certain idiot. It was right before the war. You know, back then it was swarming with all sorts of far-right groups. Skinheads, Catholic fanatics (who, believe me, can be more dangerous than many gangs, because with them, logical reasoning equals unquestionable belief in their own twisted ideals), the Association of True Patriotism, and other such fucks. This one was from the SPP. 'Poland for Poles,' 'Fuck the EU,' 'Death to the Commies,' and so on. The worst kind of scum. Hypocrites hiding behind the backs of rich daddies.
They picked him up for 'alleged' rape and murder. But they needed evidence to justify a death sentence. Even the old police (now the Municipal Guard) had decent people working there. They needed anything, and the evidence an empath obtained was more than enough.
The boy was a bit older than you. Bald as a knee, clean-shaven. Like everyone in the SPP, he wore the most expensive Polish suits and a look of profound contempt for everyone and everything on his face. At first glance, an arrogant, spoiled boy who spent a lot of time at the gym. At first glance...
His hatred hit me like a jackhammer. Blood poured from my nose and ears, and my head was ringing like a cathedral at Christmas. Why?
Oh, I forgot that the boys from the special forces fried your shoddy visual sensors. You see, I was the personified core of his hatred. I'm black.
Are you surprised? Yes, these days, in the age of dermatological implants, synthetic skin, and biochemical dyes, it's easy to forget details like skin color, but back then, it was everything. Especially for fanatics like him, who stubbornly insisted that the white race was the master race.
These are the worst. Their hatred is cold, calculated. Like a gust of icy wind or the impact of a giant icicle.
They sentenced him. He wasn't difficult to 'read.' Once I broke through the armor of self-confidence and the shell of cold hatred, it was easy to continue. You see, on each of us, even on corpses, the stench of strong emotions lingers for a while. Our own and others.
A slimy excitement and fascination with death coated it like the filth we pour into rivers every day. On top of all this, I felt an elusive yet incredibly intense residue of fear. That specific, panicky fear that arises in the mind of someone about to die. The fear of a victim. It can't be confused with any other feeling.
Thanks to his father's influence, they only locked him up for twenty years. The boy, however, was unlucky. Three years later, an Iraqi missile hit the prison. He didn't stand a chance.
You're probably wondering why I'm wearing out my natural vocal cords telling you all this. I want to make you aware of something.
You're wired like a twentieth-century telephone switchboard. I see you have three or four integrated drug dispensers, which leads me to believe that on command you can disable all still-functioning receptors and seal yourself tightly within the armor of your being, where no one can extract anything. Furthermore, the latest abortive amendment to the criminal cybernetics law of the state of Greater Poland guarantees that the guys in the technical section won't fry all your equipment before interrogation. You might think nothing will touch you.
Well, you're wrong.
I'll tell you one more thing that might convince you.
During the War, I was 'invited' to cooperate with coalition forces. Fortunately, an empath doesn't have to be a polyglot. Everyone's emotions are written in the same 'symbols.'
The military wasn't satisfied with my considerable skills. They didn't want passive reading. They needed something that would force these inhuman, genetically modified, and now practically metal fanatics to speak. They despised pain, and no medications could penetrate their enhanced immune systems. However, after the implants were neutralized, their nervous systems disintegrated into fragments that no one could piece together.
Then some assholes from the late Pentagon hit on the idea of using the power of EMPs (a jargon term) to instill fear in the Fedaykin, a fear stronger than any psychoconditioning. A reverse application of my gift. You know, a projection of emotions I'd previously collected from others.
I won't bore you with the details of the long and incredibly tiring training. Suffice it to say, the idea worked, to some extent. The fanatics sang like terrified children, but after such an operation, they usually turned into huddled, introverted bundles of endless nightmare. The segregated rooms of POW hospitals quickly filled with the creations of people like me.
Every technology has its weaknesses.
Then the Pentagon vanished in the glare of a nuclear blast, and the world forgot about the top-secret, decidedly inhumane 'Shock and Awe' project.
Now, please, consider this.
For all those years you spent in the ruins of Lower Poznań, you fought for survival, acquiring chips and cash only to gain as much control over your body as possible. You fought against the emotions that tossed you around. You wanted to become a cold, emotionless superbeing, controlling every single cell of your body. A perfect machine with a human self locked away in a safe titanium haven. And our wonderful, modern medicine has made this possible for you. A ghost in armor. That's what you've become. And you're happy with that.
I can destroy it all. Lock you in a cage of eternal terror. Believe me, no drugs will help where I can send you. You'll become a self trapped in your worthless shell, reliving day after day the horrors of a war that happened long before you were born.
Do you think it's worth keeping silent for some whore with Biomass-engineered beauty and Shinen Tech eyes, using you for some Japanese zaibatsu corporation? It probably is, but can you handle it?
That's what I thought. Wait a moment, I'll ask Detective Orson, and you can testify in peace.
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