"Why, oh why, is the human brain so fragile??"
The question perturbed his every thought as Marcoh manipulated the intricate brain cells of a brand new specimen. A heavy brow of sweat rested delicately on the neurologist's forehead, barely maintaining its form like the many unique synapses inside his subject's skull as he poked and prodded. Snipped and snapped.
Removed and replaced.
Constant watch and delicate gestures were required to alter the human brain without causing irreparable damage. A person's personality is akin to their human nature, and human nature is as gentle as the microscopic impulses that passed between nerve cells. One wrong move and his subject was a zombie-- mindless as snowflakes falling without a will.
And these zombies clumped, too.
It struck Marcoh only as mildly intriguing when his first specimen was zombified. Seeing a human mindlessly chase after other humans in an almost comical way was interesting. It tumbled after Marcoh flaccidly and gurgled nonsense. And when the scientist managed to get away, the wannabe human kept thumping its head against the bulletproof glass, without fail, until it's head, and former identity, was no longer conceivable.
"How very curious."
Unlike in the movies, a zombie created in his lab only chased after other humans for connection. It did not crave blood. It did not wish to bite or tear flesh. This event commonly became a short anecdote within the concrete bunker where Marcoh's lab resided-- a failed experiment's actions are unimportant in the grand scheme.
Only a fool would make note of their failures when the looming future promises much greater successes.
Marcoh has ruined many, many souls during his research and experiments. And of course, the word "soul" is just a four letter word in the meticulous, ever-examining eyes of science. A soul is nothing more than a person's inclinations, and those inclinations are made powerless within the hands of God, as he liked to believe himself to be.
"Gain access, get paid... gain access, get paid... gain control... get paid even more..."
A wide, animal-like grin spread across Marcoh's face as he bore his teeth in the form of a smile. He had successfully attached the programmable apparatus to the empty husk’s brain before him. As the sweat poured from his head, finally relieved from intense focus, Marcoh set his tools down and, without apprehension, proceeded to his supercomputer.
Marcoh was not offered assistance, and he was more inclined to not accept it. His work could not allow for the most minute distraction. A wrong move from an assistant wiping his brow and his hand could move just a wrong fraction of an inch-- destroying his hard work. Work, which normally insisted 28 straight hours without rest.
“Not worth it,” the neurologist mumbled to himself as he sipped his coffee, black.
He was referring to the personalities he encountered while digging inside the brain. Synapses, although impossibly complicated and void of direction, they tended to resist the complex programming of his biomechanical devices. These devices were makeshift brain cells and, if used with the proper precision, they could command a human to their will, successfully bypassing the natural impulses of their host.
It was entirely impossible to reprogram the brain without encountering the other electrical impulses that naturally resided between the cells. His supercomputer spit out information to the implanted devices and translated the results. These results displayed a battle between the host and the surrogate.
This battle resulted in pain.
Excruciating pain. Hot tears flowed from his subject’s bulging eyes as its tongue flickered madly from corner to corner. It was impossible to understand this pain. But with the supercomputer, it was clear as day on the computer screen that this pain was equivalent to having your brain melted by microwaves.
To go through such terrible pain just to recover one’s personality, a personality that can be wiped at the much-too-real push of a button, is just silly, thought Marcoh. Just give up. It's not worth it. Within the hands of science, you are nothing more than a mere stepping stone-- a disposable syringe, empty of fluid and worth.
He could end the struggle, type in a few codes, and shut down the pain or the last bits of consciousness left inside it’s cranium.
But he preferred watching the subject struggle to render his work worthless.
“Pointless,” Marcoh muttered as he sipped his coffee once more, “You cannot go against a God.” He got up from the endless data displayed on the supercomputer screen to get another fill.
The coming years were fast. Anarchy, rebellion, riots, and guerrilla looting instilled fear against his communist party. Quickly, Marcoh became the forefront forefather of the war-- a war caused by fear of being mind-controlled and manipulated by the government or being forced into captivity under the loose premise of being a “traitor spy.” Of course, other countries and continents did not appreciate his brain-control research and deemed it their righteous goal to stop him as well.
“Remove. Replace. Reprogram.” An outspoken motto from the white-bearded Marcoh himself to everyone within the “workshop.”
You were allowed reprieve from fighting in the war if you were intelligent, skilled, or savvy enough to partake in Marcoh’s manipulations. Through his years of grueling, dark research, Marcoh had ruined hundreds of thousands of minds in order to expedite a process to where even your average evil genius could manage a simple personality reprograment.
The problem was finding enough people to operate on.
Enemies of war, captives, even the poor and the old were reprogrammed to fight his country’s war that Marcoh himself started with his taboo research. A large white-beard and focused, old eyes of the neurologist’s were the only signs of his growing wisdom. Impossibly akin to a God, Marcoh was allowed control over every single specimen that left his workshop. His watchful eyes could interpret the data from his multiple supercomputers and tell you how many have died, how many they’ve killed, and if they needed “readjustments” because their control was either weak, misplaced, or damaged due to the inexperienced underlings he had now.
Joy was an incorrect description of what Marcoh felt.
Perhaps ecstasy was an even weaker word.
Marcoh was at peace, but somehow his mind was still toiled by the use of his years of research. Something as pitiful as war could not be his endgame.
Complete control over famine and wealth was his favorite fantasy. To end the world’s suffering just by the power of one man seemed like the most likeliness to becoming the God he knew himself to be. To smile in the face of The Big Bang and Higher Powers and declare that humanity was fixed and saved by a single human being was by far the greatest erotic accomplishment that Marcoh could think of.
And it gave him chills.
The war would eventually end through Marcoh’s upgrading of his old system. He discovered that by asking the brain to do things through emotional discourse, he could make his super soldiers stronger, faster, and harder to kill. There was one drawback. His subjects would cry out meaningless words such as, “Mom,” or “Dad,” or “Brother,” or “Sister,” and would sometimes be caught weeping uncontrollably to oneself.
Pointless in the grand scheme.