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Chris used his command voice, "Tate, give him another spray and then go get the beverage cart. He's going to need calories."
After hitting me with another shot of sedative (wait, nobody asked me), Tate immediately moved to get up, "Yes, Sir." As he scrambled over me, I wished he could stay; although I can't see him with this blindfold on, having him touch me is the best thing this new and crazy and probably-short life has offered me. I remember something called the Stockholm Syndrome, in which a captive begins to identify with her captors, developing positive feelings toward them, adopting their goals as her own.
This is happening to me. Stockholm Marco. But ... now that I've got my hacking skills back, I'm able to analyze my situation myself, I'm analyzing my own brain, my own brain implants, and I can see how a hacker with his own brain implants could be the best brain implant hacker in the world -- programming his own head to program his own head, and, shit, even though the double sedative is trying to keep me calm,
"Chris, this memory bomb inside my head is sentient. It's alive, and it's inside my brain, holding me hostage, and it wants to destroy me."
Chris ordered me, "Flip over onto your belly, now." And of course I obeyed, as though I'd obeyed him without question dozens of times before.
He climbed on top of me with his hairy naked body, heavier and larger than Tate's, and started to massage my shoulders with rougher more calloused hands.
"I'm not surprised, Marco, most memory bombs these days are sentient, that's state of the art, I'd expect no less from you." The massage felt good, but,
"Shhh, shhh, you need to relax. You've been through a hell of a lot, and have a lot to adjust to, and I suspect a lot more to adjust to soon. But right now, relax. Focus on my touch, focus on my hands touching your shoulders now, and now your back, digging into your muscles. Breathe deeply. Give your head some space, right now you're safe, nothing is going to happen to you."
"OK ..." I did try, and the drugs helped, and the massage helped, and having a strong and massive man on top of me, claiming to care about me, helped,
"Were, or are, we lovers, you and I?" I asked him. Although, how could I trust an answer?
Chris chuckled softly, "From time to time, but we're both pretty busy with our work. I had to cancel a fuckload of work when you showed up yesterday and triggered this fucking bomb on us. Sorry, you're supposed to be relaxing. I'm supposed to be helping. Just focus on my hands as they move to your lower back, as they press out from your spine toward your obliques, as they move the tension out of your body. Focus."
I could hear Tate reopening the door and pushing a beverage cart, I guess. I'm blind like he is for now. Tate asked, "I know this is a stupid question, but why don't the people with PTTD just make sure they stay away from Vancouver? Then they wouldn't be near the bomb when it goes off, and then ... they wouldn't ever have PTTD."
I instantly replied, "We can't stay away. We can't. Causation ... it works in both directions ..."
"Shhh, shhh," Chris said, as his hands continued moving lower, now starting in on my buttocks. He's really good at this. Yay massage! I wish I could just stay here naked with these guys forever, forgetting about stupid memory bombs and time bombs, and ... that's exactly why I'm not allowed to eat anything, because I knew I'd want to stay here forever, instead of letting this memory bomb explode.
How the hell does a memory bomb defeat a time bomb? How does it defeat causation? Or does it really? What's causing what? Maybe it's this memory bomb that sets off the Vancouver Time Bomb in the future, or vice versa. Ugh.
"You're not focusing," Chris broke in, while slipping one hand between my buttocks, massaging the area between, mmmmm.
"Chris, if you keep doing that I might cum."
"Then warn me before you do." Now he's sticking a finger in there, oh God, moving it toward my prostate.
"Is that when you'll shock my balls again?"
"If I have to. Now shut up, and focus, and tell me when you're about to cum."
Oh, God. Now there's two fingers massaging my prostate, my cock hardening, my breath quickening, and he just keeps doing it, deeper, and stronger, and I feel a drop of liquid pressed from my prostate through the length of my cock, emerging from the tip,
"I think you'd better stop," and then ZAP, though not as strong as before, as he pulls his fingers out and lays down on top of me, putting those same fingers in my mouth -- they taste clean, with only a hint of earth. A much lighter ZAP than that previous one, but enough to jolt my cock away from its desire to cum. Damn, I'm hard and horny and I forgot for a minute about the impending war inside my brain. The war that will destroy my personality, leaving me as vulnerable, helpless, and stupid as a newborn.
"Tate, pour him some Gatorade and give it to him using a straw, so he doesn't have to get up," Chris commanded, as he somehow sunk deeper into my back with his torso. In a few seconds I felt the straw at my lips, and I am thirsty, so I suck some liquid down my throat. Tastes good -- it better taste good, it's all I'll be getting for the rest of my life. "Relax, deep breaths," Chris reminded me, having felt how I tensed up when I thought again about dying.
Then Chris started singing!
Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques,
Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?
Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines!
Ding, dang, dong. Ding, dang, dong.
As he finished the verse and started repeating it, Tate joined in, but eight beats later, so they were singing in a round, with Chris taking a lower octave, and Tate following in a higher octave, so beautiful,
Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques,
Dormez-vous?/Frère Jacques, Dormez-vous?/Frère Jacques,
Sonnez les matines!/Dormez-vous? Sonnez les matines!/Dormez-vous?
Ding, dang, dong./Sonnez les matines! Ding, dang, dong./Sonnez les matines!
Ding, dang, dong. Ding, dang, dong.
As they finished, I thought, there's no way this is Stockholm Syndrome. I think they really love me. As impossible as all this sounds, with this sentient bomb about to destroy my own sentience, with another kind of bomb exploding backward through time, I think this is real. But I also think they love me.
Chris kissed the back of my ear, whispering, "We're going to help you find your best path, forward and backward. I swear. We're with you all the way."
Tate said, "Me too!" from a couple feet away.
My Garden before the Fall.
After hitting me with another shot of sedative (wait, nobody asked me), Tate immediately moved to get up, "Yes, Sir." As he scrambled over me, I wished he could stay; although I can't see him with this blindfold on, having him touch me is the best thing this new and crazy and probably-short life has offered me. I remember something called the Stockholm Syndrome, in which a captive begins to identify with her captors, developing positive feelings toward them, adopting their goals as her own.
This is happening to me. Stockholm Marco. But ... now that I've got my hacking skills back, I'm able to analyze my situation myself, I'm analyzing my own brain, my own brain implants, and I can see how a hacker with his own brain implants could be the best brain implant hacker in the world -- programming his own head to program his own head, and, shit, even though the double sedative is trying to keep me calm,
"Chris, this memory bomb inside my head is sentient. It's alive, and it's inside my brain, holding me hostage, and it wants to destroy me."
Chris ordered me, "Flip over onto your belly, now." And of course I obeyed, as though I'd obeyed him without question dozens of times before.
He climbed on top of me with his hairy naked body, heavier and larger than Tate's, and started to massage my shoulders with rougher more calloused hands.
"I'm not surprised, Marco, most memory bombs these days are sentient, that's state of the art, I'd expect no less from you." The massage felt good, but,
"Shhh, shhh, you need to relax. You've been through a hell of a lot, and have a lot to adjust to, and I suspect a lot more to adjust to soon. But right now, relax. Focus on my touch, focus on my hands touching your shoulders now, and now your back, digging into your muscles. Breathe deeply. Give your head some space, right now you're safe, nothing is going to happen to you."
"OK ..." I did try, and the drugs helped, and the massage helped, and having a strong and massive man on top of me, claiming to care about me, helped,
"Were, or are, we lovers, you and I?" I asked him. Although, how could I trust an answer?
Chris chuckled softly, "From time to time, but we're both pretty busy with our work. I had to cancel a fuckload of work when you showed up yesterday and triggered this fucking bomb on us. Sorry, you're supposed to be relaxing. I'm supposed to be helping. Just focus on my hands as they move to your lower back, as they press out from your spine toward your obliques, as they move the tension out of your body. Focus."
I could hear Tate reopening the door and pushing a beverage cart, I guess. I'm blind like he is for now. Tate asked, "I know this is a stupid question, but why don't the people with PTTD just make sure they stay away from Vancouver? Then they wouldn't be near the bomb when it goes off, and then ... they wouldn't ever have PTTD."
I instantly replied, "We can't stay away. We can't. Causation ... it works in both directions ..."
"Shhh, shhh," Chris said, as his hands continued moving lower, now starting in on my buttocks. He's really good at this. Yay massage! I wish I could just stay here naked with these guys forever, forgetting about stupid memory bombs and time bombs, and ... that's exactly why I'm not allowed to eat anything, because I knew I'd want to stay here forever, instead of letting this memory bomb explode.
How the hell does a memory bomb defeat a time bomb? How does it defeat causation? Or does it really? What's causing what? Maybe it's this memory bomb that sets off the Vancouver Time Bomb in the future, or vice versa. Ugh.
"You're not focusing," Chris broke in, while slipping one hand between my buttocks, massaging the area between, mmmmm.
"Chris, if you keep doing that I might cum."
"Then warn me before you do." Now he's sticking a finger in there, oh God, moving it toward my prostate.
"Is that when you'll shock my balls again?"
"If I have to. Now shut up, and focus, and tell me when you're about to cum."
Oh, God. Now there's two fingers massaging my prostate, my cock hardening, my breath quickening, and he just keeps doing it, deeper, and stronger, and I feel a drop of liquid pressed from my prostate through the length of my cock, emerging from the tip,
"I think you'd better stop," and then ZAP, though not as strong as before, as he pulls his fingers out and lays down on top of me, putting those same fingers in my mouth -- they taste clean, with only a hint of earth. A much lighter ZAP than that previous one, but enough to jolt my cock away from its desire to cum. Damn, I'm hard and horny and I forgot for a minute about the impending war inside my brain. The war that will destroy my personality, leaving me as vulnerable, helpless, and stupid as a newborn.
"Tate, pour him some Gatorade and give it to him using a straw, so he doesn't have to get up," Chris commanded, as he somehow sunk deeper into my back with his torso. In a few seconds I felt the straw at my lips, and I am thirsty, so I suck some liquid down my throat. Tastes good -- it better taste good, it's all I'll be getting for the rest of my life. "Relax, deep breaths," Chris reminded me, having felt how I tensed up when I thought again about dying.
Then Chris started singing!
Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques,
Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?
Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines!
Ding, dang, dong. Ding, dang, dong.
As he finished the verse and started repeating it, Tate joined in, but eight beats later, so they were singing in a round, with Chris taking a lower octave, and Tate following in a higher octave, so beautiful,
Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques,
Dormez-vous?/Frère Jacques, Dormez-vous?/Frère Jacques,
Sonnez les matines!/Dormez-vous? Sonnez les matines!/Dormez-vous?
Ding, dang, dong./Sonnez les matines! Ding, dang, dong./Sonnez les matines!
Ding, dang, dong. Ding, dang, dong.
As they finished, I thought, there's no way this is Stockholm Syndrome. I think they really love me. As impossible as all this sounds, with this sentient bomb about to destroy my own sentience, with another kind of bomb exploding backward through time, I think this is real. But I also think they love me.
Chris kissed the back of my ear, whispering, "We're going to help you find your best path, forward and backward. I swear. We're with you all the way."
Tate said, "Me too!" from a couple feet away.
My Garden before the Fall.
