Fallout: Fury Blood

Chaptee 137: M7-97

Nebulous shadows vying for a victim. The soundless feel of a scream in the air. The shape of pain stretching to surface.

Her scream, his pain.

The jagged bonds bruised, the jagged smile sliced.

Her pain, his scream.

Nightmares kinetic like lovers in the dark, caressing claws and bitten territory. Nubile monsters captive in throes, they danced to the primal music deep in the body. Love like torture, the pain and pleasure that snagged on rhythm and collision,

A lethal visage stained the memory like watercolors, paling and muting on awakening.

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M7-97 was reconstructed, healed, repaved, like the shiny new toy he was. The viscous liquid nourishing his trauma-laced dreams was red like blood, scrubbing and scouring him sterile, growing and melting his newly repaired flesh to his bones. Skin was porous and mobile, absorbing the liquid readily, drinking in the nutrients to his cells. Mechanical limbs and scientist scalpels poked and prodded his newly minted skin and muscle tissue, taking samples and testing pain thresholds. When he winced or flinched, they remarked and murmured in curiosity, marvelling at the newborn product at their disposal. Their success was bitter to his ears.

"His pain tolerance is exceptional."

"And the cell turnover rate. I've never seen the likes of it before. Look at the way his tissue reacts, the blood is clotting at an unprecedented rate."

"Marvellous, isn't he?"

But his memories remained intact; they wanted them to accumulate, to manifest a profile of trauma for their methods of madness.

The synth they had forced him to bond with in a small waiting cell had been ordered to destroy him. Piece by piece. Then itself. All to test his psychological capacity for betrayal, hurt, grief, sorrow, hate.

In his dreams, it was Kelly.

She had been unrelenting, psychotic, torturing him for hours before turning the blade on herself. One decisive slash across her throat, and her body convulsed until the blood drained out.

The torment solidified itself to the rear recesses of his psyche, hiding away like a beast in chains. He rose from the red pool of creation, bare and glorious, strong and impenetrable, skin pale like a waxen sculpture, muscular definition sharp and corded, rippling like snakes under milk. The perfect specimen. But deep inside, he was cracked, and they were not pleased.

"I'm not convinced by the reaction to psychological stimulus, Dr. Binet. Though subdued, I fear it could grow out of hand. We need them to emulate emotions, not become liable to them. It was clearly distressed."

"I understand your fears, Father. I just worry that erasing too many mirror neurons from the brain could result in something irreversible, akin to severe autism or psychopathy."

"I don't see why that would pose an issue. A Courser must be unwavering if it's to perform the tasks we demand of it."

"Well, yes, but... do we really want psychopaths walking our corridors, sir?"

"Some of the most proficient pre-war spies scored high on the psychopathy spectrum, doctor. They were extraordinary individuals with predictable behaviors that could be easily conditioned into a desired mindset. Malleable weapons."

"But... psychopaths also have the tendency to fly off the handle, so to speak. A psychopathic rage can be more devastating than any neurotypical psyche triggered by emotional stimulus-"