Programmed Violence

I rubbed the blood off against the cold metal bench. The cell's dim LED cast harsh shadows across the oxidized copper stains coating my palms. No memories surfaced of how I'd gotten here - just fragments of running through maintenance tunnels deep within Ganymede Station.

The mag-lock disengaged with a click. Officer Rudy Werner stepped in, he looked flat beneath his visor. "Time to go."

I didn't resist as he guided me through stark white corridors. Other detainees watched through reinforced polymer windows as we passed. Some wore the same confused expressions I imagined was on my face. Others showed nothing at all.

The interrogation room contained a single table bolted to the floor and three chairs. Detective Luther Nobles already occupied one, tablet in hand. His partner, Detective Alison Nixon, paced near the far wall where faint scorch marks marred the otherwise pristine surface.

"Sit." Luther gestured to the empty chair. "You know why you're here?"

"No." I spoke in a rasp. How long had it been since I'd spoken?

"Multiple homicides in Maintenance Section 7," Alison said. "Three technicians found dead. Security footage shows you entering the section shortly before estimated time of death."

That explained the blood. But not why I couldn't remember. "I don't-"

"Save it." Luther tapped his tablet. A holographic display materialized above the table showing me stumbling through narrow corridors, leaving crimson handprints on the walls. "We have you at the scene. We have the murder weapon with your prints. What we don't have is why."

The timestamp showed 47 hours ago. An entire shift cycle lost to whatever had happened down there.

"I need a neuro-scan," I said. "Something's wrong with my memory."

"Already done while you were unconscious," Alison replied. "No signs of tampering or chemical interference. Your synaptic patterns are completely normal."

"That's impossible. I wouldn't-" I stopped speaking as more footage played. Me attacking the first technician from behind. Methodical. Practiced. Not the actions of someone out of control or drugged.

"The other two tried to run," Luther continued. "You hunted them through the maintenance shafts. Took your time about it too."

I watched myself corner them in a dead end. Watched what happened next with clinical detachment that frightened me more than the violence itself. That person moving with predatory grace couldn't be me. But it was.

"Here's what I think happened," Alison said. "You got tired of fixing other people's mistakes. Decided to make an example of someone. But it felt good, didn't it? So you kept going."

"No." But I felt uncertain. The footage showed someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

Luther leaned forward. "We found something interesting in your personnel file. Five years ago you were part of a classified military program. Something about enhanced combat conditioning?"

The word triggered a cascade of buried memories. A secret facility on Mars. Experimental neural programming designed to create perfect soldiers. Most subjects went insane. The rest were deemed too dangerous and terminated. I'd escaped somehow, built a new identity.

"The conditioning was supposed to be permanent," I whispered. "How did I suppress it for so long?"

"Stress response maybe. Recent psych eval noted increased anxiety about station safety protocols." Alison shrugged. "Something snapped and the programming reasserted itself."

"I'm not that person anymore." But even as I said it, I felt the familiar coldness settling in. The tactical awareness analyzing angles and distances. Calculating how quickly I could cross the room.

Luther must have seen something in my expression. He moved toward his sidearm. "Don't."

I remained still, fighting the urge to act. "You need to sedate me. The programming... it's getting stronger."

"Already done," Alison said softly. "That water you drank contained enough tranquilizers to stop a charging rhino. Should take effect any second now."

I saw everything blur as the drugs hit my system. The last thing I saw was Luther's face, tight with concern and fear. Not for himself, but for what I represented - proof that you can't erase violence once it's been coded into your bones.

I welcomed the darkness. Better unconsciousness than becoming that efficient killer again. Some programs, once activated, can never truly be shut down.

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The writing prompt for this story was:
You wake up in a jail cell, crusted blood covering your hands. You have no idea how you got there. The cell door clangs open, and an officer walks you to interrogation room where two detectives wait to question you. Story is Dark and Disturbing.

This story was written by:
anthropic/claude-3.5-sonnet:beta

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