The Decaying Dream of America: I Assemble Corpses and Confront Madness

Chapter 127 Brainwave Frenzy: The Struggle of a Trapped Beast and the Predator's Gaze

The coldness of the stainless steel operating table felt like thousands of tiny steel needles piercing the skin on my back.

Lin Zheng could hear his heart pounding in his chest, like some mechanical clock on the verge of collapse trying to keep going.

The cochlea is filled with digitally generated low-frequency resonances, a sound that researchers call "background white noise."

My nasal cavity was filled with the smell of excessive ozone, which was from high-frequency electronic instruments running at full speed indoors.

His eyelids were heavy from the large doses of ketamine and midazolam, but in the darkness of his half-awake state, he still tried to catch every signal from the outside world.

The metal needle of the intravenous syringe was inserted into the back of his left hand, and a slightly cool mixture of saline and anesthetic was slowly and steadily climbing up his shoulder along the vein.

This is a secret laboratory located on the third basement level of Emerald Dream City. There is no natural light here, only cold-toned monitoring lights flickering in an extremely oppressive silence.

According to underground records of the Federal Drug Administration, this secretly funded "Utopia" project was an illegal study aimed at altering the underlying cognitive model of humans through neural intervention.

Lin Zheng felt a tearing sensation in his consciousness.

His mind was being taken over by some kind of forced script, a series of false images about success, wealth, and unhindered personal growth.

The blue light from the screen shines through the closed eyelids onto the retina, creating a colorful void.

In the projection of "Utopia," he saw himself commanding the world in the most high-end office building, witnessing the extravagance and stability of the so-called upper-class life that he had never experienced before.

These images accurately capture the most hidden greed and insecurity in the hearts of ordinary people, attempting to replace them as the sole coordinates of personality.

However, due to his long-term heavy physical labor at the dock and assembly area, Lin Zheng's nervous system developed a physiological aversion to these soft and languid fantasies.

His muscles experienced a slight spasm due to inertia.

He recalled his calloused fingers and the sheer weight of carrying seawater-soaked sacks on the damp dock.

The immense pressure of reality that almost made him unable to straighten his back became the last brick in his defense of his mental fortress.

Lin Zheng began to count repeatedly in his mind.

First, the number of cracks in the operating room ceiling.

Second, there's the rusty taste left in the throat after this cheap disinfectant evaporates.

His consciousness was like a laborer desperately patching up the holes behind a constantly collapsing false wall, while the attack from the other side was an endless stream of blissful waves carrying electromagnetic signals.

In this extreme confrontation, he felt a throbbing pain deep in his skull, like a drill being churning, as if the prefrontal cortex was trying to maintain logical coherence.

"Vital signs are stable, systolic blood pressure is 110, and heart rate is maintained at 65."

Inside the main control room, a technician in a dark blue cleanroom suit stared at the fluctuating physiological parameters on the screen, his voice devoid of any inflection.

Before him, a huge three-dimensional simulated electroencephalogram was slowly rotating on the screen; it was a projection of Lin Zheng's brain on the electronic level.

Professor Finch stood at the very front of the control panel, his hands resting on the edge of the worktable, his upper body leaning slightly forward.

His shirt collar was somewhat worn, a result of not changing his clothes for forty-eight hours, but his back was as straight as a steel ruler.

The laboratory cost a staggering twenty million dollars in the assessment report at the time, and every screw embodies this arrogance of physically dissecting the human spirit.

Professor Finch stared at a sudden, extremely high-frequency spike on the screen. It was an anomaly that had sprung up from the ground in a slow-wave forest that represented "obedience" and "peace".

"Interesting," Professor Finch's voice was soft, yet carried a chilling scrutiny. "A mouse nailed to an autopsy table, still pondering which brand of cheese to eat tomorrow?"

His words were clearly transmitted to each assistant through the intercom.

From the professor's perspective, the experimental subject Lin Zheng is not just a data point; he represents the most stubborn and unprogrammable variables in the human genome.

His approach of using "struggle narratives" to counter profound suggestions completely overturned the professor's previous predictions published in the Annual Review of Behavioralism.

The neurons representing "subjectivity" flashed wildly on the screen, their light almost setting the entire brain scan ablaze.

The professor noticed that it was not random resistance, but a defensive array based on a specific logic.

"Increase the wave current power, boosting the 'sense of belonging' infusion power of the fifth frequency by 15%."

Professor Finch's fingers moved rapidly across the touch panel, like a sophisticated, emotionless algorithmic computer.

He was located at the top-level technology center in New Arkham District of Emerald Dream City, a place where the most cutting-edge cognitive neurotechnology was gathered, providing invisible technical support for the so-called "elite solidification".

At this moment, in this dark room deep underground, this originally noble technology is revealing its most vulgar side: peeling away flesh.

The cooling system on the top of the laboratory emitted a heavy hum, and a large amount of coolant flowed rapidly through the stainless steel pipes. The sound of the water flow reminded Lin Zheng of stagnant water in the sewers.

Lin Zheng's body began to tremble violently within the restraints due to the electric current. He clenched his teeth and tasted a faint metallic taste of blood on his tongue.

In this agony that could tear the soul to shreds, he grasped at something extremely small—the warmth of the bowl of soup left by Imam Abdul.

That wasn't some lofty divine revelation; it was simply a genuine warmth from the mutual help among the living.

The warmth seemed so insignificant under the onslaught of electronic signals, yet it was like an iron nail, firmly embedded deep within his subconscious.

No matter how Professor Finch tries to blur the line between reality and fiction through algorithms, as long as he is alive, this fervor will not be erased by logic.

"Warning: Abnormal fluctuations in the blood oxygen content of the subject's brain, and the rationality index has dropped to the critical point."

A monitor's voice trembled slightly.

Professor Finch ignored his assistant's fear and instead revealed a fanatical smile, almost like that of a dissection maniac.

"Look, this is the real reaction of that damned so-called willpower under microcurrent."

He typed a complex series of intervention codes on the keyboard, attempting to forcefully execute a "clear command" directly at the hippocampal level.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Ava Sterling was in the basement of an ordinary-looking Victorian villa, staring at the flickering interference signals.

This signal was detected by her team through a faint leak from the public power grid.

"That's him," Ava said with an unusual urgency. "That signal frequency only occurs when faced with forced brainwashing that causes a mental breakdown."

The line graph on the screen looked like a frantically beating, nearly broken electrocardiogram.

The equipment around Ava emitted a low warning sound, indicating that a sudden power surge at Finch Labs had caused regional voltage instability.

"He's about to collapse. That old madman, the professor, is using violent methods to reboot his subconscious."

Another young analyst next to Ava gritted his teeth, the soldering iron in his hand trembling slightly with tension.

In this cold, capitalist city, the truth is often buried deep beneath the ruins of financial statements and patent documents.

What Lin Zheng was experiencing at this moment was the physical elimination of all impurities by the entire system in order to maintain its own purity.

“He’s not just an experiment,” Ava stared at the chaotic EEG, her fingertips turning white from the pressure. “He’s the only sample in this decaying dream that hasn’t been completely bleached yet.”

The lights in the lab flickered again, a sign that the system was about to start at maximum power.

Professor Finch personally went to the operating table and observed Lin Zheng's face up close, watching the facial muscles twitching in pain.

He saw that although Lin Zheng's eyes were tightly closed, there was an extremely violent and uncontrollable movement under his eyelids.

"I want to know, what exactly is supporting this pointless resistance of yours?"

The professor's voice was very soft, carrying a viscous, serpentine quality in the quiet laboratory.

He didn't care about Lin Zheng's dignity or pain; he only cared about the set of data that puzzled him.

In his view, this young man from a poor background with no academic background should have been reduced to ashes in the first round of "cognitive whitening".

"I will personally intervene."

Professor Finch put on a sensor helmet with a built-in brain-computer interface; its dark shell reflected a cold, hard luster.

On the control panel behind him, a new monitoring window opened, indicating that a fierce collision was about to occur between two different brainwave frequencies.

This is not just a confrontation between two individuals; it is the final hand-to-hand battle between the maintainers of the ruling order and the trampled upon, on a stainless steel bed.

Outside the laboratory, the scene symbolizing the prosperous American Dream continues to maintain its false harmony in indifference.

The silhouette of each skyscraper is like a tombstone, overlooking this desperate struggle taking place in the depths of darkness.

Due to the side effects of the powerful sedative, Lin Zheng felt as thirsty as if he had been walking in the desert for days, but his consciousness, which had been worn down to the limit, showed an astonishing toughness at this moment.

This hardness comes from years of experience living in the slums of Emerald Dream City, from the stubbornness of waiting an entire morning in the cold wind for half a loaf of black bread.

Every real soul, regarded by society as "fuel," emits a mournful cry when it is fully ignited.

In the darkness deep within his consciousness, Lin Zheng found his non-existent "scalpel".

That wasn't some kind of superpower, but rather the precision and ruthlessness he had honed over many years of dealing with abandoned tissues in slaughterhouses and medical school waste warehouses.

He internally deconstructed every audio signal about "happiness" that Professor Finch had instilled in him.

In his eyes, a "respectable profession" is nothing more than a tie stained with blood.

In his eyes, the so-called "perfect family" is a vestige of mutual exploitation and a mere pursuit of welfare vouchers.

He used the dirty, stinking truths he had witnessed firsthand to fight against these sophisticated lies wrapped in electromagnetic signals.

The alarm in the control room suddenly became shrill, and the red signal lights made each experimenter's face look like a demon.

"Warning! Feedback impact detected on the main controller; logical deadlock has occurred in the brain-computer interface data!"

A muffled electronic crack came from Professor Finch's helmet, and he staggered back a few steps, pressing his palms tightly to his temples.

It was a kind of malice from Lin Zheng's spiritual world, a primal and desperate retaliation after being oppressed and deprived for a long time.

This despair is not beautiful; it is filled with the smell of sewers, the fumes of garbage incinerators, and the dull pain of a worker's broken finger.

It was like a muddy torrent that instantly destroyed Professor Finch's meticulously constructed and pristine array of "utopian" logic.

"Madman—" Professor Finch exhaled a breath of stale air, his forehead covered in beads of sweat.

He looked at Lin Zheng's EEG and saw that the spike had not only not disappeared, but had evolved into a continuous shock similar to a thunderstorm.

This means that Lin Zheng is no longer just on the defensive; he is using the opponent's mental intervention as a conductor to unleash all the resentment he has accumulated in his heart for more than 20 years.

The temperature sensor in the laboratory triggered an alarm due to abnormal current, and the air was filled with the pungent smell of burnt insulation.

"Professor, we must disconnect, or it will cause permanent neurological damage!" the assistant screamed.

"No," Professor Finch pushed away his assistant's hand, his eyes revealing a near-destructive obsession. "Increase the output, activate the destruction mode. I'd rather have a brain-dead sample than accept a failed experiment."

At that moment, this self-proclaimed guardian of elite civilization finally tore off his mask completely.

Beneath that veneer of rationality, order, and academic brilliance lies the purest and most ruthless desire for domination.

What he wants is not a better humanity, but a group of physical consumables that can spontaneously produce "output" under absolute control and specific instructions.

Each violent brainwave pulsation in Lin Zheng's brain felt like a vicious slap in the face of this hypocritical era.

Lin Zheng felt death approaching.

The feeling was like spontaneous respiratory depression in the lungs caused by anesthesia, and it felt like a piece of scrap steel weighing several hundred kilograms was pressing on my chest.

His heartbeat began to slow down, an emergency energy-saving mode activated by his body to protect the core neurons.

But at that very moment, the spark of genuine interaction that had been ignited deep within his consciousness by the Imam Abdul was completely ignited by this extreme oppression.

This spark needs no external explanation; it is a kind of secret connection shared by all those struggling in the dark side of America.

Ava received this final data spike on the other side of the city, and tears welled up in her eyes.

"He's not dead yet; he's calling for help, calling for help with every suffering cell in his body."