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

He felt himself falling into an endless void. This fall was not physical, but rather as if his soul had been uprooted from reality by a brute force and thrown into a vortex where his senses were infinitely distorted.

His senses were like a torn painting, fragmented and illogical. Sound, light, touch, smell—everything mingled into a viscous chaos, trying to overwhelm him.

A chilling, suffocating sensation gripped his throat; his body felt as if it were being torn apart, excruciating pain erupting from the depths of every cell. This was not a simple physical injury, but rather an agony of being torn apart from the very core of his being; his consciousness was on the verge of collapse under this torture.

He was surrounded by the cacophony of countless fragments of memory, like an endless tsunami crashing against his senses, trying to erase his existence entirely. These fragments were not random, but aggressive, like hungry scavengers vying to devour his self.

Images, conversations, smells—everything he once considered real—are now mixed together, rushing in in a distorted manner. They flash by so quickly, so chaotically, that it's impossible to grasp their complete meaning; one can only sense the malice lurking behind them.

Those were once joyful laughter and cheerful conversations, but in an instant they turned into a nauseating stench of blood and gore, and the beautiful memories of the past were defiled and altered.

Those were the voices and smiles of his relatives and friends, which instantly transformed into grotesque whispers. Familiar faces twisted into sources of fear, assaulting the softest part of his heart.

He struggled, trying to grasp any familiar anchor, any glimmer of reason, to resist this madness.

He tried to shout, but his voice was swallowed by the invisible maw, leaving only a dry, desperate feeling in his throat.

He tried to resist, but his hands and feet felt as heavy as lead, and he couldn't lift them. He completely lost control of his body and was at the mercy of the invisible torrent.

It was a complete sense of weightlessness, not physical, but spiritual. His "self" seemed to have been ripped from his body, floating in boundless chaos, ready to vanish completely at any moment.

His consciousness was like a candle flame in the wind, flickering precariously, on the verge of being extinguished by this raging torrent. He felt his mental defenses crumbling inch by inch, just a hair's breadth away from complete surrender.

The excruciating pain reached its peak, compressing all his senses into a single point. He was unable to think and could only passively endure it.

Then, it stopped abruptly. As if the pause button had been pressed, all the torment vanished in an instant.

All sounds, all images, all smells vanished. Only a chilling silence and utter emptiness remained.

Instead, there was a pure, boundless darkness, so dense it seemed to devour all light and hope.

Lin Zheng's consciousness stopped falling in the complete darkness. He felt a strange sense of relief, but it was replaced by a feeling of alienation.

He felt a strange sense of "landing." It wasn't his body touching the ground, but rather his soul being instantly anchored at a certain point, a temporary haven woven from fragments of consciousness.

But the ground he trod upon was not solid ground. It was a void composed of countless fragments of broken memories, each shimmering with a faint light, carrying unknown pasts, yet separated from one another, unable to be pieced together into any complete information. This was not true emptiness, but an illusion deliberately filled in.

This nothingness was not emptiness. It was filled with some heavy and oppressive invisible substance, like unseen lead mud, tightly enveloping him. Each breath felt like inhaling lead and mercury, pressing heavily on his chest, his lungs groaning under the strain, making it exceptionally difficult for him.

After the intense shock, his thoughts became sluggish and viscous, each idea like something stuck in quagmire, unable to form a complete logical chain. He tried to think, but his thoughts were always disrupted halfway by an invisible force, scattering into fragments.

He tried to recall what had happened, but his memory was like shredded film reels, impossible to piece together. Each attempt only resulted in more confusion and blankness.

I instinctively felt as if I had been violently dragged out by someone, from somewhere, and placed in a hostile and unknown space. This feeling was like a warning of imprisonment.

He looked around, and despite being in darkness, he could feel the vastness of the space. It seemed to be a huge, boundless cavity, without direction or boundaries, but it wasn't naturally formed; it was more like some kind of meticulously designed psychological prison. The darkness wasn't empty; rather, it concealed countless unsettling details.

He instinctively raised his hand, wanting to touch it, only to find that his fingers were as transparent as if they had passed straight through the nothingness around him. This sense of powerlessness sent a shiver down his spine, and a deeper fear surged into his heart, confirming that this was not a physical limitation of the real world.

He tried to concentrate his mind and draw upon that "intuition" that allowed him to see through the surface of flesh and blood and perceive its structural weaknesses. It was his extraordinary talent for survival, his profound insight into the essence of the world.

However, that talent seemed to be covered by a thick layer of mud; it was still there, but had become exceptionally obscure. He felt a powerful mental barrier standing between him and his intuition, weakening its sharpness and preventing him from clearly "seeing" the truth.

He could only vaguely sense that this void was not formed naturally, but was forcibly shaped by some powerful and evil will. It was like a counterfeit pieced together from inferior materials, every detail proclaiming disharmony, every existence carrying a false and morbid aura.

But that force was so heavy, so invisible, that it was almost imperceptible. It wasn't a physical barrier, but rather a kind of mental force field, omnipresent, penetrating deep into his consciousness, distorting his perception, and trying to completely dismantle his mental defenses.

He tried to move, but his legs felt unusually heavy, each step seeming to drain all his strength. This physical sluggishness further intensified his inner anxiety and unease.

His thinking became sluggish, and his former keen insight seemed to be suppressed deep within him, difficult to resurface. He felt that he was struggling with some powerful inhibitory force, which permeated every cell and every nerve in his body.

He vaguely remembered that he should know something, something very important, about himself, about the enemy, about this farce known as "Gundam Fighting." This vague codename, like a dying spark, reminded him of a grand and dangerous mission that had once taken place.

But he couldn't grasp those threads of memory; they were like slippery fish, always slipping through his fingers. The harder he tried to catch them, the faster they retreated, eventually disappearing into the depths of his mind.

"Where...am I?" he tried to speak, but his voice vanished into the silent space without a trace. The sound was mercilessly swallowed by the darkness, as if it had never existed.

This made him feel an unprecedented sense of loneliness and panic. This loneliness was not the loneliness of being alone, but a sense of being uprooted into nothingness, as if he had been erased from the world without any trace of his existence.

He realized that he was not only being imprisoned physically, but also mentally and physically. This was a more cunning and cruel war.

This was a pure mental battlefield, more despairing than any physical prison. Because on this battlefield, his "self" itself was the target of attack, and once he fell, there would be no hope of recovery.

He instinctively closed his eyes, hoping to dispel the invisible darkness and return to a world with light and warmth. He longed for reality, for all known common sense to ward off this strange terror.

But the darkness remained, like an eternal abyss, silently mocking his struggle.

He opened his eyes again, only to find the scene before him abruptly changed. The darkness receded like a tide, replaced by an even more bizarre reality.

A leaden sky replaced the boundless darkness. The sky hung low, heavy as if it might collapse at any moment; there was not a ray of sunlight, only a morbid stillness.

The cold buildings rise up from the ground, standing side by side, in a distorted and unnatural posture.

They are not skyscrapers, but the edge of the city made up of fragments of his memories, familiar streets and buildings that have been maliciously altered.

Familiar street scenes unfolded before his eyes, the faces of American cities he had traversed countless times during his student life. However, the former vibrancy had been stripped away, leaving only lifeless remains.

Each building carries a subtle distortion. The windows are no longer regular squares, but rather strange rhombuses or irregular polygons; the bricks and tiles that should be on the walls have become blurry images, as if they might dissolve at any moment.

The glass windows reflected a sickly leaden gray, the peeling paint revealed rusted steel bars, like a ruin abandoned for many years, yet it also carried a sense of artificiality, as if it had been carefully arranged.

The city's texture presents an old and artificial feel, as if it has been forgotten by time in some corner, or as if it has been fixed in eternal decay by some force.

There was no wind, no sound. Everything was still, like a frozen painting; even the air seemed to solidify, making it hard to breathe.

The air was filled with the peculiar smell of old books mixed with rust. He had smelled this smell before in countless assembly workshops filled with corpses and limbs; it was a unique scent of death and decay, a symbol of abandoned knowledge and corroded machinery.

Lin Zheng moved his unusually heavy legs, trying to get closer to the scene before him. He felt as if he were stepping on invisible resistance with every step, making it extremely difficult to move forward.

He wanted to touch a window by the roadside to confirm whether the illusion was real or not.

But his fingers pierced straight through the glass, as if passing through a phantom. A cold, empty feeling came from his fingertips, chilling him to the bone.

His heart skipped a beat as he realized this was not a physical entity. This space, seemingly composed of his memories, was being distorted and controlled by some external force, becoming an intricate trap.

His "intuition" began to work, like an experienced tinker inspecting a counterfeit piece cobbled together from substandard materials. That suppressed talent was now stubbornly trying to see through everything before him.

He "saw" an invisible fluctuation, like a data stream, traversing every corner of the city. These data streams were translucent, shimmering with a faint light, silently scanning and recording his every movement and micro-expression, following him like a shadow.

That fluctuation didn't belong to him; rather, it was monitoring and scanning everything about him, analyzing his mental state and psychological defenses. It was an all-pervasive digital prison, always ready to capture his weaknesses.

This indicates that this seemingly absurd yet familiar scene was meticulously constructed and monitored. It was not a passive illusion, but a living, purposeful trap, waiting for its prey to walk right into it.

It is not real, but a huge cognitive trap designed to further undermine his will and make him completely lost in the distorted reality.

He struggled to access the suppressed memories deep within his heart, trying to confirm his identity and origins. He wanted to find the person named "Lin Zheng," to reclaim his former mission and responsibilities.

But a thin mist seemed to veil the depths of his mind, blurring the crucial information. His name, his past, his allies—everything became indistinct in the fog, gradually dissolving like an ink painting.

His once-proud "dream anatomy" is now like a dulled blade, unable to cut through this fog. This discipline, originally intended to understand the essence of dreams, is now trapped in its own distorted dream.

He couldn't even remember his own name, or why he should resist. This lack of self-awareness terrified him more than any physical harm. He feared he would completely forget who he was, becoming an empty shell.

The feeling was as if a part of him had been erased by an eraser, as if the very foundation of his existence had been forcibly wiped away, as if he had been wiped out of the world by an invisible hand.

Lin Zheng's "intuition" told him that even the dream constructed by Professor Finch could not completely erase the inherent logic of his memories. All systems, no matter how complex, will always have loopholes, especially when hastily or maliciously constructed.

Within this illusory space lie exploitable "structural weaknesses." These weaknesses are not visible to the naked eye, but rather lurk in logical breaks and informational conflicts, waiting to be detected by his keen intuition.

Professor Finch—the name barely surfaced in his mind, like a blurry silhouette, a familiar yet distant enemy. He knew the name was crucial, but he couldn't immediately grasp its full meaning.

He instinctively called out the names of Arthur Morgan and Dr. Evelyn Reed, but his voices faded into the silent city without a sound. It was a futile attempt, yet it revealed his deep-seated dependence on and longing for his companions.

He felt an unprecedented loneliness and panic, like an abandoned child in a distorted world. This loneliness was different from the emptiness he had felt in the void before; it was more deceptive because everything on the surface was trying to make him believe that "this is real."

This feeling suffocated him. Being betrayed by a familiar environment is more chilling than being swallowed up by pure unfamiliarity.

He was not merely physically imprisoned. On a deeper level, his mind and memories were being hunted and altered by Professor Finch, posing a fundamental threat to his existence.

He stood on the edge of the city, looking around, searching for any detail that could prove his existence, or any opportunity for rebellion. He searched, hoping to find a sliver of truth within these false appearances.

But all he saw were distorted streetscapes, dilapidated windows, and a chilling silence under a leaden sky. The entire city was like a giant monument, commemorating his fading memories and self.

This city, built from fragments of his memories, now resembles a merciless cage, trapping him within and slowly eroding his last vestige of resistance.

Lin Zheng painstakingly pieced together his thoughts from the fragments, trying to sort out his ideas and figure out why he was there and why he had been caught up in this endless nightmare. Every bit of progress was accompanied by intense mental exhaustion.

However, a cold, invisible force, like a venomous snake, coiled deep within his consciousness. It was not an external invasion, but rather rose from the very bottom of his mind, permeating every corner.

That power planted a command in his mind, forcing him to forget his most important memories. This command, like a vicious program, was silently running, eroding the core of his cognition.

He felt a panic from the depths of his soul. It was as if he was rapidly losing something vital, the very elements that defined him as "Lin Zheng".

Those things were inextricably linked to his life, his name, and even the reasons for his rebellion. Once those were erased, he would be reduced to a mindless, living corpse.

What had he forgotten? Was it his real name, his abilities, his hatred for Professor Finch, or the person he had promised to protect? Every possible option sent a shiver down his spine.

And why did Professor Finch want him to forget? The purpose of erasing his memory must be to gain complete control, to turn him into a tool with no ability to resist.

His body trembled uncontrollably in his hazy consciousness; this trembling was an outward manifestation of extreme mental terror, a silent lament for the "dissipation of self." He felt an unprecedented despair, yet within this despair, a final spark of resistance ignited. For he knew that once he forgot, that would be true death.