Trying it out

I’m about to hook myself up to a satellite dish. That doesn't seem very sci-fi… or particularly exciting in comparison.

No quantum computer. No particle collider.

A satellite dish.

The kind you get for TV. Or used to get at this point.

Yup.

A state-of-the-art, multimillion-dollar facility—one of the most advanced research hubs in the country, supposedly locked down with strict security protocols. And here I am, completely unsupervised, about to commit what can only be described as scientific heresy.

So how did I even end up here?

Simple. HR likes me. I do well in meetings. That’s it.

I’m not some genius. I’m not a revolutionary thinker. I’m a glorified translator—a guy who can turn "We found a weird blip in the data” into a compelling pitch for investors. I’m the bridge between the real geniuses and the people with money. That’s my job. That’s what I’m good at.

And yet, in a bold display of both hubris and desperation, I am about to perform high-tech alchemy in the name of…

I don’t even know anymore.

This is not science. This is deranged sorcery.

The setup is laughably crude.

A tangle of alligator clips, mutilated cables, and highly questionable decision-making skills. If a real engineer saw this, they’d either arrest me or shake my hand.

But the itch is guiding me. Again.

Telling me where to connect things, nudging me toward configurations that make no logical sense, yet feel right.

Am I following proper safety protocols? Absolutely not.

But when the itch says jump, I ask, "Off which cliff?"

I clip the last wire in place. The itch hums.

And then—something else hums with it.

A faint, subtle warmth against my skull.

My implant.

A lingering souvenir from a younger, dumber me who thought selling his brain to science was a clever way to pay rent.

Yes, I have a neural implant. Conveniently forgot to mention that, huh? Figures. I only started this whole narration habit after getting it. Maybe that says something. Maybe it’s recording. Maybe I’m just talking to myself to feel less alone.

Anyway—story time.

Once upon a time, a suddenly orphaned med school dropout needed cash. Who’s got cash? Insane billionaires with god complexes and a fetish for wiring people’s skulls. I was in my early twenties, broke, spiraling, and out of viable life choices. So I signed up for a clinical trial.

Boom. Instant money. And a permanent piece of hardware in my head.

In return? “Real-time language comprehension and translation aid,” according to the brochure. AI-driven, naturally. Buzzwords sell. The procedure wasn’t even that bad—just a couple of incisions and a waiver thick enough to kill a rat.

But it’s not magic. Not even close.

It helps, sure, but it doesn’t make me fluent. It translates speech and provides meaning, but you still have to do the work. It’s like having subtitles for real life—useful, but not a cheat code. You miss things. Sarcasm. Idioms. Subtle cues. Someone makes a joke? Good luck to me.

It builds a language model over time, passively absorbing phrases and structure. If I engage with it, I learn faster than normal. If I don’t, I’m just a tourist with a whispering guide in my head. Every seven years it needs a battery replacement. Totally normal and not ominous at all.

There’s a feature I’ve never used—Active Mode.

Didn’t have a reason to. Everything in my world was English. “Active Mode” was just another buzzword. Supposedly, it goes beyond translation—starts predicting, filling in blanks, shaping sentences based on accumulated understanding. Like predictive text, but for speech. The AI uses context to help you form replies, not just comprehend them.

That’s the idea, anyway.

I never tried it. Honestly, I never thought I’d need to.

Still—it's not the worst implant to have. I could watch foreign films without subtitles. Eavesdrop on tourists talking trash. And if I actually committed, I could pick up new languages fast. Most days, I forgot it was even there.

But today?

Today I’m about to see what happens when I plug whatever this is—this itch, this static, this presence—into my brain.

And I keep wondering… why this implant?

Why did the itch fixate on it? On me?

Maybe the link isn’t technical. Maybe it’s psychological. Maybe only someone dumb enough to volunteer for brain surgery would be dumb enough to hear the itch in the first place.

###

Honestly, for what I’m doing here, they should revoke my degree.

Not that I was a valedictorian or anything—so the fact that I even have one means I should really visit more casinos with that kind of luck.

Alright. The quantum consciousness experiment is good to go.

All that’s left is to sit on this uncomfortable stool, hook up the last two cables, and try not to electrocute myself.

I exhale. Roll my shoulders.

I’m about to run an experiment based on hunches, gut feelings, and an itch that has yet to lead me completely astray. What’s the worst that could happen?

I click the final connectors into place.

…Huh.

Nothing happens.

No lights flickering ominously, no dramatic hum of power building up, no instant enlightenment revealing the secrets of the universe. Just… silence.

Which, honestly, is probably good news considering I just wired up a brain-interface device to a machine built on barely-tested theories.

But there’s… something.

Not the usual itch—the one that’s been nudging me toward impossible ideas. No, this is different. A buzz.

Faint. Constant. Like the hum of a power line, pressing against the edges of my mind.

Okay. Maybe that’s normal? Hook up a bunch of wires to your skull, and maybe your neurons notice. A placebo effect, some harmless electromagnetic interference. Sure.

Then it pulses.

Not painful—just there. Rhythmic, like an electric toothbrush rattling through my jaw.

I glance at the monitors.

Flat readings.

The numbers are holding steady, nothing unusual. No jumps in brain activity, no spikes in energy output, nothing that screams "Congratulations, you just broke the laws of physics!"

This is a waste of time.

I sigh. "Alright, let’s shut this down before—"

The pulse sharpens.

I freeze.

A sharp pressure wraps around my skull—not physical, but real, like something tightening in the empty space of my mind.

My breath catches.

The screen flickers.

Numbers spike.

Warnings flash across the monitors—neural feedback loop detected—unusual energy signature detected—system overload—

It can detect that! What?

The buzz turns into a roar inside my head.

I reach for the wires—

The lab fractures.

The air compresses around me, folding, collapsing. The walls buckle like a mirage, colors bleeding into each other.

I yank the cables—hard—

Bad move.

The buzzing surges into a full-body tremor. The pressure turns to heat. My limbs feel distant, stretched—unraveling.

My vision tilts. No—my body tilts. No—everything tilts. Should my foot go that way?!

Something breaks.

Like glass shattering in reverse—fragments reforming into something unfamiliar.

The air is ripping apart. Air?!

A blinding pulse—white-hot, searing—

Then—

I fall.

Not onto the floor.

Not anywhere.

Through something.

Through reality or something.

And for the first time in my life, I know exactly what it feels like to be spaghetti..

Then—

Nothing.