EXPERIMENT 24. 2020.10.23
SUBJECT: Marcus Goldfinch
The first time he realized that something was off, Marcus was carefully inspecting a vase, making sure that it was clean. Squinting, he glanced around.
What was he even doing there?
Dull pain in his neck snapped him out of the unwelcome thoughts, just as a man walked into the hall. He was short and thin, probably sickly so, but it was hard to tell as most of his form was covered in his pale-grey scrubs. His glasses sat a little crooked on his stubby nose.
All in all, he was far from attractive. If anything, he was somewhat repulsive with the way he walked, back bent slightly, feet dragging on the ground. Just his presence was odd: Marcus felt almost as if he was suffocating, air sucked from his lungs with each step the strange man took.
But why? What was he forgetting?
"Sir." Marcus was quick to straighten his back, gaze avoiding the strangers. It felt like an action he had done many times in the past, and yet, it seemed alien to him, almost as if...
"Oh, Marcus, Marcus, didn't I tell you that you can just call me by my name?"
"I'm sorry, sir. That would be crossing the line." What was he even saying? It was as if pre-programmed words had been forced down his throat, escaping only when prompted.
"Good. It seems like you still know your place." As he walked past Marcus, suddenly it was much easier to breathe. Well, only until he suddenly stopped in his tracks.
"Marcus?"
"Yes, sir?" He barely recognized his own voice, squeaking almost as he scampered to where the man was now pointing at, bony fingers leading to an odd stain on the carpet. It was crimson, like -
"Change the carpet. Make sure no one sees you burning it."
"Yes, sir."
Again, Marcus felt as if he was dragged, his arms raising without his brain, giving it an order to do so. It felt as if someone else was controlling his own body. He tried to snap out of it: maybe he ate something strange, and he was.. hallucinating. Could that even happen?
Marcus was sure that he was not supposed to do any of this. He did not need to clean vases or greet people as if they were above him... Nor should he have rolled up the rug, making sure the stained side was on the inside. After all, he was not...
These were not his tasks. He had maids for that. That stocky brunette with round ass and the cute blonde with grey eyes, the one who almost bent down just enough to show her panties -
But where were they? How come he had not seen any of them rush to him to help?
Marcus shook his head. They were gone. He was unsure how he was suddenly so aware of that fact, but those two had ceased to exist when...
"Jonah," he muttered the name that came to his mind. It was clear, if only for a minute what that crazed man had done. Just weeks before, Marcus had found himself drowsy after having some whiskey before bed. Then again, that had been the point. However, he had never expected to wake up on an operating table with that person towering over him.
"Don't worry, it will only hurt for a minute. It's just a microchip, nothing crazy. Of course, you won't really remember it ever being in your body so.. I'm not even sure why I'm explaining it to you... Say goodbye to your mansion, rich boy."
… Marcus had to get away.
He had to call the police and send them over there, reporting the lunatic who had somehow taken over his home.
"Marcus? You still aren't done yet?" He knew.
Judged by the grin on his rat-like face, Jonah knew all too well what was going on. He seemed a little disappointed but more curious as he approached the much taller man." Well, it seems like you need me to adjust your settings again."
Marcus tried to get out of his reach, he really did: but something from inside him was not letting him do so. Dropping onto his knees, he waited pitifully.
"Let's see, this time we'll switch things up a bit. It took you four days to, ah, how should we call, wake up, I suppose? That's far too short. Maybe this will help. Don't worry, it won't hurt all that much."
Marcus Goldfinch was once a freelance millionaire who owned all he wanted and lacked nothing. But as the madman crouched by him, he felt terror creep into his mind. He struggled to move but even wiggling a finger seemed to extort too much energy: and suddenly, he was, oh, so exhausted.
He was but a slave clambering at the feet of its master, pleading for mercy.
