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Ziva

The hum of the NeuroMods fills the facility, a constant, droning presence. Cold air wraps around me, steeped in clinical detachment and the metallic tang of machinery.

At my workstation, I run a routine diagnostic on the NeuroMod, watching its small screen flicker with data.

The beeps, the readouts, the movements of my hands—it’s all second nature now.

There’s comfort in the routine, but also a suffocating predictability.

I imagine smashing the wrist device against the wall, watching it explode into sparks and shards.

But that’s just a fantasy. For now.

A burst of awkward laughter slices through the monotony of the workroom. I glance over—Anders, one of the senior Technicians, holds a printout, likely one of the so-called “humor bulletins” our supervisors distribute at the behest of the Harmonization Authority.

“Did you hear the one about the NeuroMod and the mood chip?” he calls, voice flat beneath forced enthusiasm. “It’s a real shocker.”

His laughter is mechanical, a hollow mimicry of joy. I catch a flicker of despair in his eyes, just before it vanishes behind a familiar, medicated glaze—his NeuroMod no doubt pumping him full of emotional suppressants.

The woman nearest Anders looks calm, but her hands tremble slightly, her jaw clenched tight as if suppressing a reaction.

My stomach knots, an instinctive response to the absurdity—as if my body knows how wrong this all is. No one laughs. Here, silence weighs more than words. The air itself seems to crush any attempt at genuine interaction.

The NeuroMods represent control, conformity, a life without the messy complications of real emotions. A life without the violence that unbridled emotions can cause. At least, that’s what they tell us.

I can almost see the thought bubbles forming over my colleagues’ heads: Do I need to laugh? Will someone report me if I don’t?

I return my focus to the NeuroMod, my hands moving with dull efficiency.

The joke wasn’t funny—but that’s not the point.

The point is, we’re expected to laugh. We’re expected to respond on cue, display the right reactions at the right times.

It’s all so painfully obvious. The Authority scripts our lives, our feelings.

I absolutely fucking hate it.

Images of my parents flicker in my mind—my mother’s laughter echoing in our small apartment, my father’s protective embrace. Fleeting, raw moments of emotion that felt like warmth on the coldest days. So different from the icy numbness of now.

A deep ache blooms in my chest, grief heavy and solid, like I’m carrying their absence with every breath. I dare not voice it—grief is just another feeling to be corrected.

My NeuroMod vibrates, registering the spike in emotion. I draw a deep, steadying breath.

Anders shrugs and returns to his work, the printout already crumpled and discarded. I try to follow suit, stealing a glance at the wall clock. Two more hours of this shift, then I can retreat to my apartment and tinker with the salvaged NeuroMod.

Maybe tonight I’ll make a breakthrough. Maybe I’ll find a way to bring back what they took.

Or maybe it’s just another empty hope.

I sigh and close my eyes, letting the harsh overhead lights bleed through my lids. When I open them, the world looks even more washed out—drained of color, of life.

I wonder what this place looks like to someone who believes in the Authority’s vision. Do they see order where I see desolation?

I don’t know how much longer I can keep going through the motions without dying inside.

I turn back to my work and adjust the NeuroMod’s settings. The cool metal feels foreign against my skin—a constant reminder of its invasive presence.

The soft whir of machinery surrounds us, blending with the rhythmic beeps that mark another life dulled into submission. My jaw tightens with each adjustment, a quiet tug-of-war between duty and the longing for something more.

Neurotransmitter levels. Emotional outputs. Brainwave patterns. All must fall within acceptable parameters, per the Authority’s strict regulations.

A woman enters the workroom, her movements stiff and mechanical. She sits across from me, eyes dull, lifeless. I attach cords to the NeuroMod at her wrist and to her temple—electrodes clicking softly as they adhere to her skin.

“State your designation,” I say, my voice flat and monotonous, just like I was trained.

“Citizen 47299,” she responds, her tone equally devoid of inflection as she brushes a strand of golden hair away from the electrodes at her temple.

I nod and enter her ID into the Sentinel database. The screen flashes red—heightened emotional activity. I adjust the settings, dampening her feelings and replacing them with a curated mix of synthetic emotion.

The woman’s sun-warmed face remains blank as I finish the calibration. She stands, thanks me in a flat voice, and walks out with measured, mechanical steps.

I watch her go, something unnamed tugging at my chest.

I lean back from the console, my long brown hair falling over one shoulder, posture straight. Perfect. Just like they taught us—efficiency and conformity, the twin pillars of our society.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Emerson, status report.” The voice of my supervisor crackles through the comm at my workstation, stern and demanding.

“Citizen 47299’s NeuroMod recalibration is complete, ma’am. Neurotransmitters normalized, irrational impulses suppressed. Ready for re-entry.” The words flow out automatically, coldly, as if spoken by the machine itself rather than a living, thinking human.

“Good. The Authority expects nothing less than perfect efficiency from its citizen’s.”

“Understood, ma’am.” I keep my eyes on the Sentinel programming console, another successful realignment, another glowing data point on my record of flawless service to the cause of artificial harmony and peace. My supervisor’s presence retreats, and I allow myself a small sigh of relief.

Around me, the other Technicians work with the same practiced efficiency, faces blank—obedient masks.

The room hums with machinery and the soft beeping of NeuroMods in recalibration. No one speaks unless absolutely necessary—not even the citizens. And when they do, it’s clipped, precise, drained of anything real.

I turn back to my workstation, my mind churning with forbidden thoughts.

NeuroMods are supposed to keep us safe—protect us from chaos, from emotional volatility.

But at what cost?

Are we alive… or just drones, drifting through a life stripped of meaning?

I inhale for four. Exhale for five.

“Next,” I call out, voice crisp and professional.

A middle-aged woman with slightly graying hair shuffles forward, eyes downcast. She settles into the chair, and I attach the sensors to her device and temples with efficiency.

“Please state your designation,” I recite, the familiar words rolling off my tongue.

“Citizen 38290,” she murmurs.

I nod, entering the identification number into the system. “And how would you rate your mood today, on a scale of one to ten?”

Citizen 38290 hesitates. “Um…a six, I suppose.”

My eyebrows raise a fraction. Anything above a five is cause for an immediate reprogramming session. “I see. And what’s troubling you today?”

“Nothing in particular,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “Just…life, I guess.”

Forcing a reassuring smile, I initiate the emotional dampening sequence, praying that the Sentinel system doesn’t flag her heightened readings. The last thing I want is a Compliance Monitor involved. “That’s okay. We’ll have you feeling nice and balanced in no time.”

As the recalibration begins its work, the women’s eyes glaze over, tension visibly draining from her body. Another successful adjustment. Another citizen rendered blissfully numb.

Recalibration days are the worst. I’d rather spend the time fixing NeuroMods than suppressing someone’s humanity.

But this is my job.

I try to ignore the twist in my gut—the voice inside me screaming that this is wrong.

“How do you feel now?” I ask as the sequence ends.

“Fine,” she replies, her voice flat. “Everything is fine.”

Of course it is. It always is.

As she leaves, I fight the urge to sigh.

Is this it? Just an endless stream of empty shells—stripped of everything that makes us human?

Did the Authority really fix us?

Or just hollow us out?

Twenty years ago though, the world was a different place. Or so the older generation claims. The Harmonization Authority came into power with a promise to eliminate the chaos and pain that unchecked emotions brought. To restore order to a society that was out of control.

People resisted, at first. They fought to keep their emotional freedom, refused to trade their pain for manufactured calm.

But the Authority was relentless. Uprisings were crushed. Dissenters reeducated. Step by step, they brought the population into line.

That’s the official history, anyway.

The version they drill into us in mandatory Harmonization Classes. The version I pretend to believe to keep my job. My apartment. My life.

In reality, the NeuroMods have taken more than they’ve given. They’ve stripped us of our passion, our joy, even our sorrow. We’ve become a society of emotional zombies, going through the motions of a life that’s been pre-scripted for us.

I risk a glance at my co-worker, Lena, her auburn hair pulled back in a tight bun, her eyes focused on the NeuroMod in her hands.

We’ve worked side by side for years, but I’ve never seen her smile or heard her laugh.

It’s as if all the color and vibrancy has been drained from her, leaving behind a hollow shell.

“Ziva, have you completed the recalibration on the latest batch of citizen’s?” she asks when she notices me staring, her voice flat and emotionless like always.

Nodding, I force myself to hold her gaze. “Yes, they’ve been recalibrated accordingly.”