Fabricated Brain

The loud humming of the machine fills my ears—no, my entire brain.

After extracting the bullet from my shoulder, Dr. Ramorez had explained the welcoming ritual he had to put me through. That welcoming ritual, apparently, involved shoving me inside this damn machine—a modified PETI scanner—to analyze my brain.

His so-called troops? They're all kids.

According to him, using children as guards is the most effective strategy—because no sane adult would harm, let alone kill, a child. And even if they did, the law would punish them before anything else. The kids aren't meant to hurt anyone, just protect the entrance from strangers like me.

And Roberto? He's not just some random kid.

He's Dr. Ramorez's nephew.

The doctor had sent him to pick me up, instructing him to use his father's racing bike. In exchange, Roberto was promised a generous payment.

When I asked how he knew I would rent a motorcycle instead of a car, Dr. Ramorez simply said—

"It's my job to figure out how humans behave."

He had studied me, using intel from Dr. Lamos, analyzed my behavior, and accurately predicted what I would do next.

And now, here I am.

Inside a tube-shaped machine.

This isn't a standard PETI scanner—it's a 4D version, Ramorez had said. Unlike traditional scans, this one captures brain activity in extreme detail, mapping my neurons in 3D. It's even equipped with an AI system designed to predict my brain's past activity.

In other words—this thing isn't just scanning my brain. It's reading it.

Oh, and did I mention?

It's loud as hell.

-

Later

"So…?" I ask as I settle into a chair across from Dr. Ramorez.

He exhales, glancing at the monitor displaying what looks like a video—or maybe a digital reconstruction—of my brain scan.

"Hmm… Where should I start?" he murmurs to himself.

I wait. It's obviously rhetorical.

"You know the brain is nothing but a bunch of muscles, right?" he finally says.

I nod.

"And just like any other muscle in the human body, it can be trained and developed," he continues.

Another nod.

"So, my brain is… trained?" I ask.

Dr. Ramorez sighs.

"It is, but…" He hesitates, eyes flicking back to the monitor, brows furrowing.

"Did you know the brain contains approximately 86 billion neurons?" he says. "Neurons communicate through synapses. Each synapse operates at about 4.7 bits per second—which means, in theory, the brain has a processing capacity of roughly 1 terabyte per second."

I nod again. "I recently started learning about computers, so I follow."

He gives an approving nod, clearly relieved he doesn't have to dumb it down.

"Now, there's a myth that the average person only uses 10% of their brain's capacity," he continues. "Most scientists dismiss it. But I happen to be one of the few who believes it's actually true."

I raise an eyebrow. "And why's that?"

"Research," he replies simply. "The idea started as a myth, yes, but when we tested it, the data backed it up."

I hum in response.

"Some people—whether genetically or through deliberate training, like me—can expand their brain activity beyond the norm. I, for example, currently use 13.5% of my brain's capacity."

"And me?"

Ramorez leans forward, folding his hands together.

"You… are at 19.7%."

I blink. "Almost 20%?"

He nods.

"And that means…?"

"Your brain processes information faster than a normal person's," he says. "Your thoughts move quicker. Your reflexes are heightened. And…" He pauses. "You heal faster."

I stare at him.

The words hit me like a punch to the gut.

It explains everything.

But still—

"But my wound isn't healing now," I counter.

"Because the brain heals the body when you sleep," he corrects. "That's why humans need rest—it's when the brain shifts its focus to recovery. When you're awake, your brain is too busy handling other tasks."

"So… it can't heal my wound right now," I mutter.

He nods.

"But here's where it gets… interesting."

I narrow my eyes.

"Your brain activity is progressively expanding," he says. "And to be honest, we've never had a case like yours before."

"What do you mean?"

"There was one documented case—a man who reached 20.5% brain activity."

I frown. "And what happened to him?"

Ramorez leans back, rubbing his chin.

"His brain exploded."

I go still. "His… what?"

"His brain," Ramorez repeats. "It overheated—literally. The neurons overfired, and eventually, his skull couldn't contain the energy buildup. But he was exhibiting severe symptoms for weeks before it happened. Worrying symptoms."

"And yet I'm normal?"

"Yes," he says, intrigued. "Your brain isn't just expanding its activity—it's doing so without any signs of overheating. No strain. No failure."

I lean back in my chair, digesting this information.

"So… I'm some kind of freak," I mutter.

Ramorez shakes his head. "Not a freak. You're…" He hesitates. "Exceptional."

I cringe at the word.

I don't feel exceptional.

I feel… wrong.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Could an explosion have caused this?" I ask. "I started being like this after the helicopter accident. The explosion—I was exposed to it up close."

Ramorez tilts his head.

"It could have reactivated something, yes," he says.

I frown. "Reactivated?"

His lips press into a thin line.

"Yes. But that means—"

He stops himself.

"Means what?" I press.

Ramorez's eyes darken slightly.

"It means your brain… wasn't always like this."

Dr. Ramorez studies my face, his gaze deep and calculating.

Then, he turns back to his monitor, his expression shifting from intrigue to something more serious.

"They really did it," he murmurs under his breath.

"Did what?" I press, my patience wearing thin.

He glances at me, then smiles—a slow, almost amused smile. Like he's just uncovered buried treasure.

"You… your brain has been trained since you were very young, Sir."

I frown. "Trained?"

He nods, his eyes gleaming. "The brain's muscles have specific functions. Your brain was trained—specifically in motor function."

My stomach tightens. "They trained me?"

Dr. Ramorez leans back, arms crossed. "They didn't just train you. They altered your brain—not once, not twice, but three times."

The word lodges in my throat. "Altered—?"

"I assume you have no childhood memories?"

I shake my head. "Not just childhood. I don't remember anything before five years ago."

A flicker of surprise crosses his face. He turns back to the screen, examining my scan more closely, nodding as if something suddenly makes sense.

"And how could they have done that?" I demand. "Who are they?"

Dr. Ramorez exhales. "Altering memory function isn't impossible," he explains. "Memories can be erased, implanted, or even manipulated."

I grip the arms of my chair. "How?"

"There are a few methods," he says. "The most basic? Drugs. A person needs to keep taking them, though, for the effects to remain. Then there's hypnosis—depending on the skill of the practitioner, it can be temporary or permanent."

I clench my jaw. "And me?"

Dr. Ramorez's gaze sharpens.

"You were altered physically."

I go still.

"Physically?"

"Some of your brain's memory neurons were rewired—converted into motor function—when you were a child."

My pulse spikes. "What?!"

"And when you were about twenty years old," he continues, "they activated your inactive neurons."

I swallow hard. "And then?"

He frowns. "Then—a few years later—they erased your memory and cognitive functions again."

I grip the table, stunned.

"And then," he adds, "they put your previously inactive neurons back to sleep."

I stare at him, mouth slightly open. "What the actual fuck?!"

Ramorez gestures toward the monitor. "That's what your brain scan says."

I slump back in my chair, my head spinning.

"The explosion you experienced," he says, "may have reawakened those dormant neurons."

I blink.

"And," he adds, voice heavy with caution, "it's expanding. And I'm afraid… it cannot be stopped."

A cold chill runs down my spine.

"So… what? I'm just gonna explode one day?" I ask, half-joking, half-panicked.

"You will experience warning symptoms first," he assures me. "You won't just suddenly detonate."

I let out a dry laugh. "Well, that's comforting."

"Can it be slowed?"

He hesitates. "There is one theory… but it's not scientifically proven."

I raise an eyebrow. "Try me."

Ramorez smirks slightly. "You ever heard the saying, love makes a man a fool?"

I blink. "What?"

"Love," he repeats. "Happiness. Positive emotions. They slow brain activity. When you're in love, your brain doesn't overwork itself—it relaxes."

I stiffen.

That explains it.

That's why I felt calmer with Jennifer. Why even seeing her—just from a distance—keeps my mind from spiraling.

"Another option is meditation," he adds. "But…" He watches my face. "You're already thinking about her, aren't you?"

I exhale sharply, choosing not to answer.

Instead, I focus on another pressing issue.

"Do you know who did this to me?"

Ramorez's expression darkens slightly.

"Not exactly. But there aren't many organizations with the resources or motivation to pull off something like this."

I grit my teeth. "Then who?"

His voice lowers.

"They have no name," he says. "And I'm not even sure they exist as an organization. But there is a group of people. Powerful people. Very powerful people—spread across all nations. And they don't just observe history."

He leans in.

"They direct it."

A cold, sinking feeling settles in my gut.

"If they're unknown, how do you know about them?" I ask.

Dr. Ramorez chuckles bitterly.

"Because that's why I'm here."

I narrow my eyes.

"I'm not hiding from the law, Sir," he continues. "I am on the run, yes—but if I were just hiding, I'd choose somewhere far from this hellhole, wouldn't I?"

My jaw tightens. "So then why are you here?"

His smile fades.

"I was hired," he says simply. "To fight them."

I process his words carefully.

"You've seen how chaotic this country is, haven't you?" he adds. "This—this mess—is their doing."

Before I can respond—

A loud alarm suddenly blares through the facility.

The room is bathed in red light.

"TÍO!" (Uncle!)

Roberto's panicked voice echoes down the hall.

He appears in the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the flashing lights.

"There are armies outside!" he shouts.

Dr. Ramorez and I exchange a look.

The moment is over.

Shit just got real.