Chapter 42: The Fall Harvest Riot at Memory Farms

As the clone's silver hair burned in the wheat field, the combine was crushing the weeping memories into canned powder.

"Emotional wheat number 48 is 92.7% mature!" The overseer's mechanical tongue popped out a hygrometer, "This batch is for the production of President's Special Whiskey..."

Rule #242: All Emotions must be standardized for harvesting.Luna's fingertips were stuck with an infusion tube, and the golden memory liquid was being pumped into the giant fermentation tank. The sky over the farm is a curved screen, looping a falsified idyll - the clones are singing nursery rhymes about harvesting wheat, while in reality they are plucking out their hippocampi with ribbed scythes.

"I want to redeem the sunset of September 8, 2003." Luna ripped open her chest to reveal her throbbing emotional center, "Pledged with all my future fears."

The overseer suddenly inserted the electrodes of the polygraph into her amygdala. The holographic projection exploded: the eight-year-old huddled in a convenience store warehouse, watching her mother stick a syringe into her occipital lobe. The liquid was not a potion, but diluted presidential semen. Even deadlier was the corner of the screen - the eyes of the teddy bear on the shelf flashed red, transmitting surveillance data in real time.

"Rule 243 addendum!" The Supervisor's robotic arm popped out a laser scythe, "Primary memories are subject to a 700% soul wear fee."

The wheat field suddenly collapsed, revealing an underground memory processing plant. On the assembly line, countless brains were soaked in whiskey barrels to ferment, and the clones used iris straws to extract the essence of their emotions.Luna's retinal scan showed that each barrel label corresponded to a certain period of her life: the memory of her first love was labeled as "Sour, need to be blended", and the thrill of fratricide was labeled as "Highly pure, limited edition".

"You think you're a farmer?" The overseer ripped open his scalp to reveal the biochip, "You're just the most expensive seed..." He tapped the twitching clone, "... These are the mass-produced harvesters."

Riots erupted in waves of wheat.

As the first clone stabbed its ribbed scythe into its temple, splatters of brain matter formed defiant slogans in the air. The other clones began to devour the memory whelps, their pupils turning into data vortexes that rewrote the forged idylls into riot code.Luna's IV suddenly reversed its flow, and the golden memetic primordial poured back into her heart, searing out the hidden genetic code.

"Rule 244!" She pushed the fermentation vat into the shredder, "When emotion becomes a crop, burn the farm to the ground."

The Supervisor's mechanical tongue suddenly fissioned into a harvesting gun and swept the rioting clones. Instead of dying, the shot ones began to grow rapidly - their silver hair turned into wheat awns, their knuckles forked into ears of wheat, and they blossomed into new memory plants in pools of blood. The most horrifying was a memory tree full of eyeball fruit, each eyeball playing a different angle of video of Luna's assault.

"Dear Sower..." The memory tree's annulus cracked open, revealing the president's holographic face, "... The more you resist, the more fruit you bear..."

Luna's chest suddenly bursts open as neural vines fly out of her emotional center to wrap around the memory tree. The moment the two made contact, she tasted the true recipe for whiskey - the despair of harvested clones, diluted patriarchal semen, and her own excised memories of pleasure.

Moonlight is bloodstained by the burning wheat fields, and Luna finds a carved skull in the ashes. A UV scan reveals it to be the remains of a certain clone, with the words

"We are the selves you dare not have." inscribed on the forehead.

In the distance, the newly opened Memory Farm lights up in neon as the Riot clones pilot their human skin harvesters. Their eyeballs project the latest advertisement:

"NEW PRE-SALE! Luna's Patricidal Memory Brew, with a million rebel genes per drop!"