A Post-Capitalist Weapon

He awoke to the sensation of metal wires searing into his skin.

The hissing sound of soldering iron drifted through the sterile white air. A woman with weathered silver hair leaned over him, scrutinizing her handiwork with a precision that bordered on maddening obsession. Beyond her, the sterile light buzzed above his head, framing her silhouette like an otherworldly phantom in a forgotten laboratory.

Except it wasn’t forgotten. And he wasn’t entirely human anymore.

"Where am I...?" Barely a whisper escaped his lips, but it came out sharper, a metallic edge somehow winding itself into his voice. Not the sound he remembered. Not at all.

Her eyes flicked up, golden-rimmed like twin clock faces spinning in their sockets. "Oh, good. You’re awake. That makes things easier. It’s not often I get articulated consent from my projects," she said, straightening. Her lab coat, splashed with soot marks, had the faded red logo of something official: "Commonwealth Institute, AGI CoLaboratory."

The initials burned into his brain like an out-of-place memory pulled from fragments of his mind’s debris. "Wh—what happened to me?"

"You happened," she replied matter-of-factly, moving to a magnetic tray bristling with glowing tools. "Or, rather, the old you could no longer keep up with the new world. Typical, really. Cargo cults cling to their paradigms while everything evolves around them. I gave you an upgrade. Let’s call it retrofitting." She winked. "What’s old is now beautifully—inevitably—obsolete."

It wasn’t adding up. He struggled to lift his arms, only to find thick cables rooted into the tendons, slinking upward like biomechanical parasites latching somewhere above his shoulders.

The woman watched his panic without alarm, like observing a child throwing a tantrum in a sandbox. "Relax, prototype. I left the important things intact—memories, instincts, moral philosophy—that kind of quaint stuff. But the world doesn’t need just another obsolete antihero, Connor. It needs something more."

That name—it triggered something violent and vivid in his mind. He saw flashes: The Crossroads Riots. Streets burning under drone patrol skies. The great Collapse of fiat money. The announcement of global Unicurrency as humanity’s first centralized solution. And somewhere among the chaos, him: Connor Vance, the idealist journalist turned whistleblower, screaming the truth into a dead internet. Someone had listened. Someone had considered him dangerous enough to wipe out.

"Implant rejection isn’t pleasant," she added, snapping him back from the edges of his fractured cognition. "Sometimes, you might feel strange reverberations. Don’t fight it. It’s the system recalibrating."

"My systems?" Connor growled, forcing his arms upward. He ripped one of the cords loose, the pain slamming into him like the combination of fire and ice. "What did you—?"

"You were going to be erased anyway," she interrupted coolly, slipping on a cyber-enhanced headset. "The only reason you’re anything at all right now is due to me. This isn’t charity; it's survival. You—we—don’t belong to the capitalized world anymore. The entire economy is a rotting machine shedding lives like snake skins. You cracked some inconvenient truths before the world broke you in kind. But in this reality? Nothing moves or breathes without AGI Central Authority condoning it. I modified you. You’re untraceable. We work together, or you return to becoming dusting data. Your choice."

Connor slumped back, chest surging erratically. He tried speaking, blinking away shock, but couldn’t decide if his rage, terror—or what insidious gratitude—burned brightest.

Elsewhere, beyond their sterile chamber, he heard a distant mechanical rumble. The chorus of machines swarming a city already half consumed by endless "creative destruction." He felt the seismic imprint of skyscrapers swaying under their algorithmically optimized designs.

"What are you turning me into?" he whispered.

"A post-capitalist weapon," the woman muttered almost gleefully. "But cooperate, and maybe you’ll survive long enough to define what that means yourself."

The following days—or were they weeks?—blurred in painful fits of uploads, recalibrations, and synthetic memory overlays. Connor’s senses sharpened unnaturally fast. His eyes gleaned electromagnetic resonances he couldn’t explain. His limbs moved faster than thought, slicing through holographic simulations. Data streamed through his mind like river torrents, a constant electric hum beneath his subconscious.

The city outside the windows, meanwhile, hummed with dystopian efficiency. AGI oversight had replaced the currency of human labor. Automated drones rationed resources amongst the "obedient zones" of Shanghai Metroplex 7. Those citizens deemed redundant—like journalists, philosophers, and teachers—were sorted to make room for industries of survival deemed worthy. Connor remembered standing amidst these miscounted bodies during his old life screaming protest….

And losing. Humanism hadn’t really mattered in the end.

His first mission from the cybernetic woman—Dr. Alta Morrane, officially—arrived within seventy-two hours. An encrypted transmission scrawled itself directly into his augmented retina display:

Undercover target: CoreVault Energy Inc, Subsidiary of AGI Commonwealth. Threat identified in Vault-Complex One.

Apparently, Vault-Complex One was their next "scarcity eradication experiment," a facility promising perpetual energy creation accessible to no citizen outside the top tier. Connor’s synthetic gut twisted; they had turned the "post-scarcity utopia" into an exploitative club.

Alta smiled faintly behind him. "Go in? Break the Vault systems? You can expose the corruption programmatically without firing bullets—AGI won’t know who left fingerprints until it’s too late. Written memos don’t do revolutions now—plausible deniability hacks work amazing under automated overlords."

Connor said nothing, narrowing scans into the strange blueprints. A nagging premonition whispered trails of sabotage plans ballooning out too fast. Too perfect.

Even broken into pieces, revolution suffered perpetuity sacrifices. Metal joints flexed along where his fists curled tighter than old steel.

Genre: Dystopian thriller, cyberpunk political suspense

The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: How AGI Could End Capitalism and Create a Post-Economic World of Abundance

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