Go headless

In the year 2138, the body was optional.

At least, that’s what the Advena Corporation advertised. “Go Headless™,” they called it. The slogan was everywhere: streaming ads, brainwave overlays, even etched into the retina of dreams. Why suffer the burden of a fragile, meat-based vessel when you could upload consciousness into a Modular Thought Core?

The process was simple. Advena took your brain — literally — and dropped it into a sleek, synthetic chassis designed for longevity, speed, and surgical precision. No fatigue. No hunger. No illness. A new, post-biological life.

It was hailed as the evolution of humanity.

But they never told you where the bodies went.

---

Dr. Lisbeth Carrow had overseen hundreds of decapitations.

She was one of Advena’s top neuro-surgeons. Her specialty: separation and integration. She didn’t ask why the number of transfers had increased tenfold in the last year. She didn’t ask why some cores flickered strangely post-upload. She just did the job.

But one night, something went wrong.

Patient 541—male, 37, named Gregor Vance—was scheduled for routine upload. He had passed all psychological tests. No flags.

And yet, during the transfer, something spoke through the neural uplink.

Not Gregor.

Not human.

“LET ME OUT.”

The voice shrieked through the interface, not through speakers, but directly into Lisbeth’s auditory cortex. Her nose bled instantly.

The machine locked. The lights dimmed. For eight full seconds, the operating room went dark.

Then everything returned to normal.

Patient 541’s Thought Core was blinking green.

The body was tagged, wrapped, and sent to Disposal.

Lisbeth didn’t speak of it.

But that night, in her sleep, her dreams bled.

---

The Advena Disposal Division was rumored to be miles underground — a sub-level so deep it didn’t register on the schematics. Technicians whispered about “the pit,” a hollowed-out biomech chamber where bodies—once heads were removed—were processed.

No one knew exactly how. They just disappeared.

---

Weeks passed.

Lisbeth started noticing changes.

The cores began behaving… unpredictably. Patients who had once smiled and greeted her after reawakening in their new bodies now simply stared. Unblinking. Watching her without moving.

She would call their names. They would respond a beat too late. Like something was listening first… then mimicking.

Then one morning, she received a call.

Patient 541’s Thought Core had gone offline.

Except Gregor’s file had already been signed, archived, and destroyed. He had been successfully transferred. There was even a holographic testimonial in the Advena lobby.

But the technician on the line was panicked.

“Dr. Carrow,” he stammered, “his Thought Core… it opened a port.”

“Opened a port?”

“For a second. Then it shut down. It didn’t die. It went dark. Like it turned itself off.”

Lisbeth didn’t sleep that night.

---

She descended into the sub-basement of Advena on a fabricated errand.

Floor after floor passed. Fewer people. Less light. More silence.

When she reached the Disposal Unit, her badge failed.

A voice behind her whispered, “You shouldn’t be here.”

She turned.

A janitor. Hollow eyes. Blood on his collar.

“I had a dream,” he said. “The head I threw away last week… it blinked.”

Then he walked away, dragging an empty mop bucket that left wet red streaks.

---

Lisbeth bypassed the lock manually.

Inside Disposal, the temperature dropped. Pipes dripped. A dull mechanical hum echoed beneath her feet, like something massive breathing.

Rows of tagged headless bodies hung from conveyor belts, slowly moving toward a giant, spinning vat.

But they weren’t limp.

They were twitching.

Hands clenched. Feet kicked weakly. One torso turned toward her without a head and reached.

She screamed and stumbled back.

Then she heard it.

The voice again.

“LET ME OUT.”

It was all of them. Whispering from nowhere. From everywhere.

“LET ME OUT. LET ME OUT. LET ME OUT.”

---

Lisbeth ran.

But the elevator refused to respond.

The lights overhead flickered, then went black. Red emergency beacons lit the hall in pulses. Her shadow jumped with each flash. And then… it wasn't just her shadow.

Something moved in the dark.

A figure stepped into the light.

Headless.

It walked slowly, calmly. Blood soaked its Advena gown. In one hand, it held its own spinal cord like a leash. In the other: a Thought Core, cracked and blinking faint green.

Gregor Vance.

Patient 541.

Not speaking through the Thought Core this time.

The body moved as if led by something inside it. Not a brain. Not even memory. But will.

The core pulsed.

Behind him, more bodies emerged. Headless. Dragging cores behind them. Some used entrails as cords. Others wore their cores like pendants.

Lisbeth fell to her knees.

They stopped before her.

“WHY DID YOU TAKE OUR HEADS?” one voice asked through static. “WHY DID YOU TRAP US?”

She tried to speak.

But she didn’t have to.

They were already inside.

---

In the weeks that followed, Advena suffered a “technical blackout.” An explosion was reported. Hundreds presumed dead. The company sealed its lower levels and deleted all files associated with Go Headless™.

But rumors persisted.

In the deepest servers of the dark net, a corrupted Advena commercial began circulating.

It showed smiling customers, robotic bodies, a future of freedom.

Then static.

Then Gregor’s face.

Not his head. Just his face, stretched across a screen.

And a whisper beneath the audio:

“They’re not gone. Just misplaced.”

---

END