Echoes of Control
A government agent stumbles upon classified MK Ultra files bearing his own handwriting—files he has no memory of writing. As he digs deeper, he realizes he might not be the investigator... but the experiment itself.
The moment I saw my own handwriting on the classified MK Ultra documents, I knew something was wrong. I had never been to that facility, yet there, in black ink, were notes signed in my name.
It started a week earlier when an unmarked envelope appeared on my desk at the agency. Inside were scattered pages—fragmented accounts of mind control experiments, chemical trials, psychic conditioning. Most of it was heavily redacted, but my name appeared too many times to ignore. My stomach twisted each time I read a note I didn’t remember writing.
I decided to visit the underground archive room, where the originals were kept. It was a forgotten place—cold, silent, buried four stories beneath the main complex. As I descended, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to unsettle me. I passed through security gates that no longer seemed concerned about who entered.
In the archive room, the files sat in dusty rows, untouched for years. I found the MK Ultra folder tucked between obsolete Cold War programs. More notes in my handwriting. More detailed observations about test subjects, about progressive loss of free will. About how even operatives could be programmed without their consent.
A chill ran through me as I pieced it together: I wasn't investigating the project. I was part of it.
Behind me, the elevator chimed. Footsteps echoed down the concrete hallway. I slipped the documents under my jacket and moved quietly toward the stairwell. As I turned the corner, I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in a cracked security mirror—and for a moment, the face staring back wasn’t entirely mine. It smiled when I didn’t.
I ran without thinking. I haven’t stopped moving since.
Somewhere deep inside me, I wonder if I’m still following my own thoughts.
Or if they’re just letting me believe I am.
It started a week earlier when an unmarked envelope appeared on my desk at the agency. Inside were scattered pages—fragmented accounts of mind control experiments, chemical trials, psychic conditioning. Most of it was heavily redacted, but my name appeared too many times to ignore. My stomach twisted each time I read a note I didn’t remember writing.
I decided to visit the underground archive room, where the originals were kept. It was a forgotten place—cold, silent, buried four stories beneath the main complex. As I descended, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to unsettle me. I passed through security gates that no longer seemed concerned about who entered.
In the archive room, the files sat in dusty rows, untouched for years. I found the MK Ultra folder tucked between obsolete Cold War programs. More notes in my handwriting. More detailed observations about test subjects, about progressive loss of free will. About how even operatives could be programmed without their consent.
A chill ran through me as I pieced it together: I wasn't investigating the project. I was part of it.
Behind me, the elevator chimed. Footsteps echoed down the concrete hallway. I slipped the documents under my jacket and moved quietly toward the stairwell. As I turned the corner, I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in a cracked security mirror—and for a moment, the face staring back wasn’t entirely mine. It smiled when I didn’t.
I ran without thinking. I haven’t stopped moving since.
Somewhere deep inside me, I wonder if I’m still following my own thoughts.
Or if they’re just letting me believe I am.
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