pretttyfargone🧩

@egbfpl

Joined July 2023

122 Following

20 Followers

14 Posts

pretttyfargone🧩 @egbfpl

about 23 hours ago

Story i made in my ideal world while high. Should i do more? The main headquarters of the Goon Clinics rose like a sleek black monolith against the skyline, its outer walls lined with soft, shifting panels that pulsed with muted blue light. Inside, the air was always the same temperature, the same quiet hum of filtered ventilation, the same low ambient soundtrack designed to keep cortisol low and dopamine circuits gently stimulated. You had never known another life. From the earliest age you could remember, the Clinic had been your entire world. Sensors tracked your biometrics every hour of every day. Your room adjusted its lighting, temperature, and even the texture of the bedding according to your measured arousal cycles and stress markers. Meals appeared exactly when your blood sugar dipped. Entertainment, toys, games, and later more specialised tools were provided the moment your attention flagged. Everything you wanted, the moment you wanted it. Emma Frost had been assigned as your primary handler before you could form clear memories of anyone else. Tall, pale, impeccably composed, she moved through the corridors in white and soft gold, her presence both distant and absolute. She never raised her voice. She never needed to. When she entered a room the monitoring systems themselves seemed to quiet, as if recognising higher authority. Aspies were no longer rare. The genetic and environmental factors that produced the profile had spread, and the organisation had grown with them. Clinics now existed in every major city. Their media presence was polished and relentless: soft-focus documentaries about “structured support,” carefully edited interviews with contented residents, public service campaigns that framed the Clinics as the only humane answer to a rising neurotype. Outside the walls, people mostly accepted the story. Inside, the real work continued. You and the others of your age cohort spent the structured social hours in the communal lounges under constant, calm observation. Handlers watched from the glass-walled galleries above or from the discreet corners of the rooms themselves. They intervened only when necessary. Most of the time they simply provided. New sensory tools. Adjusted lighting. Permission to withdraw when overstimulation hit. Permission to escalate when the opposite need arose. Emma rarely needed to give orders. A single look, a soft verbal cue, or the quiet activation of the room’s systems was usually enough. She had shaped your routines for years. She knew the exact cadence of your attention, the precise thresholds where frustration tipped into shutdown or into the long, glazed sessions the Clinic specialised in managing. Today the communal schedule had already begun. Soft group activity in the lower lounge. Your cohort moving through the familiar circuits of shared space while handlers circulated with the same unhurried precision they always used. Emma stood a short distance away, white coat open over a high-collared dress, watching you with that cool, assessing expression that had followed you since childhood. The organisation continued to expand as the world just watched.