Predictive Power


Minister, you are the devil.

We know about The Predicting Machine.
You spy on us and use our private info to "predict" what we'll do.
You've jailed kids for crimes the Machine says they will commit.
You've waged wars against nations the Machine says will be a threat.
You've even banished the elections, and instead, you count the votes
the Machine says we will cast.

We are not machines! You can't predict our minds!
You are replacing our free will with your will, and we shall not--
oh my god, what did you do. no no no, they're all bleeding
it hurts makeit stop makE it-hURtS stop g0d no PLEA#se?no??###
#-##i-Feel-my(?) mind… slipping#-####-##@?… ?[] ? [][][][][]


I turn off the screen, and kiss The Predicting Machine goodnight. My bodyguards look to me for orders. They crave orders. My order. Dissenters outside, I say, give them the chemical treatment. And as I look out from the balcony, I greet the mob of protestors below me with confidence and calm. Their leader, some senile old hag who no one will miss, steps forth and begins her long tirade against me.

"Minister, you are the devil."

I smile. She doesn't finish her speech.

Originally posted on /r/ShortScaryStories