null and void

You were twenty. You were halfway through a data science degree at a state university, and you had a vague plan involving a decent job, an apartment downtown, and maybe, eventually, paying off your student loans. You remember walking across the campus green, arguing with a friend over text.

You don't remember the black van, the hands, or the needle.

Your first new memory is the cold. You wake up strapped to a chair, your head immobilised. The air is sterile, smelling of antiseptic and ozone. You try to scream, but your throat is dry, and the sound is a pathetic croak.

Men in plain, dark fatigues move around you with clinical efficiency. They don't speak to you. They don't acknowledge your terror. They are just... working. One of them shears off your civilian clothes—your favourite hoodie, your worn jeans—with trauma shears. The cold air hits your skin, raising goosebumps.

They scrub you down with a harsh, foaming disinfectant before forcing your limbs into the uniform. The fabric is stiff, starchy, and abrasive. It's a light blue shirt, heavy trousers. They yank your feet into gleaming black boots and lace them so tight you feel the blood flow cut off to your toes. Any attempt to struggle, even to flinch, is met with a sharp, precise jolt of electricity from the chair, making your muscles seize.

"Subject 734," a dispassionate voice says, not from the room, but from inside your head.

The real work begins. A technician holds your head steady. You feel a sharp, stinging pain in your left ear as something is jammed deep inside—a dense foam plug that seals the world out. Total, deafening silence. Your panic ratchets higher. You can hear your own heart thumping, a wet, frantic sound inside your skull.

Then, the right ear. A click, a soft electronic hiss, and the voice is back, now crystal clear, the only sound in the universe. "Do not resist."

A technician approaches with the glasses. The ones from the picture. Mirrored aviators. They don't look like much, but they are heavy. He forces them onto your face. They are not like normal glasses. A band snaps tight around the back of your head, locking them in place. A rubber seal presses against your skin, and the world—the sterile room, the technicians, the light—vanishes.

You are in absolute blackness. You are blind and deaf to the world. There is only the black void and the voice.

"Stand," the voice commands.

You can't. You're terrified. "I... I can't see!"

The jolt hits you from the uniform itself, a full-body convulsion that slams you back against the chair. "Stand."

The straps on the chair retract. You're shaking, but you try. As you push yourself up, a faint, holographic green arrow appears in the blackness, pointing forward.

"Follow the path."

You take a shuffling step. The arrow moves. You take another. It moves again. This is your new reality. A black void with glowing green directives. The voice guides you. The uniform shocks you. There is no other choice.

You are guided into another room. A holographic outline of a blue beret appears. "Equip," the voice commands. Your hands, clumsy and trembling, find the real object on a shelf you cannot see. The hologram shifts, showing a green overlay of the beret on your head, angled correctly. You adjust it. "Approved."

Next, an outline of white gloves. "Equip." You pull them on, the pristine cotton covering your shaking hands. You are now complete.

The first days are hell. You learn to march, to turn, to stand at attention, all by following holographic arrows and body-overlays in the dark. The only time you're allowed to speak is to repeat commands.

"Subject 734, sound off!" the voice demands.

"Sir, yes, sir!" you try to yell, but your voice is a cracked, terrified squeak. The fear is choking you.

A jolt. Not painful, just sharp. A punishment. "Again. Louder."

"Sir, yes, sir!" you scream, the sound tearing at your raw throat.

"Acceptable. Proceed."

They learn that the fear is the last thing to go. They can't erase it. So they use it. They teach you to channel all that panic, all that terror, into your voice. Your fear becomes your weapon.

Now, you stand on the hot pavement of the U.S. Air Force Academy. It's 'I Day'. You cannot see the sun, the mountains, or the iconic chapel. Your mirrored glasses show you only a black void, currently populated by a glowing red box that perfectly frames a new arrival—a young person, just off the bus, looking confused.

In your left ear: silence.

In your right ear: "Handler to 734. Target acquired. Engage. Execute In-processing Script Alpha. Maximum volume."

A holographic script appears in your vision, floating over the red box. "GET OFF THE BUS!" "YOU ARE NO LONGER INDIVIDUALS!" "MOVE WITH A PURPOSE!"

You open your mouth. You don't see a person. You see a target. You don't feel anger. You feel pure, undiluted terror, the same terror from the chair. And you pour all of it into the sound, just as you were trained.

"GET OFF THE BUS!"

Police interrogation training (Reid Technique and others) explicitly teaches officers to wear dark glasses when dealing with nervous or deceptive subjects which can lead to paralysis in suspects during questioning.

Humans are hardwired to track another person’s gaze with incredible precision. We can detect a shift of eye direction as small as 1–2 degrees.

When an authority figure puts on dark or mirrored sunglasses, ‘real-time’ information vanishes.

Once the eyes disappear, the face stops looking like an individual and starts looking like a uniform component. Psychologists call this “de-individuation” of the authority figure and “infra-humanization” of the observer.

Real-world example: riot police in full gear and black goggles look like identical insect-like units.

Studies have found that the more “faceless” the police appeared (helmets, visors, sunglasses), the easier it was for both sides to dehumanize the other and escalate violence.

The unreadable gaze

Eyes are the most expressive part of the face. Covering them makes a person harder to “read” and turns them into a slightly impersonal symbol of power rather than an individual with human feelings. This creates psychological separation between the authority figure and everyone else—exactly what the state, the army, and dominant men want.

When you can’t tell where someone is looking or what they’re feeling, you feel watched and judged - even when you’re not. It generates automatic unease and compliance.

Jimmy was a petty criminal, always just a step away from any real crime. It never really amounted to anything because he has been in the game for many years. He could always count on his good looks to get by. All he had to do was give the jury puppy dog eyes, flash a grin every now and then, flip his gorgeous blond locks, and apologize like he never meant to do it, and he would get sentenced a year, but would get out in a couple of months for good behaviour. 

He knew each prison like the back of his hand, so it came as a surprise that he was sentenced to the newly opened Marlboro prison facility. He was happy he lucked out. The newer facilities tend to be cleaner and have better food for the first few years. He just had to be their new test subject for their new rehabilitation program. 

The first week wasn’t too bad for Jimmy. He got a pretty chill roommate in Big Bill. Despite his large stature, he was a decent man who just wanted to serve his time and return back to his family. Then there were the greenhorn wannabe prison guards, who had the bravado of police, but weren’t strict enough, which worked well for Jimmy. Jimmy would chat them up and get a couple of favours here and there. 

But then the second week came, and things started to change. The guards’ uniform switched to a red and white, rubber looking, form fitting bodysuit with Marlboro embossed onto it. It was said that it was resistant to blunt force, scratches and stabbing. At first the guards were up in arms about their new uniform, but throughout the week, the guards’ demeanor started to change. Their lax behaviour became more stricter, and their actions became more uniform. Even their steps were in sync with each other. 

By the third week, the prison was completely different. The food had somewhat of a chemical taste, anyone who worked at the prison never spoke to each other, and even the guards now all started to resemble each other. They took “uniform” to an extreme level to the point they even shaved all their hair to make themselves look even closer to each other. Despite the overall creepiness of it all, it was somewhat alluring to Jimmy, as he watched them walk by. It wasn’t like he was attracted to them, or so he told himself. 

When week four came around, the emotions finally boiled over, and the first and only prison riot happened. No matter what anyone did, the guards did not flinch. Their bodies that were perfectly sculpted encased in the rubbery material were not harmed at all. The riot only lasted a few minutes but the results reverberated throughout. Jimmy knew the protocol if a prison riot happened. You could take the side of the prisoners and fight and give the guards a good one-two, or you could side with the guards and just go back to his cell. Knowing he wasn’t planning to stay long, he headed back to his cell. Part of him felt drawn to joining the guards, but he shook that feeling. 

During week five, the tenuous relationship between the guards and the prisoners got even worse, as anyone who provoked, hit, or even looked at a guard the wrong way was taken into solitary confinement. At first the other prisoners laughed at anyone who was taken, but as the day went on, and they didn’t return, prisoners got more anxious. If anyone complained, they would be sent to solitary. 

Week six came, and each prisoner followed the rules completely. No one spoke out, or walked out of line. Despite their good behaviour, there were far more guards on duty, always keeping an eye out. The guards were now stricter than ever, and when it came physical recreation time, it became mandatory two hours of calisthenics each day. If anyone did not keep up, they were brought down to solitary. After the fourth set of twelve squats, Big Bill collapsed. Jimmy wanted to help him, but the guards were quick and dragged him off. 

Week seven came by, and more than half of the prison was empty. Everyone knew what the consequences were. Jimmy felt lonely in the small cell all by himself. He imagined that Big Bill would come to the cell one day. It made the loneliness a little less frustrating. He even imagined that each guard was Bill, until he noticed something. The guard that was standing in front of his cell was Bill. He was shaved completely, but there was no mistaking the glint in his eyes. 

“Bill!” He yelled, as he tried to grab the guard’s hand. 

“It is Correctional Officer William.” The man in the Marlboro rubber suit looked at him with a blank face. 

“Bill! Snap outta it! They’ve done somethin’ to ya!” Jimmy yelled. 

There was a moment of a look of compilation that flashed through Big Bill’s eyes. “Stand back.”

Jimmy took a few steps back, as the cell doors opened. The moment he stepped out, on each side, there were arms that pulled him to the ground. 

Correctional Officer William lit a Marlboro cigarette and took a deep breath in. He pinched Jimmy’s nose with one hand and grabbed his hair, pulling his head back, until he needed to breathe, then shotgunned the smoke into Jimmy’s mouth in the most sensual kiss. 

As the smoke entered his body, Jimmy felt a strange sense of euphoria. It was almost like an out of body experience, and he had no control of anything. He could almost feel a pull towards something, as he body was puppeted from one room to the next. He was taken to another room, where they sat him down. He barely had any control of his body, but he was enjoying every second.He heard the sound of the clippers as he saw the hair he once took such pride in, but now he did not understand why he had pride in it. Now, there was something else he should value. But it wasn’t just the top of his head, it was all hair that was shaved off his body. They stripped him of all his clothes, and by the time they were done, he was completely hairless. 

He felt himself walking to another room with no shame at all of walking naked in front of all these other men. Then he was brought to a room with a pool of black liquid. His consciousness slowly started to come back to him as he looked into the pool. There was a small part of him that told him to run, but there was another part of him that told him to walk into the liquid. It was like a siren song, telling him that what he was missing, the part that he was missing, he would find in the pool. He did not notice that there were guards standing by the door if he tried to make a run for it, nor did he care. He walked willingly into the pool completely naked. 

Jimmy knew that time passed, but he wasn’t sure if it was seconds, days, or even years. He finally felt complete. He knew his purpose, and that was to unite the world under Marlboro’s control. He would finally join his brothers, and bring all his brothers, fathers, and sons under one power. Jimmy stepped out of the pool, finally feeling connected to all the other men.

The days passed by until everyone in the prison was under the control of Marlboro. Jimmy enjoyed every single transformation. He felt their change, and was proud that he could be part of such a great feat. Once the last person was converted, they all came to attention and made their way to the cafeteria. 

They all stood there in the room, the once prisoners now standing side by side with their brother guards. A vision of the future ran through their minds. A future where everyone across the country, no, the world was following. Every man wearing the red and white Marlboro rubber suits. They would spread across, first in prisons, then joining police departments, and even politics to push the Marlboro agenda. They would convert everyone into the Marlboro family. Everyone, united as one. One thought. One belief. As one. 

The thoughts of a few men were in panic. They were fighting with all their might to break free. Even some of the original guards were trying to break away, but Jimmy would not have any of it. Marlboro gave him a purpose. He shot a thought to the entire room of unity. A sense of pleasure throughout each of the men. 

The men that fell into the feeling of pleasure and lust knew what to do. They touched and groped any man with dissenting thoughts. Through the feeling of rubber rubbing against rubber, their thoughts changed back to unity. There was a chorus of pleasure that swept through them. Jimmy felt his body interconnected with William, and Bob, and Steven, and John. Each man was connected to each other, and there was no individuality. There was no individual pleasure, but a collective one. At that moment, their bodies were not their own as they felt the pleasure from each other. And then they came in unison.

Discipline like this is hard to come by. Men and women are innately chaotic individuals who struggle day in and day out to stay on task. But be more like these officers. Be disciplined, be ordered, be willing to go the extra yard to achieve your goals.

Needless to say, the newly-elected mayor, who had personally hired the new chief, was extremely happy with the department's progress. During a meeting with the chief, the mayor let him know how pleased he was, as the chief knelt on the floor, massaging the mayor's feet. "I see the new sunglasses are working perfectly, chief. The officers look great."

"The sunglasses, sir? I don't understand?"

"And you don't need to understand. Just keep massaging, chief. Next week, I will begin to meet with each officer, individually. Set that up for me, chief."

You didn’t really know what to expect when you were escorted to your room at M.A.N. camp. There were a few posters highlighting proper workout forms. Even a few “inspirational” quotes. You really couldn’t imagine that this was it. There had to be something more beyond just some tacky wall décor. And as you unpacked your bags, you grumbled at how empty the room was. No gaming station or computer- just a mirror and bed. When you got out of here, you were going to finally tell your dad off. He went way too far this time.

On your first morning, they assigned you to Garrett. He was supposed to be your “coach” or “bro” or whatever the stupid jocks who worked here said. In non-frat language, he was your mentor- the man who was going to make you into more of a man. You were escorted to the gym where you found him working out.

“Bro, it’s nice to meet you.” He smiles, and shakes your hand firmly, “My name is Garrett.”

You raise an eyebrow. He was dressed in camo pants and an olive green shirt. His muscular arms on full display. You can’t help but feel that your dad would’ve been a lot more happy if Garrett was his son. But you can tell by the dopey grin that the term “jarhead” really fit him well.

“I’ve had a lot of success with the guys here.” He continues, “Trust me, I’ve got a regimen that works real well.”

And so your journey with Garrett begins. You spend the next two days with him. He’d wake you up early in the morning for “bootcamp”, which often involved a brief run and workout session. You’d grab a protein-rich breakfast, head back to “lecture”, and then find him later for workout number two. And by the end of the first two days, you’d return to your room sweaty and tired. Your thoughts always returning to Garrett. His muscular physique, encouraging attitude, his dopey grin. You can feel your dick twitch as more lewd thoughts enter your mind. But the intense sessions take their toll and you’re fast asleep, dreaming of running your hands down his firm pecs and abs.

The next day, you eagerly wake-up, excited to see Garrett. But when he comes by that morning, he tells you today will be a chill day. A part of you feels disappointed- you wanted to go to the gym. See him push himself. Smell his musk. He just grins.

“Trust me, you’re already making great progress.” He pats your arm and you look down.

Since when did your biceps bulge like that? You run a hand along the firm muscle of your triceps and biceps- anxiety now coursing through your veins. This wasn’t...

“Dude, put a shirt on. I have something for us.” Garrett smiles and you suddenly realize you were walking around shirtless.

You quickly rummage through your old clothes, trying on various different shirts. But they all seem too tight. You can feel Garrett’s eyes on you and can sense his amusement. Eventually, you settle for just going shirtless. And as you walk with Garrett through the hallway, a bunch of the jocks pat you on the back and fist-bump Garrett, commending his methods and your progress.

“Welcome to my room.” He says, beckoning you to enter, “Thought you deserved a break.”

You smile when you see his gaming station and two controllers already set up. The two of you quickly start playing, and while this first-person military shooter wasn’t your usual go to, you were just happy to be playing videogames. You don’t know how much time passed, but eventually you put down the controller.  

“Bruh, that was fuckin’ sick.” You can’t help but feel the words leaving your mouth weren’t your own.

And as the two of you look at one another, you begin to lean in. When your lips finally meet Garrett’s, it’s like fireworks go off in your brain. You don’t know how quickly it happened, but he’s out of his uniform and you’re tearing off your pants. Your hands explore one another’s bodies. The way his firm muscles feel causes you to shudder. And you moan as he plays with your sensitive nipples. Garrett finally has you get on your knees, your mouth open. When his dick enters your mouth, he begins to moan.

“Good boy.” He breaths as you continue to suck him off, “Fuck yeah... part of being a man is knowing how to serve.” He continues, “Just my obedient little soldier boy.”

You can feel his cock throbbing. Choking you. And a moment later, he releases. You both fall back onto his bed, panting heavily. Basking in the afterglow of pleasure.

“You’re learning well.” He breaths, “Go and get cleaned up, soldier. I’ll be by in a bit.”

You nod and walk back to your room. Good soldiers follow orders. But upon arriving there, the anxiety returns. What the fuck just happened? You stare in the mirror and gasp. This wasn’t you. The muscle, the pecs, the abs, the squared-jaw. All of this couldn’t be you. And you painfully realize that whatever this place was doing to you, it was in fact working. In your panic, you realize you need to escape. And quietly, you slip out of your room. You skillfully maneuver past the staff, using skills and knowledge from your military training. Training? You groan and grasp your head. There were new memories- ones you could’ve sworn never existed. But you fight through them, knowing you needed to get out of this facility.

“Soldier, where do you think you’re going?”

Your heart sinks when you hear Garrett’s voice. And when you turn to look at him, you can see the disappointment in his eyes. You accuse him of brainwashing you. Turning you into something you’re not. You feel betrayed by him. But before you can say anything more, you’re quickly restrained by the guards. Garrett removes his shirt, a stern look on his face.

“I’m sorry to have to do this to you.” He says as you thrash against the hands restraining you, “But I don’t have a choice.” He lifts his arm, exposing his musky, sweaty pit.

You beg for him not to. To stop. But as your vision is obscured by his hairy pit and your nose is filled with his manly musk, your world goes dark.

Your father can barely believe his eyes when he sees you. Your muscular physique on full display, arms crossed, and a stern look on your face. Even from a day ago, the amount of muscle you packed on is unbelievable. Your hulking form even puts Garrett to shame. Garrett stands next to you, clearly proud of his work.

“We may have went a bit overboard.” Garrett chuckles, “Could barely find a shirt that fits him. But as you can see, he’s made a lot of progress. As a soldier, he’ll understand responsibility and respect.”

Your father just nods, still clearly impressed by the outcome. Meanwhile, you just stare ahead. Speak when spoken to. Show respect. All of these commands rattling around in your simple brain. Just an obedient soldier boy. And as you begin to walk towards your dad’s car, you’re stopped when you feel Garrett grab a handful of your meaty ass.

“Can’t wait to see you in bootcamp, solider.”

You remember the weight of the radio on your hip and the reassuring feel of the Custodian Helmet under your arm. You remember the specific way the winter rain would bead on the sleeve of your black jacket as you walked your beat through the city centre. Your life was a map of familiar faces, of knowing which shopkeeper was having a bad day, of helping a lost tourist, of being a visible, tangible part of the city's fabric. You were a Police Constable. Your authority came from the Crown, your purpose from the community you served. You have to hold on to that memory, because in this new, silent world, they are teaching you that the community is irrelevant, and your authority now flows from a single, private source.

The end came not with a siren, but with a quiet, formal notice. The Police force were "decommissioned." You were herded into a black, windowless truck, your warrant card confiscated. You were no longer a guardian of the public; you were an asset to be reassigned. You arrived at an estate that was a world unto itself, a place of impossible wealth and silent, unnerving order.

The Re-forging

Your repurposing was not a simple retraining; it was a fundamental reconstruction of your very being. They took your name and your collar number, but unlike the others, you would get the number back.

First came the conditioning, where the concept of "public service" was systematically deconstructed and labelled an "inefficient and sentimental protocol." Your new, singular purpose was drilled into you: the preservation of the Principal's order.

Then came the change you could feel in your own blood. The "Physiological Enhancement Protocol." You were lined up, and a medic-technician, with the impersonal efficiency of a factory worker, administered the first of your weekly testosterone injections. You felt the cold sting in your arm, and in the days that followed, you felt a new, unfamiliar fire begin to burn in your muscles. Your body, already fit, began to harden, to thicken with a new, dense strength. A constant, low-level aggression, a coiled, predatory energy you had never known, became your new baseline. It was a feeling of power, but it was not your own. It was a chemical leash.

The Uniform of the Faceless

The day they issued your new uniform was the day you truly understood your new purpose. It was a ritual of layering, each piece a new shackle. The form-fitting, near-black navy blue tactical shirt and black cargo trousers felt aggressive, a world away from your old, familiar uniform. The heavy combat boots grounded you in this new reality.

Then came the plate-carrier vest. As you pulled it on, you saw the giant, stark white letters: POLICE. It was a mockery, a brand. It was the title of your old life, now the label for your new cage. On the epaulettes, they returned your collar number, no longer a mark of your identity, but a designation, a serial number on a piece of equipment.

The final two pieces erased you completely. First, the black balaclava, pulled down over your head, its tight fabric instantly robbing you of your face, your expressions, your humanity. You were now a blank, black void. Then, the final, heavy weight of the Custodian Helmet, its familiar shape made monstrous by the featureless mask beneath it. You looked in the mirror and saw a terrifying contradiction: a faceless symbol of law, a numbered but anonymous enforcer.

The New Beat

Your new beat is not the living streets of the city; it is the silent, sterile, marble corridors of the estate. You walk in a two-man patrol, your heavy boots making a slow, rhythmic, intimidating sound. The controlled, chemical aggression hums beneath your skin. Your gaze, from behind the black mask, is no longer looking for people to help, but for infractions to correct.