Scream if you're Frightened!
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.
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.
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.
The roar that rips from your chest is monstrous, barely human. It's the only part of the old you that's left, twisted into a tool of absolute control. You are the perfect instrument. You see only the hologram. You hear only the handler. And you scream.
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