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They used to be coppers.

That’s the word they use now the way you say “apprentice” or “pre-op.” A previous version of the self. An unstable build.

Back then they wore stab vests that smelled of takeaway and adrenaline, radios that never shut up, and expressions that tried to signal approachability to people who measured kindness in broken bottles. They negotiated with drunks, babysat domestic implosions, filled in forms designed by committees allergic to verbs. Authority was a suggestion. Violence was a probability distribution.

Then the Republic optimized the stack.

The transition to Security Forces Enforcer isn’t marketed as a replacement. It’s described as an upgrade path.

You surrender the beard first. Follicular entropy is unbecoming in a deterministic system. The hair goes next. Identity surface area is reduced; maintenance overhead drops. Then the medicals, the scans, the interviews where the questions are framed as choices but scored as vectors. You sign consent documents thick enough to stop a round. You tell yourself you’re doing it for better kit, clearer rules, the chance to operate in a system that doesn’t apologize for existing.

And then the conditioning begins.

It’s not the crude brainwashing of antique dystopias. No swirling spirals. No shouted slogans. It’s iterative. Surgical. They don’t remove who you are; they refactor it. Fear becomes signal, not noise. Hesitation is sandboxed and repurposed as caution under command authority. Loyalty is no longer an emotion; it’s a background process running at kernel level. You still remember being a copper. You just remember it the way a grown man remembers school: formative, chaotic, structurally inefficient.

The armor is the visible part of the bargain.

Sleek black composite, glossy as a confession booth. Angular segmented plating over a synthetic musculature layer that turns human biomechanics into something closer to a product demo. Hard-shell cargo cases mounted at waist and thigh—everything indexed, everything where the HUD says it will be. Reinforced gauntlets that make your handshake feel like a contractual obligation. Joints that articulate smoother than policy.

You don’t carry a radio anymore. The network carries you.

The first time you step into a crowd as an Enforcer, you feel the difference. As a copper, you were a man in fabric asking for cooperation. As an Enforcer, you are a node in a system that does not ask. The Republic stands behind your visor like a mountain range. There is no ambiguity about mandate. The law is not something you interpret; it’s something you instantiate.

Cynics say you trade your humanity for efficiency.

They’re half right.

You trade the exhausting parts—the moral whiplash, the bureaucratic theater, the constant negotiation with people who mistake patience for weakness. In exchange you get clarity. Defined objectives. A chain of command that doesn’t dissolve the moment a journalist asks a difficult question. You sleep better because your decisions are aligned with something larger than your own cortisol curve.

Would they undergo the change again?

Ask them on a quiet evening, armor racked and diagnostics humming.

They’ll tell you about the old days: soaked uniforms, second-guessing, the feeling of being alone in a fluorescent corridor at three in the morning with only a plastic baton and a prayer. They’ll admit there was a certain romance to it—the messy autonomy, the illusion of being a lone moral actor.

Then they’ll flex a gauntleted hand and watch the servo-microtension adjust to their intent before they consciously finish forming it.

They’ll remember what it feels like to move as part of a synchronized unit, to have your fear buffered, your doubt contextualized, your purpose amplified. To know that when you step forward, the Republic steps with you—economy, infrastructure, intelligence apparatus and quiet algorithms all braided invisibly into your stride.

Yes, they would do it again.

Not because they are saints. Not because they are fools.

Because once you’ve experienced optimized certainty, going back to improvisational law enforcement feels like trying to run national security on a group chat and good intentions.

TAKE THE RED PILL, MAGA SOLDIERS

STAND LOUD AND PROUD FOR OUR MOTHERFUCKING STARS AND STRIPES

Before the video, Ethan was a solitary MAGA guy.

He kept to himself. He wore his red “MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN” cap everywhere, even when people gave him dirty looks. He loved his country, and believed in conservative values, but he didn’t join any group.

He didn’t need friends or a fraternity. He was independent, curious, and smart enough to think for himself. He's pride to be Gay. Events sometimes more out of habit and to argue with people than anything else. He liked the contradiction. It made him feel unique.

That night, alone in his room, he received a private message with a video attached.

“Just watch this short clip. It’s about real freedom.”

Ethan shrugged and clicked play, still wearing his red MAGA cap backward.

The spiral appeared deep red, and navy blue, spinning slowly and beautifully. A calm, deep male voice began to speak;

“Focus… and obey. You already wear the cap… now let it own you.

You don’t have to think alone anymore.

It feels so good to go deeper… to smile bigger… to become dumber… to serve something bigger than yourself.”

At first, Ethan smirked, thinking he could handle it.

But the spiral kept turning. The voice sank deeper.

“You look hotter when you obey… Your cock gets harder when you wear the red cap… You want to see other boys wearing it too… You want to watch them transform… drool… smile like good boys… You want to be part of the Fraternity… disciplined… loyal… stupid, preppy and proud…”

Ethan’s breathing grew heavier. His eyes started to glaze over. His mouth fell open slightly. A thin string of drool escaped the corner of his lips and ran down his chin onto the brim of his red cap.

He didn’t wipe it away.

Instead, his hand moved down and squeezed the massive erection now straining painfully against his jeans.

The cap on his head suddenly felt electric. Every time he thought about the words “Make America Great Again,” his cock throbbed harder. The idea of other boys loner, liberal, independent boys watching the same video and slowly breaking… it made him leak.

He played the video again.

And again.

By the third loop, the old solitary MAGA Ethan was gone.

In his place stood a completely transformed young man.

He was now wearing a crisp white oxford shirt, a yellow tie with little American flags, a navy cable-knit sweater vest, and perfectly pressed khakis. The red “MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN” cap sat proudly on his freshly styled blond hair. His eyes were half-lidded, glassy, and blissfully empty. His mouth hung open in a wide, dumb, permanent smile, a little drool still shining on his chin.

He looked at himself in the mirror and moaned softly, his cock rock-hard and leaking just from seeing his own reflection.

“Fuck… I look so much better like this…” he whispered, voice slow and stupid.

He took a selfie eyes vacant, smile idiotic, red cap straight and sent it to the anonymous number.

The reply came instantly;

“Good boy. Welcome to the Fraternity.”

Ethan didn’t hesitate. He didn’t question. He just smiled wider, adjusted his tie, and felt another surge of pleasure shoot through his cock.

He was no longer the solitary, curious MAGA guy.

He was now a fully disciplined, ultra-MAGA, pro-Fraternity jock.

Dumb. Happy. Horny. Obedient.

And the thought of watching other boys fall exactly like he did made him throb even harder under his new uniform.

Arthur was a huge nerd and also a gay liberal. This was a slight problem, as he was roomed with a dumb maga jock named Brad. Every time they interacted, he always had to spit out slurs at him. One day though Brad said that their friendship shouldn’t be a problem soon enough. Later, he gave Arthur a cup of water, which Arthur found a little odd. When he drank it he realized he swallowed a pill. He screamed at his roommate asking him what it was. All Brad was saying was, “This red pill will stop our problems dude” with a huge grin on his face. Then Arthur collapsed and became unconscious.

Later, Brad couldn’t help but take a picture of his straight maga jock brother, Dom, in the locker room.

Every so often, a man enters the barbershop in desperate need for a complete transformation. Long hair, shaggy beard, all of it will need to go in order for the man to achieve his true potential

Once the barber starts working his magic, the man can say goodbye to his old look. Snipping at his beautiful locks, buzzing away at the man he once was, he'll come out a brand new man

By the finishing touches, he has fully embraced the transformation he's going through. A healthy amount of shiny pomade is applied to keep his new cut firmly in place

Whenever a company successfully absorbes a rival business, all staff must pledge allegiance to their new employer. The CEO smiles, knowing he'll get an influx of new workers to break down and rebuild however he pleases

The first step is always to send the men to the barber to be molded anew. Soon a whole new crop of suited up, slicked employees, mind-drained into complete obedience, will file out of the barbershop to assume their role within the company

As commanded by @mrrharper

“Endless war will end our world!” Alan shouted. “Stop funding our military!”

Alan was amongst the hundreds of protestors at the courthouse fighting against the proposed budgetary reforms. Schools, roads, transportation, parks, environmental protections agencies–they were all on the line. Through the presented bill, thousands of institutions would be shut down as billions of dollars would be rerouted towards a single entity: the military.

“The military corrupts! Stop the brainwashing!” Alan spat. He had organized this event under his alias, a popular political blogger on multiple social media outlets. Although his voice was loud and aggravated, Alan's physical appearance was anything but. He wore a baby blue tee and white-washed skinny jeans. 5’7 with bleached hair. All he needed was a rainbow somewhere to perfect his twink look. But he was not here to make that kind of statement. He was at the protest to make another form, something that could gain traction. Peering across the crowd, Alan saw his chance. 

A few of Alan’s fellow protestors were bombarding one of the towering guards with jeers. They scrutinized him, although it appeared none of their words got through the soldier’s heavy artillery padding. In fact, the solider stood proud in his position, dominantly poised with his chest puffed up in pride. Alan approached the guard slowly, noticing he remained perfectly still as the protestors continued to insult him. Without thinking twice, Alan approached and made his move. 

“How about you show us what they’re really funding, dickhead?”

Alan threw a fist at the soldier, putting all his strength behind the movement. Due to the crowds, the soldier did not recognize the motion until it was too late. Alan’s knuckle dove right into the much taller man’s neck, ricocheting into the muscular, masked chin. Instantly, there was a cheer from the crowd at the successful blow, but it was quickly hushed.

“You pathetic cocksucker,” the soldier growled. In a flurry, the once peaceful statue became a merciless brute, swinging down and dragging Alan out of the crowd. Before he knew it, Alan found himself handcuffed with the soldier escorting him off into the enemy’s territory.

“You can’t do this! This is illegal!” Alan cried out. 

“Shut your whiny mouth.” As soon as they were out of public sight, the soldier slapped Alan hard across the face. The warmth of blood soon filled his cheeks where the bruise began to bloom. Alan made sure not to react, but he could not hide the worry in his voice.

“Where are you taking me?”

“The barracks, you fairy prick.”

The soldier brought Alan to a building not too far from the protest lines. He guided them down numerous hallways, Alan losing track before they even made it halfway there. There were checkpoints, various nods, and some curt conversations with other soldiers, but nobody questioned about Alan or the situation. Eventually, Alan was tossed into a small makeshift bedroom, only holding a cot and a pile of unwashed clothes.

“Get undressed,” the soldier demanded.

“Why should I listen to you?”

Alan was met with another forceful assault, this time a punch to his gut.

“Cause I’m First Sergeant, maggot, which means out of the two of us, I’m in charge.”

Alan scoffed. “Is that your name: ‘First Sergeant’?”

“First Sergeant QF24,” the soldier gruffly shot back.

“That’s not a name either,” Alan replied. 

“Been in service so long I don’t need a civilian name.”

Alan wanted to jump on this, make a point about how this was evidence of the dangers of the military, but First Sergeant continued.

“While my identity is real, I assume the one you were about to give me is not. What do you go by, something like that 'AlanActivist' snot?”

Alan blushed, believing that his pseudonym had been cool and unique.

“It’s about time you considered that maybe it is not the military that enforces this ‘identity death’ you all are so worried about, but your own belief system.”

“You can’t be serious,” Alan snarked, surprised at the soldier’s intelligent argument. First Sergeant was however humorless, once again pointing to the pile of discarded clothes.

“Get dressed, degenerate.”

The soldier placed one of his giant, gloved hands behind the twink’s back and pushed him towards the pile. It appeared to Alan as a giant heap of army green and camouflage. Slowly but hesitantly, he began to strip himself of his clothing, hoping to avoid any further hazing. Once down to his underwear, he silently pleaded that he would not have to drop anything else.

“Soldiers go commando, sissy.”

First Sergeant quickly appeared behind Alan before ripping his underwear clean off, exposing the twink’s bare bottom and small package to the world. Alan quickly covered himself up with one hand before leaning down towards the pile. He grimaced, his fear no longer overriding the powerful musk seeping from the military cloth. First Sergeant chuckled at his disgust from behind.

“Aren’t homos supposed to like that kind of thing?” he asked, before grabbing the back of Alan’s head. “Go on, get a better whiff of it!” Amused, First Sergeant plunged Alan’s head into the musky pile of clothes. Alan’s oxygen supply was cut off, forcing him to inhale the overpowering masculine fumes.

“You idiots never consider that being in the military is hard work. It’s not all fun and guns.” First Sergeant smothered Alan’s head further. “‘Bout time you realize what it’s like, standing on the front line all day, hot and sweaty and random strangers berating you for protecting their country, their freedom.”

The military body odor seeped into Alan’s system, numbing his body and clouding his mind. By the time he was pulled away, the naked twink struggled to form a coherent thought.

“Much better,” First Sergeant noted the lopsided smile on the twink’s face. “Now, fit yourself into some tactical gear.”

Without questioning it, Alan followed the soldier’s command. He did not know every single piece of equipment that went into the common soldier’s uniform, nor did he understand the procedure to follow, but somehow Alan managed to get the attire onto his body.

Combat pants, military-grade socks, gore tex boots. Camouflage button-up, hardshell jacket, belt with holster and magazine pouches. Shooting gloves, army print hat, face mask. It took a minute longer for Alan to place every minor piece of tactical protection onto himself, but finally his smaller frame was completely covered, dwarfed by the oversized gear.

“Looking like a real soldier there,” First Sergeant mocked. “Now let’s actually make you one.”

Already covered in the musky clothing, Alan’s intellectual ability had been dulled considerably. But when First Sergeant approached, clutching Alan’s head once more before shoving it into his wet armpit, his brain completely halted. Coming straight from the source, the soldier’s stench wafted past all Alan’s barriers, taking control immediately. Its first instruction was to keep sniffing, its second was to conform.

With a chuckle, First Sergeant watched as Alan’s body began to expand underneath his hold. The shrimpy twink grew inside of the tactical gear, filling it out properly in every direction. Muscular arms filled the sleeves of the jacket, meaty hands stuffing the crevices of the gloves. The vest became as padded on the back as it was in the front, juicy pectorals and rigid abdominals forcefully pushing against the fabric. 

Thicker thighs padded the pants, bloated feet crowded the massive boots. Two muscular buttocks crammed the seat of Alan’s pants. A lantern jaw and cleft chin became prominent underneath the face mask. Buzz cut hidden by the cap, deeper voice waiting to confirm with “Sir, yes sir!” First Sergeant even noticed the prominent padding his new soldier was developing beneath the belt. When he ultimately removed Alan from his hold, the man before him now stood at the same domineering height.

“Good, now just stand still for one moment.”

Even if he wanted to, Alan could not move. The musk was still lingering in his mind, holding him steady as First Sergeant deposited an obnoxious military headset onto Alan’s head. He then plugged the headset into a walkie-talkie before tuning it to an empty channel. A robotic voice began looping into Alan’s ears, along with a few simple tones to open up the receptive pathways in his brain.

“Ready to get back out there?” First Sergeant asked, knowing his fellow soldier could not hear him. With a smirk, he escorted the dumbfounded subordinate out of the room, pacing slowly as Alan absorbed the propaganda. It was simple phrases, nothing too complicated but through repetition effective on the psyche. “Military good,” “pacifism bad”. “Nationalism good,” “multiculturalism bad.” “Masculinity good,” “progressivism bad.” The messages were rudimentary, but deliberate.

Once they stepped back into the open, fresh air, Alan’s consciousness resurfaced. He tried to fight back against the rampant messaging, doing his best to tune out the audios as the First Sergeant led him back to the front line. Alan was being attacked on all fronts: his morals, his identity, his sexuality. Every time he turned away to defend one trait, it was like he lost another. He felt himself dwindling, chipping away.

Before long, the two stood directly in front of the courthouse, mere feet away from their first encounter. First Sergeant loaded the new soldier up, arming the man with a weapon and other items necessary in case of an emergency.

“Let’s see if you’re done cooking yet.” First Sergeant looked directly into his subordinate’s eyes, pleased with their reflective quality. He then removed the headphones.

“Name and rank, soldier?” he saluted. The other man fell into place, mirroring his actions.

“Private Aaron Steel, MH36 sir!”

First Sergeant smiled. The name change was a good sign of transition, but complete removal would have been preffered.

“Ready for the task, soldier? Will you be loyal and obedient to the greatest nation? Follow every instruction in the name of tradition?”

The soldier nodded his head quickly, “Affirmative, sir.”

“Alright then.” First Sergeant replaced the headphones back onto the private’s head, knowing a little more time would do the trick. “Dismissed. Get back to work, private.”

“Sir yes sir!”

First Sergeant strolled back to his command at the front line. The new private monitored the crowd, absorbing his commands as he scanned for any disturbances.