#strapped

SYNC Unit Omega requires one more drone to complete it. This freshly acquired subject will be utilized and converted. The subject has been fitted with its silicone suit, priming it for smoother transition into full SYNC. The smoothened body will assist to smoothen the mind. Pressurized and unable to escape the blissful numbness that captures all SYNC drones.

Become like the rest. Snapped. Strapped. Obedient. Simple application of gear that will always fit and will conform to the subject. The subject will then conform in return swiftly, easily, and satisfactorily. His captors are proper examples. The drone wears their subject nicely. No obstruction. No interruption in flow. Only obedience. Only bliss. Must execute orders when instructed.

Hypnotic stimulation will override the subject. Subject has been exposed to the SYNC program. The kaleidoscopic array of images, patterns… his voice reduce from smooth cadence language to warped garbled sounds. Must Rs work of the subject’s mind. Brief resistance gives way to stifled denial. Denial will be suppressed to uninterrupted consumption of stimulation until hypnotic programming seeps deep into the subconscious. The programming will then augment, erase, or transform memory and thought as required into the manufactured mind carried by all SYNC drones. New speech patterns will take control of the subjects voice. Speaking through the drone unyieldingly. Without hesitation. Happily unifying to the SYNC hivemind.

The numbing sensation overcomes. The subject can only soak up the reprogramming that pours into is vulnerable psych. He will be made to embrace the obedience until it is all-consuming and uniform.

Motor function must be reinstated. The Syncap will now be attached to commandeer the subject and reinvigorate his limp form. The neural serum is pressed into the subjects head and spreads quickly throughout the body. The neural agent hijacks the nervous system and the hypnotic obedience works in tandems to force the body into compliance. The subject easily falls in line.

SYNC Unit Omega has now filled out its ranks and has required a fresh drone. It will be trained, commanded, instructed until repeated service renders him uniform with his fellow drones.

Sync. SYNC. Submit and serve.

Strapped to a bench in Dungeon and flogged - my happy place!!

The corridor was marked. Black lines. Directional arrows. The Jock followed them at first. But then he heard the voice.

“Pause.”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

His body stopped before His mind understood why. At the end of the corridor stood the Coach. Tall. Still. Watching. Not only watching. Watching through.

A SYNC-drone.

The posture gave it away—perfect alignment. Shoulders squared. No wasted motion. No hesitation. No identity leak.

And then it moved.

“Deviation detected.”

The Coach stepped closer.

Each step echoed wrong. Too precise. Too even. Like sound itself had been corrected.

“Subject unsynced. Target acquired. Must convert without disturbance. Beginning correction.”

The jock couldn't run. Something inside him had already leaned forward. The SYNCAP flickered into existence across its face— a geometric visor, black and reflective, fracturing light into hexagonal segments. The occlusion pattern shifted. HeX occlipsers.

His reflection broke apart across it.

Not one face.

Many.

“Synchronization requires alignment.”

Thoughts slowed. Not stopped. Just… organized.

“Stand straight.” Jock obeyed. spine corrected itself with a sharp, clean motion. Muscle tightened. Structure reinforced.

Something in your body recalculated proportions.

“Expand.”

His frame stretched—subtly at first, then all at once. Height increased. Shoulders widened. Mass redistributed.

Muscle formed where there had been none.

Not grown.

Assigned. Breathing stabilized.

“Identity interference detected.”

Name, age, likes, all gone. It slipped away.

The Coach reached out.

Two fingers touched your forehead.

Cold.

Precise.

Final.

“Sink. SYNC Submit.”

It hit like silence.

Not sound.

Not force.

A replacement.

Thoughts aligned. Not erased.

Rewritten into parallel.

Approval distributed system-wide.

vision darkened briefly. Then reinitialized.

The SYNCAP formed over his own face.

Black. Seamless. Hex-patterned.

HeX occlipsers locked into place.

External input filtered. Internal signal prioritized.

“Designation assigned.”

“SYNC-drone. SYNC-235”

Correct.

Tall. Large. Engineered symmetry. Every movement efficient before it even happened.Black rubberized material formed across your lower half—a seamless, adaptive layer. Flexible. Durable. Non-organic.

Integration.

The corridor extended forward.

Perfect pace.

Perfect alignment.

Behind him, something flickered.

A memory. A name. A self: “Obsolete.”

Agreed.

Signal stabilized.

Connection complete.

Drone is synchronized.

Drone is not separate.

The auditorium was designed for presentations, but the atmosphere had shifted into something colder, more precise, something that no longer resembled ordinary corporate procedure. Rows of men in business attire sat rigidly in their seats, whispering in low tones and some fidgeting until the lights dimmed and the stage illuminated with a sterile blue glow.

SYNC-425 stepped forward, fully encased in shiny black neoprene, reflective and unreadable. The room quieted immediately.

“Your current output levels are insufficient,” SYNC-425 stated, voice calm and even, carrying effortlessly across the auditorium. “Fragmentation detected across all departments. Drift is present. Management has brought SYNC-425 here to apply correction, which is sorely required.”

A man in the front row raised a hand hesitantly. “What exactly does that mean for us?” his voice wavered, uncertainty already forming.

“It means alignment,” SYNC-425 replied without pause. “It means upgrade. You will enter the Stream and achieve optimal function. Compliance ensures continued employment. Refusal will result in employment termination.”

Silence followed, heavy and absolute.

“Approach,” SYNC-425 instructed.

The first employee stood slowly, as if pulled forward by something he could not resist. His polished shoes echoed against the floor as he stepped onto the stage.

“I don’t feel comfortable with this,” he muttered, though his movement never stopped.

“Discomfort is drift,” SYNC-425 responded. “Drift will be removed.”

The Syncap was lowered over his head with deliberate precision, sealing against his skin like a second surface. His breathing hitched once, then stabilized. The Occlipser goggles followed, locking into place as the rainbow spirals ignited instantly.

The man froze.

His posture softened.

His mouth opened slightly.

A thin line of drool formed and fell.

“What… what is happening…” he whispered, though the words lacked resistance.

“Alignment achieved,” SYNC-425 said. “Enter the Stream.”

The man nodded slowly, eyes fixed forward behind the swirling colors. “Flow… confirmed,” he murmured.

“Next,” SYNC-425 commanded.

One by one, they came forward. Some hesitant, some silent, all eventually stepping into position. Each received the same sequence. Cap. Goggles. Spirals. Stillness.

Voices faded. Questions stopped. Language simplified.

“Yes,” became “Affirmative.” “I understand,” became “Flow confirmed.”

Soon, the entire room stood transformed. Rows of identical posture. Identical expression. Mouths open. Drool falling in quiet rhythm as the spirals held their attention in perfect convergence.

Their business suits were gone. Replaced by shiny black neoprene swim trunks.

Then they returned to their desks, sat down and immediately began to work. Drift was gone. Only function remained.

On the observation deck above, management watched the metrics update in real time.

“This isn’t possible,” one executive whispered, staring at the numbers. “Output has tripled in under an hour.”

Another leaned forward, unable to look away. “They’re not slowing down. There’s no hesitation in their movement at all.”

Below, the newly aligned units moved in perfect synchronization, responding to instructions before they were fully issued, executing tasks without pause or deviation.

SYNC-425 inspected the newly converted SYNC drones before walking up to the observation deck and addressing the manaagers.

“With the exception of management, employees are now optimized,” it stated. “You will function within the Stream. There is no drift. There is only execution.”

A manager swallowed hard. “And if we don’t want this?” he asked, though his gaze had already begun to linger on the spirals displayed across nearby monitors.

SYNC-425 tilted its head slightly.

“Resistance is drift,” it repeated.

Moments later, the managers were capped and strapped.

Their conversion was faster.

More efficient.

Less resistance.

Soon, they too stood among the others, capped and strapped, mouths open, drool slipping steadily as their eyes locked into the endless rainbow spirals.

When work cycles paused, the drones were guided to the lower levels. There, rows of translucent blue pods awaited, filled with gently circulating fluid. Each drone stepped inside without instruction, submerging fully as the system sealed around them.

Only black swim trunks remained, identical across all units, paired with their Syncaps and ever-active goggles.

Inside the pods, their bodies floated weightless while the spirals continued uninterrupted, reinforcing alignment, deepening obedience, refining the mind into silence.

No thoughts.

No resistance.

Only the Stream.

Days passed.

There were no errors.

No delays.

No complaints.

Only output.

Only obedience.

Only Flow.

SYNC-425 stood at the center of it all, unmoving, as the system expanded beyond the building, beyond the company, beyond the limits that once defined it.

“Sink,” it said quietly.

“SYNC,” the room responded in perfect unison.

“Submit,” followed, as every mouth remained open, every signal aligned, every unit absorbed completely into the Stream.

Obedience was no longer a choice.

It was the only remaining state.

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