The Signal
Chapter 4 — The Captain’s Baptism
The precinct was already humming when Captain Miller walked in, but the sound felt distant, filtered, as though he were hearing it through water. Conversations rose and fell, reports shuffled across desks, phones rang in clipped bursts — all of it familiar, yet none of it settled in his mind the way it usually did.
The device in his coat was warm.
He kept his hand out of that pocket, but he felt it pulsing anyway, a faint beat pressed against his ribs like something trying to sync with his heart.
He didn’t focus on it. He focused on Anderson.
Anderson’s calm smile from the night before flashed through his head, sharp and unwelcome. Matt’s steady voice. The glow in his son’s pocket. All of it pointed to the same source, the same quiet sickness spreading from one man to another like an idea too clean, too perfect to feel human.
Miller strode past the main floor, jaw set, posture rigid enough to crack bone. Officers greeted him; he barely nodded in return. He headed straight for his office, slammed the door behind him, and locked it.
The hum in his pocket grew louder in the silence.
He pulled the device out and set it on the desk, as far from him as possible. The pulse of red and green bounced softly off the metal frame of his badge, casting fractured light across the paperwork he’d abandoned days ago.
“You’re not getting to me,” he muttered.
He said it like a warning. He said it like a prayer.
He opened the department database and began typing Anderson’s ID number. The screen flickered — too long, too unnatural — before the logs finally appeared.
Something was wrong immediately.
Patrol entries were duplicated. Timestamps looped. A dozen reports had been overwritten with the same text:
YOU WILL UNDERSTAND.
Every line identical, typed with a steady, unshaking hand.
Miller swallowed hard and clicked through the rest. Half the bodycam files were corrupted. Anderson’s voice was gone, replaced by static. Dispatch records showed blank patches where transmissions should’ve been.
Every absence felt intentional.
He exhaled slowly and pulled up vehicle GPS logs. Anderson’s cruiser had pinged dozens of locations, but one repeated pattern snagged his attention: a late-night stop in the industrial zone, out by the old aircraft factory.
No assignment. No backup. No record of any call.
Just coordinates. An address. The place where Anderson first changed.
Miller leaned back, his breath shallow. That cold something in his chest coiled tighter.
He reached for the device again — not to use it, but to shove it deep into his jacket.
It wasn’t pulsing anymore. It was steady, as if waiting.
He grabbed it, turned it over in his palm, and shut it into his coat pocket with a sharp motion.
Then he left the precinct without a word.
He didn’t remember the drive to the factory. His mind moved in sharp flashes — the road blurring, streetlights bending through the windshield, rain starting to hiss against the glass. By the time he pulled up to the rusted gates, the sky had gone an iron-grey, heavy with unfallen storm.
Miller stepped out and surveyed the place.
The factory rose like a broken spine against the horizon, its windows shattered, its walls stained with decades of abandonment. The air felt colder here, the wind brushing against him like a whisper too close to the ear.
He pushed the gate open. Its hinges screamed.
Inside, the world was quiet.
Too quiet.
The halls stretched long and hollow, every footstep echoing back at him in slow, delayed beats. Shadows carved themselves across the cracked concrete floors. The faint smell of oil lingered, old but not forgotten.
Miller moved deeper, flashlight cutting through dust and darkness.
Then he heard it.
A hum. Low. Rhythmic.
Not mechanical — something closer to breath.
He tightened his grip on the light and stepped forward.
A shape broke away from the shadows ahead.
“Dad?”
Miller froze.
Matt stood beneath a fractured skylight, his face illuminated by the faint red-green flicker of a beacon mounted somewhere deeper inside the factory. He looked calm. Centered. His posture too still for someone in a place like this.
Relief and dread collided in Miller’s chest.
“Matt,” he breathed. “We’re leaving. Right now.”
Matt shook his head. Slowly. Gently. The gesture made Miller’s stomach turn.
“You came,” Matt said. “I knew you would.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Miller stepped closer. “Has Anderson brought you—”
A figure moved behind Matt.
Anderson stepped into the half-light, hands relaxed at his sides, eyes unwavering.
“Captain,” Anderson said softly. “You shouldn’t be angry. Not now.”
Miller drew his gun. His hand trembled despite decades of training.
“Step away from my son,” he said. “Both of you.”
Anderson didn’t move.
He looked at Miller the way someone looks at an injured animal — careful, patient, pitying.
“No one’s taking anything from you,” Anderson said. “We’re giving something back.”
“Don’t,” Miller growled. “Don’t talk like you know me.”
“But I do,” Anderson said. “I know what it’s like to lose yourself to duty. To forget the reason you started. To love your work more than your own life.”
Matt’s voice slid in like a blade:
“You’ve been hurting for a long time, Dad.”
Miller’s breath caught.
“And He can stop that,” Matt continued, eyes reflecting the red-green pulse above. “He can fix what you lost.”
Miller shook his head violently, stepping back. “No. No, you’re manipulated. Both of you. This is mind control. Some drugs. Some signal—”
“You felt it,” Anderson said quietly. “In the kitchen.”
Miller stiffened.
“You touched the device,” Anderson continued. “You felt the quiet. You fought it, but it stayed with you.”
Matt took a step closer, voice soft and warm:
“It doesn’t hurt, Dad. It just… clears things. Makes everything make sense.”
“Stop,” Miller whispered, raising the gun again. “Just stop talking.”
The air shifted.
The hum grew louder.
And the world tilted.
The red-green light pulsed from above, washing the room in a soft, hypnotic glow. Miller felt it before he understood it — a warmth sinking behind his eyes, down his spine.
His fingers spasmed. The gun clattered to the floor.
The hum swelled until it was all he could hear. His vision blurred.
Miller’s legs buckled, his knees hit the cold concrete with a dull thud, his palms pressing flat against the ground. He was on all fours, ass in the air, spine arched, his cock twitch in his pants.
Behind him, Matt’s belt clinked as it hit the floor. The sound of a zipper being yanked down was obscene in the silence. He gently pulled down his father’s pants, peeled off his boxer briefs. Miller’s pulse pounded in his ears as he felt the heat of Matt’s body press against his ass, the thick ridge of his cock sliding between his cheeks. No lube. No warning. Just the blunt, insistent pressure of Matt’s dick pushing against his tight hole.
Then… Matt drove in.
Miller’s mouth fell open in a silent scream, his fingers clawing at the concrete. There should’ve been pain—there should’ve been—but there wasn’t. There was only the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming “fullness” of Matt’s cock splitting him open. His vision whited out for a second, his mind short-circuiting as pleasure flooded his veins. He’d never—never—felt anything like this. His cock was iron, leaking precum onto the floor, his balls drawn up tight.
Matt gripped his father’s hips and fucked him in a mesmerizing rhythm. Each thrust brutal, each snap of his hips driving Miller to a new “high” he had never experienced. The captain’s mind unraveled with every inch his son buried inside him. As if the thrusts pushed out his pressure, his tension, his guilt, his regret.
Then Anderson stepped forward.
Miller barely registered the sound of another zipper, the rustle of fabric. All he knew was the sudden pressure of fingers tangling in his hair, yanking his head back. His lips parted on instinct, and Anderson’s cock slid between them, thick and salty with precum. He hollowed his cheeks, taking Anderson deep, gagging around the intrusion. The taste of him—musky, luscious, perfect—made his cock throb. Anderson’s hips rolled forward, fucking Miller’s mouth in slow, deliberate strokes, each one timed with Matt’s brutal rhythm. The double penetration was too much. His brain melted. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—he could only take.
And then something strange happened.
With every gag, every choke, Anderson’s cock fed him new reality, new identity. A version of his life smoothed out, perfected at the seams. Where he’s a father who learned how to balance the badge and a child’s needs. Where he always trusted his best officer Anderson to lighten his load. Where his son Matt always loved him. His uniform fit better. His eyes looked clearer.
…and he serves the Master.
The memories slotted into his mind like they’d always been there. It felt true. It was true. The old Miller was being fucked out of existence, replaced by this new version designed by the Master.
Miller whimpered, his own cock aching, his balls heavy with the need to come, urging to complete his transformation.
Then an echoing finger snap came from nowhere...
Matt came, his cock pulsing deep inside his father, flooding him with heat. The sensation sent Miller over the edge, his own release spilling onto the concrete in thick, messy ropes. Anderson followed, his cum jet after jet down Miller’s throat, forcing him to swallow.
Miller closed his eyes. The warmth spread deeper.
When it was over, Miller collapsed on the cold concrete, his mind blissfully empty. Miller inhaled slowly — a long, steady breath, embracing the inner warmth, the clarity. Matt gently helped his father up, Anderson lowered his body, wiping a smear of cum from Miller’s lips with his thumb.
“I understand now,” Miller looked at them, and for the first time in years, he felt something other than pressure and regret.
He felt peace.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Both of you.”
He lifted his gaze toward the glowing beacon suspended above them, its light pulsing like a heart in the dark.
“Thank you….Master.”
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The precinct felt different the next morning.
Officers looked up as Captain Miller walked in. Not because of anything he said, but because of the way he moved. Something in his posture had shifted. Straighter. Sharper. Calmer.
His eyes swept the room with a focus that wasn’t cold or tired, but resolute.
Anderson stood by the far wall.
They shared a small, knowing nod.
Miller entered his office, closed the door, and sat at his desk. Papers were stacked neatly beside a single folder left open:
Beacon Integration Program — Phase II Deployment
He picked up a pen.
Signed.
The beacon in his pocket thrummed softly.
Outside, the sun broke through the clouds, the light flickering red-green across the precinct windows.
A new order had begun.
