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Mark Carney

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formalattire · 2 days ago

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“Permanent Placement”

By the time he realized what kind of prison this really was, it was far too late to stop the changes.

⸻

Chase Donovan was the kind of man who could walk into any room and command it. A star athlete, square-jawed and broad-shouldered, he had coasted through life on charisma, muscle, and confidence alone. Football captain, minor celebrity on social media, and a golden boy with a full-ride scholarship waiting—until he got involved in a high-profile bar fight that ended with two men in the hospital and a viral video that shattered his reputation.

Convicted on aggravated assault charges and deemed a danger to society, Chase expected prison—cold walls, violent cellmates, maybe a shank in the ribs if he didn’t assert dominance fast enough. What he didn’t expect was a facility with glass doors, marble floors, and a front desk staffed by a perky receptionist who greeted him like he was starting a corporate internship.

“Welcome to Vireon Correctional Solutions,” she said with a bright smile. “We’re not a prison—we’re a workplace rehabilitation environment. You’ll be joining the Data Intake Division. Orientation begins at 0800 sharp.”

He blinked, confused, as two uniformed guards flanked him and guided him not into a cellblock, but into a sleek elevator that chimed softly as it rose. His muscles tensed. Something was wrong. Too clean. Too quiet.

They brought him to a sterile white room labeled “Conversion Unit A.” Chase barely had time to protest before he was strapped to a reclined chair. A soft hiss filled the air. Something sharp jabbed into his neck.

Then nothing.

⸻

He woke up disoriented. His muscles felt… wrong. Weak. There was a tightness around his chest, and when he looked down, he choked. He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt, starched and buttoned all the way up. A navy blue clip-on tie pinched his throat. His arms, once proud displays of biceps and veins, looked thinner. Pale.

His pants were high-waisted and pleated. Too high. Cinched with suspenders and a belt. His legs were shaved clean and swaddled in beige slacks that stopped above white socks and black orthopedic loafers.

There was a mirror on the far wall.

He staggered toward it and stared.

The reflection wasn’t right. His jaw was softer. His cheeks thinner. His hair, once floppy and sun-bleached, had been neatly side-parted and slicked down with some greasy product. But the worst part? His eyes. The cocky gleam was gone, replaced with a flat, compliant fog.

He stumbled backward and slammed into the wall. The door opened.

“Intern Donovan?” A bespectacled woman in a pencil skirt stepped in, holding a clipboard. “You’re late for keyboard drills. Please follow me.”

“I’m not— I’m not staying here! You can’t keep me here like this!” he growled, but even as he shouted, his voice cracked—meeker, reedier than it used to be.

The woman smiled, coolly. “That’s the aggression talking. It’ll fade once the serum stabilizes.”

⸻

Week 1.

Chase was assigned to the third floor—Data Processing, Unit 14. The work was endless: intake forms, records, corrections, timestamps. Ten hours a day, five-minute bathroom breaks, identical cubicles. Every movement tracked. Every mistake logged.

Each morning, he was lined up with the other “interns” for inspection. Dozens of former athletes, criminals, alphas—now lined up like sheep in too-tight shirts and nerdish uniforms. White briefs. Starched collars. Glasses. Pocket protectors. High-waisted trousers. If one forgot to tuck in their shirt or wore their tie crooked, they were punished—hours of posture correction drills or injected with additional compliance serum.

Chase tried resisting at first. He tried spitting out the daily pills. Tried yelling. Tried running.

That earned him two weeks in Compliance Therapy. When he came out, he shuffled like the rest. Eyes lowered. Shoulders stooped. He didn’t even realize he’d been fitted with braces until he looked in the mirror and saw the glint of metal in his once-pristine smile.

⸻

Month 2.

The serum had done more than dull his mind—it had softened his body. His muscles were practically gone. His once-bold strut was a timid scurry. He wore thick glasses now, required at all times. “For screen use,” they said, but he couldn’t see clearly without them anymore. His hair was recut every week into the same greasy, schoolboy side-part.

The worst part was how normal it was starting to feel. His morning began with shirt-tucking drills and ended with spreadsheet accuracy tests. The others barely spoke—just occasional whispers about how long they’d been here. No one ever got out. The “life sentence” wasn’t figurative. Once you were in the system, you were processed forever.

He heard rumors—of how the serum couldn’t be reversed. Of how outside contacts were told you’d died or vanished. Of how your social identity was scrubbed, and a new, pathetic one created in its place.

He tried writing to a lawyer once. The letter came back censored, rewritten in a weak, apologetic tone—“Dear Sir, I apologize for my past aggression and accept my new station. Thank you for your correctional guidance.”

He had no memory of writing that.

⸻

Month 5.

Chase no longer sat—he perched. Upright, knees together, spine straight. His tie always centered, his pants always pulled high, the waistband digging into his softened gut. He still remembered the man he’d been, but it was like a fading dream—someone else’s life.

He now responded to “Intern Donovan” without hesitation.

His coworkers were the same—former CEOs, gang leaders, influencers. All of them transformed into meek little clerks. Glasses. Braces. Sweater vests. Silence.

No one fought anymore.

⸻

Year 1.

Chase’s old name had been deleted from the system.

Now he was simply Donovan, C. His ID badge displayed a bespectacled, unassuming office drone. No mention of his past. His workstation had been upgraded to “Level 2 Administrative Processing,” a meaningless title. The real reward was a tighter uniform and a new pocket calculator.

Once a week, he was brought into a small room for a compliance review. A supervisor in a tailored suit would observe him as he was asked questions:

“What is your function?”

“To process, correct, and comply.”

“Are you dangerous?”

“No, ma’am. I am safe. Efficient. Meek.”

“Do you have any desire to leave?”

“…No, ma’am.”

“Why?”

“Because… because this is my placement. I… belong here.”

And somehow, he meant it.

⸻

Outside, the world forgot him.