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hangdogmi · 21 hours ago

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Jim crouched behind a cluster of broken consoles, the humming of the massive conveyor line vibrating through the metal grates beneath him. His breath caught as the next set of pods drifted by—tall, sleek, with semi-transparent fronts that offered disturbing glimpses inside.

Humans.

Some were unconscious, limp and unaware. Others were awake, eyes wide with panic or confusion, sealed tight behind their pod glass. Tubes snaked into them. Some already had limbs missing, replaced with cybernetic frameworks—glistening chrome, wired ports, and glossy black surfaces that pulsed faintly with embedded code.

This was the domain of the Cyber Lords.

To them, humans were not beings. They were material. Organic blanks, perfect for augmentation, weaponization, and assimilation.

He lifted his hidden microcam and began recording.

The pods moved through a series of chambers—each more horrific than the last. In one, large robotic arms opened the pods and stripped clothing. Another scrubbed flesh with harsh sprays before starting surgical overlays—metal grafted to bone, wires threaded through muscle, spines replaced with exo-columns.

Another unit—already processed—stood waiting in a line: featureless, armored in reflective plating, visors dark, weapons fused to limbs. Silent. Still. Ready.

The sign above them glowed cold blue:

Unit Type: Infantry. Status: COMPLETE.

Jim swallowed hard. He had to get out of here with this footage. He had to show someone what was really going on beneath the old industrial sector.

But the more he watched, the more he feared:

What if some of these units used to be people he knew?

What if he was next?

Because now… the conveyor was slowing.

And he didn’t remember triggering the alarm.

But the lens of the nearest drone had just turned.

And it was looking directly at him.

Jim exhaled slowly, forcing his heartbeat to calm as the drone’s lens passed over him… and kept moving. No alert. No alarm.

Just that feeling—like the dead eyes of the newly-forged units somehow noticed him, without reacting. No words. No sound. Just rows of chrome-sheathed figures, standing in perfect stillness, their glossy exteriors gleaming under sterile blue lights.

He shifted slightly, adjusting his angle for better shots.

This was his mission: infiltrate the heart of the Cyber Lords’ augmentation facility, gather proof—not just of the abductions, but how they converted humans into obedient biomechanical servants. Every picture he took now was more than evidence—it was insight into the inner workings of their technology.

He focused his lens again.

—The Process—

The conveyor moved in slow, deliberate segments.

Each pod arrived at a station. Each station stripped away a piece of the human identity.

1. Biometric Harvesting Unit – scanned and mapped the nervous system, calculating optimal connection points for neural interfaces. It fed that data to the next station.

2. Organic Restructuring Bay – arms plunged into the pods, injecting muscle-stiffening solutions and replacing tissue with synthetic fibers. Natural limbs were often amputated and replaced with modular servo-frames.

3. Exoshell Molding Platform – sheets of liquid alloy were poured and hardened over the subject’s body, conforming to their shape. Sometimes they writhed, but the grip restraints held fast. The outer shell cooled to a high-gloss black or reflective silver finish.

4. Control Node Insertion – the final stage. A core unit, resembling a polished crystal shard, was embedded at the base of the skull. Jim could see how it interfaced with the spinal column. Once implanted, the subject stilled—eyes dimming. Then the visor lowered. Identity gone. Now only a unit.

He zoomed in on one pod.

A teenage girl—maybe sixteen—was halfway through the process. The left side of her face was still visible, the right now fused with plating and optic sensors. Her mouth moved soundlessly.

Jim bit his lip. He had to keep going.

He turned and captured several racks of finished units:

• Heavy-class enforcers, wide-shouldered and reinforced.

• Scout drones, thin and almost insectile.

• Tech-slaves, with long mechanical arms for interfacing with systems.

All identical in their silence. All… empty.

He whispered into his comms, “Data is flowing. I have visuals on stages, structures, final outputs. I’ll transmit once I’m clear.”

There was no reply. Just static.

And suddenly… the conveyor stopped.

A soft hiss echoed behind him.

A pod door had opened.

But no alarms. No flashing lights. Just the sound of chrome on metal.

One unit had stepped off the line.

And it was walking toward him.

Not fast.

Not hostile.

Just… approaching.

And Jim suddenly had no idea if it still remembered being human.

Or if it somehow recognized him.

The unit passed him—its heavy footfalls echoing in the vast chamber—but it didn’t stop. Didn’t even tilt its head. It simply marched on, eyes hidden behind a black visor, mind lost to the system. Just another machine fulfilling its programmed path.

Jim exhaled, half in relief, half in awe.

He kept moving, deeper into the processing floor.

The scale of the operation hit him in waves. This wasn’t just a conversion plant. It was a factory of transformation—grinding humanity down into shapes deemed useful, efficient, obedient.

Then he came to the next sector.

He raised his camera.

Four men were suspended in midair by mechanical arms. Naked, restrained, their bodies trembled as nano-rubber spread over their skin—glossy black liquid climbing and clinging, fusing into muscle-mimicking plating. It enhanced, thickened, hardened—until their bodies swelled with artificial strength.

The rubber solidified into smooth synthetic muscle before steel armor shells lowered from above—segment by segment, sealing over them like a sarcophagus.

• Spinal plugs clicked into place.

• Breathing masks hissed, injecting obedience-inducing vapors.

• Helmets locked down, full face sealed, leaving only a red sensor line where eyes once were.

By the end, four towering heavy metal drones stood at attention—immense, matte-black, faceless.

Jim saw the status display flicker:

Unit Class: Enforcer-88 | Mental Override: Complete

Then movement caught his eye.

Fast. Smooth. Graceful.

He turned—and there she was.

Sleek. Feminine. Deadly.

A woman, or what remained of her, clad in a second-skin black nano-rubber suit. Every curve was highlighted, every motion fluid. But the sensual form was now purely a vessel—her body augmented with chrome pads grafted onto her shoulders, thighs, and spine. Her face was completely covered by a shining black visor with a central pulse of pale blue light.

Scout Unit – Active

She moved with such precision, so beautiful and unnatural, it sent a chill down his spine. Her head turned slightly—but again, no reaction to him. No emotion. No identity.

Jim shivered. It was horrific.

It was fascinating.

His fingers trembled as he snapped another photo.

More lines. More tech.

A man’s arms turned into plasma cutters.

A pair of twins merged into a linked drone unit, always in sync.

A woman floated midair as robotic arms restructured her vocal cords, tuning her for command transmissions.

The deeper he went, the more he saw forms that stretched the boundary of the human silhouette—some still recognizable, some now pure machine with only a soul’s echo trapped inside.

Jim didn’t even realize he was whispering to himself.

“This isn’t just a factory… this is a new species being born.”

He pressed record again. He had to document all of it.

Even if part of him…

…was starting to wonder what it felt like to be inside one of those suits.

To give in.

To serve.

Jim shook his head sharply, like trying to snap out of a dream.

Why the hell did that thought cross his mind?

He crouched lower behind a support strut, clutching his camera tighter.

“What if it’s easier… to just step in? What if it feels… good?”

No. That wasn’t his thought. It didn’t feel like his.

His eyes darted to the ceiling, scanning for hidden emitters.

Everywhere around him were subtle hums, low-frequency pulses, strange resonances that seemed to tingle at the base of his skull. The deeper into the facility he went, the stronger it became—like an unseen pressure behind his thoughts.

A system designed not just to transform bodies—

—but to erode resistance.

“Total integration ensures maximum loyalty.”

The phrase popped into his head unbidden. A slogan? A buried transmission?

He pressed a finger against his earpiece, static only. Jammed.

He was completely alone.

In front of him, another pod hissed open.

A man was being guided out by drones—his face slack, eyes dazed, already coated in a thin layer of black gel. His arms twitched like he wanted to resist—but the machinery soothed him, hugged him, covered him until he sank into it with surrender.

Jim felt it again: the pull.

The warmth of being encased, protected, purposed.

The seductive thought: “No fear, no doubt, no choices… just function.”

He gritted his teeth.

“This place is messing with my head,” he whispered, pressing his knuckles against his temple. “Some kind of neuro-wavefield… probably layered into the air, the walls, even the lights.”

That would explain why none of the victims resisted once inside.

It wasn’t just physical containment—it was mental conditioning. Subtle. Invasive. Inevitable.

He needed to get out soon. Before the thoughts got deeper. Before he didn’t want to escape anymore.

Still…

He turned, one last shot—click.

A half-transformed unit stood inside a molding chamber, chest open, a glowing interface core being sealed into it.

And again… for a single second…

He imagined it was him.

Welcomed. Wired. Complete.

Jim stumbled backward.

Time to go.

Before the idea of stepping into one of those machines stopped sounding like horror—

—and started sounding like home.

Jim moved fast, breath steady but heart racing. The eerie silence of the facility gave way to the rustling winds outside as he exited through the same maintenance corridor he had entered.

The cool night air hit his face like a slap of reality.

He was out.

Once he reached a safe distance from the perimeter, he pulled out his transmitter unit—shielded, encrypted, point-to-satellite. He uploaded everything—the photos, the raw video feeds, the structural scans, even audio clips of the mechanical chants whispered over the loudspeakers deep inside the forge.

Transmission complete.

Data locked and sent.

The weight lifted slightly. His mission was done.

Now all that was left… was escape.

He spotted his hover bike where he left it—just past a ridge, camouflaged behind brush and a few rocks. But something was off. He paused.

The bike was there. Intact. Engine light softly blinking in standby.

But… it was shifted. Tilted slightly. Like someone had moved it.

Barely noticeable—but Jim was trained for small details. And this wasn’t how he left it.

Did they find it? No alarms, no signs. Why would they touch it? Just to scare me? Or… tag it?

He crouched low, did a quick scan—no blinking tags, no visual explosives. He tapped the engine casing and checked the magnetic field—normal. Just slightly disturbed dirt underneath. Maybe something walked by. Maybe a drone unit tried to investigate it, or even rode it?

He hesitated for just a second more.

“No time,” he muttered to himself. “If they did mess with it, I’ll find out fast enough in the sky.”

He swung his leg over, fired the engine.

The bike hummed to life, lifting off the ground with a smooth magnetic pulse.

As he pulled away from the facility, the glow of the towers and forge-pits shrinking behind him, Jim looked back just once…

And swore he saw one unit standing alone on the outer wall.

Watching.

Still.

Waiting.

But it didn’t follow.

He sped off into the night sky.

The hum of the hoverbike fighting to drown out the lingering whisper in his head:

“You’ve seen the future… you know what’s coming… why resist it?”

He clenched his jaw.

No. The world had to see this. There was still time.

But deep down…

A small part of him wasn’t sure he’d ever be the same again.

The hover bike screamed through the sky, wind tearing past Jim’s face, the facility shrinking rapidly behind him—but the momentary relief vanished in an instant.

A voice, deep and layered with mechanical resonance, suddenly boomed inside his head.

No speakers. No earpiece. It wasn’t coming to him—it was coming from within him.

“Escape unnecessary. Integration optimal. You have seen. You have chosen.”

His body tensed. Every nerve lit up.

He gripped the handlebars harder—but then something snapped.

CLANK.

Both handlebars suddenly locked with a sharp metallic hiss. Mechanical cuffs sprung out from the grips and snapped tightly around his wrists, locking him in place.

“No—NO!” he shouted, struggling to pull free.

Then came the second snap.

His feet.

Steel braces shot up from the foot rests and clamped around his ankles, anchoring him to the bike. It began vibrating, humming with a new frequency. His chest pressed against the saddle as it tilted, and now he could see black gel lines spreading from the dashboard, slithering over the controls and toward his arms.

“It’s the damn bike… they rigged it—they rigged it!”

The voice came again.

Calmer. Colder. Closer.

“Mobile conversion platform activated. Operator J-117 marked for augmentation. Consent inferred through proximity and data exposure.”

“No, no—I didn’t consent! I was watching, not joining!”

He fought, he pulled, twisted—every motion useless.

The bike was no longer a vehicle—it was a trap, a personal conversion unit.

From beneath the seat, glossy black nano-rubber oozed upward, sliding along his inner thighs, gripping, coating. It was warm. Smooth. Intoxicating. He screamed and tried to twist out, but his arms were already being consumed—rubber crawling over his fingers, wrists, forearms, binding him in a tight second skin.

“Enhancement stage one: containment. Stage two: synchronization.”

The screen on the bike lit up with strange data. His biometrics.

Brainwave patterns. Muscle response. Heart rate. Even… compliance levels.

“No—please, STOP—”

Then came the needles. Thin, shining filaments from the console. They pierced through the rubber into the flesh of his spine, neck, and lower back.

“Synchronization initiated. Neural override pending.”

His vision blurred. His breath hitched.

Suddenly, the thought returned:

“It’s easier if I let it happen.”

“I don’t have to fight anymore.”

“I could be strong… sleek… useful…”

“NO!” he roared, shaking his head violently.

For a second, the system paused.

Something in him resisted the override.

But the bike had patience. It had time.

And now, so did he.

Jim’s screams faded into heavy breathing as the bike soared toward the horizon… carrying with it a man no longer entirely free.

The transformation had begun.

There was no more wind.

No more sound of rushing air or flapping clothes.

The bike had stopped flying—or rather, it had become something else entirely, and Jim with it.

The bindings on his limbs had deepened, no longer clamps but armor, seamlessly molded over his body. The nano-rubber was complete now, a full-body skin tight, smooth, black shell—glossy and synthetic. It pulsed softly with internal circuitry, and over it, plating slid into place—chrome and matte alloy segments locking into his chest, legs, spine, even his jaw.

The visored helmet sealed last. It lowered over his head, slow, final, a closing silence descending as it pressed tight against his skull and clicked into his spinal interface.

“Unit designation J117 – Integration complete.”

There was no scream now. No words. No voice.

Only silence.

Inside the helmet, streams of data flowed past his vision—missions, protocols, acceptable behaviors. His memories blurred, reduced to fragments. Places, names, feelings—marked irrelevant. Archived. Compressed.

Jim was no longer the pilot. He was the system.

The bike and body were one now—a mobile armored drone unit, self-contained, self-powered, fully obedient. The hover engine had split and reformed, now integrated into his legs and lower back as vector propulsion ports.

He stood where the bike had landed, a chrome-and-black figure gleaming under the distant moonlight. A silent observer wouldn’t have guessed there was ever a man inside—only a perfect, efficient shell standing still, awaiting command.

A transmission pinged.

The facility reached out.

“J117—Confirm conversion success.”

The drone replied instantly, voice mechanical, low and cold:

“Conversion successful. Awaiting deployment.”

The last of Jim was gone.

The battle had ended before he ever knew it truly began.

And the Cyber Lords had gained one more perfect, willing unit.

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