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Recruit drill and sweat but looking good

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When the offer came in the mail, he couldn't refuse.

For most of his youth, he had been a tall but thin boy who really didn't fit in anywhere in society. His friends were stronger or smarter than he was and even his other brothers seemed to get the benefit of their family's genes.

So when he received a letter about changing his life forever, he didn't believe it. But after doing research on the internet, he understood that he would become a different man as long as he accepted everything that was going to happen to him.

They broke down the mental barriers that he had built up over the years. They enhanced his physical attributes through exercise, diet and drugs that made him stronger and faster. He didn't notice or even care that as this happened, his entire personality was changing.

Where once he had been tall and thin, now he was a physical beast. Where once he would question everything that was told him, he now accepted his orders without question. Where once he had no purpose in life, now he had been given purpose through obedience.

Now, he was a soldier ready to do what was required of him. And damn anybody who got in his way.

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From the moment the mask was strapped on everything changed. His mind already focused on obeying the Sgt narrowed even more. No longer thinking of ways to obey he no long had to think at all. When told to lift his body obeyed with out thinking, without thought at all.

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Recruits in line

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Ceremonial Drone Marine: Your Uniform Transformation

This is you before the transformation. Before the visor, before the serial number, before your silence became policy. You had just graduated high school in a dying town where the factories had been shut for years and college wasn’t even a conversation anymore—just a laugh, or a sigh. Your mom was juggling two jobs, your younger sister needed braces, and the bills were stacking up like unpaid warnings on the kitchen counter.

You didn’t join for glory. You joined because the recruiter offered a paycheck, three meals a day, and a way out. You were 18, standing in a room that smelled like floor polish and dust, the Marine Corps globe-and-anchor emblem carved into the wood behind you. You wore your first uniform like armour, still too stiff, the fabric creased by someone else’s hands. You held your white cover in front of you like it meant something—like it would mean something.

They told you this was where boys became men, where chaos became order. You believed them, or at least, you wanted to. That day, your chest still bore your name. Your eyes still showed thought. The oath you swore was still about defending something real. You were still you. This was the last version of yourself the world would ever see.

1. Your Uniform, Dehumanized

You're still wearing the U.S. Marine Corps uniform—at least, what's left of its original dignity. But now, it’s been twisted. Every stitch, every metal accent, every glowing element exists to erase you. No honour, no individuality—just control.

Dress Blues Variant (Ceremonial Use):

Glowing Eyes: Your traditional cover is replaced with a black visor or opaque helmet that masks your face. Behind it, red or blue lights glow where your eyes should be. You're no longer a person—just a faceless sentinel.

Picture it: You’re standing in formation. The crowd sees only your blank red stare—cold, lifeless.

Serial Number Identity: Gone are your medals and rank insignia. In their place, a cold serial number, stitched onto your chest and arms. You're not Sergeant Smith. You're Drone 4783.

Chrome Accents: Your cuffs, shoulders, and belt glint with reflective metallics. It looks sharp—like machinery. And that’s the point. You're supposed to look manufactured.

Combat Variant (Operational Deployment):

Permanent Helmet: Your helmet’s no longer removable. It’s fused to your headgear, feeding you commands through a glowing HUD synced with your neural implant.

Skin-Tight Fit: Your combat uniform hugs tight—too tight. There’s no room for comfort or expression. You don’t move anymore—you operate.

Shadow Camo: MARPAT is dead. You wear black and gunmetal-gray patterns, signalling the death of personality. You blend not into nature, but into the regime.

No Name, No Rank: Where your name used to be, there’s now a barcode—scanned by your superiors, read by machines, irrelevant to you.

2. The Tools of Your Submission

Neck Implant or Shock Collar:

Around your neck, a sleek device pulses faint red. Disobey, even for a second, and you feel it—a jolt that reminds you who controls you. You don’t speak unless ordered. You don’t pause unless permitted.

Imagine: A .2-second hesitation, and the collar sparks. You lock back into place instantly.

Integrated Weapons:

You don't carry weapons—you are a weapon. An M16A4 locks magnetically to your back, only released when your handler triggers it. On duty, you might have forearm-mounted arms or shoulder turrets. You no longer aim—you’re aimed.

3. Your Movements Aren’t Yours

Stillness as Performance:

You do not fidget. You do not blink. In stillness, you become a statue—an embodiment of submission. If your visor reveals anything at all, it’s nothing human.

Picture a ceremony: You're lined up with others. No breath visible. No reaction. Just silence, glowing eyes, and the oppressive weight of control.

Marching in Machine Sync:

When ordered to move, you all move together—exactly together. Footsteps strike simultaneously. Arms swing in calculated arcs. It's not grace—it’s programming.

The sound of a thousand boots, perfectly timed, drowns everything else. You are a machine within a machine.

Distorted Voice:

Your voice is no longer yours. It's filtered through a modulator, robotic and monotone.

Example:

Officer: “Drone 4783, report.”

You: “Awaiting orders. Compliance is my duty. I exist to serve.”

4. Symbols of the Fallen Ideal

Defiled Flag Patch

The American flag on your shoulder still resembles what it once was—but just barely. The red, white, and blue have been bled dry, replaced with a cold grayscale. The stripes are no longer fabric; they're now razor-thin barcodes stitched in alternating dark silvers and blacks. The stars are gone, replaced with a single black insignia: a cogwheel surrounded by thorns, representing the regime’s mechanical grip and merciless control.

On parade, you march past civilians who glance at your patch, looking for some remnant of what it meant. But all they see is a mockery—freedom reduced to branding.

In combat, your enemies don’t see a flag. They see a symbol of fear, compliance, and annihilation.

Oath Rewritten

Your old oath to defend the Constitution has been replaced—not torn up, but perverted. On the inside lining of your collar or across the back hem of your jacket, a new oath is stitched in industrial thread: “I exist to serve. My will is irrelevant. My purpose is obedience.” The lettering is small, barely noticeable—but always there, pressed against your skin.

During inspection, superiors might whisper part of it to you—not as a question, but a command. You recite it without hesitation, not from memory, but because it’s been installed.

On some units, the altered oath scrolls across the helmet HUD—line by line—every morning as your systems boot up.

5. The World Sees You Like This

Parade of Drones:

You march through the capital with a thousand others. Glowing visors. Echoing boots. The crowd watches in silence, unsettled. The chants rise:

“The Mission is All. The State is Eternal.”

Guard Detail for the Supreme Leader:

You don’t blink. You don’t turn your head. You just watch. As the leader speaks, your visor pulses. The message is clear: everyone is being observed.

Executioner’s Role:

You raise the ceremonial sabre and execute the sentence. You feel nothing. You return to stillness, leaving the crowd in terrified awe. You are no longer a Marine. You are judgment incarnate.

In this twisted version of service, you’re not a warrior—you’re a symbol. Of obedience. Of erasure. Of everything the uniform once stood against. And that's exactly what they want.

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Recruits drill and discipline

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Army boys at work

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Marineisation

“Here is your new uniform.”

The words rang out with the cold efficiency of a checklist being ticked. No ceremony, no welcome—just another gear turning in the great machine you’d been drafted into.

Laid out before you were the dress blues. Immaculate. Intimidating. The deep navy jacket, lined with red piping, glinted with polished brass buttons. A white belt coiled stiffly across it like a restraint, gloves pressed into a square of order. The cap sat atop the folded trousers like a crown for a king you weren’t meant to be. It was beautiful, yes—but it wasn’t yours. It belonged to the system that now owned you.

You hadn’t chosen this. You hadn’t applied. You were informed.

They’d taken you from your civilian life with a letter that used the word mandatory three times before you finished the first paragraph. Protests were irrelevant. Conscientious objections vanished into administrative voids. You were processed, catalogued, and reassigned.

Now, standing in front of the mirror in a stark, government-assigned room, you saw yourself swallowed by the image. A Staff Sergeant's insignia adorned your sleeves—ironic, considering you hadn’t even been trained yet. “Projection of discipline begins with appearance,” they told you. “Identity follows structure.”

Each morning you were expected to stand before your locker and dress to perfection. Fold, align, tighten, salute. By evening, your body ached from hours of drilling, of marching, of answering to a name that wasn’t yours. But that was the point. This wasn’t about fighting a war. It was about reshaping you into someone who would fight any war without hesitation.

No one called you by your name anymore. You were “Marine.” You were “Unit.” You were “Asset.”

Each layer of fabric clung to you like a claim on your soul. Every crease was checked. Every thread accounted for. The uniform was not there to protect you. It was there to transform you.

And slowly, inevitably, it would.

The uniform didn’t care about your past. It only demanded presence. Discipline. Submission.

And you? You were learning to disappear inside it.

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第七話 蛙人，就是公廁最美好的裝飾品

第七話 蛙人，就是公廁最美好的裝飾品

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Honour, Duty, Service

The package arrived on a Tuesday, a plain brown box resting innocuously against the rest of the post. It was addressed to you, full legal name printed with unnerving precision. Inside, nestled in packing peanuts, was a simple black headset, sleek and futuristic. No note, no return address, just a prickle of unease crawling up your spine as you turned it over in your hands.

Curiosity, that most human of flaws, won out. You slipped the headset on, the interior a cool, velvety caress. A voice, smooth as buttered silk, filled your ears, "Welcome. You have been chosen."

Chosen for what? You never got the chance to ask. The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of swirling colours, a pressure building in your head until you blacked out.

When you woke, you were in a sterile white room, the only furniture a chair and a table bolted to the floor. The headset was gone. The door opened, revealing a man in a crisp white lab coat, his smile failing to reach his cold, calculating eyes.

"Ah, good," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "He's awake. The process can begin."

You tried to speak, to demand answers, but the words caught in your throat. Fear, raw and primal, choked you. You were trapped, a fly in the web of some shadowy organization, their purpose unknown but their methods terrifyingly efficient.

The sterile white room became your prison, your universe shrunk down to the four walls that held you captive. The process was slow, methodical, a methodical dismantling of your identity. It began with injections, cocktails of unknown substances that left you weak and pliant, your mind awash in a fog of disorientation.

Then came the lights, pulsing strobes of blinding intensity that seared patterns into your vision. The pain was excruciating, a vice crushing your skull from the inside out. You thrashed against the restraints, your screams swallowed by the padded walls.

Between the assaults, the propaganda seeped in, a constant drip-feed of indoctrination. Loudspeakers hidden in the walls hammered home the Marine Corps' virtues: honour, courage, commitment. They glorified their history, their victories, their unwavering dedication to duty.

You were shown images on a screen: proud Marines in crisp uniforms, flags waving in the breeze, enemies falling before their might. The images were accompanied by stirring music, anthems of patriotism and valour that wormed their way into your brain, burrowing deep into your subconscious.

Sleep deprivation became your constant companion. Days and nights blurred together, your only measure of time the pangs of hunger and the exhaustion that gnawed at your bones. When you were allowed to sleep, it was on a cold, hard cot, haunted by nightmares of battlefields and faceless enemies.

They broke you down, piece by piece, stripping away your individuality, your memories, your very sense of self. They targeted your vulnerabilities, exploiting your fears and insecurities, twisting them into a desperate need for the structure and certainty the Marine Corps offered.

Language drills were a constant torment. Your own name, once so familiar, became a foreign word, replaced by the numerical designation they assigned you. You were forced to repeat phrases, slogans, and the Marine Corps hymn until your voice was hoarse, your accent slowly morphing into the clipped, neutral tones of an American soldier.

Physical conditioning went hand-in-hand with the mental torture. You were pushed to your physical limits, forced to run until your lungs burned, to exercise until your muscles screamed for mercy. The pain, they told you, was weakness leaving your body, replaced by the strength and resilience of a Marine.

The process was brutal, relentless, designed to shatter your will and rebuild you in their image. By the time they deemed you ready, you were a blank slate, stripped of your past, your mind a vessel filled with their programming. You were no longer the man you once were. You were a weapon, forged in the fires of their making, ready to kill and die at their command. You were a US Marine.

The cold metal of the chair bit into your bare skin, the only warmth the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights overhead. Two figures flanked you, their faces obscured by surgical masks, their movements clinical and detached. They didn't speak, their silence amplifying the buzzing of the clippers as one of them switched it on.

Your hair, once a source of pride, maybe even a carefully styled statement, was the first to go. The clippers made short work of it, shearing through the strands, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You flinched, the feeling of vulnerability amplified by the cold air now biting at your scalp. They offered no comfort, no reassurance, only the relentless whirring of the clippers as they worked, erasing another piece of your former self.

With your head shorn, your face took centre stage. The reflection staring back from the metal tray was a stranger, eyes dulled with exhaustion, skin pallid under the artificial light. A hand, clad in a latex glove, grasped your chin, tilting your head this way and that as the other figure meticulously shaved away any trace of stubble.

The blade was sharp, unforgiving, scraping against your skin. Each stroke felt like a violation, a stripping away of not just your hair, but your very identity. You were being made anonymous, a blank canvas upon which they would paint their ideal soldier.

The process was dehumanizing, a ritualistic stripping away of individuality. You were no longer a person with a name, a history, a sense of self. You were raw material, being moulded to fit the rigid standards of the Marine Corps.

Once the shaving was complete, they brought out the uniform: crisp, olive-drab trousers, a khaki shirt starched to military perfection, and heavy black boots that smelled faintly of polish and leather. You were dressed like a doll, your limbs manipulated into each garment, the buttons and zippers fastened with impersonal efficiency.

The cherry on top of the cake (so to speak) was the simple white cap, with a black visor sloping down over your eyes and a gold Marine Corps emblem taking pride of place right at the top, in line with your nose.

The fabric felt rough against your skin, the fit uncomfortably tight. It was a constant, physical reminder of your new reality, a uniform that marked you as property of the United States Marine Corps. Looking down at the unfamiliar clothing, you felt a wave of despair wash over you. Your transformation was nearly complete. The person you were, the life you knew, was fading into a distant, inaccessible memory. In its place stood a soldier, programmed for obedience, his mind and body forfeit to the will of his new masters.

By the time they shaved your head and dressed you in the unfamiliar uniform, you were already gone, a hollow shell ready to be filled with the unwavering loyalty of a US Marine. Your transformation to brainwashed soldier, was complete.

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