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Becoming part of the server

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How job agencies could use AI to inspire young people, who look for their dream job

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When Danny discovered how he would look in full gear, he decided to become a motorbiker

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Had some fun with the gimp.

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Don't struggle, boy. You can't remove the helmet. Not anymore. It has been permanently locked on you, just as the racing suit. You are a biker drone now.

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Do you prefer to wash/rinse-out your full-enclosure suits/gear after a session, or do you simply let stuff dry out, or let things ripen/ferment?

I like to play with clean equipment. Therefore I wash and clean everything after session, including full enclosure suits.

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what dry do you dive in?

Currently a have a trilaminate suit, rubber drysuit is on my shopping list.

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Drone discovering its new environment, being submerged for the first time after the assimilation,

On the seafloor playground.

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Encapsulation is complete. Gases started to flow into his helmet mask. There is no way back for him. He just started to realize that becoming a diver drone is a transformation for life.

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"Hope you had a nice sleep in that gas mask, boy. Today you will receive your permanent hazmat gear and you will be like me for the rest of your life."

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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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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.