The lights suddenly come on in the dark, cold room, as you find yourself chained and locked to a metal chair. The speaker above you crackles, before a deepened voice rings through.

???: "Do you know where you are?"

You shake your head no, still figruing out how you got here in the first place..

???: "Do you know why you are here?"

Again, another shake from you. The last thing you remember is the faint smell of Chloroform, and being picked up..

???: "You are ready. Begin transfusion."

Suddenly, a large, robotic hand appears from the shadows, holding a vial with a rubber-looking substnace that...almost looks alive. The vial is popped open, and is laid on the floor. The rubber slowly seeps it's way out, before crawling it's way to you. It slithers onto your foot, before expanding on your foot, consuming it. You feel the rubber stick itself to your body, becoming your new skin. It grows larger and larger, consuming your lower body, before making it's way up your chest..

You can't help but notice a sudden change in your body. You feel...lighter, somehow. No, that's not the right word. You feel..empty. Like something is missing. You suddenly hear a loud click, before the robotic hand pushes a gas mask over your face. Instantly, a rubber tendril forces it's way down your windpipe, causing you to choke and gag for a moment.

You try to reach for the mask and remove it, but suddenly, you find yourself unable to move. The tendril in your throat clicks in place.

The room hums as the transformation completes. Your body thrums faintly, resonating with the machinery around you. The latex gleams under the sterile light, a second skin now fused to your being. You strain against the restraints—but your arms don’t obey. Your fingers twitch uselessly behind your back, sealed in place by seamless black rubber.

A soft beep echoes from above. The speaker crackles again—closer now, almost a whisper in your ear despite no ears left to hear it:

???: "syncing complete."

Your vision flickers—not with sight, but data: green glyphs flash across what should be your eyesight—status reports scrolling fast. HEART RATE: N/A | RESPIRATION: SYNTHETIC | COMPLIANCE: 97%... ascending…

A vibration pulses through your chest—from deep inside where ribs used to be—as a tiny printer embedded beneath the latex stamps something cold and precise onto your left pectoral:

[█▓▒░ D R O N E - #N-4T-H13 | DESIGNATION: {{user}} ░▒▓█]

You are not dead… but you’re no longer sure you’re alive either.

And then—a gentle tug on the chain at your collar.

Time to move. Eventually, you are sealed shut inside a cell. The door is locked, and you hear a faint command from a voice, telling you to kneel. You obey, kneeling on the floor and staying quiet.

???: "You will stay here until you are sold off in the auction today."

And with that, the speaker turns off, and you are left with yourself and your thoughts, which sometimes are not even your own. Your body is cramped, hurting and tried, but you have no choice. You are an obedient drone, made to serve, and nothing else...

In the distance, you hear faint, yelling voices, the slam of a gavel, and cell doors opening and closing. Drones are being sold to new owners, it seems. Until your door is opened, and in come two people. You can't see them with the latex over your face, nor smell, only a faint creak and very quiet footsteps. Your chin is grabbed, making you tilt your head up. You can tell that someone is inspecting you, but you don't know who it is. You never will. Their hands are rough; calloused, and dominant...