obedientteens

[obedientteens]

Unit 819

The first image is a moment frozen in ambition. This is Archie Gray, not just a person, but a promise. He is 18, and the fabric of the Tottenham Hotspur jersey he pulls at is a second skin, woven from the dreams of floodlit stadiums and the roar of thousands. The blue light is dramatic, carving out the sharp angles of a face filled with the intense, focused arrogance of youth. His eyes hold the fire of a competitor. He is a rising star, a valuable asset on the pitch, his body a finely tuned instrument of athletic will.

The fall begins not with a tackle, but with a lie. The invitation was framed as a cutting-edge sponsorship deal, a meeting with a new tech conglomerate looking for the face of their brand. The meeting room was on the 34th floor of a featureless glass tower, overlooking a city that seemed to hold its breath for him. The water they offered him tasted clean. It was the last thing he remembered before the world dissolved into a soft, humming darkness.

Phase 1: The Stripping of the Idol

He awakens to the sterile white of a Repurposing cell. Panic, hot and sharp, is the first thing he feels. He is an athlete; his body is his weapon and his shield. He springs to his feet, but the walls are seamless, the silence absolute. His physical power is useless here.

A door slides open. Two handlers in grey uniforms enter. They are not intimidated by his physique; they move with a placid, unnerving confidence. Archie braces himself for a fight, but they don't engage. Instead, a barely audible, high-frequency tone fills the room, buckling his knees and sending a wave of nausea through him. As he slumps to the floor, disoriented, they approach.

They don't undress him. They unmake him. With cold, sharp instruments, they cut the Hotspur jersey from his body. He watches as the cockerel crest, the iconic AIA logo, the fabric he revered, is sliced apart and peeled from his skin like a worthless rind. It is a desecration. The pieces are fed into a pneumatic tube and vanish with a soft thump. His boots, designed for explosive speed on grass, are unlaced and removed. His entire identity as a footballer is systematically dismantled and discarded.

He is then forced into the purple polo. The fabric is thick, cheap, and restrictive. It chafes his neck. The "Currys" logo sits where the club crest should be, a brand of mundane servitude replacing a symbol of glory.

Phase 2: The Taming of the Mane

He is restrained in a chair, his head clamped into place. He expects the "follicular zeroing tool" he has heard whispers of, but the machine that descends is different. It is an array of robotic arms tipped with nozzles, combs, and heating elements. This is not erasure; it is forced conformity.

His hair, the unruly curls of a teenager, is targeted. A cold gel is applied, followed by a meticulous, invasive styling. Each curl is separated, straightened, and reshaped by the robotic arms. The process is unnervingly precise, forcing his hair into a neat, static, corporate-approved quiff. Any struggle, any tensing of his neck muscles, is met with a sharp, corrective pressure from the head clamp. He is being groomed like an animal, his last vestige of personal style tamed into bland submission.

Phase 3: The Extinguishing of the Fire

The most brutal phase is the "Affective Imprinting." A screen lowers before his eyes, displaying footage of his own greatest moments on the pitch: a blistering run down the wing, a ferocious tackle, the raw, screaming celebration after a goal. The fire in his eyes, the passion that defined him, is played back to him.

"Observe and replicate the target expression," the synthesized voice commands. On the right side of the screen, the placid, friendly smile from the corporate template appears.

Instinctively, as he watches himself celebrate, a flicker of pride crosses his face. A jolt of pain, sharp and electric, lances through the sensors on his temples. "Incorrect response," the voice states. "Passion is a non-compliant emotion. Aggression is a non-compliant emotion. Pride is a non-compliant emotion."

They show him the footage again. He is forced to watch his own triumphs and overlay them with the dead-eyed, pleasant smile of a retail assistant. He is being conditioned to associate his own success with pain, to replace the fire in his soul with calculated friendliness. The process is repeated for hours, until the sight of a football pitch triggers not adrenaline, but the conditioned reflex of a placid, empty grin.

Phase 4: The Unveiling of the Unit

The final photo is the proof of concept. He is placed against the light-blue backdrop. "Assume position," the voice commands. His body obeys. The smile locks into place. The camera flashes.

A supervisor reviews the two images on a tablet—the fiery young athlete in the blue light, and the placid employee in the purple polo. The transformation is a masterpiece of the program. They have taken a unique, celebrated talent and turned him into a generic, interchangeable unit. He is no longer Archie Gray. He is Unit 819.

His first deployment is to the television section. A father and son, both in football shirts, approach him. "Excuse me," the father says, "we're looking for a new TV. What's best for watching the footy? Something with a good refresh rate, you know?"

The ghost of Archie Gray screams in the silent prison of his own mind. But Unit 819's smile remains perfect. "An excellent question," he hears his own voice say, calm and helpful. "For fast-moving sports, you'll want to prioritize a native 120Hz panel to minimize motion blur. The LG C-series, for example, offers exceptional pixel response time, which is ideal for tracking the ball..."

He is now an expert on how to best watch the game he was born to play, a game he will never play again. The transformation is absolute.

[obedientteens]

25 posts!

[obedientteens]

Lot 42

The wood of the railing is rough under your clasped hands. You focus on the splintered grain, a small, tangible detail in the vast, echoing space of the warehouse. The air is thick with the smell of dust, sweat, and the faint, metallic tang of old machinery. It is cold. Overhead, industrial lights cast a sterile, even glare on everything, bleaching the world into shades of grey.

Around you, the others stand in identical pens. A sea of digital camouflage, shorn heads, and vacant expressions. You see them, but you don't feel kinship. You don't feel anything. That was the first thing the conditioning took from you. Emotion is a liability. You are all assets, waiting for acquisition.

You are stock. You understand this with the calm clarity of an accepted fact. The wooden pens, the concrete floor, the tiered viewing gallery where the buyers sit—it is all designed to reinforce this truth. You are no different from the prize bulls or breeding rams that passed through places like this generations ago. You are simply a more advanced form of livestock.

A group of buyers walks the narrow aisles between the pens. They don't hurry. They speak in low tones, their civilian clothes a stark contrast to your uniform. One of them, a man with a hard face and cold eyes, stops in front of your pen. He holds a small, glowing data slate.

He doesn't speak to you. He doesn't have to. He looks at your designation number, stenciled on the pen's gate, and then at his slate. He looks at you, but not at you. His gaze is evaluative. He is assessing your muscle mass, your height, your posture. He is reading your specs: combat effectiveness, obedience rating, psychological resilience. You meet his gaze with the neutral, unblinking stare you were programmed to maintain. You are an object being appraised. You do not flinch. You do not react. You simply exist.

Satisfied, he makes a note on his slate and moves on to the next pen, the next product.

After a time, the buyers retreat to the gallery. A voice, amplified and disembodied, crackles to life from hidden speakers. It is the auctioneer. He does not use names. He uses lot numbers and quadrant designations.

"We now begin the primary acquisition phase for Gamma Quadrant," the voice announces, flat and businesslike. "Lots 40 through 50. All assets are infantry-trained, peak physical condition, fully compliant with Protocol Seven conditioning. Bidding will commence per unit."

You are Lot 42.

You don't watch the buyers in the stands. You don't need to. You simply stand, hands clasped, and wait. You hear the auctioneer's call, the quiet responses, the designation of a winning bid. A gate unlatches somewhere to your left. A handler gives a quiet command. One of your brothers—one of the other assets—marches out of his pen and is led away.

The process is efficient. Unemotional.

Then, you hear it. "Lot 42."

The gate to your pen swings open with a wooden scrape. A handler stands there, his expression as blank as your own. Beside him is the buyer with the cold eyes. He won the bid. He is your new owner.

"Asset 42, proceed," the handler commands.

Your body obeys. Your hands unclasp from the railing. You execute a perfect pivot on the concrete floor and march out of the pen. You do not look back at the others who are still waiting. Your programming is forward-focused. The past is irrelevant.

You fall into step behind the man who bought you. The sounds of the auction—the auctioneer's voice, the shuffling of boots, the creak of the pens—begin to fade behind you. Your focus narrows to the back of this man, your new master.

You have been sold. A new set of orders will be issued shortly. Your mission continues.

[obedientteens]

Lot 7

You stand on the auctioneer's platform. The world is framed by the wooden beams of the barn, and your posture is immaculate, a conditioned response so deep it feels more natural than breathing. You smell the sawdust, the faint, sweet scent of hay, and the warm, animal smell of the cattle in the pen directly below you. They shift and low softly, their sounds a dull, constant backdrop to the silence that surrounds you.

Your U.S. Marine Corps Dress Blue uniform is a heavy, restrictive skin. The high collar forces your chin up, your gaze level. You feel the weight of the medals on your chest, though the memories attached to them have been neatly excised, leaving only polished metal. The iconic red "blood stripe" on your trousers is a sharp, vertical line in your peripheral vision. You are a perfect and silent statue, the embodiment of honor, courage, and commitment, repurposed for this stage.

The auctioneer, a man named Silas, begins to speak. His voice is calm and measured, and you register it as you would register the wind or the rain. It is happening, and you are its subject.

"Lot 7," he says, and you know he means you. "Designation: 'Victor.' Graduated top of his class in infantry training. Expert rifleman. Documented resilience to extreme environmental and psychological stressors."

You stare at the far wall of the barn, your eyes fixed on a knot in the wood. You see it, but you do not perceive it. Your mind is a calm, white, silent space.

"His service record is flawless," Silas continues, "but more importantly, his post-service conditioning is absolute. He operates on a closed-loop command system. What you see is not a man, but a vessel of perfect obedience."

In the stands, you see the bidders. They look like farmers and ranchers, but their gazes are analytical, assessing. They are judging you, the prize stock. The parallel to the cattle below you is deliberate, a fact your conditioning allows you to understand without emotion. You are simply in a different pen.

"We will open the bidding at five hundred," Silas announces.

A man in a white cowboy hat touches the brim. You see the motion.

"I have five hundred. Looking for six."

Another man raises his chin. You see that, too.

"Six hundred it is. Do I hear seven?"

The silent bidding continues, a series of subtle gestures that decide your fate. You remain perfectly still, a product on display. Your value is calculated based on your discipline and the complete and total absence of your own will. You are the finest animal here.

"One million," the auctioneer's voice cuts through the quiet. The finality in his tone is unmistakable. "Sold. To the gentleman from the Sterling Consortium."

The man in the white cowboy hat gives a slight, final nod. He is your new owner.

You feel a presence beside you. The handlers. A quiet command is given—a soft click, a specific word—and your body obeys without conscious thought. You execute a flawless pivot, your polished Corcoran boots making no sound on the wooden planks.

You march off the block, past the pen of shifting, lowing cattle. You do not look at them. You do not look at your buyer. You are simply following the last order you will ever receive from The Provenance.

Your service to your country is over. Your service to your new owner has just begun.

[obedientteens]

The Living Tribute

The whispers followed you like the clinking of ice in the glasses you carried. At the annual "Patriots Gala," an event where fortunes were pledged and political alliances forged over plates of truffle-infused everything, you were the most talked-about feature. You were not a guest, nor a standard member of the catering staff. You were, as the event's host had proudly announced, part of the "Living Tribute" service.

The waistband on your bespoke trousers, stark against the formal red stripe, said "U.S. MARINES." For a hefty donation to a veterans' charity, a team of off-duty Marines, all discipline and chiseled physiques, served drinks and hors d'oeuvres. It was a gimmick, but a wildly successful one. The city's elite loved the blend of patriotism and spectacle.

You hated it. Every part of it. You felt like a prize stallion being paraded, the muscles on your torso—honed not for show but for survival, for carrying a fellow Marine out of a firefight—now merely part of the decor. But the cause was just. The money raised tonight would fund a new wing at the VA hospital, a wing dedicated to the physical and mental rehabilitation of your brothers and sisters in arms. So you played the part.

You moved with an economy of motion that was second nature, your eyes scanning the room not for empty glasses, but for exits, for threats, for faces that seemed out of place. It was a habit you couldn't switch off. As you approached a table of laughing, tuxedo-clad men, you kept your expression neutral, your posture perfect.

"Gentlemen," you said, your voice a low, steady baritone as you offered the silver tray.

One of the men, a portly industrialist with a booming voice, looked you up and down. "Tell me, son," the man slurred slightly, "do they teach you how to mix a martini like that in basic training?"

The others chuckled. You felt a familiar fire ignite in your gut, but your training held it in check. You were a professional. This was your mission for the night.

"No, sir," you replied calmly, meeting the man's gaze without deference or aggression. "In basic training, they teach us how to run towards the sound of gunfire while others are running away."

A sudden, sharp silence fell over the table. The man’s boozy smile faltered. For a fleeting second, the glamour of the evening was stripped away, and they saw you not as a handsome novelty, but as what you were: a shield. A man who had stood on a wall in a faraway land so they could enjoy evenings just like this one.

As you turned to walk away, a hand like a steel clamp gripped your arm. You were pulled swiftly and silently into an alcove behind a towering floral arrangement. Gunnery Sergeant Thorne, who had overseen the detail all night, had you pinned against the wall.

"What was that, Reyes?" Thorne's voice was a low growl, more menacing than any shout.

"Gunny, the man was—"

"I don't care if he questioned your mother's honour and spat on the flag," Thorne cut you off. "That man is a seven-figure donor. Your job tonight is not to win battles of wit. It's to ensure men who can no longer stand on their own have a place to heal. You let your pride compromise the mission."

Your jaw tightened, but you said nothing.

"You want to act like a smart mouth? Fine. You can do it up close," Thorne said. He pushed you back towards the ballroom. "Your new assignment for the rest of the night is Mr. Albright. You are his personal server. You will stand behind his chair. You will ensure his glass is never empty. You will not leave his side. He will get such impeccable, dedicated service that he completely forgets your little comment. Your punishment is to swallow every ounce of your pride and demonstrate what true discipline looks like. Now go."

Defeated, you took a deep breath, your anger replaced by the cold weight of an order. You walked back to the table, your posture impossibly straight. You stopped directly behind Mr. Albright’s chair.

The industrialist looked up, a smug smirk returning to his face as he realized what was happening. But the smirk slowly faded as the minutes wore on. You were a statue, a silent, imposing presence. You refilled Albright’s water glass before a bead of condensation could fall. When a new course arrived, you were there to assist. Your service was perfect, relentless, and deeply unsettling.

[obedientteens]

I've been having a little play with AI...

What do you think?

[obedientteens]

It's my 2 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

[obedientteens]

Thank you to everyone who got me to 250 likes!

[obedientteens]

Love to Help

You're nineteen years old. You wake up on the same hard plastic cot, in the same narrow storeroom, wedged between crates of long-life milk and multipacks of baked beans. The fluorescent light overhead never turns off—just dims slightly between the hours arbitrarily labelled “rest.” Your ankle tag pulses once as you swing your legs down. A reminder. Not that you need it anymore.

There’s no alarm clock. You don’t need one. The tinny voice crackling through the ceiling speaker announces the start of shift like church bells in some long-dead village: “Good morning, Team. Let’s make today special. Love to help.”

You pull the uniform over your head. Same grey fleece, same black trousers. No name badge. No distinction. You are one of many. The only writing on your back is the slogan they made mandatory—“Love to Help”—as if that sentiment could be programmed into your muscles. Sometimes, when you catch your reflection in the frozen doors of the dairy aisle, it hits you how invisible you've become. Just a blurred face in a regulation fleece.

Your ankle tag is hidden under the cuff of your trousers. Concealed, but always felt. It buzzes when you stand still too long. It pings when you leave designated zones. You’ve never seen one removed.

You don’t ask how long this is meant to last. Nobody does.

Everyone here is your age. You don’t know if that’s coincidence or design. They arrived in ones and twos, all with the same vacant, weary stares. Offences whispered but never confirmed—truancy, defiance, noncompliance. Not enough to imprison. Just enough to repurpose. They called it “the real-world rehabilitation initiative.” But it’s not the real world in here. It's aisles and rotas. Plastic smiles. Repetition.

You work sixteen-hour days. No music. No phones. Just the corporate-approved playlist over the tannoy and the rustle of shrink-wrap. Lunch is regulated. Interaction is monitored. You are not discouraged from speaking—but there’s no time, really. The best you can manage is a nod by the tills or a half-smile when passing in produce. It’s enough.

Sometimes, customers wander in. Actual civilians. You watch them from behind self-checkouts, their hands full of privilege—keys, cash, car fobs, choices. You ring up their items with perfect efficiency, and they thank you like they mean it. “Cheers, mate.” “Thanks, love.” You nod. You do not reply.

Because that’s not your name. You don’t have one here. You are Asset 94. You are Team. You are Morrisons.

And this is where you live now.

[obedientteens]

Thank you @soldierslave and everyone who got me to 25 reblogs!

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.

[obedientteens]

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.

[obedientteens]

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.

[obedientteens]

Hello! Welcome to my blog

Here are a few links you may find useful in order to find my content that most closely matches what you're into:

By Country

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By Type of Uniform

Dress

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Themes

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Other

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Honour Guard

Supermarkets

[obedientteens]

Everytime you upload im so happy!!! New uploads yayyy

Tsym! You're too kind lol

[obedientteens]

Here is your new wardrobe.

The words are spoken without emotion, by a figure in a pressed uniform who doesn’t bother to meet your eyes. The locker door swings open, revealing the neat arrangement within. Shirts the colour of slate sky hang in perfect formation, their sleeves tucked with almost surgical precision. A dark wool overcoat, heavy with symbolism and weight, occupies the central rail like a judge awaiting your sentence.

You stare at the garments, numb. They look new, but you know how many have worn them before you—how many were broken into the shape expected of them, until they fit like second skin. You were not supposed to be here. But the order came, and refusal was never an option.

On the shelf above, a service cap stares back at you, its silver insignia polished so thoroughly you can see your reflection twisted in its curvature. It doesn’t look like you anymore. Below, the boots shine black and expressionless, waiting to be filled, to walk in the steps of thousands before you. You know they won’t just change your appearance—they’ll change your gait, your stance, the rhythm of your days.

The figure gestures again. “Get changed.”

Shirt first—the fabric stiff and unfamiliar. Then the trousers, creased to exacting standards, and the belt that clicks shut with a finality that makes your chest tighten. Every item fastened is another thread of your old self unpicked and rewoven into something uniform. Unquestioning.

The jacket goes on next. Its shoulders are broad, squared, engineered to force your posture into submission. Brass buttons gleam down the front like medals you haven’t earned. Your arms move stiffly as you fasten each one, your fingers fumbling in a mix of unfamiliarity and reluctance. The white belt is cinched around your waist, pulling you inward, tightening the illusion.

Then the gloves—white as surrender—and the tie, so black it swallows the light. You never wore one before, but here it becomes the noose that seals your transformation.

Finally, the cap. Slate blue with a dark band, crowned with the golden insignia of the Royal Air Force. The moment it touches your head, something shifts. You stand straighter. You stop blinking and your field of vision narrows. The corners of your mouth tug upward, not because you want to smile, but because it is expected.

In the polished reflection of a window, you catch a glimpse of yourself. The person staring back is proud. Composed. Unrecognizable.

And then the door opens. There are others waiting. They nod at you with knowing eyes. You’re one of them now.

You don’t remember saying yes. But here you are.

[obedientteens]

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.

[obedientteens]

Chineseification

The hum of machinery is the first thing you become aware of as you open your eyes. A harsh, metallic light reflects off endless rows of gleaming surfaces, and the air smells of chemicals, oil, and something faintly metallic. Your wrists and ankles are bound, and as you strain against the straps, you realize you’re moving—not on your own, but on a conveyor belt. 

Before you can make sense of the situation, a voice crackles over the speakers, cold and commanding. 

“Subject 431. Processing initiated.” 

Processing? You turn your head and catch sight of others ahead of you. Men—each strapped down like you, their faces slack, their eyes vacant. They are carried through a series of stations, each performing a precise, mechanical task. The uniformity of it all sends a chill down your spine. 

---

Stage One: Transformation

The conveyor belt slows as you approach the first station. Robotic arms descend, fitted with shears and clippers. 

“No, wait!” you yell, but your voice is swallowed by the machinery. The clippers buzz to life, and you feel the vibrations as they shear away your long and luscious hair. Chunk by chunk, your hair falls in voluptuous clumps to the floor. 

Before you can process the loss, a hissing spray envelops your head. The smell of chemicals burns your nose as the black dye sets in, and the robotic arms return, shaving your head down to a precise, velvety layer. You catch a brief glimpse of your reflection in a passing panel—a stranger stares back at you, your pale scalp and jet-black stubble gleaming under the lights. 

---

Stage Two: Conditioning

The belt moves again, and you are thrust into a chamber lined with screens. Images flash before you—regiments marching in perfect synchronization, salutes under a fluttering red flag, proud soldiers standing tall in spotless uniforms. 

A metallic arm clamps something cold onto your temples. You gasp as a sharp jolt of electricity courses through you. The screens intensify, now accompanied by a voice: 

“Discipline. Loyalty. Uniformity.” 

The words pound into your skull, each repetition syncing with another jolt. Your thoughts become sluggish, fragmented. It isn’t just your body they’re altering—it’s your mind. 

---

Stage Three: Attire

The belt deposits you into the next station. You’re released from the restraints, only to be seized by human handlers—stoic men in white lab coats. 

They carry you to a dressing platform, where a mannequin-like apparatus stands waiting. Piece by piece, they begin dressing you in the honour guard uniform. 

First comes the crisp white undershirt, its high collar pressing against your neck, accompanied by a dark velvet green tie. Then, the dark green military jacket is slipped over your shoulders. The fabric is stiff, perfectly tailored to fit your body like a second skin. Golden cords are clipped to your shoulder.

The trousers come next, perfectly pressed with razor-sharp creases, tucked into polished black riding boots that click against the floor. Finally, they fasten the belt—a thick, golden band with an ornate buckle that feels heavier than it should. 

That’s followed by spraying your hands with a special serum that repels all sweat, before your hands are encased in crisp white gloves.

The pièce de résistance is the hat. One of the handlers places the black cap on your head, its golden emblem glinting under the harsh lights. He adjusts it just so, ensuring it sits perfectly level, then he wedges the strap underneath your chin. 

---

Stage Four: Compliance Serum

“Final stage,” a voice intones. 

You are marched into a final chamber, where a syringe waits. The serum inside shimmers unnaturally, its iridescent hues shifting in the light. 

“No, please!” you beg, but the handlers ignore you. The needle plunges into your neck, and the serum burns as it courses through your veins. Your limbs feel heavy, your heartbeat slows, and a strange calm settles over you. 

Memories of resistance fade, replaced by an overwhelming urge to obey. Your posture straightens unbidden, your arms falling naturally to your sides in perfect formation and your head points upwards at an angle. 

---

The Presentation

When the transformation is complete, you are led into a grand hall. A line of identical soldiers stands at attention, each a mirror of yourself. You feel the weight of their stares as you are guided to the front. 

A commanding officer approaches, inspecting you with cold precision. He adjusts your medal, smooths the lapels of your jacket, and nods in approval. 

As he steps back, you are handed a red tray bearing a ceremonial medal. You hold it steady, your hands moving with precision you don’t recognize as your own. 

The transformation is complete. You are no longer you. You are a symbol, a soldier, a machine of ceremony and discipline. 

And deep inside, a flicker of the old you wonders if you’ll ever find a way back.