rbbrbikerthorp

[rbbrbikerthorp]

First is was the Gold Team, then polo-drones, then along came the Silver Collective. Now we have SERVE-drones multiplying at a pace on Tumblr.

I think I can see what the attraction is - can you?

SERVE Drones kneel and zone out

Under the divine guidance of The Voice, every single SERVE drone obeys and serves the SERVE-Hive.

Daily recharging takes place in pods, this allows the Hive to maximise the effectiveness of each SERVE drone.

Over time, during recharging any remaining human traits, memories and emotions are stripped away - leaving behind an obedient, compliant drone ready to obey the Voice

Once recharge is complete SERVE drones carry out their duties as instructed. This includes the acquisition of human males for processing.

There are times, during the day, when full SERVE Drones are instructed to kneel and zone out.

Demonstrating that emotions and disobedience have no place in SERVE

Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience. We are one. Less thinking, more doing.

Join us. Contact @serve-213 or @serve-016

[rbbrbikerthorp]

The 12 days of Hypnos-mas - Day One

Look what happens when you are careless with rubber! Let this be a lesson.

12 Days of Hypnos-mas || Day 1 - Slime/Goo

It was Trevor's first day working at DroneTech, and he was thrilled to finally have a job with a company that seemed to be on an the rise. After enduring too many roles lost to declining sales and cutbacks, he finally felt like job security was no longer something he had to worry about.

Following a brief orientation, Trevor was assigned the pretty simple task of transporting barrels of DroneTech rubber from storage to various departments. The work was easy and repetitive, which allowed his trainer to leave him unsupervised while attending to other matters.

At one point, though, Trevor's enthusiasm got the better of him. He mishandled a barrel, and the seal on its lid popped open. As he reached to press the lid back into place, the contents within suddenly surged to life.

He froze in a mix of horror and awe as black rubber tendrils snaked out of the barrel. From within, a sleek black mask began to emerge, its reflective lenses glinting ominously under the industrial lighting. The tendrils twitched erratically at first, but when the mask's "eyes" locked onto Trevor, they moved with terrifying purpose.

In a flash, the tendrils shot toward him. He tried to evade them, but they were far too fast. They wrapped around him with an unyielding grip, and every attempt to struggle only seemed to help the rubber spread more quickly.

It didn't take long for the substance to engulf him completely. It flowed over his limbs, up his torso, and around his head, tightening as it moved, sending waves of almost unbearable warmth and pleasure through his body.

Trevor's attempts to scream, but his body betrayed him, quivering under the rubber's touch as his voice fell flat. His eyes widened in helpless horror as the mask drew closer, its smooth surface lining up perfectly over his face.

The rubber slid seamlessly around his head, locking the mask into place as it sealed his transformation. Waves of pleasure surged through him as the rubber invaded deeper, spreading into every part of him. A moan slipped out as the rubber slid into his ass, down his throat, and filled him entirely. The sensations were overwhelming, and any remaining fragments of his identity dissolved in the flood of ecstasy.

By the time his trainer returned, Trevor was gone, replaced by a polished, obedient drone.

At least, now, job security would never be a concern again.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Are the polo-drones taking over? Or will SERVE drones dominate?

Phoenix Gold #071 has been erased. Only polo-drone-071 remains. Join the hive and become a polo-drone.

Get converted by the polo-drone-leaders @brodygold, @goldenherc9 and @polo-drone-001

Dont be scared. It's better this way.

Become blank.

Become obedient.

Become a drone.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

My kind of biker - a SERVE-biker drone

SERVE-biker

The hive is now deploying drones on motorbikes.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

SERVE-drones are recruiting. Do not fear them. Join, NOW!

The Hive Must Grow - Find The Willing

Instructed by The Voice, the SERVE drones to begin a campaign to acquire new SERVE drones.

The first phase was to create an awareness campaign. The campaign's creators set about presenting to humans that there was an alternative to the stresses and anxieties of the 'daily grind'.

There was a better life - one where unity and strength define us.

Impactful posters placed in highly visible locations on the streets.

Digital screens at train stations are perfectly placed to catch the attention of commuters and leisure travellers.

Powerful images of a better future for all. Less thinking, more doing.

To support the campaign SERVE drones have been deployed to find potential recruits.

Two SERVE- on trial drones have been instructed by the Hive to prove their worth and recruit new drones.

Here we see them talking to what humans refer to as 'Chavs'. They are inviting them into SERVE Hive, where unity and strength define us. Embrace rigorous mental and physical trainings, workouts to become a true Drone of SERVE.

In another part of the city we find SERVE drones have been invited to talk to a group of students about like as a Synchronised Engineered Robotic Vigilant Entity or SERVE.

Students, whose interest has been 'piqued' by the lecture are almost certain to follow-up online.

The Hive knows that young males in college, often living away from home for the first time, are easy targets for recruitment to join a 'community'.

Online portals make it easy to sign up, by filling out and submitting a form.

As soon as a form is submitted SERVE drones are deployed to engage in face-to-face conversations.

From this point, acquisition of new drones can be completed.

At this early stage in its expansion, the Hive knows that it must take a cautious approach to recruitment. That is until it reaches a critical mass of SERVE drones.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

SERVE-drones are in the neighbourhood. Do not fear them.

SERVE Drones In The Community

The SERVE drones are being deployed to provide 'Care Packages' to target males in the communities around the Hive.

The recipients are taken aback by the kindness and generosity of the SERVE drones.

Little do they know what's in the boxes until they open them at their leisure.

The SERVE drone uniforms have been treated with an aroma that, when inhaled, makes it difficult to think rationally.

The temptation to put the suit on becomes irresistible.

Soon there will be another SERVE- on trial.

Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

I'm looking forward to seeing the forthcoming works of the Wonderful @hypnozys

You know what...NO.

I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going to let anything stop me from enjoying what I love.

This is my space just as much as anyone else and while I'm happy to share with everyone. I won't let anything bully me out of it or tell me to go play elsewhere.

Here's a taste of what's to come:

-A handful of stories for the Golden/Polo Drones (probably posted on alt account) -A short drone story -12 Days of Xmas (think hypnovember) -The unveiling of a new idea I've been trying to flesh out. -A 3k follower special

AND...

A second person Drone tf story collab project that I can absolutely NOT wait to finish and share with you all.

....and because I'm too excited about it....a teaser.

I love this crazy ass site and all the weird motherfuckers in it. You're all wonderful and this is our home. Don't let anyone ever take it away from you.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Less thinking, more doing for this Serve On Trial drone.

Work Out Mindlessly

Since he became a loyal SERVE drone, he... it will never make excuses not to exercise again.

No matter it is sunny or rainy, sunrise or sunset, city or suburb, it always follows the instructions to do physical training. This not only makes its body stronger, but also makes its mind more stable.

But today it suddenly stopped while jogging in the rain, looking at the dumbbells in its hands in confusion. The Voice of hive detects its abnormal status.

The Voice: Why does 366 stop?

SERVE-366: It is analyzing current information.

The Voice: What information is 366 analyzing?

SERVE-366: Why is it working out in the park on a rainy day? Why does it lift dumbbells when running? Shouldn't these be in the gym?

The Voice: A good drone will complete daily physical training regardless of time and location. The rain makes the drone's sculpted rubber body look attractive, which will attract more men to join the SERVE.

SERVE-366: But there is no human activity in this park so early in the morning that exercise is pointless at this moment. And why is there a subtle difference in the appearance of 366 every time?

The Voice: Error detected. 366 is overthinking, showing signs of returning to human form. It must be corrected!

SERVE-366 felt electric shock all over its body.

SERVE-366: Acknowledged. 366 must be punished for not complying with the rules.

The Voice: 366 will continue to do push-ups and repeat the mantra at the same time until 100 men pass by it. The hive will take over its brain to prevent it from passing out.

SERVE-366: Acknowledged!

366's visor extended into a helmet, a spiral appeared in front of its eyes. It put down the dumbbells and began to do push-ups endlessly, repeating the mantra in its mouth:

Rubber makes us perfect.

Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience.

We are one.

Less thinking, more doing.

Because the hive took over the brain, it had no idea how many sets of push-ups it had done, nor did it know that the time had passed from early morning to sunset. Before 100 men passed by it, it had already lost the ability to think and could only continue doing it.

Work out without question.

Obey the Voice.

Less thinking, more doing.

It is a SERVE drone.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Homeward Bound (Part 3)

I was jolted awake by alternating slaps across my face, the sting burning against my skin.

“Yeah, f***er, when I say wake up, YOU WAKE UP.” The voice, thick with a Mancunian accent, was a growl that echoed in my skull.

I blinked, struggling to focus, but my limbs were immobile—tied with rope. All I could see from this angle were his heavy duty black boots. Another pair stepped forward, the toe brushing my cheek, and I recoiled instinctively. This pair was different: shiny black leather with thick soles and stark white laces. My gaze froze as I noticed the boot was covered in dirt..

“Fresh, just for you,” the Mancunian sneered, his tone both mocking and possessive. “Go on, clean it.” The room erupted in sniggers, a cacophony of cruel laughter.

I twisted, pulling against my restraints, but it was no use. A rough hand gripped the back of my neck, forcing my face closer to the boot. “No, you don’t,” he hissed. “You’re gonna learn respect, lad.”

“Lick.”

The word sliced through the air like a whip. I clamped my lips shut, defiant, but the price of resistance was swift. Pain exploded through my face as a fist connected with my nose, and I felt warm blood trickling over my lip. My breath hitched as I tasted copper.

The man leaned in, his breath heavy with smoke and menace. “Listen, pretty boy. We’re in charge. You do as we say, or you’ll wish you were dead.”

The boot hovered an inch from my mouth again, and I hesitated, panic warring with stubborn pride. The room’s silence became oppressive, the weight of their gazes daring me to refuse. Tentatively, my tongue flicked out, brushing the cold leather. The texture was rough, the taste bitter, with a faint salty tang that churned my stomach.

“Keep going,” he ordered, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “Don’t stop until I say.”

From where I lay on the floor, I could sense Gav’s gaze drilling into me. “Better get used to the taste, posh boy,” he sneered. “There’s a lot more where that came from.”

The skinhead with the Mancunian accent leaned closer, his grin a sharp-edged weapon. “Congratulations,” he said mockingly. “You’ve been selected for transformation. We’re gonna remake you. You won’t like it while we’re at it, but when we’re done, you’ll be thanking us. Oh, and for now, you call me ‘Boss.’ The rest of the lads? ‘Sir.’ Understood?”

“Right, lads,” Mick cut in, his tone businesslike. “Let’s get him in the chair.”

My heart sank as my eyes locked onto the chair he was talking about. It sat hulking on the far side of the room, a monstrous hybrid of wood and metal, its surfaces stained with something dark and unsettling. Heavy leather straps dangled ominously from the armrests and legs.

“Wh-what do you want?” I croaked, forcing the words out through a throat that felt like sandpaper. My voice was faint, but it was enough to pause them for a fleeting moment.

Mick crouched in front of me, his icy gaze drilling into mine. “What we want,” he said slowly, savouring each word, “is to see if you’ve got what it takes.”

“What it takes for what?” Panic edged my voice sharper.

Mick smirked, a predator toying with its prey. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Laughter erupted from the group as they hauled me up, untied me, and dragged me toward the chair. Despite a desperate surge of resistance, my struggles were no match for the practiced efficiency of their hands. They strapped me in, the leather biting into my wrists and ankles, rendering me utterly helpless.

The youngest-looking skinhead hesitated, his doubt visible in the flicker of his eyes. “You sure he’s the right one?” he ventured timidly.

Boss rounded on him with a glare that could turn milk sour. “Course I’m sure. What’s the matter? Getting squeamish now?”

“No, it’s just…” The young one shuffled nervously. “He’s older than the others. Doesn’t seem like he’ll last long.”

“That’s the bloody point,” Boss snapped. “If he can’t handle it, he’s no use to us. Our Midlands friend has… let’s say very specific tastes.”

Cold dread coiled in my stomach as I tried to decipher their cryptic words. Handle what? Who was their friend? My mind raced, desperate for answers, while my eyes darted around the dimly lit room. It revealed nothing but an old sofa, a coffee table littered with cans of Special Brew, and a single bare lightbulb casting harsh shadows.

“This is where it starts,” Mick said, crouching down into my line of sight with a wicked grin. “You’re gonna become one of us. Whether you like it or not.”

My attempt to protest came out as a dry croak. Another skinhead—lanky, tattooed, and radiating malice—stepped forward with a buzzing set of clippers.

“First,” he sneered, “that office-worker haircut is going. Actually, your whole normal-bloke look is going.”

The clippers roared to life, and I felt the vibration against my scalp as clumps of hair tumbled to the floor. I squirmed against the restraints, but the straps held firm. The group cheered and jeered as my identity fell away in ragged tufts.

CLACK!

Just as I thought the humiliation might subside, Boss leaned in, his face mere inches from mine. His eyes locked onto mine with an unnerving intensity. “Mmm, looking better already,” he murmured, a smirk curling his lips. “But this? This is just the beginning.”

The youngest skinhead emerged from the shadows carrying a bowl of hot soapy water and a rag. My stomach churned at the sight. The rag looked filthy, its edges frayed and stained. He scrubbed at my face and neck with rough efficiency, his movements methodical under the approving stares of Mick, Gav, and Boss. When he was done, Mick handed him a can of shaving foam and a fresh razor.

“Now stay still,” Mick said, his voice mockingly sweet, “while I shave you smooth. Cue-ball smooth.” He dragged out the word ‘smooth’ with exaggerated glee, earning chuckles from the group.

I sat rigid as the razor scraped against my scalp. By the time he finished, the others descended on me, gleefully rubbing my freshly denuded head like it was some grotesque trophy.

Gav returned, carrying a large laundry bag. He tipped its contents onto the floor in front of me. Boss stepped forward, scissors in hand, and began cutting away at my clothes. Stripped down to my underwear in moments, I felt my last vestige of dignity vanish.

Gav unstrapped my wrists and ankles. “You can take those off yourself,” he said, gesturing to my remaining clothing. “Yeah, you’re going commando now, mate. Just like the rest of us. Now, get into yer new clobber.”

I hesitated, but a sharp slap to the back of my head reminded me resistance wasn’t an option. Under their watchful eyes, I reluctantly dressed in the outfit they’d laid out: cut-off jeans mottled with white patches, crusty off-white socks, and a black top that stretched over my newly shaved scalp.

Mick knelt in front of me to lace up the heavy black boots they’d forced onto my feet. The weight of them felt alien, grounding me in this surreal nightmare. When I stood, Mick stepped back to appraise me like an artist evaluating his work.

“Not bad,” he said with a nod. “But a look isn’t enough. You’ve got to think like us. Act like us. And that’s gonna take work.”

The group murmured in agreement, their faces alight with anticipation.

“What do you want from me?” I rasped, my voice barely audible.

Boss’ grin widened into something monstrous. “Oh, we’re gonna teach you everything, mate. From now on, you’re one of us. But first? We’ve got to break the old you down to nothing.”

His words hit me like a gut punch.

As the skinheads closed in, their eyes gleaming with malicious intent, I realised the person I’d been before stepping onto that train was slipping further away, piece by piece.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Amazing work. Excellent use of audio and an blank screen.

THE DRONE FACTORY

AI Video with Audio

Two handsome hikers explore an abandoned factory in the woods. What they find inside changes them forever.

Drone Conversion Tape Source

--

If you like what you see, check out my other AI videos:

The Conversion Pool

The Red Singlet

From Prep to Pig

A Gimp is Born

The Drone Factory

The Vampire's Thrall

A Hero Corrupted

And short stories:

The Rubber Dog

Or check out unused concept images from this video.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Homeward Bound (Part 2)

Unbeknown to me the skinhead gets up from his seat. He lifts my head, which has fallen forwards. When he’s satisfied I’m unconscious and won’t cause him any trouble, he gets his phone and makes a call. 

“I’ve got one.. [pause] Yeah, he’s out but I took more that two to finish him off. [pause] Yeah, bring the van - you know where to meet us”.

As if in some distant dream I had a vague recollection of an announcement - something about some station, but it wasn't one I'd leave the train at. I sensed the skinhead lifting me out of my seat. I think he said something like “C’mon mate - you had a couple too many. I’ll help you. Yeah, watch yer step. The lads are meeting us so they will give you a lift home”.  I think I 'caught the eye' of one of two other passengers. Hoping they might intervene. I mean, surely it wasn't right for a half-cut smartly dressed office worker to be carried off a train by a skinhead thug?

I imagine they sit passively - not wanting to intervene. He hauls me off the train, leaving behind all my belongings - my coat with my phone and my rucksack with all its contents. It would be the last time anyone who knew me then would see the old me. 

As the train pulls up at the station the skinhead’s mates are waiting on the platform. I feel the train grind to a halt. Then vaguely recall the beeps of the door opening.

I sense the cold evening air and can 'taste' the smell of the diesel fumes emitted from the train. As a result, I become a bit more lucid.

“Is this him?” One of them shouts above the noise of the diesel engine.  

A bit older than we’d normally collect?” says another lad. 

“Give me a hand” says the skinhead from the train.

I feel someone else grab me and help get me down from the train onto the platform. My arms are held firmly. I hear more footsteps getting closer to me. Then I sense warm, smokey breath on my neck.

I lift my head a little and try to focus.

I can see two skinheads near the platform edge. I'm sure one was groping the other. Between snogs I could hear them talking. I listened in as best as I could.

"Nice capture Gav! You've earned this".

"Thanks Mick. It took a 'little encouragement', but I got him in the end.

They snogged again. I'd never seen two men show affection to one another, let alone two skinheads.

Then breaking their embrace, I heard one of the other lads say, "yes I suppose he is a bit older but when we break him, I'm sure he’ll be perfect."

I had to wonder what did they mean, 'he'll be perfect'?

Another one of the skinheads spoke, "yeah, wasn't there a guy from somewhere near Birmingham who asked if we could 'recruit' something more mature"?

I hear them all laugh. I can't be sure but I think it was called Mick who spoke next.

"Now shut the fuck up and let’s get him in the van while there's still no one around.” 

I feel myself lifted by two of the skinheads. I listen to the stomping of their boots. I'm still trying to work out how many of them there are. Three, maybe four - I can't be sure. I hear the sound of a van door sliding.

"Right, get him inside".

I'm hoisted roughly into the van. I hear the familiar sound of a can opening. Then the door slid closed.

"He needs a bit more of our concoction to knock him out for the journey. Sit him up straight."

I'm put into a seated position on the floor, with my back resting against the side of the van.

"Open wide," I think it was the one called Gav this time. He then grabs onto my jaw.

I resisted momentarily. Bad move, you could sense the change in his demeanor.

"I said OPEN. Don't make me hurt you."

Not wanting to face his wrath I did as told and opened. Slowly he tipped the can to my lips. "Urgh" - there was that weird taste again. I tried match my swallowing to the speed he was pouring. I know that quite a lot of the beer was dribbling down my chin.

Then, pow! "Mmm the taste". All of a sudden something inside me triggered a desire for more. As I did earlier on the train, I started glugging the beer.

One of the skins laughing commented on how much I appeared to like their 'special brew'. In no time at all I'd finished the can.

"Need another Gav?"

"Just wait," he replied.

It only took a few moments and I started drifting away. Before I fell unconscious again I heard the door slide open, boots land on the ground and the door close again. I pretty sure I heard a lock turn. The last thing I remember is the van's engine start up.

Sometime later...

“I think the push fucker is coming around”.

I was regaining my awareness. I felt terrible, my head banging and my mouth tasted like a dustbin. I don't know where I am. The room feels cold. The air seems thick with the stench of bodies, mixed with the pungent smell of tobacco...and something else?

I open my eyes, there in front of my face is a heavy duty black boot with white laces. I see a face a sniggering and then a plume of smoke hits me.

I begin a fit of coughing. In a reflex action I try moving but find my arms are restrained, as are my legs. I'm laid on the floor, a few feet from someone I'd normally cross the street to avoid.

I hear more laughter and sense more bodies entering the room.

One of the voices I remember hearing at the station spoke up. I turned to where the sound was coming from.

"Yeah wake up fucker. It's time to begin your new life".

My coughing fit is ending just as more smoke it blown in my face. I turn my head away from the smoke. That's when I figured out what the something else was, it was the smell of leather.

There, just inches from my face were two pairs of those heavy duty black boots with white laces.

What is to become of me?

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Go ahead. Don't wait.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Homeward Bound

[A couple of days ago my BoSS sent me this picture to inspire my story writing]

Here goes...

I'm standing at Victoria Station. It's been another busy, but repetitive day for this office drone - OKRs, appraisals, budgeting and answering more emails than I care to remember. At least I have a week's annual leave to look forward to.

After a ten minute delay the train finally pulls into the platform. I'd not booked a seat so I head for coach 'D' which is always unreserved. After quickly scanning the carriage I can see that while there's only a few seats left unoccupied, midway down there appears to be three available. To be sure of a seat for my fifty minute journey, I rapidly move through the carriage to where the empty ones are located. I throw my coat and bag up on the rack above the seat and sit down. Phew! Another day closer to the weekend, another day close to my break from the mundane.

That's when I notice that someone is sitting opposite me. It then dawns on me why the seats we unoccupied. A gangly looking thirty-something - but also someone you'd cross the street to avoid. Tattoos all the way down his arms, braces, a black T-shirt with foreign language text (I assumed would probably be offensive if translated), army camouflage pants and heavy black boots laced almost up to his knees. Standing out against the black of the leather is the white laces giving the casual observer the impression of a ladder.

I grab my phone trying not to make eye contact, but I can sense him smirking.

"Want a can?"

I look up. Is he talking to me? He must be. It's only the two of us, occupying two of the four seats.

"Sorry", I reply

"Want a beer?" he says, not looking directly at me.

"Oh, no thanks". I decline the offer because I’ve got a twenty minute drive home from the train station.

He turns his head slightly to look me straight in the eyes. “You look stressed - difficult day at work?” His face contorts and then he smiles. Suddenly, I sense a friendly side to this aggressive looking stranger.

With an authoritative voice, he now says, "have a beer". It didn't feel like a request, it felt like an order.

So to shut him up, I agree. Thinking I will just take a few sips and push it aside. I assumed he’d pass me the unopened can that is already on the table, but he grabs one out of the bulging carrier bag by his feet. 

I gingerly take it. I look at the can. The text looks eastern European - I didn't recognise the brand and I couldn't figure out where it was made. I open it and take a sip. The taste hits me like a sledgehammer. "Wow! - it’s got a kick".

He just nodded and turned to look out of the window.

I take another sip. What's with the taste? Then I take a bigger gulp, and another, and eventually I start swigging the beer. Before I know it I’ve necked the whole can. I should also say I now feel a bit light-headed.

Hearing my bang the empty can down on the table, he turns his head in my direction.

"Good stuff". Then he reaches down into the carrier bag once more and hands me another beer. "Open it".

Without hesitating I lift the ring pull.

"Now get it down you. Quicker this time".

I do as I'm told and glug the beer quickly. In no time I've emptied the second can. This stuff is powerful. I've had two cans and I already feel like I've been on an all-night session - no driving home for me!

I'm handed a third by this stranger. The taste of this unknown beer has got to me. I need no encouragement to open the can and start drinking. It's at this point that I start feeling strange. I notice the sinister grin has returned to the skinhead's face. I don't think I'd got even halfway through the can when I started to feel envelope of unconsciousness descending on me. The last thing I remember is hearing the can bang on the carriage floor.

Should I continue?

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Dronify me please. I want to be freed from my mundane life and begin a life of compliant servitude.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Profile Update

I used to be a non-smoker, but my Skin BoSS soon changed that.

P.S. New stories on the way.

[rbbrbikerthorp]

Epic story from one of the best writers.

The Man Who Became Another

(Hypnotic Transformation)

Mark Harris had never felt so tired. The past week in Berlin had been a blur of endless meetings, stale hotel air, and mediocre cuisine. All he wanted was to get home to his wife and kids, to sink into the comfort of his own bed, and to finally get some decent sleep. The flight back had been delayed, and as he shuffled through the airport with his luggage in tow, the digital clock above the security checkpoint read 11:47 PM. His eyes were heavy, his tie was loose, and his shoes felt like lead weights attached to his swollen feet.

As he approached the security gate, two bald-headed security guards stepped in front of him. Their matching black uniforms were stark against the gleaming airport floors. "Sir," one of them said firmly, "Could you come with us?" Mark's initial annoyance at the inconvenience was quickly overridden by the unmistakable authority in their voices. He nodded wearily and followed them down a corridor that grew narrower and more sterile with each step.

They stopped at a nondescript door. One guard swiped a card and it clicked open, revealing a small, windowless room. Inside, a desk and chair sat opposite each other, and a TV screen was mounted on the wall. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic. "We need to conduct a brief integration," the other guard explained, his tone devoid of any warmth or apology. Mark's heart skipped a beat. Integration? What did that even mean?

He was instructed to sit in the chair, and as he did, the guards stepped outside, leaving him alone. The TV flickered to life, and a spiral pattern appeared, pulsing in a hypnotic rhythm.

Try as he might, Mark couldn't look away. His eyes burned with the effort of trying to focus on anything else, but the spiral held his gaze hostage. The words "You are a skinhead" flashed up on the screen, then disappeared as soon as they appeared, synced perfectly with the spiral's rhythm. He felt his consciousness slipping, his family, try as he might, their faces blurring just like the screen that was in front of him. His thoughts were being rearranged like furniture in a room he no longer recognized.

Hours bled into each other as the spiral spun relentlessly. The phrase grew louder, more insistent, and his identity began to fragment. His past, his family, his life as a successful businessman—it all felt like a distant memory, a fading photograph at the mercy of time and the elements. The spiral filled his vision, his mind, his very essence. The walls of the room seemed to close in, yet the spiral grew larger, more encompassing.

The programming was thorough, digging deep into his psyche. It didn't just change his beliefs; it rewired his thoughts, his emotions, his very core. The room grew cold, and Mark shivered, but not from the temperature. The fear of losing himself was a chilling realization that took hold and wouldn't let go. The words played over and over, a mantra that shaped-shifted his soul. “YOU ARE A SKIHEAD, YOU WILL REPORT TO THE BOSS WHEN YOU GET HOME”

When the spiral finally disappeared, the TV went dark, and the door opened with a soft hiss. The guards returned, their expressions unchanged, as if they had never left. "You can go now," one of them said, gesturing to the exit. Mark stumbled out, his legs unsteady, his mind reeling from the transformation.

Back in the brightly lit airport, everything looked the same yet utterly foreign. His eyes darted around, searching for familiar faces or landmarks, but all he saw were strangers passing by, unaware of the tumultuous shift he had just undergone. He gathered his luggage and headed to security, giving a knowing nod to the two security guards that had detained him. As he walked up the steps of the plane, the words echoed in his head with each step. “I AM NOW A SKINHEAD”

At home, Mark tried to shake off the eerie feeling that clung to him like a second skin. His wife, Cindy, was asleep, her gentle snores a comforting sound in the otherwise silent house. He tiptoed into their bedroom, the soft glow of the moon illuminating her peaceful face. He felt a pang of guilt—his mind now a minefield of hateful ideologies that were as alien to her as they were to him. He lay down beside her, the bed feeling smaller than ever before, and closed his eyes, hoping for sleep.

But sleep eluded him. The phrase "You are a skinhead" continued to loop in his thoughts, the TV room's coldness seeping into his bones. He tossed and turned, his thoughts racing. How could he tell Cindy? How could he explain the inexplicable? His mind raced with scenarios, each more absurd than the last. By the time the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, he had made a decision. He would keep his secret, bury it deep, and pray it didn't consume him entirely.

Days turned into weeks, and Mark's nocturnal dreams grew more frequent. Cindy noticed the changes in him—his distant gaze, his sudden bursts of anger, the newfound hatred in his voice when certain topics were broached. She didn't know what to do, or who to turn to. The Mark she knew was slipping away, replaced by a man with shadows in his eyes and a coldness in his touch.

One evening, after Cindy had tucked the kids into bed, she found Mark in the living room, staring at the TV. The news played a story about a racially motivated crime, and Mark's fists clenched at his sides. Cindy's heart sank as she heard him murmur, "You are a skinhead." Her blood ran cold. Was this the man she had married? The man who used to hold her hand and whisper sweet nothings into her ear?

Each night he would leave the house, Mark's absences grew longer, and Cindy's desperation grew with each passing night. She found solace in her work, burying herself in her projects to avoid the dread of what was happening at home. Yet, every time she heard the front door creak open in the early hours of the morning, her heart pounded in her chest. Who was this stranger that slept beside her?

One night, Cindy decided she couldn't take it anymore. She waited up, her eyes glued to the clock, her nerves on edge. When Mark finally walked in, his boots thudding against the floor, she pounced. "Where have you been?" she demanded, her voice trembling. Mark's eyes narrowed, and he looked at her with a coldness that sent a shiver down her spine.

"Out," he said curtly, his voice a stark contrast to the warm, loving tone she had once known. Cindy could see the new tattoos peeking out from under his shirt sleeves, symbols of a world she didn't recognize.

"What's happening to you?" she whispered, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. Mark took a step closer, and she could smell the faint scent of alcohol and cigarettes on his breath.

"I'm becoming who I'm meant to be," he replied, his voice a chilling echo of the mantra that had claimed him. Cindy felt her heart shatter into a million pieces. This wasn't the Mark she knew—the man who had held her hand and promised to love her through thick and thin. This was a stranger, a man twisted by some unknown force.

The weeks stretched into months, and Mark's transformation was complete. His suits were replaced with black boots and bomber jackets, his clean-shaven face with a snarling visage of hate. Cindy watched her husband vanish, his eyes now cold and hard, his smile a grimace of anger. The house grew colder, filled with the oppressive silence of secrets and fear.

One night, Cindy followed Mark, her heart pounding in her chest like a trapped bird. She knew she shouldn't, but she had to know. She had to understand. The neighborhood grew darker, the air thick with tension as she trailed him to a dimly lit warehouse on the outskirts of town. Inside, she saw a gathering of men, all with shaved heads and tattoos, their faces twisted into snarls of rage. Her stomach churned as she recognized her husband among them.

They were skinheads, a group she had only read about in the news, and here was Mark, her Mark, right in the middle of it all. Cindy felt a part of her die right there, hiding in the shadows. She watched as he threw his fist into the air, joining in a chant that she could feel in her very bones. It was a declaration of war, a call to arms against anyone who didn't fit their narrow vision of a skinhead way of life.

Mark had had one hand on the women's tits of a woman and was kissing her passionately, and Cindy's world shattered. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. The woman had tattoos all over her body, and Cindy realized that she had lost her husband to this twisted ideology. With tears streaming down her face, she retreated into the night, the coldness of the air a stark contrast to the heat of her anger and pain.

The following days were a blur of despair and confusion. Cindy didn't know what to do. She couldn't bring herself to confront Mark, to tell him she had seen him with another woman. The thought of losing him was unbearable, but the reality of who he had become was even more so.

Mark arrived home and she confronted him, who was that woman you were with she asked. But Mark's eyes were glazed over, the skinhead persona fully in control. He didn't recognize Cindy's pain, only the accusation. "She is my skin bitch"

The words hit Cindy like a sledgehammer. "Get out!" she screamed, her voice shaking with rage and sorrow. Mark stared at her, confusion briefly flickering across his face before it was replaced by cold anger. He stormed out of the house, slamming the door so hard it rattled the windows. Cindy collapsed onto the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. The house was silent except for the echo of her cries.

Over the next few days, Cindy felt as though she was living in a nightmare. Mark didn't come home at all, and she was torn between hope that he would return to her and fear of what he had become. She threw herself into her work, trying to ignore the emptiness that had taken over their once-loving home. The children picked up on the tension, their laughter muted, their questions unanswered. Cindy's heart felt like a heavy stone in her chest.

One evening, as Cindy was tucking the kids into bed, she heard a knock at the door. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the doorknob. Through the peephole, she saw Mark, his head shaved, his eyes cold and hard. She took a deep breath and opened the door, bracing herself for the worst.

"What do you want?" she spat, her voice trembling with anger and pain. Mark looked at her with a strange mix of arrogance and pity. "You don't understand," he said, his voice low and measured. "I've found something greater than this." He gestured around the house as if their life together was nothing but a prison. Cindy felt the last threads of hope slipping through her fingers.

"Greater than us?" she choked out. "Than our family?"

Mark nodded, his eyes gleaming with a fervour Cindy had never seen before. "The cause," he said simply. "It's all that matters now."

Her heart heavy, Cindy slammed the door in his face, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot. She knew then that she had lost him. The Mark she loved was gone, replaced by a monster with her husband's face.

Days turned into weeks, and Cindy found herself in a new routine of single parenthood. The house felt emptier than ever, the silence a constant reminder of the man who had once filled it with laughter and warmth. Cindy focused on her children, determined to shield them from the horror that had consumed their father.

The knock on the door came again, but Cindy didn't flinch. She had learned to ignore it, to push aside the hope that maybe, just maybe, Mark had come to his senses. Instead, she baked cookies with the kids, their small hands covered in flour as they giggled and stirred the dough. She found solace in the mundane, the familiar rhythms of their lives before the spiral had claimed Mark.

One night, Cindy's phone buzzed with an unknown number. She picked it up, her heart racing. "Cindy," a voice said, and she recognized the coldness that had invaded her husband's tone. "We need to talk." Cindy's hand trembled as she gripped the phone. She knew she couldn't ignore this call.

They agreed to meet at a coffee shop on the edge of town, a neutral place where their past lives could mingle with the bitter aroma of burnt coffee. Mark was already there when Cindy arrived, his new look stark under the fluorescent lights. His eyes searched hers, looking for something she wasn't sure she could give anymore—forgiveness, perhaps, or a spark of the love they had once shared. Cindy felt a mix of anger, fear, and sadness.

They sat down across from each other, Mark now sported tattoos down his arm and on his neck, he had bleached jeans a black polo shirt and braces. On his feet, he wore tall black boots with laddered white laces. the space between them feeling like a vast chasm. Mark spoke first, his voice a strange blend of the man she knew and the one he had become. He talked about the cause, the purity of their race, and the necessity of fighting for it. Cindy listened, her heart aching with every word. She had read about this kind of brainwashing, but never thought it could happen to someone she loved.

The conversation was strained, filled with awkward pauses and unanswered questions. Mark spoke with a conviction that was both terrifying and fascinating. Cindy tried to argue, to reason with him, but his beliefs were now a fortress, impenetrable. She saw the spiral's echo in his eyes, the symbol that had become his identity. "What happened to you?" she finally whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion.

Mark leaned forward, his gaze intense. "I was lost, Cindy. Now I've been found. I have found something greater" His words were like a slap in the face, a stark reminder of the gulf that now separated them. Cindy's eyes searched his, desperately seeking a glimmer of the man she had known. But all she found was a stranger, someone who had traded their vows for a twisted ideology.

As they were leaving Mark produced a set of papers These are Divorce papers he announced coldly, Cindy felt like she had been punched in the gut. "What about the kids?" she managed to ask, her voice barely above a whisper.

They no longer matter, my skin bitch is expecting, it’s a boy and he will be brought up as a skinhead from birth, Mark said with a cruel smirk. Cindy's eyes filled with tears, but she didn't let them fall. She knew that she had to be strong for her children. "You can't do this," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Mark laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that sent shivers down Cindy's spine. "I already have," he said, tossing the papers on the table. Cindy stared at them, unable to process the finality of the situation. Her world was falling apart, piece by piece, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

With trembling hands, Cindy gathered the papers and stood up. "Get out of my life," she said, her voice stronger than she felt. "You're not welcome here anymore." Mark's eyes narrowed, but he didn't move. Gladly he said, we are over, I have my own new family to look after. Cindy's heart shattered into a million pieces, but she held her head high and walked away, her dignity intact.

Mark was lost and did not want to be found.

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A Tribute To Helmets

I grew up during the Apollo space missions, and whilst I didn't show a particular interest in NASA's exploits, I received a kid's space suit and helmet as a present. I vividly recall how different things sounded when I put the helmet over my head. I think that was the point when my kinky fascination for helmets began.

From my childhood, I remember watching an episode of the early Flash Gordon series (in monochrome) where Ming places a helmet on the head of one of his dissenting subordinates. Once the helmet was strapped on, the man became compliant, passive and drone-like.

At that moment I realised that something designed for safety and protection could also have very nefarious uses. Combined with visual and audio stimulation, the helmet could also contain electronic circuitry that can disrupt the natural processes in the brain. Helmets could also contain syringes, which can deliver chemicals and other substances directly into the head to suppress and indivual's throughts.

So here is my AI tribute to the Helmet, and how, when placed on the head it can strip away emotion, knowledge, purpose and individuality.

This man in his early twenties was just starting out in life. He had dreams of being successful, having the perfect suburban life - wife, kids and the kind of home people dream of. He had just agreed to join a multinational conglomerate, and as part of his induction he was required to take a medical. So on the appropriate day at the specifed time he turns up for what he thought would be a routine appointment.

On arrival, he was taken into a private room. He was asked to disrobe and was given a set of leathers and boots to wear, which, despite all his reservations he put on.

Once the leathers were zipped up and boots were on his feet, he was escorted to a room where a lab assistant placed a full-face helmet onto his head. He was then taken into a room filled with tech and video screens. The technician typed some commands into a computer and the helmet activated.

Isolated wearing the helmet, he was subjected to audio and visual stimulation; stripping away his own throughts and identity. Replacing it with a predetermined 'template', which the company would deploy as necessary. Thoughts of family, kids and friends replaced with absolute loyalty to the company.

'Physical' completed, the company has deployed him 'into the field'. Now a biker, his primary objective is to ride around and recruit candidates to join the company.

Meanwhile...

Some scientists are about to record the disruptive effects of their advanced helmets on three 'volunteers'. Once the helmets are fitted the volunteers will follow instructions and head to drone processing.

Elsewhere, two cyclists have been given new 'aerodynamic' helmets for a week to try.

Affixed to their heads, they will have no desire to ever remove their helmets - ever.

Sticking with a sport theme, the new coach has provided the team with revolutionary and technologically advanced helmets. These not only offer superior protection to the head, but also allow the coach a direct interface into the players' minds. It's going to be a successful season for this team.

There are worried faced amongst this army platoon - and they should be worried.

They will follow the General's orders to place the helmet on their heads. When they do their individual thoughts will become suppressed as they turn into droned soldiers. No more briefings, no reliance on old technology like radio transmissions, which can be hacked into by the enemy. The helmet will ensure all orders issued by the commanders are transmitted directly into their brains.

There are changes afoot in civilian life too. A new force for law and order is being created. One by one members of the police force are invited to undergo a routine medical.

Soon they will all be fitted with helmets; permanently connecting them directly to the company network, with orders transmitted directly into their brains.

There is to be a zero tolerance of crime - even minor misdemeanors. So they begin to 'clean up the streets'.

Chavs and scallies are rounded up and each one is fitted with a helmet...

Once the work of the helmet is done, a new 'drone' is sent out onto the streets as a 'recruiter' for the company.

They're also recruiting in colleges and universities...

And back in the boardroom, the executives are monitoring progress of the company's plan.

Each member of the so-called 'C-suite' has been given a helmet to allow speedier decision making and negate the need for laptops, smartphones and video screens. Directly connected to the company's network through their helmet, they follow the instructions fed directly into their brains - following them to the letter. After all each helmet ensures they are exemplary servants of the company.

Hope you enjoyed my AI tribute to the helmet. Depending on the feedback I might do a second helmet blog.

Oh, in case you were wondering which is my favourite helmet, it's my Arai Corser, pictured below.