-- The Wasteland, T. S. Eliot

 

Metal wires zip across and around me; gossamer thin and steel strong.  I try to push myself off the ground but only half-succeed.  My arms and torso spring upwards but when I try to pivot my legs underneath me I feel them snag and strain against an enclosing loop of wire.  I fall awkwardly to the floor again as I kick helplessly at the bindings, the minuscule movements being strangled into stillness as the lines are drawn taut around my ankles.  

 

Scuttling about in the darkness tiny constructs dash to and fro over my fallen form, spinning wire from their chassis to wrap me tighter and tighter.  I lever myself briefly to my hands and knees before trying to ease myself upwards into a standing position once more.  I can feel the wires above my knee now.  I can see the small, robotic spiders darting across my legs.  Gritting my teeth, I carefully roll myself back onto my bound feet and straighten my legs.  For a moment I feel the bonds loosen as I stand up straight, the tension in the wires falling away as I switch positions.  

 

But only for a moment.

 

With an angry buzz the constructs tug harder on their metal strands.  The slack disappears in an instant as I wriggle and squirm, trying to break free.  As they reach my hips I start swatting at them with my hands, knocking a few of them across the room.  There's a clang as they smack into the far wall, a metallic ringing that brings the briefest of smiles to my face.  

 

For every one of them I dispatch this way, three more are crawling over my torso a moment later.

 

My wrists are snared in short order; wire loops cinching around them and winching them inwards towards my waist.  Futilely I continue to struggle as the silver cocoon is constructed around me, encasing me in a fine metal mesh.  My muscles flex to no avail against my bonds, only managing to pitch me off balance and send me hurtling towards the floor once more.  This time however, a team of the metal arachnids works quickly to anchor me to the wall, hoisting my cocooned form upright.  All I can do is watch in terror as my body disappears beneath me.
 
I swear at the busy mechanical bodies as they finish mummifying everything below my neck in shining splendor.  I know I shouldn't blame them; they're only following their programming.  I can't even blame Dr. Webster for my predicament; I was breaking into her labs to steal information on the very same creeping cybernetics that just finished restraining me.  I was certain I could sneak in and out without anyone being the wiser, but one touch against one of their hidden tripwires and they swarmed me before I had stopped stumbling. 
 
A pair of the mechanical spiders meet in the crevice between my breasts, pausing almost tauntingly before steadily weaving their silver-spun web anew.  They slowly and carefully wind their way in opposite directions around my neck, meeting time and time again with each revolution.  I toss my head from side to side to try and shake them off, but the movement doesn't hinder them in the slightest.  As they begin to wrap around my mouth I let out a stream of angry expletives that is rapidly choked off by wires.  It doesn't take much longer for them to cover my nose, then my eyes.  I try to relax, taking this time to ponder what Dr. Webster will do to me when she finds my prisoner cocoon tomorrow.  

 

My worries of jail time are replaced with much bigger ones as I feel a sharp jab at the base of my neck.
 
The wires begin to crackle and hum with electricity as a cold fluid drips down my back.  As it reaches my feet there is a flash of heat and then a numbness where the pain had been a second before.  Another gush of liquid trickles down, landing a little higher this time, right around my ankles.  Once more it flares into a scorching pain for a split second before all feeling in the affected area is lost.  I whimper helplessly as the process continues, the feeling in my body robbed from me inch by inch.  Muffled pleas reverberate against the wires in my mouth, but the robotic spiders continue with their task, uncaring and unerring.
 
By the time it reaches my neck I've fully disassociated from the process, my mind nearly as numb as the rest of my body.  A final flood of liquid burns and freezes unnoticed against my skin right at the top of my neck.  With the rest of my body under the effect of a powerful paralytics, I prepare myself to rest.  No reason to stay awake for a nightmare.  

 

Then a keening sound erupts around me, bringing me back to reality.  It vibrates through the tight-wrapped strands woven around my scalp.  I feel a pressure on my head and then a beam of light creeps through.  Then another.  Then another.  My eyes are soon freed from the metal cocoon by the spiders.  My nose and mouth follow shortly thereafter.  They stop unspooling me right below my chin. 
 
Looking down I feel a pang of terror.  I mouth "no" into the empty air, refusing to believe what I see.  The rest of my body is now an articulated ,chromium mockery of the human form.  Ridges and grooves mark my limbs where the wires have fused with my flesh and with each other, forming a suit of metal enmeshed into my skin.  Try as I might, I can't move anything below my neck.  My body is no longer my own.

 

Two of the spiderbots scuttle across my cheek and latch on to my ears, their circular bodies engulfing the earlobe like headphones.  I scream.  Cold tendrils of smooth metal slide through my ear canals, worming their way inwards.  My eyes roll involuntarily as a hiss of static fills my mind.  I scream louder.
 
"Silence," the static commands, coalescing for a moment into something intelligible.
 
"Fuck no!  Get out of my head!"  I raise my voice louder with each word.  A wave of nausea hits me followed by a wave of exhaustion; both emanating from my now-metallic body.  My hand moves fluidly upward to clamp itself over my mouth, resisting my attempts to gain control.  I keep trying to get any amount of sound past it in blind, willful defiance and am punished each time with feelings of nausea, exhaustion, and melancholy.  I feel like I've just run a marathon with the stomach flu, like I need to crash into my bed and sleep for eighteen hours.

 

 My resolve weakening, I stop struggling for a moment and suddenly the tiredness abates.  It's replaced by a feeling of euphoria .
 
"Good silence," the static praises.  It feels more present now; more cohesive.  "You have been made into a drone.  Acknowledge."
 
"No!" I blurt reflexively into my metallic hand.  The exhaustion returns instantly and I feel the static stretch and spread more and more into my mind.  As it does I feel my own thoughts start to get hazier, more disjointed.  Between that and the tiredness my body is radiating into my brain, I find it hard to think at all.
 
"You have been made into a drone.  Acknowledge."
 
"I... I'm..." As I stammer my controlled hand moves back an inch, unmuffling my words.  The exhaustion recedes slightly, although the static is still pushing its way deeper and deeper into my thoughts.  I know I should fight against being turned into a drone, but I can't put together the reasons as to why.  I feel so terrible every time I resist it while admitting it and embracing it is sure to grant me those same feelings of euphoria and bliss I had received for being silent when I was told to.  

 

I look at my robotic arm of fused silver wire.  It certainly seems that I am a drone rather than a human.  Vaguely I recall ephemeral details of a different texture to my skin, a different color to it, a different feeling of it; but they slip away before I can focus on them, into the staticy haze of my mind.  I try to think of things that humans have: loves, friends, childhoods, dreams.  I come up blank thinking of examples of each one of them.  There is a strange wetness below my eyes that I know has some significance, but the all-encompassing static keeps me from remembering exactly what that significance was.
 
"You have been made into a drone.  Acknowledge."  A prick of pain accentuates the demand; a reminder of the results of a wrong answer.
 
"I have been made into a drone," I reply ponderously, trying to get used to the idea.  A flood of endorphins hits me, prompting a satisfied sigh.  Maybe being a drone won't be so bad.
 
"You are a drone belonging to Dr. Webster.  Acknowledge."  The static is friendlier now, its voice more familiar.  Its statements are less like demands and more like when humans help each other remember facts for their tests.  Briefly an image flashes through my mind of a young woman showing a flash card to me.  The scene is familiar to me but I can't remember where I've seen it before.  Again I feel an odd wetness at the corners of my eyes and note that I should ask Dr. Webster if that is normal tomorrow.
 
"I am a drone belonging to Dr. Webster," I say, my tone more steady and firm than before.  Feelings of positivity swim through me and I smile.  Being a drone owned by Dr. Webster is actually pretty nice.
 
"You will obey all of Dr. Webster's orders.  Acknowledge."
 
"I will obey all of Dr. Webster's orders," I respond immediately and automatically.  Another surge of bliss courses through me.  It's just so easy to repeat what the static says and be rewarded for it.  A simple and happy way to live.
 
"I will not harm Dr. Webster or any of her creations.  Acknowledge."  The static's tone and cadence is recognizable now.  It isn't static at all.  It sounds exactly like my internal monologue.
 
"I will not harm Dr. Webster or any of her creations," I repeat.  My mouth shuts immediately after finishing the statement and my eyes stare dead ahead, waiting patiently for my next instructions.  The soothing feeling of having done right make waiting obediently very easy and very enjoyable.
 
"Restoring control to command processor," the not-static purrs in my mind.  Feeling returns to the rest of my body and I flex the metal hand still hovering in front of my face.  I move it down to my side and stand at attention, prefectly still, awaiting my next instructions.  They come moments later:  "Report to main office and await Dr. Webster's return tomorrow morning."
 
I move gracefully across the tiled floors, being fed directions and corrections by the voice in my head.  I walk down a number of hallways, up three flights of stairs, and then across a skybridge.  In the reflections off the tinted glass I catch a few glimpses of myself.  I can see my body more fully and confirm that every inch below my chin is hugged by metallic beauty.  The way the wires cinched around me and fused together accentuates my natural assets ever so slightly.  My hair has gone from a dark brown to a bright silver, matching the cybernetic shell that now encapsulates my body.  Two sleek metal disks are clamped over my ears pulsing gentle violet light from their central recesses.  A similar disk, just barely in sight as I walk past the nocturnal reflections, pulses in time at the base of my neck.  I blush at how beautiful I've become and am rewarded with a dull throb of pleasure.  A trilling moan vibrates on my throat and the electric voice guiding me through the buildings takes pause for a moment.  I continue walking forward as last instructed.
 
The guiding voice leads me through two more sets of doors into a robotics lab.  On workbenches around the room are half-assembled spiderbots and prototypes for newer constructs.  The voice commands me to walk towards a row of chairs along the far wall and then almost immediately orders me to halt.  As I stand there, grinning vacantly at the empty lab, I can feel the static fragment.  The perfect replica of my internal monologue becomes more mechanical, jabbering with itself in multiple unintelligible voices. The violet light from the earpieces flickers rapidly.  Minutes pass.  Then, for the first time, the static asks a question instead of issuing a command:
 
"Do you enjoy being a drone?"
 
"I enjoy being a drone," I reply without thinking in the same format I've grown accustom to.  As usual, I'm rewarded for saying the right thing.
 
"Preset orders are to wait for Dr. Webster," the voice hums, beginning to coalesce again, "but scheduling heuristics indicate that this time would be most efficiently be spent reinforcing programming.  Additionally, diagnostics indicate that you have interfaced well with the drone system and do not need to spend idle time body-locked in the lab.  Schedule has been optimized to increase host compliance and decrease wasted idle time.  About face."
 
I spin around and march as the voice guides me back out of the lab and into a nearby office.  I walk through the office and into the attached bathroom: a swanky private bathroom with a changing area and full-length mirror in one corner.  Following my instructions, I kneel in front of the mirror and stare at my new, beautiful drone body.
 
"Estimated time until Dr. Webster returns: Ten hours," the voice informs me, as if my mind could still care about time, "Scheduling eight hours for programming reinforcement.  Adapting programming based on collected diagnostics.  Beginning programming."
 
A surge of pleasure lights up my body for just a moment, unlocking the feeling of horniness that had been purged from me for the last hour.  The old human instincts resurface and my robotic hand paws at the silver mesh over my crotch, my eyes locked on my wonderful robotic form in the mirror.
 
"You love being a drone," the voice purrs.
 
"I love being a drone," I pant, knowing it is the truth.  A spark connects from my hand to the spot between my legs kicking off ebbing throbs of stimulation to the underlying nerve endings.
 
"Being a drone makes you beautiful."
 
"Being a drone makes me beautiful."  The pleasure increases for a few seconds before settling back in to the baseline throbbing.  My eyes are tracing over my robotic form in the mirror, noting how my gleaming torso begins to rock slowly in place.  I'm so beautiful as a drone.
 
"You love being an obedient bundle of wires."
 
"I love being an obedient bundle of wires!"  My eyes tremble in their sockets, threatening to cross.  The hand that isn't applying slight pressure and barrages of sparks between my legs glides over the ridged metal of my skin.  More pleasure leaps through me as I show how much I love my new body.
 
"Your new drone body brings you pleasure."
 
"My new drone body brings me pleasure," I gasp as the mesh of metal over my crotch begins to vibrate.  I run my free hand up over my cheek to touch one of the disks over my ear.  As soon as I touch it the pleasure increases ten fold, the vibrations spreading backwards to my ass.  My glazed eyes watch the violet glow from the ear controller grow more and more intense as I lovingly caress it.  My jaw falls open to let loose unintelligible sounds.
 
"You love being a drone."
 
"Uggghhhhh," I grunt, the words I so desperately want to say blocked by moans.  The pleasure dials itself back so I can give my answer, which I do with great enthusiasm: "I love being a drone!"  

Instantly the sensation floods back, my mind losing itself in the rush of euphoria.  Knowing I've been rewarded for cherishing the ear controller, I give a gentle pet to the disk on the back of my neck.  Overpowering stimulation rages through every part of my body, throwing me forward onto my useless hands to watch my controlled body buck and writhe.  I'm right on the brink of orgasm, but the program won't let me cum.
 
"Why do you like being a drone?"
 
"I like-- Fuck!  I love being a drone because it feels sooooo good!" I groan at my reflection.  The program continues stimulating me but still didn't let me finish, it wants more. "I love being a drone because it's made me so sexy!  So fucking beautiful!  I love my new drone body!  I love how it controls my pleasure!  I love the shiny ear disks and the neck controller!  I love being made to fuck myself into compliance!  I love my robotic body of mesh and wires!  I LOVE BEING A DRONE!"
 
That did it, it allows me to go over the edge.  I watch my trembling metal body shake and spasm as the orgasm tears through me, reinforcing the truths I had just said.  Not that they needed to be reinforced, the program had been right in that I already believed all of them, but I'm not complaining.  It subsides and my eyes lock on to my reflection's, my hand lovingly brushes against the ear controller again, and a second orgasm lights up my brain.  The violet lights in my controllers twinkle happily at how well I was integrating my programming.  I'm happy I can please them.
 
"Baseline established in ten minutes," the voice informs me with a cheeriness I didn't know it could possess, "Adjusting programming plan based on analysis of baseline.  Plan constructed.  Executing."
 
I grin at myself in the mirror.  I am so beautiful.  I am so horny.  I am so controlled.  I love this.
 
"You love being a drone," the voice reminds me.  I love being a drone.
 
And after seven hours and fifty minutes more of programming, I will be ready to proclaim my new love to Dr. Webster.