Suiting up is a familiar process by now. The heavy heeled boots of your uniform fit with a comfortable snugness that you’ve become accustomed to. Your day-to-day sneakers hardly feel like suitable footwear anymore; they’re too light and they aren’t worn with meaningful purpose. Somehow, pulling your lengthy rubber gloves from fingertip to elbow is always just as much a happy novelty as it was the first time around. They snap into place as more a skin than a garment. Everything feels different, better, through a thin layer of shiny synthetic rubber. You haven’t engaged your visor yet, but your thoughts are already slipping away from the dull minutia of a human existence. Mental pacification is a trained response to the gear, at this point. The idea of being so innately connected to these items arouses a carnal satisfaction.

“Drone.” You murmur the word, almost reverently, beneath your excited breath. The general moniker feels like a more appropriate title for you than your own name. If only there was a serial number behind it to designate you as an individual component among many identical ones. At least there’s the chance that you aren’t too far away from earning that coveted number. Maybe this time you’ll finally follow through with your desires. In a frustrating paradox, making the choice to unburden yourself from responsibility is itself a burdensome responsibility. You pause to thoughtfully admire yourself in this liminal phase between what you pretend to be and what you are. The underlying form of your body is all the more beautiful with the aid of your carefully curated enhancements, improved in all of the ways that it is anonymized. Running your hands up your sides sends a shudder of delight through you. Every piece of your chassis is so form fitting that you feel naked. But there’s no trace of the animal warmth you’ve come to associate with your own touch. Your palms meet only blessedly artificial material.

Taking your headgear in hand, you catch your reflection in the inky gleam of its visor. The organic shades of your still exposed face contrast sharply to the crisp, hand selected hues of your dutifully shined body. From the toe of your boot to the nape of your neck, you glisten. Amidst this juxtaposition, your eyes, lips, and nose look fake, like elements of a decently crafted mask that doesn’t really befit its wearer. You deftly unclasp the latches on the side of your helmet- the final piece of your outfit to be applied and by far the most expensive. A cheery sequence of pleasant beeps from the helmet’s speakers sings you a warm ‘welcome back!’. The lights that comprise the visor’s interior display flicker to life, indicating things like noise suppression settings and the level of distortion provided by its voice modulator. Prying its hinge just wide enough to accommodate your head, you slip it down over your face. You breathe in long and deep. There’s a homey smell that you savor- a distinctive blend of warm copper and clean rental car. The final tatters of your independent thought are fading fast. For most people, finding and successfully securing the clasps back into place without being able to see them would pose a logistical nuisance. But not for you. Muscle memory alone meticulously guides your fingers so you can snap the locks into place with two audible clicks.

It occurs to you that this could be the last time you hear that specific noise. If you wanted, you could render the helmet’s seal permanent. For now though, you only want to enjoy the moment. Subconscious obedience compels you to stand at attention while dressed this way. But despite your perfect posture and rigid limbs, you couldn’t feel more relaxed. Today had been bad. So bad that you had cleared your evening to ensure you could don your chassis and shut your brain all the way down. Right now, you can’t even recall what had been bothering you.

Blocky digital letters on your heads-up display present a multitude of messages in soft, semi-transparent blue light. You absorb most of the information without realizing you’re reading it. Though, one notification in particular holds your hazy, happy interest with an iron grip. “Good Drone… Good Drone… Good Drone…” The affirmation blinks in and out of your view in two second intervals. Every repetition causes you to breath out a thankful little whimper. An uncanny yet addictive physical sensation accompanies the emotional catharsis of being praised. It’s like your gear is gently petting your scalp, painlessly passing through your head to encouragingly stroke and tease at your brain. Merely standing here and basking in the validation would be entertainment enough for the evening, but good drones are more productive than that. So you go about the task of cleaning up your room- a chore that becomes a genuine leisure activity given the context. You fold the laundry: “Good drone.” You make the bed: “Good drone.” You do some light dusting: “Good drone.” Any job imaginable is worth doing for its own sake.

Eventually, there’s little more for a contented House Drone to tend to. While putting away a book you’d left out yesterday, your visor’s engaging show of light and color fades away. You know what’s coming next. Slowly, a bold box of text materializes in the center of your vision.“Simulated drone operation has been in effect for: 2 Hours.” The only surprise here is that two hours have passed. You’ve read this time and time again. But maybe this is the final time. “Initiate drone conversion and conditioning via hardware to cranial nerve integration? Y/N”.