“Are you comfortable?” Conversion Drone #7143 asks as it cinches your last leather restraint into place. The grip of the bindings is softer than you’d expect, though firm enough to make independent movement impossible. 

“They’re good, thank you.” You respond with a nervous smile. According to the waiver you had signed, all restraints employed during your simulated experience are a safety measure intended to maximize client satisfaction. Still, it’s easy to imagine a more nefarious set of circumstances as #7143 straps you into the programming module.

A brief shudder of excitement runs down your back at the idea of being forced into your current predicament. It’s a fun, if somewhat morbid, fantasy. But it couldn’t be further from the truth. In addition to being here willingly, you have no interest in actually joining a Hive. Most human to drone conversion facilities (including this one) offer a sort of ‘trial run’- a weaker, temporary administration of the conditioning regimen used during a full scale procedure. The service is meant to help someone decide if becoming a drone is the lifestyle change they’re looking for.

However, you’ve heard from several of your friends that the experience afforded them an enormous boost to their work ethic and general productivity. As far as you can tell, it’s something of a trend to take advantage of this program, as it’s provided completely free of charge. All it takes is a couple of inconsequential white lies about how you “really need help to make up your mind about your future.” From there, you lie back while reaping the benefits of sharper focus and increased motivation. At least, that’s how it’s always been described to you.

“We will now engage the programming apparatus.” #7143 tells you. It has all the pleasant patience you would expect from a public service drone. You nod your head in understanding, eager to see if you’ll experience the same positive side effects your friends had all vouched for.

The apparatus itself looks like it was pulled straight from the pages of an 80s sci-fi comic book: a thick, reflective, domed helmet that encapsulates the wearer’s entire head. Dense coils of sleek, black chord run from the headpiece all the way up and into the ceiling above. #7143 lowers the contraption into place. Thankfully, it’s lighter than it looks, not placing a strain on your neck despite its clunky appearance. From inside, you see that obscure indicator lights sporadically blink on and off with no discernible rhythm in your peripheral vision.

“This drone will initialize the simulation momentarily. It will return in one hour to collect you.” Your attending drone informs you. While still audible, #7143’s voice seems distinctly distant from outside the conditioning apparatus, as though it’s speaking from another room.

For the next minute, you giddily wait for things to get underway; only to be startled when the machine embracing your skull stirs to life with a loud, sudden whirring noise. If not for the tightly secured buckles enforcing your posture, you would jump out of the seat. You chuckle at your own skittishness before immediately relaxing again. A series of mechanical clicks emanates from somewhere within the helmet. Then, a beat of silence. Soft, fuzzy static, barely perceptible at first but rising like a growing swell, gradually fills the void.

 Intermittently, a deep thrum of bass ripples through the blanket of white noise. In the dim confines of the conditioning apparatus you watch as the indicator lights cycle through the same series of colors on their own, disjointed rhythms: Yellow, Orange, Red, Green, Blue, Purple. The static plays in a continuous loop, utterly drowning out any chance that you might hear something from beyond the programming module. Every time the bass interjects it commands your focus more forcefully, derailing any independent train of thought in five second intervals. Before long, you feel as though you’re floating. There’s no chair beneath you, no texture to your clothing or no ambient temperature on your skin. Your senses are too dominated by the conditioning apparatus to perceive anything beyond it. You exist only within its confines.

Another hit of bass bounces you from one side of the helmet to the other, then back again. In the brief interstices where you can form something like an idea, you imagine a calm, androgynous voice whispering unintelligibly into your ear. You can’t say how long it’s been there. Ten minutes? Thirty? Or has this voice been there your whole life? Either way, you can’t muster the attention or motivation to figure it out. You just enjoy this. Twinkling like stars in the expanse of space, the indicator lights seem to multiply in your hazy, half-lidded vision.

Dull aches in your cheeks make you vaguely aware that you’ve been wearing a sleepy smile for quite some time. Then, in one moment, you’re snatched back into reality when the conditioning apparatus is pulled up and away from you. You blink slowly, and reach to rub at your eyes. But the restraints you had forgotten about keep your arm held at your side. 

“Welcome back.” #7143 greets you. “This concludes your third repetition of low intensity exposure to drone conditioning methods. Have you decided to submit to a full-scale conversion?” The drone asks.

An answer, automatic and instinctive, bubbles up from within you. You want to say ‘yes’, but something isn’t right so you hesitate. “This dro- I mean… I don’t understand. What do you mean by third repetition?” Your shaky, inquisitive reply earns a dismissive sigh from #7143.

“Subject still presents an unprompted curiosity.” It observes aloud. Without waiting for further comment, the drone irreverently pulls the conditioning apparatus down onto your head. You’re plunged into an all too familiar darkness that drains the attentive light from your eyes. “Don’t worry. This drone knows you really need help to make up your mind about the future.” #7143 hisses quietly through your insidious headpiece. “It will return in yet another hour, when you’ll have hopefully drooled the last of your lingering identity out onto your lap.”