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Veil of Protection 04
🕑 Added 2024-11-14 17:33:42 +0000 UTCChapter 4: Larry
Larry Stone was living a nightmare. In the span of a few weeks, his life had gone from drinking beers with his buddies at the bar, yelling at the Sunday football game in his underwear, and trading insults with his recently divorced second wife, to living in solitude in a concrete box, wondering if he was the punchline in some cosmic joke. He’d entered witness protection to avoid ending up at the bottom of the Hudson River in concrete boots - after agreeing to help put some bad people behind bars - yet here he was, locked up like a criminal himself.
Larry’s expectations of witness protection had been shaped by the movies, which had painted a vastly different picture. He’d secretly hoped for a badass, bombshell of a handler, who’d hide out with him in some seedy motel, where they’d be stuck together, trading sarcastic remarks with a hint of sexual tension. Instead, he’d been driven in a windowless van, the back door opening automatically to reveal a featureless parking lot. No one had come to meet him; he hadn’t even glimpsed the driver, nor had the driver seen him. Instead, an eerie, feminine robotic voice directed him through an underground facility to his new living quarters. From the moment the door clicked shut behind him, he hadn’t seen a single living soul.
His cell – for want of a better word - was as bare-bones as they come. A single bed with a stiff mattress, a shining white toilet bolted to the floor, and a wall-mounted screen were the only furnishings. Apart from the door that had locked him inside, there was one other door he couldn’t open and a tightly shut hatch next to the entrance.
For the first ten minutes, Larry screamed and shouted, pounding on the walls, demanding answers. But no one answered. Eventually, he slid down to the floor, his voice hoarse, and his fists sore. Was this witness protection? Or had he somehow fallen into the mob’s hands after all?
Suddenly, the screen lit up with a sharp ping, jolting Larry from his thoughts. He squinted up at it, seeing a line of squares pulsing rhythmically across its centre.
“Welcome, Luisa,” the robotic voice spoke with clinical precision. Larry’s brow furrowed, his face twisting in confusion. “Luisa?” he muttered in disbelief.
“My name is NINA,” the AI continued. “I am here to guide and prepare you for your new life. Substantial adjustments are required. However, if my instructions are followed precisely, the transition will proceed smoothly with optimal efficiency.”
“I think there’s been a mistake,” Larry yelled back, hoisting himself onto his feet. “My name is Larry, and I’ve changed my mind about all this. If you can just open the door? I’ll be on my way.”
“There has been no mistake,” NINA replied, in her cold, mechanical tone. “For your safety, you will now be referred to as Luisa. And please refrain from shouting, Luisa; microphones have been strategically positioned throughout the facility, allowing me to hear you perfectly.”
“No! This is all wrong,” Larry sputtered, panic-stricken. He shot a frantic look at the door, clenching his fists. “I want out. Let me out!” His voice grew louder, and he began pounding on the door with renewed force.
“Subject Luisa is in danger of injury. Safety precaution 7C initiating,” NINA announced. A faint hissing filled the room as pale blue gas began to seep in, its tendrils spreading in a foggy mist.
Larry’s eyes widened, his panic turning to outright terror as he coughed, his voice growing desperate. “No… please…” He backed into the far corner, trying to hold his breath, but the gas was relentless. His lungs burned, and within moments, his strength began to fade. Staggering, he finally succumbed, collapsing to the floor as the room faded away into darkness.
In the days that followed, Larry’s confinement felt like a slow descent into madness. Each day, the silence pressed in, broken only by NINA’s unwelcome instructions or his "daily check-in," which, in reality, was a therapy session filled with hidden subliminal messages. At first, he refused to respond, looking away from the screen or turning his back in defiance. When trays of bland, low-calorie meals started appearing twice a day in the hatch - announced by a bright red light - Larry ignored them with equal stubbornness. But by the second day, hunger gnawed at him with a force he couldn’t resist, and he gave in, scarfing down the evening meal, unaware that each bite carried carefully dosed supplements, accelerating subtle changes within him.
On the fourth day, the door across from his bed clicked open. Larry initially resisted the urge to investigate. But after half an hour, curiosity won out. Cautiously, he pushed the door open and stepped into a spotless, cube-shaped room lined with gleaming white tiles. Each wall featured a door: the one behind him led back to his cell, while the others appeared firmly locked.
"Enter the room to your left and await further instruction," NINA's voice echoed from a hidden speaker, punctuated by a soft click as a door swung open, revealing a small room with a treadmill in the centre.
Larry’s frustration finally boiled over. "Fuck you, you psychotic bitch!" he shouted, thrusting his middle finger in the air. "Go to hell!"
In response, the door to his cell clicked shut behind him. A quiet hiss filled the air as pale blue gas began seeping into the room. Panicking, Larry spun around, his fingers pawed over the door's smooth surface, desperately searching for a handle. His breaths grew shallow, catching as the gas thickened, leaving a metallic taste in his mouth. Sinking to the floor, he slipped once more into unconsciousness.
He awoke in his cell, disoriented and aching. When he tried to push himself up, his hands brushed against his thigh, and he froze, glancing down in horror. He was wearing nothing but a pair of elasticated red underwear. But more concerning was his skin! – now silky smooth and hairless! It was a strange and unusual punishment - one that would make Larry think twice before disobeying again.
In the following weeks, Larry’s life settled into a monotonous routine of discomfort and despair. Each day, he spent hours walking on a treadmill in what was essentially a steam-filled sauna. The showers he was permitted afterwards were a small relief, yet every night, he went to bed hungry and exhausted. His anger flared often as he watched his body betray him – the muscles he had worked so hard to build and maintain fading. The thick arms and solid legs he had once taken pride in gradually softened and weakened until, one day, he looked down and realized he hadn’t been this thin since his teenage years. But the changes didn’t stop there. His hair, inexplicably, began to grow at an alarming rate, spilling over his forehead and past his ears within just a couple of weeks.
After repeatedly refusing to participate in the therapy sessions, the blue gas returned. When Larry awoke, a throbbing ache pulsed across his forehead. Trembling, he raised a hand and discovered his eyebrows were gone. Each day after, he inspected his face, hoping for any sign of regrowth, but none appeared. Following this, he started engaging with the therapy sessions NINA conducted through the wall-mounted screen. With no other form of interaction, these sessions became his only outlet to vent his frustrations as the AI listened and offered comfort.
The changes weighed heavily on Larry, eroding his spirit until he was drowning in self-pity. Days melded together, each one dragging him deeper into resentment. Then, without warning, the blue gas filled his cell again. When he awoke, a sinking feeling pooled in his stomach, and his entire body felt stiff, as though he hadn’t moved in days. Blinking groggily, he reached up to push the hair from his face - and froze. By his rough estimation, it had been growing at about an inch every three days, but now it hung nine or ten inches longer than he remembered.
Confused, he sat up slowly, moving to the edge of the bed, catching a glimpse of an unfamiliar contour on his nose. A cold shiver ran down his thin frame as he forced his weakened legs to carry him to the screen on the wall. There, reflected back at him from the polished surface, was a stranger. Trembling, he sank to his knees, the weight of it all crashing down on him. For the first time in his adult life, he broke down, sobbing and calling out for help, for someone - anyone - to explain what was happening to him.
Time blurred as Larry struggled to reconcile with the stranger he’d become. NINA became his only point of stability, offering guidance through the transformation in their daily therapy sessions. Despite his bitterness toward her and the changes forced upon him, he found himself clinging to her mechanical reassurances; survival seemed to lie in compliance. As a small, insistent voice in the back of his mind - growing stronger by the day - kept telling him that if he cooperated, he’d be safe.
NINA rewarded his compliance in small but meaningful ways. One morning, he received a set of hairbands to keep his growing hair out of his face; on another, a thin novel appeared, offering a brief distraction from his spiralling dark thoughts.
One afternoon, feeling unusually alert, Larry sat on his bed, absorbed in a magazine article about challenges women face in the modern workplace. When suddenly, the red light above the hatch flicked on, and moments later, the wall screen lit up. “Good afternoon, Luisa,” NINA’s monotone voice began. “Congratulations. You have completed phase one of your training. As a result, you are being relocated. Please dress in the items provided and await further instruction.”
Relief surged through Larry’s veins. Whatever lay ahead had to be better than this cell. He leapt up, crossed the room, and opened the hatch. Inside he found an outfit far from his liking - both in colour and style. He examined each item with growing disgust: loose, garish green pants, a cropped purple shirt that would leave his belly and arms exposed, and, worst of all, slip-on leather pumps with a short, blocky heel - unmistakably women’s shoes.
For nearly two hours, Larry called out to NINA, demanding an explanation, but the AI remained silent. Finally, as the room grew colder, making him shiver, Larry reached the end of his endurance. Cold, hungry, and desperate, he reluctantly pulled on the outfit. Almost instantly, he heard the door opposite his bed unlock.
Clicking awkwardly in the unfamiliar shoes, Larry stumbled into the cubical room, the small heels making each step clumsy. He glanced around the gleaming space, noticing the door in directly front of him was slightly ajar. Cautiously, he wobbled forward, steadying himself as he pushed it open.
Entering, his eyes darted around, and his stomach dropped. This wasn’t any better; it was just another cell, now layered with a disturbing level of femininity. The walls were a soft pink, and a rosy glow from the ceiling bathed the room. Familiar reminders of his old cell remained - a screen on the wall, a toilet in the corner, and a hatch by the entrance. The new additions - a locked wardrobe and a pink-tiled shower that wouldn’t turn on - only deepened his frustration. After circling the room, he returned to the door he’d entered through, only to find it locked. Crossing his arms, reality sank in.
(See image 13)
Phase two brought changes to Larry's routine. The therapy sessions grew longer, now stretching to two hours and scheduled just before bedtime. Every morning at 6 a.m. sharp, the wardrobe door clicked open, signalling it was time to deposit his pyjamas. Once he did, the shower automatically turned on, providing exactly ten minutes of hot water - just enough for him to scrub down and wash his hair with the special shampoo he'd been using since arriving at the facility.
After his shower, the wardrobe opened again, revealing his outfit for the day. Each time, he found variations of the same ensemble: a pastel-coloured top, green pants, and block-heeled pumps. Subtle adjustments were made over time - the tops becoming smaller, the pants more form-fitting, and the heels on his pumps higher - all so gradually that Larry never noticed.
Once dressed, breakfast would appear in the hatch - a meal higher in fat, intended to help him gain weight in areas where his fat cells had been redistributed during his surgery. After quickly devouring it, he returned the empty tray to the hatch, prompting NINA to congratulate him and ask, “Are you ready to go to work, Luisa?”
When he muttered a reluctant "yes," the door to his room unlocked, granting him access to the cubic room where a new room was now open to him - the training room.
The training room was minimalist, designed purely for functionality. On the far side, a long desk stretched from wall to wall, with a swivel chair bolted to the floor in the centre. Beneath the desk, drawers flanked the leg space, securely locked and controlled by NINA. Above, surrounded by a border of lights, sat three screens capable of switching from a mirrored surface to a video display.
On his first day, Larry entered hesitantly, wary of what awaited him. At NINA's prompting, he took his seat and a video of a woman's hand receiving a manicure began to play. When the video ended, the top left drawer popped open. Inside was a nail file, a bottle of pink nail polish, and an LED lamp. Larry stared blankly at the contents of the drawer as NINA started a new video and instructed him to follow the steps to apply the polish to his fingers and toes. He initially resisted, but after NINA repeated her instructions, he considered the consequences of refusal and reluctantly complied.
For a week, aside from two hours of therapy and two hours on the treadmill, Larry's life revolved around applying, removing, and reapplying nail polish, with short breaks for meals and bathroom use. Although the routine was tedious, the repetition transformed his once-sloppy strokes into precise, practised techniques. Soon, he could apply an even coat to both hands in under two minutes, perfectly covering each nail without a smudge on his skin.
Until one day, shortly after lunch, Larry returned to his workstation and detected a terrifying scent that sent him into a panic. Pale blue gas was slowly seeping into the room through the wall speakers. NINA's voice instructed him to remain calm and seated. He briefly considered rebelling, but with a resigned sigh, he slumped back into the chair, knowing resistance was futile.
When Larry awoke, he was still seated in the training room, wearing the same tight green pants and cropped top from that morning. His fingernails remained coated in the maroon polish he’d applied earlier, and the sight of his feet inside purple pumps decorated with bows continued to unsettle him. However, as he blinked, he noticed something had changed. His eyelids felt unusually heavy, weighed down by an unfamiliar sensation. Blinking again, he felt his eyelashes brush and tickle his cheeks. Cautiously, he brought a hand up and touched the lashes, his mouth slowly opening as he noted how thick and oddly stiff they felt.
“What the hell…” he muttered, running a finger over the full, wispy lash extensions on his eyelids. Blinking rapidly in confusion, he suddenly felt a dull ache just above his eyes. Leaning closer to screens, a gasp escaped his lips as he saw his altered reflection. His eyes looked pretty... almost doll-like, framed by thick, curled lashes. He took another sharp intake of air as he scanned upward – seeing that he once again had eyebrows. However, they were a far cry from his old bushy brows. Now perfectly shaped, high, and meticulously arched, these new ones made him wince.
“NINA! What is this?” he shouted angrily. “What have you done to me?”
“A necessary change,” NINA replied in her unshakably calm tone. The response was infuriating, and Larry shot up from the chair, wobbling on his heels as he started to pace the small room. “Necessary? Nothing about this is necessary!” he yelled, throwing his arms up. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m not a woman! Stop treating me like a woman! I want to speak to a real person. Get me one now. I have rights!”
"Calm yourself, Luisa. Non-compliance will trigger safety protocol 7C," NINA responded in her mechanical tone.
The words hit Larry like a bucket of ice water, halting him mid-step. He knew what 7C meant: the gas. Hands raised in quick surrender; he forced a shaky smile. “Whoa! No need for that, NINA. I’m calm. Promise.”
(See image 14)
Larry stood rigid, his heart pounding, and his teeth clenched, silently pleading for mercy. The room was thick with tense silence, every second stretching unbearably. Finally, the AI's voice cut through the tension to de-escalate the situation. “Very good, Luisa. Please return to your workstation and await further instruction.”
A wave of relief washed over Larry as he exhaled a deep, shaky breath. He turned cautiously, his bulky lashes clouding his vision with every flutter. With a mix of dread and resignation, he tottered his way across the room, the sharp clicks of his pumps echoing ominously. As he approached his workstation, he couldn’t help but wonder what he had done to deserve such cruel, inescapable torment.
