derek_williams
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Reprogrammed
🕑 Added 2025-08-30 21:42:58 +0000 UTCMarco and I share an office. The second bedroom in our trendy Yaletown apartment.
His desk was carefully arranged. A calm space with neat succulents and soft lighting. My workspace was a mess of empty coffee mugs, old takeout boxes, and my laptop in the middle. His webcam was pointed carefully so it wouldn’t film my chaos.
Not that he was filming right now. It was 6:03 AM on a Tuesday. Marco was asleep in our bed while I worked through the night. There was a critical bug in the Ardent Cloud project – a fintech startup I was somehow leading — and I needed to fix it before our servers melted.
My eyes were bleary. This bug was taunting me. I could practically hear it.
Maybe that was the sleep deprivation talking. The clock had just passed 6:30.
From the other side of the wall came the upbeat strains of Marco’s “Morning Motivation” livestream music. I could practically see him, his impossibly sculpted biceps flexing as he framed his perfect smile for the camera. “What’s up, Team Marco!” his voice boomed. “Rise and grind! Another beautiful day to build a better you. Remember, you gotta own your morning to own your day!”
I snorted. Own your morning? My morning had me by the throat. Meanwhile my influencer boyfriend prattled on about his morning protein.
Finally the music stopped. Marco poked his head into our office, concern etched on his flawless features.
“Babe,” he said, his voice soft with me. “You look wrecked. Seriously. You’ve been at that since I went to bed. And you skipped supper... again.”
I didn’t bother looking up, my focus laser-locked on a particularly gnarly block of code.
“Almost got it. Just need to... trace this back...”
“C’mon Liam, hit the gym with me,” he persisted. “I have a great new couples routine I want to film for the channel…”
“I can’t, Marco. This is critical,” I tried to explain. “If this thing crashes during peak trading hours…” The thought alone sent a fresh wave of nausea through me. “Besides you know I hate being on camera.”
I’d gone on camera with him a few times. I’m good looking, good enough to bag Marco at least. But compared to Marco’s effortless charisma, I felt like a malfunctioning robot trying to emulate human joy. Better to stick to the computers…
“It’s just an hour babe,” he sighed, the sound carefully calibrated wth long-suffering patience. “Think of the content!”
“Think of the company if this thing implodes.”
I turned back to my screen.
-----
By that evening my brain felt like a wrung-out sponge. I was staring blankly at my laptop, the code having dissolved into meaningless symbols. This time Marco was more cautious, approaching my desk as if I were a spooked animal. He held out his tablet, a peace offering.
“Okay,” he said softly. “I know you’re stressed. But I was talking to Jax, my trainer. And he was telling me about this guy he went to see.”
On the screen was a sleek, professional website. Muted greys, calming blues, a sans-serif font.
“Hypnotherapy?” I scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”
“Hear me out,” he said, sitting beside me. “He’s not some stage magician. he's like a mindset coach... for your subconscious. Executives, athletes... they all go to him. Look at these testimonials.”
He scrolled past quotes praising “unlocked potential” and “peak performance states.”
“It’s just corporate buzzwords for a placebo effect, Marco.”
“So what?” he countered, turning to face me, his eyes earnest. “Who cares how it works if it works? Imagine just... switching the anxiety off when you need to focus. Like toggling a setting in your code, right?”
He knew exactly what language to use. The idea my brain might respond to a simple command was ludicrous, but a tiny treacherous part of me felt a flicker of need. The promise of “peak performance” was a siren song to a man drowning in stress.
But still... I shook my head, pushing away the tablet and the tempting fantasy with it.
“The mind isn't a hard drive, Marco. It's not that simple.”
“Isn’t it worth one conversation?” he pressed, his voice a low and persuasive.
I stood up, needing to put space between me and the idea, and began to pace the small confines of our office.
“Absolutely not, Marco.” My voice was flat and final. “My mind is who I am. It’s my only real asset.” The words hung in the air, a stark confession of how I saw myself. “I am not handing the keys over to a stranger with a psychology degree and a nice website. It's a non-starter.”
“It’s not handing over the keys, it’s...”
“It’s a security vulnerability in my own brain,” I cut him off, my voice sharp. “It’s willingly installing malware in my own operating system. The answer is no.”
Marco held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. He knew he’d lost this round, but the set of his jaw told me he hadn’t given up on the battle. He left the office, closing the door softly behind him, leaving me alone with my principles.
----------
Hours later, my principles weren’t offering much comfort. It was past midnight, and the bug was still there, a venomous little serpent hiding in a jungle of code. My thoughts were a feedback loop of frustration and self-recrimination. The familiar, cold tendrils of a panic attack began to creep in from the edges of my vision.
I slammed the laptop shut with a sharp crack, the sound echoing in the silent room. Burying my face in my hands, I focused on the simple act of breathing, trying to anchor myself against the rising tide of panic.
The door opened again, this time so quietly I barely noticed. Marco came in with a steaming mug of chamomile tea. He set it on the corner of my desk, pulled up his chair and sat with me.
After a few minutes, when my breathing had evened out, he spoke, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper.
“Okay. Forget the science. Forget all the other stuff.” He put a hand on my shoulder, his touch warm and solid through my t-shirt. “I just... I hate seeing you like this. You’re stretched so thin you’re about to snap. I feel so helpless.”
He paused, and then added the line that broke through my defences.
“I miss you.”
A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped my lips. My voice was muffled by my hands.
“I miss me too.”
“Just go for the consultation,” he urged, his thumb rubbing a small circle on my shoulder blade. “If you hate him, we’ll walk out. I’ll be right there in the waiting room.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a plea. “Please? For me?”
My bloodshot eyes stared at the man I loved,
“Okay,” I breathed, the word a white flag of surrender. “Make the appointment.”
-----
Dr. Finch’s waiting room felt like a different reality. All muted tones and calming scents. I perched on the edge of a designer chair, my leg jiggling with nervous energy.
He was handsome in a severe, academic way, with sharp cheekbones and wire-rimmed glasses.
“Mr. Evans? I’m Dr. Alistair Finch. Please, come in.” His eyes lit up when he saw my boyfriend waiting there with me. “Ah, yes! Marco. Wonderful to meet you. I follow your work online. So driven.”
His office was more of the same minimalist calm, dominated by a pair of leather chairs. Finch took a seat opposite me, his hands clasped loosely. “Tell me,” he began, his voice a smooth, reassuring baritone. “In your own words, what is the ideal outcome you’d like to achieve today?”
“Well... I’m too stressed,” I admitted. “My job, it’s... I need a way to detach for an hour, let my nervous system reset, you know?”
“So you’d like to reduce your stress levels?” Dr. Finch said, making a note in a tiny black notebook.
“Not quite,” I said. “I just need a way to reset. My stress is good – it keeps me focussed, keeps me working... but sometimes I need a break. Whatever you do, I need to keep that focus.”
“Hm... do you enjoy the gym, Mr Evans?” he asked. “Given your partner and your general physique, I have to assume that...”
“Yeah, I workout,” I nodded. “Though... not often enough lately. I’m too in my head about work.”
“You really should exercise,” Finch said, making another little note. “It’s exactly what you’re looking for, so here’s what I’ll propose... a Workout Protocol.”
“I’m not sure I understand...”
“I will install a trigger phrase in your mind. When you utter the phrase, say... ‘Engage Workout Protocol’... you will instantly enter a state of focussed calm. Your stress will drop away, and all that will matter is lifting weights. The perfect reset for your nervous system. And then, after exactly one hour... you’re back to normal.”
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. Dr. Finch’s idea was straightforward and sandboxed... just the kind of code I liked.
“How does that sound?” he asked. “It’s entirely your choice Mr. Evans.”
“It’s precise,” I said approvingly.
“Do you think it’s worth a try?” Dr. Finch asked, leaning in closer. “If you don’t like it, we can always remove the protocol.”
On the drive over, Marco and I had talked about this. I’m not super comfortable having someone rummage through my brain, but I’d promised to give it a shot. And honestly... there wasn’t much to object to here.
So I gave the most subtle nod you’ve ever seen.
“Excellent. Now, Liam, if you’re ready, I’d like you to get comfortable in the chair, close your eyes, and just listen to the sound of my voice.”
I did as he asked, feeling foolish the whole time. The next twenty minutes were a blur of soothing instructions, guided imagery about walking down staircases and opening doors into quiet rooms. It wasn’t magical or spooky. it felt like a very expensive guided meditation.
I didn’t even feel hypnotized, much less brainwashed.
I felt like I’d wasted three hundred bucks.
----------
That evening, Marco was vibrating as we walked into the gym. “So? Do you feel different?”
“It felt like a nice nap,” I grumbled, thinking about how much work was waiting at home. I knew I needed a good workout, but maybe I should put it off one more day. Get one more bug fixed...
Then I saw Marco’s expectant face and felt guilty.
“Why don’t you give it a try?” he prodded gently. “That trigger phrase…”
What the hell, I thought, may as well give it a shot. Leaning over the water fountain, pretending to take a long drink, I whispered the words and felt like a lunatic.
“Engage workout protocol.”
Nothing happened. Or rather, everything that usually happened in my head simply... stopped. The internal monologue of self-criticism, the constant scanning of the room to see who was looking at me, the low-grade hum of social terror – it all vanished.
My body moved. I strode to the closest squat rack, my posture perfect, my movements efficient. I loaded the bar, performed my warm-up sets, my form clean and precise. I moved through an entire sixty-minute routine like a perfectly calibrated machine.
I didn’t feel strong or powerful. I didn’t feel anything. I was simply an observer, a passenger in a body that was executing a script.
As suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The normal gym sounds, the weight of being perceived, the familiar static of my own thoughts rushed back in, a deafening roar after the silence. I was standing by the dumbbell rack, suddenly back in the world.
Marco jogged over, his eyes wide.
“Dude. That was... amazing. You were like a machine.”
I didn’t know what to say. My body had done the work, but I hadn’t been there for it.
“I guess I kind of was…”
----------
Marco was electric on the car ride home, talking a mile a minute about my “insane focus” and “pro-level execution.” He was already storyboarding the video series we could make, the brand partnerships we could attract. I, on the other hand, was silent in the passenger seat, thinking about the implications. The trade-off felt fundamentally wrong, a violation of some core principle I couldn't articulate.
For the next few days, I tried to forget it. I threw myself back into the Ardent Cloud project, using the familiar stress as a security blanked. I didn’t use the protocol again. When Marco brought it up, I was evasive, changing the subject or claiming I was too busy to go to the gym.
My resolve lasted until Thursday morning.
----------
I try to work from the office at least three days a week, but I was having trouble getting out the door. Every decision felt like a monumental task. I stood in front of my closet for a full ten minutes, paralyzed by the choice between a blue shirt and a grey one.
My mind raced with stupid variables: what meetings did I have, what was the optic I wanted to project, did the grey make me look washed out? By the time I finally chose, I was running late. In my haste, I fumbled my mug, sending coffee down my choice.
“Fuck!” I growled. There was no time to do laundry. I stripped off the grey shirt and pulled on the blue one, swearing at myself the entire time.
And in that moment of pathetic, coffee-stained despair, the memory of the gym returned – not the terror, but the quiet. The effortless efficiency. The absence of this exact, paralyzing feeling.
I felt a deep, gut-wrenching shame as I picked up my phone, my hands trembling slightly. I was a weak-willed addict, crawling back after one hit. But still… I booked another appointment with Dr. Finch.
The second session was quicker, more transactional. “I need a ‘Morning Routine’ protocol,” I told him, avoiding his eyes. “From 7:00 AM to 8:00 AM. Wake up, shower, dress, prepare coffee and a simple breakfast. Total efficiency. No decision fatigue.”
“A contained script,” he smiled. “Very wise. Let’s begin.”
----------
I woke up just before my 7:00 AM alarm. As the clock ticked over, I felt the quiet descend on my mind. My body swung out of bed. I was a passenger again, watching myself move through the apartment with a silent, graceful purpose.
I watched my hands select a charcoal polo shirt and dark jeans from the closet – a good pairing, my conscious mind noted with detached approval. I watched myself brew coffee, shower, and toast a bagel with an unthinking precision. It was both marvelous and horrifying.
There was no enjoyment of the hot water, no appreciation for the aroma of the coffee. There was only the flawless execution of a task list. I was a ghost in my own life.
At 7:59 AM, I was sitting on the sofa, dressed, fed, and packed for the day, with my coffee in hand. The protocol was set to terminate in one minute. Marco walked out of our bedroom, stretching lazily. His eyes widened when he saw me.
“Whoa,” he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You’re... ready.”
“It’s the new protocol,” I said, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. “A morning routine.”
As the clock hit 8:00 AM, the quiet vanished, and the full weight of what I’d done crashed down on me. The feeling of being a puppet was even stronger this time.
“That’s amazing,” Marco glowed at me. “It’s exactly what you need.”
-----
Marco’s reframing was a powerful sedative. For a few days, I lived the comforting lie.
My mornings were seamless, stress-free entry points into days that were still, admittedly, hellish. The Ardent Cloud launch was looming, mere weeks away, and the pressure at work had become a physical weight.
The breaking point came during a progress meeting. My team was gathered in the conference room for a video conference with New York. We were talking to a senior VP, a woman with a reputation for surgically dissecting every presentation. I’d prepared for hours.
For the first ten minutes, I was fine. I was articulate, knowledgeable, in command of the facts.
Then she interrupted me. “Mr. Evans,” she said, her voice cutting through my monologue, “Your scaling resource curve seems overly optimistic. What’s your contingency if we have higher than anticipated volumes?”
It was a fair question. A hard question. And in that instant, my brain, my one reliable asset, betrayed me. My throat went dry. The answer – which I knew, which I had notes on – fractured into a thousand pieces.
“Well, uh...” I stammered, my eyes darting across my screen, unable to find the relevant data point. “The contingency, Ms. Vance, is... it’s multi-faceted. We have a... a plan...”
The silence stretched. I could feel the eyes of my team on me, the weight of the SVP’s unimpressed stare boring through the screen. The static in my head was so loud I couldn’t think. I completely, humiliatingly, blanked.
My project manager had to jump in and salvage the rest of the meeting. When the call ended, I didn’t wait for the debrief. I walked directly into my office, shut the door, and leaned against it, my heart hammering with a mortifying mix of shame and terror.
This was different from spilling coffee. This was a professional cataclysm.
There was no internal debate this time. There was no struggle. Only the cold, hard certainty of what I had to do.
I called Dr. Finch’s office and booked an emergency session for my lunch hour.
----------
“It’s my job,” I told him. “I thought I could handle it, but... the stress is killing me. I need, like... an ‘Office Mode.’”
Dr. Finch steepled his fingers, his expression one of professional sympathy.
“And what would this ‘Office Mode’ entail?”
“Confidence,” I said, the word tasting like ash. “Charisma. I need to be decisive. Ruthlessly efficient. No hesitation. No fear. From nine AM to five PM, Monday to Friday. I need to be at the top of my game.”
“I see,” he said softly. “Are you certain? That persona will take... a significant number of your waking hours.”
“It’s my job,” I insisted. “I need a boost.”
----------
The next day, I had a 9:30 follow-up scheduled with senior leadership from New York. There was an email from my inbox – we’d gotten a bad review from Ms. Vance, and now her boss wanted to see for himself.
I sat at my desk at 8:59 AM, my hands already sweating. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and waited for the clock to strike nine.
The change was instantaneous and absolute. The fear vanished, replaced by a cool certainty. A wave of effortless confidence washed through me. I opened my eyes and smirked.
Let’s get to work. I powered through my email until 9:25, then headed for the boardroom.
“Hey team,” I grinned as I took my seat at the end of the table. “Ready for a do-over?”
I was charming. I was witty. I had everyone laughing, instantly diffusing the tension. When the tough questions came, I handled them with a fluid, unshakeable poise that was utterly mesmerizing.
I watched myself lean forward, making eye contact, using my hands to emphasize points. I articulated complex strategies with a clarity that even I found impressive. It was the same plan as yesterday, but delivered with such conviction that it was accepted without question.
My project manager clapped me on the shoulder afterward, his face beaming with relief.
“Incredible turnaround, Liam! That was a masterclass.”
I gave an easy grin.
“Happy to get us back on track.”
-----
The weeks that followed settled into a strange new rhythm. My life was now neatly partitioned. From nine to five, I was ‘Office Liam,’ a charismatic, corporate force.
I navigated complex negotiations and soothed anxious stakeholders with ease that felt like watching a movie starring my doppelgänger. The praise, the bonuses, the promotions – they all belonged to this other man, this polished avatar. I was merely the hardware he ran on.
At 5:01 PM, the confidence would fade and I’d feel empty again. Not that I minded being myself – without the constant stress at work, I was more present with Marco. We cooked dinner together. We hit the gym. From Marco’s perspective, I was sure, the project was a success.
Marco never told me, but he didn't see the project as finished. He saw a successful beta test, ready for a new round of development.
One afternoon, while I was being ‘Office Liam,’ Marco was on the phone, pacing our living room. “Alistair, my man,” he said, his voice dripping with that easy charm he used as a tool. “Marco here. Just wanted to call and say thank you. You’ve done wonders. Liam is... he’s a new man. We’re both so grateful.”
On the other end of the line, Dr. Finch was audibly flustered and pleased.
“Marco! It’s a pleasure to hear from you. I’m so glad the protocols are performing to your satisfaction.”
“To my satisfaction is an understatement,” Marco said smoothly. “Which is why I was thinking… I’d like to commission a little upgrade. A private project, just between us. A ‘Domestic Mode,’ let’s call it. Something to help him unwind and keep our space serene in the evenings. It would be a huge help to both of us.”
He named a figure that was ten times what I’d paid for the Office Protocol.
There was a brief pause. Even over the phone, Marco could likely sense the man’s excitement warring with the tattered shreds of his professional ethics.
“Consider it a collaboration,” Marco added, twisting the knife. “A way to help me perfect my… well, my life. I’d be very grateful for your discretion and your artistry.”
The word ‘artistry’ did it. Finch folded instantly. “Of course, Marco. For you. Consider it done. Just have him come in for a minor ‘tune-up’ on his Office Protocol. I’ll handle the rest.”
A few days later, Marco pointed out a minor bit of latency in my Morning Protocol.
“You should go talk with Dr. Finch,” Marco said. “I’m sure he’ll want to work it out.”
Finch was professional and reassuring as always, and the session was brief. He didn’t even charge me for it. I left feeling calm and happy, completely unaware that a secret piece of software was running in my mind.
----------
The apartment was a mess. Marco and I had both had a long week. Takeout containers littered the coffee table. There was a pile of dishes in the sink. I was on the sofa, scrolling through my phone, when Marco stretched and stood up.
“Man, this place is a disaster,” he said with a theatrical sigh. He looked at me, a strange glint in his eye. “It's time to tidy up.”
The phrase hit me like an electric shock. It wasn’t a trigger I knew. It wasn’t one I had consented to. A horrifying quiet washed over me.
My phone slipped from my hand, clattering onto the fake hardwood. I stood up. No, what’s happening? Stop! But my limbs didn't listen. I watched as my hands moved with robotic efficiency. I gathered the takeout containers, carried them to the kitchen, and neatly packed them into the recycling bin. I picked up Marco’s discarded gym hoodie and folded it with crisp, perfect corners.
The protocol was short, maybe thirty minutes. When it released me, my first coherent thought was a spike of pure, ice-cold fury. I turned to Marco, who was watching me from the kitchen doorway with an unreadable expression.
“That wasn’t me,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “Don’t lie to me, Marco. That was a protocol. What did you do?”
He had the grace to look momentarily guilty before his influencer smile clicked into place.
“Okay,” he said, walking towards me, his hands raised in surrender. “Okay, you got me. I gave Finch a little suggestion.”
“A suggestion?” I was shaking now. “You programmed me without my consent!”
“I was just trying to help!” he insisted. “I saw how much the other protocols were helping you, and I just thought... why not? I’m sorry if I overstepped.” He looked directly into my eyes, his own welling up with convincing tears. “I just want you to be happy. I just want us to be happy.”
My anger, so sharp and pure a moment ago, began to dissolve, muddied by his performance. The manipulative genius of it was breathtaking. I was left standing there, reeling, caught in a toxic feedback loop of terror and affection.
My own mind had been compromised… the man I loved had hacked me.
----------
I lived in a quiet hell, constantly on edge. Every casual phrase Marco uttered sent a jolt through me. Was that a trigger? Was this? I tried to reassert myself in small ways, leaving a dish in the sink or a book on the floor. Pathetic little acts of rebellion. Daring him to trigger me.
Marco, for his part, was a saint. He was loving, attentive, and never again mentioned tidying up. He was so good, so perfect, that I began to doubt my own anger. He had done a terrible thing, yes, but he had apologized. He loved me.
And my life, objectively, was better. My career was soaring, my mornings were calm, my home was... well, it was clean. That wasn’t so bad, was it…?
About a week later, he made his next move.
“Babe, we haven't gone out in forever,” he said, scrolling through his phone. “DJ Z-Trip is playing at Celebrities. We should go.”
My stomach instantly clenched. A crowded nightclub was my nightmare scenario.
“No thanks,” I said quickly. “Not my scene, you know that.”
“Come on,” he wheedled. “It’ll be fun! We can dance. Live a little!”
“No, Marco… you go ahead,” I said, my voice firmer than I intended. “I’ll just stand in the corner and feel stupid. Better if I stay home.”
He sighed and took my book from my hands. “I don’t want to go without you,” he said, his eyes big and pleading. “Please? We’ll just go for one hour. If you’re not having fun, we’ll leave?”
It felt churlish to refuse. An hour. I could survive for an hour.
I made it about fifteen minutes. The club was a sensory assault – throbbing bass, strobe lights, and the suffocating press of sweaty bodies.
I stood by the bar, nursing a vodka soda, feeling every inch the awkward wallflower. Marco was in his element, laughing and chatting with people, occasionally glancing back at me with a look of strained patience.
Marco grabbed my hand. “Come on, just one dance!” he yelled over the music. I felt a dozen pairs of eyes on me. Marco is lowkey famous, people tend to stare.
I hate when people stare.
Marco moved his body close, his lips brushing my ear. His voice was a low murmur over the music, but I heard the words clearly – “Engage social protocol.”
And my body obeyed.
The rigid terror dissolved. The self-consciousness vanished, replaced by energy that seemed to rise from the music itself. A stranger took over my body. I moved with a fluid, confident vibe. My hips swayed to the beat. My arms rose above my head. I grinned at Marco, a wide, genuine, ecstatic grin. He grinned back and pulled me deeper into the throng.
I was a puppet, and the experience was a war between shame and arousal. My body danced with strangers, laughed too loudly, and moved with a promiscuous grace. I felt dirty. I felt free. The attention his me like a drug.
We danced until the lights went up, then poured out of the club with the rest of the crowd. The cool night air was a shock. In the quiet of our walk home, the protocol faded.
“That was amazing, right?” Marco said, kicking off his shoes.
I couldn’t look at him. I stared at my hands. “That wasn't really me out there,” I muttered, the words thick with shame. “It felt... wrong.”
He went still. I had said the wrong thing. I had pointed out a flaw in the product. He came over and sat beside me, his movements slow and deliberate.
“Shhh, babe,” he whispered, his voice dangerously smooth. “You’re just tired. Overstimulated. Just relax for a second. Let’s just be calm.”
His voice dropped, the persuasive, hypnotic tone I was coming to dread.
“Engage admin protocol.”
My body went slack against the cushions. My eyes unfocused. I could feel my consciousness blurring, my will dissolving like sugar in water. I was vaguely aware of what happened, but the urge to fight it was a distant, fading impulse.
Marco leaned in, his voice clear and slow, an audio engineer adjusting the levels on a mixing board.
“New instruction,” he said softly. “The joy you feel when you dance is real. That confidence is your own. You love the attention. You will not question the feeling again.”
He snapped his fingers softly, a sound that seemed to pull my awareness back into focus.
“And... you’re back. Feel better?”
I blinked, the memory of his words already foggy, overwritten by a warm, pleasant certainty. The feeling of wrongness was gone. I looked at him and a slow, genuine smile spread across my face.
“Uh… yeah,” I said, a sense of wonder in my voice. “Wow. I had... like… a really good time tonight.”
-----
The change was insidious. The following weekend, Marco suggested we go out again, and I felt a flicker of bright, shallow excitement.
Marco whispered in my ear and I danced, I laughed, I basked in the attention. I had a good time. I knew, on some deep, buried level, that it was a lie, a patch written into my code by Marco… but it felt real. It felt good.
Marco saw it too – I was a product that had been successfully debugged. Time to roll out the final, comprehensive package. He called Dr. Finch while I was in work mode.
“Alistair,” he said. “The last adjustments were perfect. It’s time for the masterstroke. I’m calling it ‘House Himbo Mode.’”
“Tell me more,” Finch must have said.
“Evenings, from seven PM until he goes to sleep,” Marco dictated, pacing our living room. “I want his stress gone. Not just managed – gone. I want him to be cheerful, physically affectionate, and eager to please. I want him to take care of the house – cooking, cleaning, you know the drill. And... let’s dial back the intellectual side of things. A lot. I want him to be simple. Happy. More present in his body, less in his head. Like, I want him to be a bro, you know? Fun. Easy.” He paused. “Can you do that?”
“The personality matrix is complex, Marco,” Finch might have said, his voice mixed with caution and excitement. “But for a subject this receptive... yes. I can build the framework. The trigger can be something simple, something domestic. ‘Honey, I’m home,’ perhaps?”
“Perfect,” Marco breathed. “Absolutely perfect.”
Doctor Finch called me in during lunch for a ‘standard diagnostic’. I went in, even though I knew it was a lie. I’ve never been able to resist Marco. Besides, I was addicted to the relief of being programmed, and my dealer was happy to provide more.
That evening, I got home at six-thirty, my mind still sharp and analytical from a day of being ‘Office Liam.’ I was mentally running through a complex coding problem as I walked down the hall to our apartment. I opened the door. Marco was already there, standing in the kitchen with a beer. He looked up and gave me a brilliant smile.
“Honey, I’m home,” he said, his voice casual, playful.
The phrase slammed through my consciousness like the Kool-Aid Man. A thick, warm fog rolled through my mind, dense and sweet like cotton candy. The complex coding problem I’d been pondering evaporated, intricate logic replaced by blissful emptiness.
No, a tiny, frantic part of me screamed from a thousand miles away. No, not this, what is this?
My bag slipped from my shoulder. A wide, easy grin stretched across my face.
“Hey, bro!” I heard myself say, the word feeling foreign and ridiculous in my own mouth. I walked over to Marco, dropped my arms around his neck, and gave him a sloppy kiss. “Like, long day. Totally stoked to see you tho…”
This isn’t me! the distant voice shrieked. I don’t talk like this! Stop!
But the programming was a warm, heavy blanket, smothering my panic. It felt so... easy. So good. Why was I fighting it? Thinking was hard. This was easy.
I pulled away from Marco and looked around the apartment. “Whoa, dude, place is kinda a mess. Lemme, like, fix that. You just chill.”
I tried to force my brain to construct a complex sentence. To think about a political issue. To remember the name of the book on my nightstand. Every attempt was met with the same fog. The thoughts just wouldn't form.
Tidying up felt so much better. Making Marco happy felt so much better.
For the next few hours, I was a cheerful, simple-minded drone. I cleaned the apartment with a goofy hum. I cooked dinner. I kept up a running commentary of bro-speak. I was trapped inside, watching as I served Marco dinner.
He was overwriting my identity. My internal screams of protest were growing fainter, more distant, overridden by the contentment of a House Himbo. I was losing the war, and the worst part was… the occupation felt amazing.
-----
My life fractured. My consciousness, a baton passed between all my different selves. Morning Protocol. Office Protocol. Workout Protocol. House Himbo Protocol. Social Protocol. And in the gaps – the commute to work, the commute home – I was just Liam, trying to figure out who I was.
I’d wake up in the morning feeling rested. But then I’d find things. A shopping list I’d written in a clumsy scrawl. A text I’d sent to my sister – a string of emojis and the word “awesomesauce.” I saw a video on Marco’s phone of me, my face slack with a dopey grin, trying to explain the plot of a TV show and getting hopelessly tangled in my own simple sentences.
My breaking point arrived on a Wednesday. ‘Office Liam’ had spent the day architecting a particularly elegant solution to a complex data-synchronization problem. It was a beautiful piece of work, intricate and clever. The feeling of accomplishment was still warming me as –
“Honey, I’m home!” Marco called out from the living room.
The fog slammed down. The elegant code, the complex architecture, all of it dissolved into meaningless static. I was replaced by the smiling bro who dropped his briefcase and bounded over to grind on Marco.
The whiplash was too much. Deep in my mind, the real Liam screamed. The psychic friction was a physical agony.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. For the first time, the House Himbo Protocol felt... glitchy. A sliver of the real me was able to stay present, a terrified witness to my own vapid performance. The next morning, I cornered Marco before my ‘Office Mode’ could kick in. I was trembling, my face pale.
“Please, Marco,” I begged, my voice cracking. “You have to help me. Call Finch. Tell him to take it out. All of it.” Tears were welling in my eyes. “I’m disappearing. He’s rewriting me, and it... it’s not me!”
Marco looked at me with pity.
“Babe,” he said softly, wiping a tear from my cheek. “Listen to yourself. You’re scared. You’re miserable. This is the anxiety talking. This is the man you were before.” He pulled me into a hug, his voice a soothing murmur against my hair. “And go back to being that? To us being miserable? I love this you. The happy you. The you who’s actually… alive.”
He was my captor, and he was convinced he was my savior.
There was only one option left. My last, desperate gamble.
I called in sick to work and went to see Dr. Finch alone. I stood in the middle of his calming office, a discordant note of raw panic.
“You have to undo it,” I said, my voice shaking. “All of it. Marco... he’s having you change me. My personality. My thoughts. You have to take it all out.”
Dr. Finch rose from his chair, his face a mask of professional concern. He listened patiently as my words tumbled out.
When I was finished, he let out a long, sympathetic sigh. “Liam,” he said, his voice laced with practiced gravity. “I understand your distress. It sounds like the transition between your different... operational states... is causing significant psychic friction.”
“Friction?” I choked out. “He’s turning me into an idiot!”
“The programming is deeply layered now,” he continued, ignoring my outburst. “It’s integrated with your own neural pathways. To attempt a simple, brute-force removal could be catastrophic. It could lead to a complete psychotic break. I cannot, in good conscience, attempt it.”
My blood ran cold. It was over. I was trapped.
“However,” he said, his tone shifting, becoming brighter, more hopeful. “There is a solution. The only safe solution, in fact. What we need to do is integrate these disparate selves. We can smooth the transitions, merge the confidence of your ‘Office Mode’ with the carefree nature of your ‘Evening Mode.’ We can perform one final, unifying session. It will stabilize your personality matrix and eliminate this friction you’re experiencing. It will make you whole.”
He was prescribing me poison, but dressing it up as the cure. He was telling me the only way out was to go deeper in. My last hope died.
I flopped down into the leather chair, the fight completely out of me.
“Okay,” I whispered, my voice a hollow echo in the quiet room. “Okay. Do it.”
-----
Dr. Finch nodded, his expression one of solemn purpose. He dimmed the lights until the only illumination was the soft, grey glow from the city sky.
“Very good, Liam,” he said, his voice a calm, steady anchor in my sea of surrender. “Now, just close your eyes. We’re not going to fight anymore. We’re not going to resist. We’re going to integrate. We’re going to unify. I want you to picture your mind as a great library, filled with countless books…”
His voice guided me down, deeper than before. I felt myself sinking into the plush leather of the chair, my body growing heavy, my limbs turning to lead. I was adrift in the quiet dark of my own mind.
“We’re going to start by tidying up,” Dr. Finch’s voice murmured, a sound that was both inside and outside my head. “All those books filled with worry, with fear. We don’t need to read them anymore. We’re just going to take them off the shelves. See them turning to dust. A gentle, painless dust.”
I felt a tremor, a psychic shudder. A memory surfaced: the gut-wrenching panic of the failed presentation. The image of the SVP’s disappointed face. The memory was sharp, painful. Then, a wave of warmth washed over it, and the edges blurred.
“Good,” Finch’s voice cooed. “Now for your intellectual pride. The complex ideas. The code. All those books you used to shield yourself. Important, yes, but so heavy. We’re just going to... simplify them. Turn the dense text into simple pictures.”
Another memory: the exhilarating triumph of solving the data-synchronization problem. The feeling of my mind firing on all cylinders, the pure joy of creation. The warm fog rolled in again. The feeling of triumph vanished. The memory of the code simplified, then pixelated, then disappeared, replaced by a vague, pleasant feeling of being good at... stuff.
“Letting it all go now,” Dr. Finch’s voice instructed. “Letting go of the struggle. The need to control. The need to analyze. We’re replacing it with a simple, beautiful calm. A desire to please. A desire to be happy. A desire to be... good.”
I felt warm and safe. Why was I fighting? Fighting was so hard. Surrendering was so easy.
My name. What was my name? Liam. Yes. Liam. My name is Liam. I clung to it.
My name is...
The hum grew louder, filling everything, becoming everything. It was the only thought. The only feeling.
My name...
The last book crumbled into dust.
I opened my eyes.
The chair was very comfortable. The light in the room was soft and nice. A man in a suit was smiling at me. He looked like a kind man. My body felt relaxed. My mind felt... quiet. Simple. Good. There were no more library. Just this nice room.
“How do you feel?” the kind man asked.
I smiled. It was an easy smile. A real smile.
“Good,” I said.
-----
Eventually the door opened and another man walked in. This one was very handsome. He had dark hair and a nice smile. He looked at me, and his smile got bigger. He looked very happy. He looked at the kind man in the suit.
“Dr Finch,” the handsome man said. His voice was warm. “He’s perfect.”
“The unification was a complete success,” the man in the suit replied. He sounded proud.
The handsome man walked over to me. He tilted my head up, looking into my eyes. His thumb brushed my cheek. It felt nice.
“Hey, babe,” he said softly. I smiled at him. I liked him. He seemed important. He turned back to Alistair and slid a credit card across the desk. “For your artistry.” Then he turned to me again. “Let’s go Liam.”
Liam. That was my name. It felt right. It was a good, simple name.
“If I might speak to him for one moment,” the man in the suit said. “Alone.”
The handsome man – Marco, a little voice in my head finally supplied – gave a nod and left the room, closing the door behind him.
I was alone with the kind man again. His face was a little flushed, and his breathing was strange. He walked slowly around the chair, looking at me from all sides. He reached out and touched the collar of my shirt, adjusting it so it sat perfectly. His fingers trembled slightly.
“Perfect,” he whispered, mostly to himself. His voice was thick with a feeling I didn’t understand. “Look at you. No more worrying. No more deadlines. No more messy, complicated thoughts. Just... blissful.”
He knelt in front of me, his eyes searching my face. They were sad eyes.
“Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”
I didn’t know what he meant. Lucky? I just felt... good. I smiled at him, because that felt like the right thing to do.
The sad look in his eyes deepened. It was like he was in pain.
“I made you for him,” he said, his voice dropping to a choked whisper. He reached out and put a hand on my shoulder, his grip tight. “But God, I wish... I wish it was me. To be this free. To be this wanted.” He stared at me for a long moment, lost in his own strange sadness.
“It’s okay,” I said, trying to find something right to say. “I feel good.”
My simple words seemed to break the spell. A dry sob escaped him, and he stood up abruptly, turning away from me to compose himself. He straightened his suit jacket and cleared his throat. When he turned back, the professional mask was mostly back in place.
“You can go now, Liam,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “Marco is waiting.”
“Okay,” I said. I stood up from the comfortable chair. My body felt light and easy to use. I walked to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the waiting room, leaving the sad, kind man alone in his quiet office. I didn't look back. There was no reason to.
Marco was waiting. That’s all that mattered.
-----
Marco was driving. He kept glancing over at me, and each time he did, he smiled. It made me feel good. It made me smile too.
“You’re so quiet,” he said, his voice like a warm blanket.
“It’s nice,” I replied. “It’s quiet in my head.”
“Good,” he said. He reached over and put his hand on my knee, squeezing gently. “That’s very good.”
He dropped his keys on the counter and went to light some candles. They smelled like sandalwood and vanilla. I took off my jacket and hung it up neatly. Then I started to prepare supper. A simple, delicious chicken stir-fry. I hummed a little tune as I chopped the vegetables.
When Marco was finished, I took his plate and mine to the kitchen, washed them, and put them away. Everything was clean. Everything was good.
He looked down at me, his eyes dark in the candlelight. “You’re such a good boy, Liam,” he whispered, his hand reaching to stroke my hair.
“Wanna make you happy,” I mumbled, the words feeling utterly true.
“Oh, you do,” he said, his voice getting thick. “You make me very happy.” He shifted on the sofa, his hand sliding from my hair down my neck, his thumb tracing my jawline. “But I think you could make me even happier.”
“Happier?” I said, trying to look innocent. I slipped a hand under his shirt and let my hands roam over his back. “How could I make you happier than this?”
“Strip for me baby,” Marco grinned at me. “You’ve always been hot, but… the gym’s really paying off these last few weeks. You want to show it off, don’t you?”
I gave him an airheaded smirk and stood up.
“Like this?” I teased, swaying my hips back and forth. I grabbed the hem of my t-shirt and moved it up just a tiny bit. Enough to see the bottom of my abs. “You wanna see my slutty muscle... don’tcha sir.”
“Hell yeah,” Marco grinned. He was groping at his cock through his gym shorts. “Take that shirt off.”
In a single smooth motion, my shirt landed on the floor. I didn’t stop moving though – now I was unbuttoning my jeans and letting him see the red briefs I’d worn underneath. I worked them down inch by inch as he stared.
“Come’ere,” he ordered, grabbing for my hand.
I let his touch carry me forward, so close he could run his hands over my chest.
“Damn... I missed this,” he moaned. “I mean… it’s cool you got successful, but it’s been a while since we did this, right?”
“Can I suck your cock?” I answered. “I wanna suck your cock soooo baaaaad…”
Then I was on my knees, my mouth wrapped around his shaft. I loved the way he smelled – a little bit musky, but mostly like sandalwood soap and body lotion.
“Mmmmhhh...” I moaned, working him with my tongue. He let me indulge myself, waiting patiently while I explored his cock. “I want you to cum all over my face,” I suggested.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Marco growled, pushing me off. “Bedroom. Now.”
I faked a pout, but I liked where this was going. I skipped into the bedroom and jumped onto the bed, my ass at Marco’s favourite angle. He grabbed it with both hands, squeezing my glutes and making me moan.
“I love your body,” he said smoothly. “And now that you’re sleeping again... and eating... and working out... damn, I missed this babe. Just the two of us…”
His cock plunged into my hole and I let out a long moan. He started fucking me with a steady rhythm.
“Yeah, take it,” Marco grunted at me. “You’re such a good boy Liam. A perfect himbo doll…”
He was right. I never woulda thought of that, but once Marco said it, of course it was true. I’m his perfect himbo doll… his good boy…
“You empty-headed slut…” Marco groaned.
“Mmmm...” I moaned. He was right... I’m an empty headed slut…
His commands were low and rough, and every word was a jolt of pleasure. He teased me, dominated me, praised me. With every new name, I felt more and more myself.
Twenty minutes later, I felt his cock pulse and my ass flooded with cum. I pushed into him, trying to milk his cock for all it was worth. His cock dropped out of my hole too soon.
“Turn over,” he said, grabbing me and flipping me roughly. His mouth was on my cock, sucking away. His soft hands played over my pecs, tweaking my nipples and making fireworks explode in my brain.
I felt my balls tighten and surge.
“I’m gonna cum…” I gasped. That only made him suck harder.
We collapsed into a pile of sweaty muscle.
----------
The call came on a Saturday afternoon. We were on the sofa, my head in Marco’s lap as he scrolled through his phone, his other hand idly stroking my hair. My phone buzzed on the coffee table. The screen lit up with a picture of my mother.
“You should get that,” Marco said without looking up.
“Okay,” I said. I leaned over and answered, putting it on speaker. “Hey, Mom.”
“Liam, sweetheart! How are you?” Her voice was warm, but laced with a familiar, maternal worry. “Listen, I know it’s short notice, but your father and I are having a little get-together for our 40th anniversary next weekend. Just a small party at the house. It would mean the world to us if you could come.”
A party. Parties were fun.
“Of course, Mom,” I said, my voice cheerful and easy. “That sounds, like, totally awesome. We’ll be there.”
Marco smiled down at me, giving my hair a pleased little ruffle.
The trip to Kelowna was... nice. Marco drove while I stared out the window. The mountains were big and pointy. I pointed them out to Marco. “You’re so cute,” he chuckled.
My parents’ house was exactly as I remembered it: a comfortable, rambling home with every surface covered in books. Books on history, on philosophy, on physics, on art. The mantle was crammed with family photos and academic awards. The whole place smelled of old paper and my dad’s tobacco.
It was the smell of my old life, and it felt strange, like a language I used to speak but could no longer understand.
The party was in full swing when we arrived. My parents’ friends were there – professors, doctors, lawyers. They were all dressed in comfortable, sensible clothes. I stood amongst them in my tight designer jeans and a snug-fitting polo that showed off my gains. I felt like an exotic bird that had mistakenly joined up with a flock of sparrows.
They asked about my work. I gave them the simple, charming answers. I was good at my job. The project was a success. Everything was great. But the conversations were going over my head – I couldn’t follow their intellectual back-and-forths, their witty debates. I just smiled and nodded, getting by on charisma.
My father cornered me by the fireplace. He had a proud, fond look in his eyes, the look he always got when he was about to engage me in an intellectual sparring match.
“Liam,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass. “I was just reading a fascinating article on the emergent behaviour of complex AI systems. It argues that true consciousness isn’t about self-awareness, but the capacity for un-programmed ethical reasoning. Given your work, I’d love your take. Could a machine ever truly be considered ‘good’? What’s your position?”
He looked at me, ready for the debate, ready for his brilliant son to dazzle him with a counter-argument.
My mind went completely, terrifyingly blank. My mouth opened. “I... Wow.” I blinked, trying to clear the static. “That’s, like... deep, bro. For sure.” I gave him a wide, vacant smile. “Super deep.”
The look on my father’s face... collapsed. It was replaced by a look of utter, bewildered confusion. My mother, who had been standing nearby, rushed to my side, her hand on my arm. “Are you feeling alright, dear?” she asked, her voice tight with concern.
The looks on their faces, the pity, the confusion—they were a system error my programming couldn't handle.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled, pulling away from my mother’s touch. “Need some air.”
I stumbled out the back door into the backyard where I learned to ride a bike. I stood there on the grass, gasping for breath, my heart pounding.
I didn’t belong here anymore.
-----
The drive back to Vancouver was shrouded in a tense silence. I stared out the window, but the pretty colours were gone. My mind was a glitching mess, caught in a loop between the warm, simple hum of my programming and the sharp, agonizing memory of my father’s disappointed face.
Back in our apartment, the agitation didn’t stop. I paced the living room, my body humming with a nervous energy I couldn’t burn off. Marco watched me, his expression patient. He knew this was a critical moment, a final bug that needed to be worked out of the system.
“It’s okay, Liam,” he said softly. “You’re home now. You’re safe.”
But I didn’t feel safe. I felt like a ghost. Desperate for something solid, something real, I was drawn to the last relic of my former self. My work laptop was sitting on its charging station in Marco’s office. I opened it by instinct.
The screen flickered to life, displaying the last thing I’d been working on: the elegant, intricate code for the data-synchronization solution. And as I looked at it, something miraculous and horrifying happened. The fog in my mind parted. For one stunning, lucid moment, the complex logic on the screen made perfect sense. The pathways of my old intellect flared to life. I wasn't some himbo. I wasn't some office drone. I was Liam Evans, the software architect.
I can fix this, the thought screamed through my mind, clear and sharp and utterly my own. I can claw my way back. I can rebuild myself.
A pair of strong arms wrapped around my chest from behind. Marco pressed his body against mine, his chin hooking over my shoulder to look at the screen. He kissed my neck, a soft, possessive touch.
“Hey babe,” he whispered, his breath warm against my neck. “Don’t worry about that stuff anymore. It’s too complicated. Too stressful. You don’t need it.” He squeezed me gently. “I’m here.”
The ghost of the old Liam fought, warring for control. It was a battle for my soul, waged in the space of a single, silent breath.
Then, with a long, slow sigh – the first, deep breath of the man I would be forever – I reached out a steady hand and closed the laptop. The screen went dark. The brilliant and complicated world vanished.
That was my last glitch.
-----
A few weeks later, the apartment was bathed in the bright, unforgiving glow of Marco’s ring light. Our living room was a miniature film studio. I stood in the centre of the frame, my body tanned, toned, and feeling wonderfully light and alive.
The bass from Marco’s speaker vibrated the floor, a simple, infectious beat that made it easy to move. I was wearing nothing but a tight, neon green thong that Marco had picked out. It was a prop, he’d explained, for his new "Workout Motivation" video series.
I was the motivation.
My mind was beautifully quiet. Only the beat of the music, the warmth of the lights on my skin, and the joyful task of moving my body for the camera – for Marco. I followed his instructions step by step. At the end I got creative, striking a pose, flexing my bicep, and giving the camera a dazzling smile.
“And cut!” Marco called out, his face beaming with satisfaction from behind his phone. “Perfect take! You’re a natural, babe. Seriously.”
He walked over and kissed my cheek, his hand coming to rest on my ass, giving it a lingering squeeze. He looked me up and down, his eyes filled with satisfied pride.
“Happy, babe?” he asked, his voice soft.
I looked at him, my handsome, brilliant Marco, the man who had saved me from the noisy, painful prison of my own mind. My heart swelled with a simple, powerful adoration. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing my body against his.
I grinned, my world perfectly simple, perfectly bright.
“Like, totally,” I laughed, flashing him a thumbs up. “Best upgrade ever!”
Comments
Derek Williams
In the first outline, the change was much more self directed — Marco pushed him, but Liam ultimately made his own choices. I still can’t decide if that would have made it darker or not 😂 I think using hypnosis, rather than a magic charm or a curse, probably contributes to the darkness. It feels like it’s *just* on the edge of what’s possible, even though… yeah, this isn’t possible.
Hugh Michelsen
This story definitely felt dark. He doesn’t seem unhappy exactly in the end, but the scene with his dad is sad and him closing his computer to let that part of himself die felt sad too. I think it did lean into the horror and did it quite well.
Derek Williams
I’m kinda blown away by the comments here — I knew I was going for horror vibes here, but it’s coming off darker than I intended. One of the hazards of knowing the original outline vs where it ended up. I wasn’t gonna do a sequel to this one, but I might have to, just to pull a happy ending.
Ruffcub
Whoa, that was really dark. It was definitely hot in a twisted kind of way but I was kind of hoping for a happy ending or maybe for Marco to somehow get caught up in his own plan and lose himself too. It'd be interesting to see more of Dr Finch, especially now we know he has a submissive kink.
