FA: ~Dead_Monsoon
Discord & Telegram: mobydawuf
Hypnovember 2023, Day 19: Drug/Substance(Hazmat Lucario TF)
Themes: dronification / heavy gear / mindwipe / gas
Word count: 1,271
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Ugh, how dreary…
You’ve been contracted by some shady chemical corporation to handle their spillage problem. Apparently they’re afraid of a “breakout”, whatever that’s supposed to mean… Assuming they’ve been sticking to only the ingredients they’ve been reporting.
The rickety elevator takes you deep underground, plunging you into an invisible cloud of pure stench. It almost makes you gag.
You slip your gas mask on, giving the small filter on your thigh a quick check. However benign it may be, there’s no sense in polluting your lungs any further than necessary. The tube leading from the filter to the mask is a pain, but better safe than sorry.
You swing your flashlight about, investigating the damp, murky storage area. Your deep huffs echo through the lonely darkness. Every surface is rusted metal and grimy stone, dripping with… hopefully water.
Before long, you spot the problem. You’d like to say it was thanks to your expertise, but… it’s a malformed barrel marked with a radioactive symbol, fumes violently billowing from the crooked opening in its lid. No need to dwell on this one.
Well… time to dispose of it.
You very, VERY cautiously bend down to pick it up in a wide two-handed grip. The moment you squeeze, however, the lid practically disintegrates, melting into the bright green goop within. Fumes pour out with renewed vigor.
You curse and move to back away, but something about the stuff is oddly transfixing… you peer into it, idly wondering what the hell they must’ve put into this stuff. Sure as hell doesn’t look compliant with safety guidelines to you.
Drip, drip, drip.
There’s a gentle sizzling sound that you might’ve heard over the bubbling if you weren’t so distracted.
What you CAN hear is the gentle splash of something on the surface of the slime. What was that…?
A tube. YOUR tube. Melted into by the substance dripping down from the ceiling.
Shit-!
You gasp involuntarily, unable to stifle it in time. The toxic fumes, potent and concentrated, infiltrate your body.
Your body spasms. Your breath cuts short as you gag and retch, collapsing to your knees, head hanging just above the barrel’s rim. A dim thought tells you to get that tube out of the slop, but every muscle in your body feels like it’s melted.
You cough furiously in a desperate attempt to expel the foul stuff, but your instincts betray you once again. This time, a ragged breath draws the slime itself directly into your gullet.
You brace yourself for excruciating pain… but instead, you only feel a strange numbness as the substances gushes down into your body.
Permeating it.
Molding it.
Your body is changing.
C-c-c-crrrrrkkk…
Your clothes melt directly off your body in a matter of seconds. Is it the fumes…?
No. It’s your own skin. Swelling, creaking, taking on a bright sheen. And turning a vivid shade of yellow.
You can’t feel your face at all. Can’t vocalize, can’t close your eyes.
Can’t even control your breathing anymore. It comes slow and deep despite your panic, injecting your body with wave after wave of toxic invasion.
Paltry few lingering thoughts of running away, prying the mask off, getting away from the barrel… all quashed. New thoughts muscle their way in. Unlike your natural thoughts, these are brutally crystal clear, simple, and direct.
SERVE. COMPLY. CONTAIN.
You’re a… drone…
That can’t be right, but… everything else is so, so fuzzy…
C-c-c-crrrrreeeeak, squiiiiiiirk…
Your thighs swell into bulky chunks of rubber, almost like shorts. Your feet are puffed up and reshaped into ultra thick paw-boots, sterile black. Your hands do likewise, losing all dexterity and forming into thick bulbous paws with large spikes on their backs.
A set of 4 capsules grow directly out of the back of your head like vegetable plants in a time lapse, except they’re made of durable yellow-painted metal.
Your entire body morphs into something lean, but faintly muscular. Every trace of natural pigment is replaced with starkly contrasting yellow and black rubber. Sleek patterns form, with hazard stripes and radiation symbols forming all over.
Your mask is changing too. It stretches into a long canine snout, its single tube spitting into two, one on each side. Two long jackal ears sprout from its top. It takes on bright yellow, with thick black stripes.
Finally, it fuses seamlessly with the rest of your body, the round lenses glowing a bright green. You feel your face underneath being… assimilated. Melted away, in favor of the new outer layer. You tentatively reach up to feel at it, your arms squeeeeeaking eagerly.
You can feel your face again.
The mask IS your face.
Nothing beneath it.
You are the mask.
You are a drone.
Somewhere along the way, you just… accepted that. Your fear has evaporated, along with the rest of your emotions. And memories.
Amidst the echoing commands, a name resounds. An intimately familiar one.
Lucario.
You are a Lucario drone.
Nothing else.
You sit perfectly still, in the same position you’d collapsed into, right in front of the barrel. You breathe calmly and deeply, your pronounced huffs echoing through the grim underground wasteland.
The gas strengthens you. It nourishes you.
It provides all your needs in a singular package.
It also smothers all higher thought, stamping out everything that made you a person.
The person you were is irrelevant.
You are a hazmat Lucario drone.
The gas defines your existence.
You exist to serve, comply, and contain.
Nothing else.
As your exterior finalizes and sets, no trace of organic matter remaining anywhere, something bobs to the top of the pool of sludge.
A pair of thick air tanks attached to one another. Your tubes are already connected to it.
Without hesitation, you grip it with your thick paws, uncaring of touching the toxic material, and pull it out, letting it drip. It’s very, very heavy. You lift it over your head and past your dreadlock canisters, causing them to clink against one another. You plaster it against your bare back, whereupon it fuses itself to your form.
That weight feels perfectly natural. Exactly where it needs to be.
The fumes continue to flow, as potent as ever. You breathe deeply of them, fully embracing your permanent drone-hood. The fumes are your air now.
You methodically rise to your feet, almost robot-like. You stand perfectly stiff and formal, paws hanging at your sides.
You are ready to serve.
You hadn’t even noticed your rock-hard erection until it abruptly cuts loose without any direct encouragement, launching straight over the barrel and spraying every surface in your line of sight with glowing green goo. In that moment of pure bliss lies no emotion, but rather raw, implacable conviction. The spirit of a drone that will stop at nothing to fulfill its duty.
Your mind is flooded with protocols. Contain all toxic materials. Comply with all regulations. Take every possible precaution to prevent breakout, and protect people from these dangerous chemicals.
And the most surefire way to prevent someone from coming into contact? Providing complete, mandatory protection that never has to be removed.
Never CAN be removed.
Foldable plastic respirators dangle within your dreadlock canisters, ready to be pulled out for immediate use. One breath is all it takes.
You grip the barrel, your dull paws developing sticky pads to allow strong, if unwieldy gripping. That’s all a drone needs.
Time to dispose of this, and see to it that no one else in the broad vicinity can ever succumb to it.
The source of these protocols is irrelevant. Other considerations are irrelevant.
Only one thing matters.
Serve, comply, contain.
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