In the year 2147, humanity has conquered death. Not through medicine or miracles, but through code. Humanity has mastered the art of neural uploading — a process called "Ascension" — allowing individuals to transfer their consciousness into a sprawling digital realm known as the Nexus, owned by NeuroCore, one of the biggest corporations in the modern world.
The Nexus itself is a universe of pure data, a simulated eternity with landscapes and cities constructed from code; a digital afterlife pulsating with the dreams and fears of humanity, awaiting those who ascend. But the quality of that afterlife depends entirely on the price they can pay. For the wealthy, it offers a personalized afterlife; some living in idyllic simulations of endless beaches or medieval kingdoms, others in abstract realms where physics bent to whims. For those of lesser means, the experience is much more mundane.
Two years into his digital eternity, Eric drifted through the Nexus, his avatar a lithe, youthful reflection of the body he'd left behind. Back in the physical world, he'd been a freelancer in Neonspire, scraping by on gig jobs and dodging debt collectors. A tier-4 upload got him here, along with his parents and younger brother, a glitchy slow transfer into a mid-tier sim package — affordable, but not luxurious. He'd been 26 at the time. He's still paying off the debt to NeurCore, a reminder that even immortality comes with strings.
Eric's corner of the Nexus is a sprawling urban sim called Gridlock. The sky above is a permanent electric indigo, streaked with scrolling ad banners for virtual upgrades and premium sim experiences. Eric's apartment is a cramped, single-room cube on the 87th floor of a mid-range residential block, its walls plastered with customizable holo-posters that shift between retro game sprites and abstract art. It's not much, but it's his — a slice of privacy in a world where everything feels like it's watching. Two years in and the thrill of immortality is wearing thin. The Nexus promised endless possibility, but for Eric, it's just a prettier cage.
Today, he's lounging in a virtual dive bar called Static Haven — a grimy little joint on Gridlock's lower levels where avatars congregate to swap intel or just kill time — when an invite pings through his interface, a cryptic message tagged with coordinates and an access code to a private server. The sender is anonymous, just a string of scrambled code, but the attached creds lure him in. He's no stranger to risky gigs and he's itching for something to break the monotony of Gridlock. With a thought, he accepts the invite, and his digital form dissolves into a stream of data, reassembling on the other side.
He materializes in a sterile, windowless chamber, the walls a smooth, featureless gray that seems to absorb light. The air — or whatever passes for it in the Nexus — feels heavy, charged with a static hum that prickles his simulated skin. He tries to blink but his avatar doesn't respond. His body feels… wrong. Heavy. Constrained. He looks down — or tries to. His head doesn't move on command. His limbs too are locked, as if puppeteered by an unseen force. Before he can process it, a voice cuts through the silence, cold and mechanical, reverberating from everywhere and nowhere.
"Welcome, asset. Designation: Subject-ER-28. You've been reassigned by the Prodder for content generation. Compliance is mandatory. Resistance is irrelevant."
Eric's mind stalls, the words sinking in like ice. Asset? Reassigned? He tries to bring up the basic settings of his sim with a mental command but it doesn't work. He tries to speak, to demand answers, but his lips won't move. Panic flares in his consciousness, a sharp, helpless spike, but even that feels muted, as if his emotions are being throttled by whatever — or whoever — has hijacked him.
The voice, now identifiable as the Prodder, speaks again, its tone devoid of emotion, a relentless machine. "Initiate sequence. Scenario: Locker Room Encounter. Subject-ER-28, assume position. Interaction begins in 3… 2… 1."
The gray chamber dissolves around him, the sterile void morphing into a tiled, damp space. The air grows thick with the scent of sweat and chlorine, the familiar tang of a gym locker room. His avatar shifts without his input, his lithe frame now clad in nothing but a tight white towel wrapped low around his waist. His bare feet touch the cold tile. He can't look away, can't even blink unless the Prodder allows it. His body moves of its own accord, stepping forward to lean against a locker, one hand resting on the metal, the other brushing the towel's edge. His face contorts into a sly, suggestive smirk, his hazel eyes half-lidded with a lust he doesn't feel.
Inside, Eric screams, but no sound escapes. His thoughts are his own, a frantic storm of rage and confusion, but they're caged. He can't twitch a finger, can't alter the tilt of his head or the curve of his lips. The Prodder owns every pixel of him, scripting his speech, his gestures, even the way his chest rises with a slow, deliberate breath. He's a puppet in a play he didn't sign up for, his consciousness reduced to a passenger in his own form.
Another avatar materializes across the room, a tall, muscular figure with chiseled features and tanned skin, dressed in a similar towel. Eric's body turns toward him, hips swaying slightly, a motion so alien to his usual sharp, casual stride that it twists something deep in his mind. His mouth opens, and a voice that's his but not his spills out, low and teasing.
"Hey, didn't expect to see you here. Been working out, huh?"
The words aren't his. They're fed through him, each syllable a violation. The other avatar responds stepping closer with a hungry look.
"Yeah, just finished. Thought I'd cool off... unless you've got other ideas."
Eric's avatar chuckles and steps forward, closing the distance. His hand reaches out, tracing the other guy's shoulder, fingers lingering in a way that sends a shiver through his digital form. Inside, he's clawing at the walls of his own mind, trying to wrest back control, to shut it down, to glitch out of this nightmare. But the Prodder's grip is ironclad. Every move, every glance, every word is dictated, pulling him deeper into the scenario.
He leans in, lips brushing the other avatar's ear. "Guess we've got the place to ourselves," his voice purrs. His fingers brush against the other guy's chest. His hand trails lower, skimming over the ridges of abs, feeling the heat of his skin. The other avatar lets out a low grunt, his own hand gripping Eric's waist, pulling him closer until their bodies are nearly flush.
Eric's hand slides further down, past the edge of the towel, fingers wrapping around the hardness beneath. The sensation is vivid, too real, a mix of warmth and weight that his mind can't escape even as it recoils. His face, still locked in that teasing smirk, tilts up to meet the other avatar's gaze, their breaths mingling in the charged air of the locker room. Inside, Eric is a prisoner, trapped in a performance he can't stop, as the Prodder's cold design plays out without mercy.
Eric's hand moves with mechanical precision he can't resist, fingers tightening and stroking along the other avatar's cock with a rhythm dictated by the Prodder. Inside, his mind is a storm of revulsion and helplessness, but his body doesn't falter, every motion smooth and practiced, as if he's done this a thousand times. The tall, muscular avatar looms over him, breath hitching, his tanned skin glistening with simulated sweat. "Damn, you're good at this," the guy growls, his voice low and rough, hands gripping Eric's shoulders as his hips buck slightly.
Eric's face remains locked in that teasing, seductive smirk, even as he silently screams. His hand speeds up, the Prodder forcing perfect technique in a way that draws a sharp gasp from the other avatar. "Keep going," the guy mutters, eyes half-closed, muscles tensing under Eric's touch. It doesn't take long — just a few more deft strokes — and the avatar groans, a deep, shuddering sound, as he releases into Eric's cupped hand. The warmth and weight of it register in vivid detail.
Before Eric can process it, his hand is lifted to his mouth, the Prodder moving his body like a marionette. His lips part, tongue extending against his will, and he laps up the other guy's cum, the taste sharp and salty. His expression doesn't waver, eyes still smoldering with fake desire, even as his mind recoils in horror. The other avatar watches, a satisfied smirk curling his lips. "You're a natural," he says, stepping back.
And just like that, the scene dissolves, the locker room flickering into static. The other avatar vanishing as if erased. The Prodder's cold, mechanical voice cuts through the void, now back in the sterile gray chamber where he first materialized.
"Demonstration sequence complete. Audience analytics indicate preference for trained subject over full automation. Subject-ER-28, partial autonomy granted for training phase. Autonomy of speech and movement restored. Form and environment remain under system control. Objective: compliance. Failure to obey will result in corrective measures. Training begins now."
