The testing facility loomed with an indifference only architecture could maintain, each sterile surface designed to convey both efficiency and inevitability. Nicky walked beside his father, his small frame swallowed in the expanse of space and silence. The examination felt more like ritual humiliation than science, and the questions came quick and blunt. He barely registered the process before the results were thrust into Tony's waiting hands. The old man's expression was exactly as Nicky expected—a punch of disappointment cushioned with reluctant compassion. They exchanged only the words necessary, Tony's low, measured tones leaving no room for misinterpretation. The test had confirmed it: Nicky was a goddamned fag, and they both knew what that meant.
They moved into the main room, and a clipboard was immediately shoved in Tony's face. The fluorescent lighting buzzed above them, cold and unfeeling. Nicky watched his father sign his name with quick, sharp strokes, and then they were shuffled along by a white-coated technician who barely looked old enough to drive, let alone decide a man's future.
"This way," the technician said, his voice cracking slightly as he pointed them to a set of chairs that looked like they had been stolen from a primary school.
Nicky sat down, feeling his legs dangle like a child's. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to brush it back into place. Next to him, Tony sat ramrod straight, his posture a stark contrast to the chipped and flimsy furniture. Nicky wished he could slip away, disappear into the scuffed linoleum floor, but instead he pulled his jacket tighter around himself and stared at the floor.
The silence stretched on, heavy with unspoken accusations and anticipated outcomes. Nicky shifted in his seat, his throat tightening as he tried to find something, anything, to say.
"There's really no chance, is there?" His voice came out thin, almost lost in the expanse of the room.
Tony looked at him, a muscle working in his jaw. "It will be as God intends," he said finally, the words clipped and resolute.
Nicky bit back the retort that threatened to spill out. The last thing he needed was to start an argument here, not with everything so close to the brink.
"Is there anything I can... I mean, is there—" Nicky began, but his voice wavered and broke. He dropped his gaze, watching his shoes fidget against the linoleum.
"Enough, Nicholas," Tony said, not unkindly, but with a finality that brooked no further discussion.
Another man in a white coat appeared, older and with an air of impatience. "Anderson?" he barked, glancing between Nicky and Tony. Nicky stood, his movements jerky and uncertain, like a marionette in the hands of a disinterested puppeteer.
The technician led them down a narrow hallway, past closed doors and the muffled sounds of other families facing the same reality. They stopped in front of a room marked with a series of numbers that seemed to Nicky like an inmate ID, and the technician gestured for him to go inside. The room was sparse, dominated by a single metal table and two chairs that offered no illusion of comfort.
"Have a seat," the man said, nodding at the table as if this was all a perfectly normal transaction.
Nicky sat down, his father standing behind him like an overseer. He felt his fathers presence more than saw it, the older man's expectation and judgment a palpable force that made it hard to breathe.
The man in the white coat took out a sheaf of papers and scanned them quickly, as though already knowing what they would say. He flicked his eyes up to meet Nicky's, a fleeting moment of contact that held no empathy.
"We'll start with some questions," he said. "Just answer honestly."
Nicky nodded, though his throat felt like it had closed up.
"Are you a member of any non-sanctioned social groups?" the man asked, his pen poised over the paper.
"No," Nicky said. His voice was too loud in the small room, too raw.
"Have you ever had intimate relations with another male?"
The question hung in the air, weighted with inevitability.
Nicky hesitated, his eyes darting to Tony, whose face remained impassive. "No," he said finally, but they all knew that the truth didn't matter in the face of what the test would show.
The technician scribbled something down, the pen scratching loudly against the paper. He continued through the list with mechanical precision, his voice detached as he asked about Nicky's associations, his schooling, his future prospects.
Nicky answered each question in turn, his responses falling like stones into a well, swallowed up by the hollow indifference of the room.
Finally, the man set his pen down and stood, gesturing for Nicky to do the same. "Please follow me," he said, already heading for a door at the back of the room.
Nicky followed, his legs shaking as he walked. Behind him, he heard Tony's steady footsteps, an unyielding metronome that kept pace with the beating of his own heart.
The next room was even smaller, and colder. Metal surfaces gleamed under harsh lights, and Nicky shivered as he looked around. This was it. This was where they would strip away any illusions he still clung to.
The man pointed to a chair that was bolted to the floor. "Sit," he instructed.
Nicky sat. Restraints encircled his wrists and ankles, securing him with a chilling efficiency. He felt like a specimen, pinned and awaiting dissection.
The man picked up a small device and held it close to Nicky's forehead. It beeped, and a series of numbers flashed on a screen behind him. Nicky didn't know what they meant, but he could guess.
Tony watched from the doorway, his eyes never leaving the scene.
"Test indicates a strong deviant predisposition," the technician announced, though he might as well have been confirming the color of the walls.
Nicky sagged in the chair, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
The restraints clicked open, and he stumbled to his feet. They were ushered back to the first room, where the younger technician handed Tony a sealed envelope.
Tony opened it, scanned the contents, and nodded once, sharply. His face was set in a grim mask of acceptance.
Nicky stood by, feeling more like a ghost than a person.
The technician collected the papers and glanced at Tony. "You're aware of the processing timeline?" he asked, already looking toward the next family in line.
Tony's voice was firm. "Yes."
They left the facility in silence, the door closing behind them with a final, echoing click.
The processing facility thrummed with activity, workers moving in precise, unyielding lines. Nicky's presence barely registered among the mechanical hum and organised chaos. He felt himself swallowed by it, another cog in the relentless machinery of the system.
A man with clipboard in hand and boredom in his eyes gestured for Nicky to step forward. "Anderson," he barked, not even bothering to glance up.
Nicky shuffled closer, the enormity of the room closing in on him. He remembered Tony's last words before leaving him here alone: "You'll see this is for the best, in time." They rang hollow and distant, swallowed by the clanking metal and ceaseless motion around him.
"Strip," the man ordered, already losing interest.
Nicky hesitated, his hands trembling as they reached for the buttons of his shirt. Around him, the workers moved with practiced detachment, each action efficient and unfeeling.
He shed his clothes piece by piece, each discarded garment feeling like a discarded piece of himself. When he stood naked and exposed, they pounced with chilling swiftness, dragging him to the first station.
The chastity device was a marvel of industrial design, all polished steel and heartless restraint. It clicked shut with a sound that reverberated through him, final and cold.
Nicky looked down, the metallic embrace biting into his skin. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to plead, but the workers had already moved on, ushering him forward in the unending line.
At the next station, the collar gleamed under harsh lights, a ring of steel that promised permanence and control.
"Hold still," a worker grunted, holding Nicky's head in place with a grip that was anything but gentle.
The collar snapped shut around his neck, a perfect circle that left no room for hope. Sparks flew as they welded it, the hiss of soldering metal mingling with the stench of burned skin.
Nicky choked back a cry, the reality of his situation pressing down with more weight than the steel itself.
They pulled him from the station, a brief pause in the assembly line as they ensured their work would hold. The collar's weight was a constant reminder, its presence a sentence of subjugation. Nicky felt it throb with each pulse of his heart, a cruel synchronization of flesh and chain.
He was pushed to the next stage, each step a march toward inevitable captivity. Leg hobbles came next, the restraints clicking shut with precision and indifference. They encircled his ankles like shackles, binding him to a pace not his own.
"You'll need these," a worker said with a smirk, holding up a package of thick diapers.
Nicky felt the blood drain from his face, the humiliation striking with as much force as the restraints. They worked in silence, pulling the thick layers of diapers designed to stop any amount of vibrations or wondering hands to help give into sinful temptation.
His breathing became ragged, his chest tightening as the inhumanity of it all settled in. This was who he was now. What he was now.
They were taking everything, stripping away not just his freedom but his very sense of self. He felt the last vestiges of resistance crumble, and the tears started to fall.
His sobs echoed against the metal and concrete, drowned out by the relentless noise of the facility. But they didn't stop, not for a moment. Instead, they pulled him through the rest of the line, the process as ruthless as it was efficient.
He barely registered the final stations, his vision blurred by tears and despair. Leather shorts locked over his restraints, each click of the padlocks a cruel punctuation to his downfall. They fitted him with a leather harness with a attach lead, having the lead to his now master, his former father.
The workers never spoke, their silence more brutal than words. They were guided to the exit, their interest waning as soon as their work was done. He stood there, shaking and defeated, as they moved on to the next poor soul.
The facility buzzed with activity, but Nicky heard only the pounding of his own heart, the roar of blood in his ears drowning out all else. He stumbled forward, his legs weak and unsteady, his mind reeling from the magnitude of what had just happened.
He was nothing now, nothing but a possession, bound in metal and fabric and shame. And as he took his first tentative steps out of the center, he felt the crushing weight of his new reality bear down with merciless intensity.
