Home.

Pushing through the door to your apartment, you lean against the wall for support. You should be safe here, at least for the night. You’d called the police with an anonymous tip that something was going down at the warehouse, hopefully they’d be able to take the whole operation down. There was the issue of you being on the security cameras but you’d deal with that tomorrow. The post-adrenal exhaustion was setting in and your legs burned from the sprint back to the car. You blow out a long breath of air, “I need to start going to yoga again.”

Without warning a tiny giggle escapes you and though you try to suppress it you are soon overcome and stagger to your bed as a wave of giddiness saps your remaining strength. Freaking adrenaline, it always did this to you. Ever since you were a kid: once the excitement had passed you’d be reduced to a giggling heap on the floor, barely able to stand up on your own. You were certain it was a medical condition of some kind even if the doctors rolled their eyes and gave you a pat on the shoulder whenever you asked.

After several minutes you manage to wrest control of your body from the incessant giggles and sternly undress, slipping into the shower to rinse off the ambient grime of the warehouse district. Wrapping yourself in a bathrobe, you carry the bag of spoils to your desk for examination. In the clean light of your desk lamp the devices looked all the more bizarre, more like very ineffective helmets than even the largest set of headphones you’d ever seen. They had an elaborate size adjustment system and a massive battery pack that would rest on your neck if you put them on. Looking closely you see there’s what looks like a tiny mp3 player fixed atop the battery pack.

It comes free with a small tug and the little screen lights up. Browsing through the files, you are perplexed by the operating system. It’s very simple but you are bombarded by a multitude of strange options as you try to play the last used track.

Track: Sub
Template/Fixation: Daniel Zhou
Enforcement method: Logic Lock
Modifiers:
• Blank Past
• Servant: Maid
• Obedience: High
• Response to Template: Awe
• Morality: Slutty
• Temperament: Pleasant
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What the hell did all that mean? Whoever designed these devices was obviously a pervert. You’re starting to wonder if you stumbled across some weird hypnotist fetish club and those girls were faking it. This couldn’t be real... right? It was silly but the more you thought about the nights revelations, the tranced girls and the strange headphones, the more you felt that you were out of your depth. You had friends who might be able to trace some of this hardware, maybe you could reach out and get their input in the morning.