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Uniform Override - Control Has Changed Hands.
It was a normal day for Carson, until his uniform had other ideas.
A picture related to this story can be found here: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/64162061/
Carson’s day began the way it always did - grey morning, damp air and the familiar weight of routine that rested heavy on his shoulders. When he parked outside the station, he sat in the car for a moment. He rested his hands on the steering wheel and stared at the police station through the windshield.
“Just another shift,” he murmured. “Just another shift.”
Carson loved his job. He worked hard to get where he was, but in recent days he found his position as a police officer mundane and repetitive. He would have given anything to make it just a bit more exciting. Eventually he grabbed his bag and headed inside.
The station smelled like disinfectant and old coffee. Voices echoed faintly down the corridors and radios cracked in the distance. Nothing felt out of place and Carson nodded to a passing officer, exchanging a half-smile he didn’t quite feel, before turning towards the locker room.
The door swung shut behind him with a soft metallic click. Thankfully the locker room was empty. Carson didn't feel like socialising with anyone at that moment. To him, it just felt like empty conversation about a weekend that had long gone.
Lockers lined the walls in neat rows and a wooden bench sat in the center, scuffed and worn smooth by years of use. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a pale glow.
Carson opened his locker and took out his uniform, which he laid out carefully, the way he always did. He always kept a clean uniform in his locker. It saved him time when he got home.
His trousers were folded neatly, the shirt pressed and buttoned and his belt coiled quietly beside it. His gloves were tucked neatly next to them and the boots faced him like members of an army. Order mattered to Carson. He didn’t know why exactly, only that it did.
He sighed as he began to undress. His plain grey polo shirt came off, followed by his trusted black Converse. His jeans were next and then his belt, which pulled free with a soft hiss. Each item was folded with precision and put away in his locker. Carson stood there in his boxers, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck while the cold air brushed his fur.
“Alright,” he muttered. “Let's do this.”
As he turned back toward the bench, the neatly folded trousers ripped slightly, which caused Carson to pause. He wasn't sure if it was a trick of the light or just his imagination.
“Wh...did...?”
The fabric shifted again in a slow, deliberate movement, like an animal slowly waking up from a nap. Carson’s heart skipped a beat and he slowly stood back.
“No,” he said quietly. “No, that’s not...”
The trousers lifted off the bench and slipped onto the floor, but they didn’t collapse into a bundle. Instead they stood up.
Invisible legs filled them, creases forming naturally at the knees and the fabric pulling tight where thighs should have been. The belt then coiled up like a serpent and looped through the belt hoops. The boots then proceeded to take ghostly steps and planted their soles at the end of the legs with a heavy, unmistakable thud.
Carson stumbled back further and his spine hit the lockers hard enough to shake the metal.
“Oh, God,” he whispered. “Oh, God..."
The gloves twitched next and the fingers flexed deliberately, as though testing their movements after a long rest.
Carson’s mouth went dry and his body began to shake.
“This isn’t funny,” he said with a tremble in his voice. “Whoever’s doing this...stop it now!”
The shirt then lifted, rising off the bench. The shoulders filled out as though worn by someone invisible. The collar settled neatly and the sleeves hung where arms should be.
The uniform stood there, fully assembled, facing him. Empty, like a ghost. Carson stared, stunned as his clothing seemed to judge him with absent eyes.
Then it took a step.
Carson instinctively turned to run, but before his feet answered his thoughts the gloves flew through the air and clamped onto his hands with unsettling ease.
“HEY!” Carson yelled, struggling. “LET GO!”
The grip was tight and his arms were yanked back. His body twisted and he was facing his uniform once again. Carson tried to regain control of his hands, but the gloves held his arms out with unnatural strength.
The trousers surged forward and the fabric slid under his feet and up his legs like a living thing, crawling over his calves, his knees, his thighs.
“No...STOP...PLEASE!”
He tried to kick out, but when he did the boots slammed onto his feet with a heavy and intimidating force. The laces whipped around like vines and tightened.
The shirt surged forward next, wrapping around his torso. The gloves positioned his arms and the sleeves swooped onto his arms one by one. The buttons fastened themselves in rapid succession, tightening sharply up his chest and trapping Carson’s torso in the fabric prison.
“I CAN’T MOVE...GET IT OFF!” Carson screamed.
The belt lashed around his waist and cinched tight, knocking the breath out of him and with that, the uniform finished assembling.
Carson stood fully dressed and his body trembled violently. His arms remained still and his legs spread apart slightly. His entire body was restrained in a perfect, helpless stance.
He tried to move but his body didn't respond. It was trapped by his suddenly sentient uniform.
“Oh, God,” he sobbed. “Oh, God please....what the hell is this?!"
The gloves tightened slightly around his hands and his arms lifted slightly before his body turned and his legs proceeded to march him toward the locker room door. The boots pounded the tiled floor as his trapped feet led the way.
“No,” Carson begged. “No, please don’t take me out there! Someone will see! Oh, God...why am I even talking to my own uniform?!”
His gloved hand opened the door and his body was forced down the hallway with awkward, puppet-like steps. It was a terrifying sensation for Carson. He had spent his whole life under control. Everything had its place and everything obeyed the law. Now in the matter of minutes, his entire life and belief system had been turned upside down.
Carson’s boots carried him down the corridor at a perfectly reasonable walking pace that somehow made it worse. After years of being worn, his uniform had learnt to mimic Carson’s movements perfectly. The tiled floor passed beneath his feet with steady, echoing steps and his arms swung slightly at his sides, just enough to look natural. To anyone watching, he probably appeared a little tense, maybe distracted. Nothing out of the ordinary, though. Just a guy lost in thought before a shift.
Inside, Carson was screaming, trying to understand what was happening. He tried to slow his feet, but kept going.
He tried to stop swinging his arms, yet they continued, perfectly timed to his unwanted stride.
The uniform wasn’t rushing him, it wasn’t dragging him. It was walking him. Calmly and confidently, like this was how it had always been.
A voice echoed just ahead and Carson was pulled back to reality.
“Morning, Carson.”
The uniform slowed slightly as another officer stepped into view near the break room. Officer Hargreaves, a mid-forties badger, waved slightly with a coffee in hand, already halfway through a yawn.
Carson knew he would have to pretend everything was fine. He couldn't risk revealing anything about his phantom uniform.
“M-morning,” he said.
The word came out steady and as normal as he could make it.
“You alright? You look... I dunno, a bit stiff.” Hargreaves said, glanced up. And down.
Carson laughed slightly, putting on a face that he hoped didn't reveal how terrified he was.
“Yeah,” Carson said quickly. “Yeah, just... uh...rough night. Didn’t sleep great.”
“Tell me about it." Hargreaves nodded sympathetically, "You hear we’re stuck on paperwork duty again this week?”
“Yeah. Lucky us.” Carson swallowed, wishing the conversation would end.
The uniform began to guide Carson past Hargreaves and slowly towards the main door of the station. He tried harder to control his movements but it was still hopeless. Hargreaves took a sip of his coffee, oblivious to the terror happening in front of him.
“You heading out already?”
“Y...yeah,” Carson said. “Thought I’d, uh... get some air.”
“Can’t blame you,” Hargreaves replied. “Catch you later.”
Carson forced a smile as the uniform carried him onwards. The moment Hargreaves was out of sight, Carson’s breathing began to quicken.
“Oh, God,” he whispered under his breath. “Oh, God...oh, God...why me? Why my uniform?"
The uniform didn’t respond but his steps continued with confidence, steering him toward the main doors. The station reception area opened up to his right. The glass panels let in the light of the day, the front desk hummed with activity and a few civilians were waiting quietly to be seen. The world carried on as if nothing was wrong.
Carson’s boots slowed near the exit and his uniform hesitated. He seized the moment and tried to plead with his body.
“Please,” he whispered, barely moving his lips. “Please don’t take me out there. Not yet. I’ll do what you want. I just...give me a second."
For a heartbeat, nothing happened and a glimmer of hope rose in Carson’s chest. However it all washed away when the doors slid open and the morning air swept in as the uniform stepped forward.
Carson crossed the threshold and felt the station fall away behind him, the safety of his daily routine was replaced by the uncertainty ahead of him and the streets beyond.
His boots hit pavement and the sunlight caught the badge on his chest. The gloves stuck on his hands straightened out the uniform and gave one final adjustment before guiding him onward into the day. Carson realised with increasing dread that the hardest part wasn’t being controlled. It was pretending he wasn’t.
Further and further he was taken away from the life he thought he knew and as time passed, the town got busier. Market Street was already bustling with cars, voices and movement. Carson’s boots carried him forward and his body walked with perfect control.
“Please,” he said aloud, panic rising. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to go out there."
The uniform didn’t slow and in the distance, a busker stood near the curb with a guitar, playing music that echoed down the street. The boots stopped Carson directly in front of him, who looked at the police officer with slight concern but nevertheless continued playing.
Carson didn't know what to do. He wanted to scream for help but he figured that wouldn't really get him anywhere. The music flowed more confidently from the busker, who assumed Carson was just enjoying the song.
In that moment, Carson felt a tap. His boot bounced in time with the beat and his chest tightened.
“No,” he whispered. “Please don’t....”
The gloves lifted his arms and his body moved awkwardly. His hips moved from side to side and his boots tapped harder with each step.
He was dancing.
His boots stomped hard against the pavement, his shoulders rolled with the rhythm and he was spun with humiliating precision. The uniform turned him into a performance and Carson could feel tears falling down his face.
“N...no...I can’t stop...” he said desperately.
The busker laughed and carried on playing, changing the song to one with a faster beat. He had no idea what torture was happening in front of him.
“Please! Oh, God! I swear I can’t stop.” Carson whimpered as his chest began to ache.
A crowd of curious glances formed around him. At first it was only a handful of people - a couple waiting at the crossing, a woman with shopping bags who hesitated mid-step. A few friends nudged each other and pointed discreetly at Carson, who felt every pair of eyes piercing him.
His boots kept moving and his arms swung wider in an even more exaggerated fashion. The badge on his chest flashed in the sunlight as he spun again and he nearly collided with a man who jumped back in surprise.
“Hey, careful!” the man said, then blinked.
Carson tried to apologise but his body dipped instead, bowing theatrically.
Laughter rippled through the growing crowd and someone clapped. Slowly at first, then louder.
“No don't!” Carson yelped frantically. "Please don’t encourage it! It's not me!"
The uniform pushed harder. His boots struck the ground harder like gunshots on the pavement. He felt his legs kick out and his hips twist. His hands were forced to point and pose. The uniform knew how to perform and it knew how to command attention.
“Mate, this is brilliant,” a teenager grinned, openly filming him. “Is this like a charity thing?”
Carson’s face burned and his vision blurred as tears spilled down his face more and more.
“I...I can’t...” he tried to say.
The crowd took it as part of the act and continued to film and encourage him.
“Look at him go!” someone called.
“Didn’t know the police did street performances!” another joked.
The busker struck a triumphant chord, clearly delighted at the attention this was all getting. He stepped closer, feeding off the energy of the crowd and played a faster song. Carson felt the uniform respond instantly. His boots matched the tempo perfectly, while the gloves lifted his arms high, spreading them wide as if to invite more applause.
“I don’t want this! Please...someone...help me!” Carson yelped as he shook his head violently.
Cheers and clapping crashed over him in a wave followed by laughter and words of encouragement from the crowd. Carson’s heart hammered painfully against his ribs and he could feel the sweat dripping down his body, hidden by the material of the uniform that now commanded his every movement.
"Pl...please..." he quietly begged.
His boots carried him in a wide circle, parading him before the onlookers. He caught glimpses of amused faces. No one looked concerned and no one saw the terror on Carson’s face.
“Mum, why’s the policeman dancing?” a young tiger asked while tugging on her mother’s sleeve.
"I'm not sure, baby." Her mother laughed.
“Guess he’s just having a good morning.”
The music slowed at last and his uniform slowed in time. His chest heaved as if he’d run miles and the gloves lowered his arms. His boots planted themselves firmly in the center of the crowd and for a brief second, there was silence before the audience exploded into applause.
Carson’s body bowed deeply and the uniform held him there, bent at the waist, presenting him to the crowd like a finished act.
Inside, Carson was broken.
The gloves then dropped to his belt and Carson felt his balance redistribute. His gloved hand was confident and, in a smooth motion, unclipped the leather buckle that contained his gun.
“No,” he whispered, fearing what might happen next, "please...no..."
Carson tried to regain control and clamped down with all his strength to try and shut the holster shut, but it was hopeless. The gun slid free and the busker faltered mid-song. A chord hung in the air and the conversation and cheers around them fell quiet, like the wind fading before a storm.
“Is...is this part of the show?” someone near the back of the crowd laughed nervously.
Carson’s chest heaved and sweat dropped down his face.
“BACK UP!” he shouted with a crack in his voice. “I DON’T HAVE CONTROL!”
His arms rose, smooth and steady. The barrel of the gun tilted upward toward the open sky. Carson tried to scream again but his gloved hand pulled the trigger before he could make any kind of noise.
The gunshot tore through the air with a crack. It wasn’t just loud, it was violent and the bang hit the surrounding buildings and bounced back with a terrifying echo. Pigeons burst into flight from rooftops and a couple of car alarms began beeping somewhere down the street. For half a second, the entire world froze, until a woman screamed. A man dropped his coffee and stumbled backward into someone else. Phones fell to pavement and screens cracked as they hit. The busker’s guitar clattered uselessly to the ground.
“Gun! Gun!” someone shouted.
The crowd exploded and bodies collided in a blind panic. People shoved past one another, tripping over curbs and each other. A child began crying hysterically. Carson’s body remained disturbingly out of control.
The uniform lowered the gun slowly and calmly as it pointed and aimed at individuals in the hysterical crowd.
“I DIDN’T MEAN TO!” Carson sobbed as tears blurred his vision. “PLEASE...I DIDN’T...IT’S NOT ME!”
His words were lost in the chaos and a man pointed at him from across the street.
“He's going to shoot us all!"
“NO! I WOULD NEVER...I CAN’T STOP! I SWEAR!" Carson yelled as he shook his head violently.
Someone nearly ran into him trying to escape, the uniform sidestepped neatly, maintaining balance. The gloves reholstered the gun with precision and then the boots began to move, forcing Carson into a powerful, purposeful run.
This is what his uniform wanted. Chaos, confusion. An atmosphere of hysteria. Carson couldn't understand why. Maybe to escape, to flee. Or maybe just for the fun of it. Either way, it filled Carson with dread.
Carson felt his own muscles engage unwillingly. His strides were long and cut through the thinning crowd with ease. Behind him, sirens began to wail, getting closer every second. Ahead of him, an alley quickly appeared and the uniform tight on his body dragged him into the opening, where walls of brick replaced daylight and offered a moment of reprieve.
The smell of damp concrete and rotting food hit his nose. He was slammed back against the wall so hard the breath burst from his lungs and his antlers chipped the brick. Pain flowed briefly through his body and he wanted to collapse, but the uniform held him upright. His arms were spread slightly from his sides and his posture was uncomfortably rigid.
The world outside the alley roared with distant panic and ever-growing sirens. The terror flowed over Carson and he couldn't imagine how scared people must have been. The very thought that civilians were worried they were going to be shot when simply going about their daily business brought even more tears to his eyes. Carson always believed that everyone deserved to feel safe. That was one of the reasons he became a police officer.
Carson’s heart hammered so violently he thought it might tear through his ribs.
“Okay...” he gasped. “Okay...listen to me. I don't know what you are...or how you work, but...this has to stop..."
He desperately tried to move his fingers and claw at the interior of the gloves that imprisoned his hands, but the fabric wouldn’t give. The gloves tightened around his wrists and wrestled his fingers to a standstill. The belt tightened around his waist, compressing his stomach and squeezing the air out of him.
“WHY WON’T YOU COME OFF?!” he screamed, his voice echoing off the brick and empty metal bins.
Amidst his despair, his radio cracked to life and a clear, professional voice erupted.
“Officer Carson. Reports of shots fired. Contact HQ immediately.”
The voice felt like it came from another life. Another version of him. Carson’s stomach dropped and his skin turned to ice.
“No,” he whispered. “Please don’t make me go back."
The uniform turned, but not toward the sound of sirens or accountability. Instead it turned away, out of the alley and into the open street where the chaos was still unraveling.
People stared and some backed away as he emerged. He wanted to shout apologies and to fall to his knees, but instead, his boots carried him forward with unwavering confidence. The panic behind him became background noise and now, as it guided him towards a waiting empty car, Carson thought to himself that whatever his uniform had planned for him, it was just the beginning.
The uniform did not hesitate. It stepped off the curb and into the road with confidence. Carson could hear sirens drawing even closer and in response, his boots quickened his pace to the parked car.
“No,” Carson whispered as a feeling of pure dread rose in his chest. “No, no, no...you'd better not....”
His gloved hands flexed at his sides for a moment, then moved into fists and, with intense force, rose and shattered the driver-side window in a single, efficient strike. Glass exploded inward, cascading over the seat and dashboard in glittering fragments. Carson’s face flinched at the spray of shards, but his uniformed body didn’t recoil. Instead, it leaned in. The gloves reached through the broken window, unlocked the door from the inside and opened it smoothly.
“This is theft,” Carson choked. “You’re making it worse. You’re making everything worse!”
The uniform slid him into the driver’s seat with unnerving care, as if positioning a mannequin. His back hit the seat and his knees folded. The gloves reached out and slammed the door shut behind him. For half a second, he stared at his reflection in the rearview mirror with wide, terrified eyes. The idea of a police officer behind the wheel of a stolen car made Carson’s stomach drop.
The gloves moved toward the ignition and stopped for a moment. Carson felt a little relief because without the keys, he thought, the car wasn't going anywhere. However, his gloved hands had other ideas. Within a flash, they reached into Carson’s pocket and pulled out the pocket knife that he carried for defense when he didn't have his gun, or ran out of ammo.
As he watched, Carson’s gloved hands used the knife to pry off the metal casing to expose the wiring beneath the steering column. He could feel the vibration in his fingertips as metal scraped against metal. His hands pulled out two wires and began to connect them. Sparks flared with tiny flashes that illuminated the dark footwell.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please. Don’t.”
It was then that the engine spluttered, paused and then roared to life. His hands were lifted, shifted the car into gear, and released the handbrake. His boots moved into position on the pedals and his whole body prepared itself to drive away.
The vibration surged through the steering column and up his locked arms. The gloves adjusted their grip and his right foot pressed down. The car lurched forward hard enough to jolt his body against the seat belt, causing Carson to yelp. In an instant, his uniform had forced Carson to drive rapidly down the street, causing the buildings to blur instantly.
“I CAN’T!” Carson cried, tears spilling down his muzzle. “I CAN’T STOP!”
The wheel turned under his forced hands, guiding the car abruptly into traffic. Horns blared as vehicles swerved to avoid him, while the car increased speed. Thirty. Forty. Fifty.
“Please,” Carson whimpered as his heart pounded in terror. “Just...go back to normal. Please...oh God...just stop!"
The gloves tightened in response. Not enough to hurt, just enough to tell Carson it wasn't going to happen. His foot pressed harder on the accelerator and the engine responded with a rising growl.
The city became streaks of brick and glass. Storefront signs flashed past in broken fragments and the wind rushed through the shattered window, nipping at Carson’s fur and whistling sharply through the cabin.
Carson’s chest heaved and his eyes flicked down to his hands. Trapped. Just like the rest of his body. His gloved fingers wrapped firmly around the wheel, knuckles taut beneath leather.
“They’re mine,” he sobbed desperately. “These are my hands. M...my body....you can’t just take them!”
The road stretched ahead and Carson’s whimpering shifted into broken breaths.
It was then that his radio crackled again with the sound of multiple voices overlapping.
“Vehicle reported stolen—”
“Officer Carson—respond—"
"Possible gunman on the loose—"
"Reports a cop opened fire?!"
His gloved hand reached down and turned the radio off. All that could be heard was the rumble of the engine and Carson’s shaking breath. He felt the weight of what was happening settle heavily in his chest. The uniform was kidnapping him.
Stealing his body.
As hard as Carson struggled, the uniform was in charge.
The accelerator pressed down again and the car launched over a hill. The city disappeared completely behind them and Carson was powerless to stop.
His old life was fading behind him and now, his new one was beginning.
Whether he wanted it or not.
A picture related to this story can be found here: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/64162061/
Uniform Override - Control Has Changed Hands.
Carson’s day began the way it always did - grey morning, damp air and the familiar weight of routine that rested heavy on his shoulders. When he parked outside the station, he sat in the car for a moment. He rested his hands on the steering wheel and stared at the police station through the windshield.
“Just another shift,” he murmured. “Just another shift.”
Carson loved his job. He worked hard to get where he was, but in recent days he found his position as a police officer mundane and repetitive. He would have given anything to make it just a bit more exciting. Eventually he grabbed his bag and headed inside.
The station smelled like disinfectant and old coffee. Voices echoed faintly down the corridors and radios cracked in the distance. Nothing felt out of place and Carson nodded to a passing officer, exchanging a half-smile he didn’t quite feel, before turning towards the locker room.
The door swung shut behind him with a soft metallic click. Thankfully the locker room was empty. Carson didn't feel like socialising with anyone at that moment. To him, it just felt like empty conversation about a weekend that had long gone.
Lockers lined the walls in neat rows and a wooden bench sat in the center, scuffed and worn smooth by years of use. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a pale glow.
Carson opened his locker and took out his uniform, which he laid out carefully, the way he always did. He always kept a clean uniform in his locker. It saved him time when he got home.
His trousers were folded neatly, the shirt pressed and buttoned and his belt coiled quietly beside it. His gloves were tucked neatly next to them and the boots faced him like members of an army. Order mattered to Carson. He didn’t know why exactly, only that it did.
He sighed as he began to undress. His plain grey polo shirt came off, followed by his trusted black Converse. His jeans were next and then his belt, which pulled free with a soft hiss. Each item was folded with precision and put away in his locker. Carson stood there in his boxers, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck while the cold air brushed his fur.
“Alright,” he muttered. “Let's do this.”
As he turned back toward the bench, the neatly folded trousers ripped slightly, which caused Carson to pause. He wasn't sure if it was a trick of the light or just his imagination.
“Wh...did...?”
The fabric shifted again in a slow, deliberate movement, like an animal slowly waking up from a nap. Carson’s heart skipped a beat and he slowly stood back.
“No,” he said quietly. “No, that’s not...”
The trousers lifted off the bench and slipped onto the floor, but they didn’t collapse into a bundle. Instead they stood up.
Invisible legs filled them, creases forming naturally at the knees and the fabric pulling tight where thighs should have been. The belt then coiled up like a serpent and looped through the belt hoops. The boots then proceeded to take ghostly steps and planted their soles at the end of the legs with a heavy, unmistakable thud.
Carson stumbled back further and his spine hit the lockers hard enough to shake the metal.
“Oh, God,” he whispered. “Oh, God..."
The gloves twitched next and the fingers flexed deliberately, as though testing their movements after a long rest.
Carson’s mouth went dry and his body began to shake.
“This isn’t funny,” he said with a tremble in his voice. “Whoever’s doing this...stop it now!”
The shirt then lifted, rising off the bench. The shoulders filled out as though worn by someone invisible. The collar settled neatly and the sleeves hung where arms should be.
The uniform stood there, fully assembled, facing him. Empty, like a ghost. Carson stared, stunned as his clothing seemed to judge him with absent eyes.
Then it took a step.
Carson instinctively turned to run, but before his feet answered his thoughts the gloves flew through the air and clamped onto his hands with unsettling ease.
“HEY!” Carson yelled, struggling. “LET GO!”
The grip was tight and his arms were yanked back. His body twisted and he was facing his uniform once again. Carson tried to regain control of his hands, but the gloves held his arms out with unnatural strength.
The trousers surged forward and the fabric slid under his feet and up his legs like a living thing, crawling over his calves, his knees, his thighs.
“No...STOP...PLEASE!”
He tried to kick out, but when he did the boots slammed onto his feet with a heavy and intimidating force. The laces whipped around like vines and tightened.
The shirt surged forward next, wrapping around his torso. The gloves positioned his arms and the sleeves swooped onto his arms one by one. The buttons fastened themselves in rapid succession, tightening sharply up his chest and trapping Carson’s torso in the fabric prison.
“I CAN’T MOVE...GET IT OFF!” Carson screamed.
The belt lashed around his waist and cinched tight, knocking the breath out of him and with that, the uniform finished assembling.
Carson stood fully dressed and his body trembled violently. His arms remained still and his legs spread apart slightly. His entire body was restrained in a perfect, helpless stance.
He tried to move but his body didn't respond. It was trapped by his suddenly sentient uniform.
“Oh, God,” he sobbed. “Oh, God please....what the hell is this?!"
The gloves tightened slightly around his hands and his arms lifted slightly before his body turned and his legs proceeded to march him toward the locker room door. The boots pounded the tiled floor as his trapped feet led the way.
“No,” Carson begged. “No, please don’t take me out there! Someone will see! Oh, God...why am I even talking to my own uniform?!”
His gloved hand opened the door and his body was forced down the hallway with awkward, puppet-like steps. It was a terrifying sensation for Carson. He had spent his whole life under control. Everything had its place and everything obeyed the law. Now in the matter of minutes, his entire life and belief system had been turned upside down.
Carson’s boots carried him down the corridor at a perfectly reasonable walking pace that somehow made it worse. After years of being worn, his uniform had learnt to mimic Carson’s movements perfectly. The tiled floor passed beneath his feet with steady, echoing steps and his arms swung slightly at his sides, just enough to look natural. To anyone watching, he probably appeared a little tense, maybe distracted. Nothing out of the ordinary, though. Just a guy lost in thought before a shift.
Inside, Carson was screaming, trying to understand what was happening. He tried to slow his feet, but kept going.
He tried to stop swinging his arms, yet they continued, perfectly timed to his unwanted stride.
The uniform wasn’t rushing him, it wasn’t dragging him. It was walking him. Calmly and confidently, like this was how it had always been.
A voice echoed just ahead and Carson was pulled back to reality.
“Morning, Carson.”
The uniform slowed slightly as another officer stepped into view near the break room. Officer Hargreaves, a mid-forties badger, waved slightly with a coffee in hand, already halfway through a yawn.
Carson knew he would have to pretend everything was fine. He couldn't risk revealing anything about his phantom uniform.
“M-morning,” he said.
The word came out steady and as normal as he could make it.
“You alright? You look... I dunno, a bit stiff.” Hargreaves said, glanced up. And down.
Carson laughed slightly, putting on a face that he hoped didn't reveal how terrified he was.
“Yeah,” Carson said quickly. “Yeah, just... uh...rough night. Didn’t sleep great.”
“Tell me about it." Hargreaves nodded sympathetically, "You hear we’re stuck on paperwork duty again this week?”
“Yeah. Lucky us.” Carson swallowed, wishing the conversation would end.
The uniform began to guide Carson past Hargreaves and slowly towards the main door of the station. He tried harder to control his movements but it was still hopeless. Hargreaves took a sip of his coffee, oblivious to the terror happening in front of him.
“You heading out already?”
“Y...yeah,” Carson said. “Thought I’d, uh... get some air.”
“Can’t blame you,” Hargreaves replied. “Catch you later.”
Carson forced a smile as the uniform carried him onwards. The moment Hargreaves was out of sight, Carson’s breathing began to quicken.
“Oh, God,” he whispered under his breath. “Oh, God...oh, God...why me? Why my uniform?"
The uniform didn’t respond but his steps continued with confidence, steering him toward the main doors. The station reception area opened up to his right. The glass panels let in the light of the day, the front desk hummed with activity and a few civilians were waiting quietly to be seen. The world carried on as if nothing was wrong.
Carson’s boots slowed near the exit and his uniform hesitated. He seized the moment and tried to plead with his body.
“Please,” he whispered, barely moving his lips. “Please don’t take me out there. Not yet. I’ll do what you want. I just...give me a second."
For a heartbeat, nothing happened and a glimmer of hope rose in Carson’s chest. However it all washed away when the doors slid open and the morning air swept in as the uniform stepped forward.
Carson crossed the threshold and felt the station fall away behind him, the safety of his daily routine was replaced by the uncertainty ahead of him and the streets beyond.
His boots hit pavement and the sunlight caught the badge on his chest. The gloves stuck on his hands straightened out the uniform and gave one final adjustment before guiding him onward into the day. Carson realised with increasing dread that the hardest part wasn’t being controlled. It was pretending he wasn’t.
Further and further he was taken away from the life he thought he knew and as time passed, the town got busier. Market Street was already bustling with cars, voices and movement. Carson’s boots carried him forward and his body walked with perfect control.
“Please,” he said aloud, panic rising. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to go out there."
The uniform didn’t slow and in the distance, a busker stood near the curb with a guitar, playing music that echoed down the street. The boots stopped Carson directly in front of him, who looked at the police officer with slight concern but nevertheless continued playing.
Carson didn't know what to do. He wanted to scream for help but he figured that wouldn't really get him anywhere. The music flowed more confidently from the busker, who assumed Carson was just enjoying the song.
In that moment, Carson felt a tap. His boot bounced in time with the beat and his chest tightened.
“No,” he whispered. “Please don’t....”
The gloves lifted his arms and his body moved awkwardly. His hips moved from side to side and his boots tapped harder with each step.
He was dancing.
His boots stomped hard against the pavement, his shoulders rolled with the rhythm and he was spun with humiliating precision. The uniform turned him into a performance and Carson could feel tears falling down his face.
“N...no...I can’t stop...” he said desperately.
The busker laughed and carried on playing, changing the song to one with a faster beat. He had no idea what torture was happening in front of him.
“Please! Oh, God! I swear I can’t stop.” Carson whimpered as his chest began to ache.
A crowd of curious glances formed around him. At first it was only a handful of people - a couple waiting at the crossing, a woman with shopping bags who hesitated mid-step. A few friends nudged each other and pointed discreetly at Carson, who felt every pair of eyes piercing him.
His boots kept moving and his arms swung wider in an even more exaggerated fashion. The badge on his chest flashed in the sunlight as he spun again and he nearly collided with a man who jumped back in surprise.
“Hey, careful!” the man said, then blinked.
Carson tried to apologise but his body dipped instead, bowing theatrically.
Laughter rippled through the growing crowd and someone clapped. Slowly at first, then louder.
“No don't!” Carson yelped frantically. "Please don’t encourage it! It's not me!"
The uniform pushed harder. His boots struck the ground harder like gunshots on the pavement. He felt his legs kick out and his hips twist. His hands were forced to point and pose. The uniform knew how to perform and it knew how to command attention.
“Mate, this is brilliant,” a teenager grinned, openly filming him. “Is this like a charity thing?”
Carson’s face burned and his vision blurred as tears spilled down his face more and more.
“I...I can’t...” he tried to say.
The crowd took it as part of the act and continued to film and encourage him.
“Look at him go!” someone called.
“Didn’t know the police did street performances!” another joked.
The busker struck a triumphant chord, clearly delighted at the attention this was all getting. He stepped closer, feeding off the energy of the crowd and played a faster song. Carson felt the uniform respond instantly. His boots matched the tempo perfectly, while the gloves lifted his arms high, spreading them wide as if to invite more applause.
“I don’t want this! Please...someone...help me!” Carson yelped as he shook his head violently.
Cheers and clapping crashed over him in a wave followed by laughter and words of encouragement from the crowd. Carson’s heart hammered painfully against his ribs and he could feel the sweat dripping down his body, hidden by the material of the uniform that now commanded his every movement.
"Pl...please..." he quietly begged.
His boots carried him in a wide circle, parading him before the onlookers. He caught glimpses of amused faces. No one looked concerned and no one saw the terror on Carson’s face.
“Mum, why’s the policeman dancing?” a young tiger asked while tugging on her mother’s sleeve.
"I'm not sure, baby." Her mother laughed.
“Guess he’s just having a good morning.”
The music slowed at last and his uniform slowed in time. His chest heaved as if he’d run miles and the gloves lowered his arms. His boots planted themselves firmly in the center of the crowd and for a brief second, there was silence before the audience exploded into applause.
Carson’s body bowed deeply and the uniform held him there, bent at the waist, presenting him to the crowd like a finished act.
Inside, Carson was broken.
The gloves then dropped to his belt and Carson felt his balance redistribute. His gloved hand was confident and, in a smooth motion, unclipped the leather buckle that contained his gun.
“No,” he whispered, fearing what might happen next, "please...no..."
Carson tried to regain control and clamped down with all his strength to try and shut the holster shut, but it was hopeless. The gun slid free and the busker faltered mid-song. A chord hung in the air and the conversation and cheers around them fell quiet, like the wind fading before a storm.
“Is...is this part of the show?” someone near the back of the crowd laughed nervously.
Carson’s chest heaved and sweat dropped down his face.
“BACK UP!” he shouted with a crack in his voice. “I DON’T HAVE CONTROL!”
His arms rose, smooth and steady. The barrel of the gun tilted upward toward the open sky. Carson tried to scream again but his gloved hand pulled the trigger before he could make any kind of noise.
The gunshot tore through the air with a crack. It wasn’t just loud, it was violent and the bang hit the surrounding buildings and bounced back with a terrifying echo. Pigeons burst into flight from rooftops and a couple of car alarms began beeping somewhere down the street. For half a second, the entire world froze, until a woman screamed. A man dropped his coffee and stumbled backward into someone else. Phones fell to pavement and screens cracked as they hit. The busker’s guitar clattered uselessly to the ground.
“Gun! Gun!” someone shouted.
The crowd exploded and bodies collided in a blind panic. People shoved past one another, tripping over curbs and each other. A child began crying hysterically. Carson’s body remained disturbingly out of control.
The uniform lowered the gun slowly and calmly as it pointed and aimed at individuals in the hysterical crowd.
“I DIDN’T MEAN TO!” Carson sobbed as tears blurred his vision. “PLEASE...I DIDN’T...IT’S NOT ME!”
His words were lost in the chaos and a man pointed at him from across the street.
“He's going to shoot us all!"
“NO! I WOULD NEVER...I CAN’T STOP! I SWEAR!" Carson yelled as he shook his head violently.
Someone nearly ran into him trying to escape, the uniform sidestepped neatly, maintaining balance. The gloves reholstered the gun with precision and then the boots began to move, forcing Carson into a powerful, purposeful run.
This is what his uniform wanted. Chaos, confusion. An atmosphere of hysteria. Carson couldn't understand why. Maybe to escape, to flee. Or maybe just for the fun of it. Either way, it filled Carson with dread.
Carson felt his own muscles engage unwillingly. His strides were long and cut through the thinning crowd with ease. Behind him, sirens began to wail, getting closer every second. Ahead of him, an alley quickly appeared and the uniform tight on his body dragged him into the opening, where walls of brick replaced daylight and offered a moment of reprieve.
The smell of damp concrete and rotting food hit his nose. He was slammed back against the wall so hard the breath burst from his lungs and his antlers chipped the brick. Pain flowed briefly through his body and he wanted to collapse, but the uniform held him upright. His arms were spread slightly from his sides and his posture was uncomfortably rigid.
The world outside the alley roared with distant panic and ever-growing sirens. The terror flowed over Carson and he couldn't imagine how scared people must have been. The very thought that civilians were worried they were going to be shot when simply going about their daily business brought even more tears to his eyes. Carson always believed that everyone deserved to feel safe. That was one of the reasons he became a police officer.
Carson’s heart hammered so violently he thought it might tear through his ribs.
“Okay...” he gasped. “Okay...listen to me. I don't know what you are...or how you work, but...this has to stop..."
He desperately tried to move his fingers and claw at the interior of the gloves that imprisoned his hands, but the fabric wouldn’t give. The gloves tightened around his wrists and wrestled his fingers to a standstill. The belt tightened around his waist, compressing his stomach and squeezing the air out of him.
“WHY WON’T YOU COME OFF?!” he screamed, his voice echoing off the brick and empty metal bins.
Amidst his despair, his radio cracked to life and a clear, professional voice erupted.
“Officer Carson. Reports of shots fired. Contact HQ immediately.”
The voice felt like it came from another life. Another version of him. Carson’s stomach dropped and his skin turned to ice.
“No,” he whispered. “Please don’t make me go back."
The uniform turned, but not toward the sound of sirens or accountability. Instead it turned away, out of the alley and into the open street where the chaos was still unraveling.
People stared and some backed away as he emerged. He wanted to shout apologies and to fall to his knees, but instead, his boots carried him forward with unwavering confidence. The panic behind him became background noise and now, as it guided him towards a waiting empty car, Carson thought to himself that whatever his uniform had planned for him, it was just the beginning.
The uniform did not hesitate. It stepped off the curb and into the road with confidence. Carson could hear sirens drawing even closer and in response, his boots quickened his pace to the parked car.
“No,” Carson whispered as a feeling of pure dread rose in his chest. “No, no, no...you'd better not....”
His gloved hands flexed at his sides for a moment, then moved into fists and, with intense force, rose and shattered the driver-side window in a single, efficient strike. Glass exploded inward, cascading over the seat and dashboard in glittering fragments. Carson’s face flinched at the spray of shards, but his uniformed body didn’t recoil. Instead, it leaned in. The gloves reached through the broken window, unlocked the door from the inside and opened it smoothly.
“This is theft,” Carson choked. “You’re making it worse. You’re making everything worse!”
The uniform slid him into the driver’s seat with unnerving care, as if positioning a mannequin. His back hit the seat and his knees folded. The gloves reached out and slammed the door shut behind him. For half a second, he stared at his reflection in the rearview mirror with wide, terrified eyes. The idea of a police officer behind the wheel of a stolen car made Carson’s stomach drop.
The gloves moved toward the ignition and stopped for a moment. Carson felt a little relief because without the keys, he thought, the car wasn't going anywhere. However, his gloved hands had other ideas. Within a flash, they reached into Carson’s pocket and pulled out the pocket knife that he carried for defense when he didn't have his gun, or ran out of ammo.
As he watched, Carson’s gloved hands used the knife to pry off the metal casing to expose the wiring beneath the steering column. He could feel the vibration in his fingertips as metal scraped against metal. His hands pulled out two wires and began to connect them. Sparks flared with tiny flashes that illuminated the dark footwell.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Please. Don’t.”
It was then that the engine spluttered, paused and then roared to life. His hands were lifted, shifted the car into gear, and released the handbrake. His boots moved into position on the pedals and his whole body prepared itself to drive away.
The vibration surged through the steering column and up his locked arms. The gloves adjusted their grip and his right foot pressed down. The car lurched forward hard enough to jolt his body against the seat belt, causing Carson to yelp. In an instant, his uniform had forced Carson to drive rapidly down the street, causing the buildings to blur instantly.
“I CAN’T!” Carson cried, tears spilling down his muzzle. “I CAN’T STOP!”
The wheel turned under his forced hands, guiding the car abruptly into traffic. Horns blared as vehicles swerved to avoid him, while the car increased speed. Thirty. Forty. Fifty.
“Please,” Carson whimpered as his heart pounded in terror. “Just...go back to normal. Please...oh God...just stop!"
The gloves tightened in response. Not enough to hurt, just enough to tell Carson it wasn't going to happen. His foot pressed harder on the accelerator and the engine responded with a rising growl.
The city became streaks of brick and glass. Storefront signs flashed past in broken fragments and the wind rushed through the shattered window, nipping at Carson’s fur and whistling sharply through the cabin.
Carson’s chest heaved and his eyes flicked down to his hands. Trapped. Just like the rest of his body. His gloved fingers wrapped firmly around the wheel, knuckles taut beneath leather.
“They’re mine,” he sobbed desperately. “These are my hands. M...my body....you can’t just take them!”
The road stretched ahead and Carson’s whimpering shifted into broken breaths.
It was then that his radio crackled again with the sound of multiple voices overlapping.
“Vehicle reported stolen—”
“Officer Carson—respond—"
"Possible gunman on the loose—"
"Reports a cop opened fire?!"
His gloved hand reached down and turned the radio off. All that could be heard was the rumble of the engine and Carson’s shaking breath. He felt the weight of what was happening settle heavily in his chest. The uniform was kidnapping him.
Stealing his body.
As hard as Carson struggled, the uniform was in charge.
The accelerator pressed down again and the car launched over a hill. The city disappeared completely behind them and Carson was powerless to stop.
His old life was fading behind him and now, his new one was beginning.
Whether he wanted it or not.
Category Story / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 99 x 120px
File Size 77.7 kB
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