The Men Behind the Helmets

The control room was quiet except for the low hum of computers and the occasional electronic beep from the equipment lining the walls.

Two large monitors dominated the far side of the room. One showed Robert and the other showed Paul, each sitting in a separate chair in what appeared to be an ordinary apartment. Both men were wearing their own clothes: Robert in a dark T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers; Paul in a gray polo shirt and dark trousers. The silver helmets on their heads, decorated with colorful little nodes and looping wires, looked conspicuously out of place.

They were sitting quietly, hands resting on their knees, their expressions neutral.

The two men in the control room had spent considerable time preparing for this moment.

They remembered their first encounter with Robert and Paul all too well. During an earlier confrontation, Robert and Paul had used an assortment of vicious gay slurs, apparently believing that their insults made them superior. They had laughed at the two men they were insulting, confident that nothing could happen to them.

That confidence had proved misplaced.

Now, the men behind the monitors had an opportunity to make Robert and Paul experience an evening they would never forget.

"Well," said the first controller, leaning back in his chair, "what do you think? Shall we start with the clothes?"

His companion studied the monitors.

"Definitely. But I don't want anything that looks like a costume. If we're going to do this, they should look as though they've spent time putting their outfits together. Something attractive, coordinated, and entirely convincing."

He opened a digital wardrobe catalog.

"Robert has the height for a long jacket and a short dress. Blue, I think. Something elegant."

"And Paul?"

"Red. A fitted red dress, a matching jacket, black heels, and a little quilted handbag."

The first man smiled.

"That sounds familiar."

"I thought you'd appreciate that."

They selected the outfits and activated the helmets.

On the monitors, Robert's fingers moved.

He looked down at his hands, then up at the helmet on his head. His eyebrows drew together.

What's happening?

Paul turned his head toward the nearest camera.

"Robert?" he called.

Robert opened his mouth to answer, but his arms were already moving.

"Something's wrong," Robert said.

The words were his own. So was the alarm in his voice.

But when he attempted to stand, his legs remained still until the command came through the helmet. Then he rose from his chair, turned toward the bedroom, and began walking.

Paul followed.

In the control room, the second man watched their movements.

"They know they're being controlled," he observed.

"Yes. That's part of the point. They can think whatever they like. They just can't override the commands."

On the monitors, Robert reached the bedroom door and stopped.

His hands were shaking.

"Make it stop!" he shouted.

His body turned away from the door and continued inside.

Paul tried to grab the doorframe. His fingers closed around it for an instant, but then released it.

"Robert, I can't stop moving!"

"I know!" Robert shouted from the adjoining room. "I can't either!"

The men in the control room exchanged a glance.

"Let's begin."

1. The Wardrobe

Robert's bedroom contained a bed, a wardrobe, and a full-length mirror.

He stood in front of the wardrobe, rigid with apprehension, while his hands began opening drawers and moving hangers aside.

No. Whatever you're planning, no.

His fingers found a folded set of lingerie.

He tried to close his hand and push it away.