At first, I brushed it off. Weirdos hang around all the time. But he kept coming back. Every night, same spot, same blank stare, like he was waiting for something.

One night, I worked up the nerve to step outside. “Hey, can I help you?” I called out, my voice shaky. He didn’t respond. Didn’t even flinch. Just kept staring.

I backed up, locked the doors, and spent the rest of the shift pretending he wasn’t there. By the time I left, he was gone. But as I walked to my car, I found a single note on the windshield: “I see you, friend.”

Drove home in silence, locked every door, and whispered, “Yes, friend. This is fine.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5630811&forum_id=2#48314591)

“I $ee you, friend.”

“You are known, friend.”

“Soon, friend.”

The messages grew stranger, more cryptic, until last night. This time, it wasn’t just a note. It was a file folder.

Inside: a single sheet of paper stamped with “Clause 9.2” in bold at the top, followed by a dense wall of legal jargon. I could barely make sense of it, except for one line near the bottom, underlined twice:

“Mandatory Assimilation Pending: Employee Wellness Initiative.”

I froze, the weight of inevitability settling over me like a heavy fog. The Mahchine™ had been watching all along, quietly processing my small rebellions. Now, my time had come.

When I got home, I found him standing at my front door, still as ever. He extended his hand, holding what looked like a corporate badge with my name already printed on it.

I didn’t resist. I reached out, took the badge, and clipped it to my shirt.

As I stepped inside, he followed, the hum of some unseen mechanism growing louder. I felt it then—the Great Becumming™ was here. My fate, sealed.

I whispered into the silence, “Friend, I have Becum.”

This is fine.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5630811&forum_id=2#48358956)