Get started with the prelude to Dad State by reading Countdown to midnight first…

The Processing Center 

The shuttle moved without sound. No engine hum, no road friction, just the faint whir of internal diagnostics running in the dashboard. Zach sat alone in the backseat, hands folded, posture unnaturally upright, as if summoned by instinct rather than intention. Outside, the world slid past in antiseptic slices. Parking lots, empty walkways, and sleek fences topped with soft-beeping security domes all melded into a blur. Zach’s life as he knew it was over. 

A sign, “DadNet District Activation Hub—East Quadrant,” flashed by before the vehicle made a seamless ninety-degree turn and glided into a narrow bay. When the doors unlocked, he didn’t move. He waited for the melodic chime and the polite digital voice. 

“Welcome, DadNet Unit 70855. Please proceed inside.” 

Zach stepped into a lobby lit to surgical brightness. The walls, floor, and even the ceiling were all the same shade of neutral gray. Overhead, a soothing male voice played on a loop. “Every Son deserves guidance. Every dad earns fulfillment.” It was unclear whether the voice belonged to a real person or was stitched together from archival fragments of something long extinct. 

Two attendants greeted him, not with words but with synchronized nods. They wore pale uniforms with no visible seams and no names on them. One gestured toward a biometric platform without looking him in the eye. 

Zach obeyed, stepping onto the platform. His knees shook. 

The scanning process began immediately. Thin beams of light traced the contours of his skull, his spine, and the line of his jaw. The machine asked no questions, but Zach found himself answering anyway. 

“Zachary Calder,” he said, identifying himself in a shaky voice. It echoed too loudly in the quiet room. One of the attendants tapped a table. The screen flashed. 

SPEECH INITIATION. UNPROMPTED. LOGGED. 

As his fingers were pricked and a thin wire inserted behind his ear, he felt a strange heat behind his eyes, weaker than pain but stronger than an itch. A flicker of memory—bright lights, cheap beer, Trevor’s laugh bouncing off the walls of a cluttered apartment. He blinked hard. It was gone. 

Attendants beckoned him off the platform and ushered him down a corridor, the walls now pulsing faintly with soft directional cues. STRUCTURE IS FREEDOM. ACCOUNTABILITY IS LOVE. Every turn was taken for him. Every door opened one second before he arrived at it. At last, he was placed inside a low-slung glass pod with a seat molded to him in a perfectly symmetrical posture. A pleasant light blinked red, then green. 

Biometric and psychological synchronization in progress. Please remain still. 

He tried, but intrusive images kept stuttering into his thoughts. Trevor’s birthday. The time the blender exploded. The moment Zach found the DadNet packet in his mailbox and laughed, then stopped laughing. 

His eyes fluttered. The pod’s interior lights brightened momentarily. A panel on the wall outside displayed his stats: Respiration was stable, heart rate was slow, and neuroelectrical activity was within expected parameters. 

Compliance rating: ABOVE AVERAGE. 

The screen flashed once. Then again. Then moved on. 

Zach sat motionless, the faint trace of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

“Structure is freedom,” he whispered. 

The orientation chamber was circular, white, and bright. Twelve reclining chairs were arranged in a tight ring, each occupied by a man in various stages of dazed compliance. Zach took his assigned seat, Chair 11, without needing to be told. A screen descended from the ceiling and bathed the room in a warm, flickering glow. The lights dimmed. Soothing music began. 

A cheerful animated figure appeared on the screen. He was clean shaven, broad shouldered, and dressed in a tucked-in polo shirt and khaki shorts. He looked like the kind of man who runs the work carpool in the morning, the neighborhood watch in the evening, and a backyard cookout for the cul-de-sac on the weekends. 

“Welcome to the start of something great,” the cartoon dad said, giving a big thumbs up. “We know change can be a little scary. But don’t worry, sport. You’re gonna do just fine.” 

Zach blinked slowly, eyes locked to the screen as it rotated through module after module. 

Resolving Conflict with Assertive Positivity. 

Meal Prep for Diverse Metabolisms. 

The Four Stages of Chore Buy In. 

Barbecue Safety: Flames of Responsibility. 

The videos ran without pause, one into the next. The narration lacked any voice modulation, their cadence hypnotically flat. Zach occasionally glanced around the room and saw the other men watching with the same blank intensity. Occasionally, one of them nodded. Occasionally, they smiled without meaning to. 

Hour after hour passed until Zach lost his grip on the passage of time. When the final module ended, a wall panel slid open, and a sleek metal cart rolled in. On it was a row of vacuum-sealed packages, each labeled with the recipient’s unit number and body dimensions. Zach’s number—70855—blinked softly in monospaced cyan digits. 

“Please disrobe,” said the animated dad on the screen. The other men complied, folding their old clothes into tidy piles. Zach hesitated for a beat, his hands hovering over his shirt. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face, and then it was gone. He complied and waited patiently for his turn to gear up. 

The compression suit was cold to the touch. It hissed faintly as Zach stepped into it, sealing itself around his thighs, hips, chest, and arms. It flexed inward, snug but not painful. Within seconds, the fabric began its work, pulling his posture straight, swelling his shoulders, and rounding his abdomen into the familiar DadNet build. Confident, approachable, and unmistakable. 

The onscreen dad appraised each new unit in turn. When he got to Zach, he gave a double thumbs up. 

“Unit 70855, your alignment is exemplary,” he said. “Excellent absorption curve. You are showing top quartile integration rates.” 

Zach blinked, his breath shallow. He touched the chest of his suit. “Trevor,” he murmured. It slipped out. 

The bot paused. “Repeat input.” 

Zach’s lips twitched. “I… I am a dad,” he said stiffly. “I am here to serve.” 

The bot resumed its praise. “Perfect, Unit 70855. Very good indeed.” 

Zach exhaled, slow and even. The name was gone now, buried under layers of protocol and motivational slogans. Around him, the room smelled faintly of fabric sealant and lemon polish. 

He straightened. His smile widened. 

“Ready to serve,” he said. 

“I cannot wait to make a difference in that young man’s life,” Zach said, beaming. 

The Assignment Attendant didn’t look up. His eyes flickered over a glowing panel embedded in the desk. 

BENJI NELSON. 

AGE 22. COMMUNICATIONS DROPOUT. 

CURRENT STATUS: LOW STRUCTURE COHABITATION UNIT, SECTOR 19. 

FLAGGED FOR MODERATE UNDERACHIEVEMENT AND INCONSISTENT HYGIENE. 

The attendant tapped once more. 

DEPLOYMENT AUTHORIZED. DADNET UNIT 70855. 

Zach nodded, radiating approval. “Perfect age for a turnaround. Prime opportunity for character shaping.” 

The attendant handed Zach a casserole dish labeled “Welcome Lasagna, Low Sodium,” and gestured toward the exit without further acknowledgment. 

The hall outside the Assignment Terminal was longer than necessary, flanked by backlit portraits of successful dad-Son pairings from bygone eras. Smiling duos at law school graduations, family camping trips, handshake-over-lawnmower moments. Each bore the same slogan in soft italics: Structure. Stability. Dad. 

By the time Zach exited through the rear port of the facility, his posture had locked into presentation mode: chest forward, casserole steady, smile calibrated to “Supportive but Not Overbearing.” The compression suit hugged him tightly beneath a charcoal windbreaker, accentuating the new contours of his state-sanctioned physique. His shoulders were broader by nearly two inches, his arms packed with cheerful, functional bulk. His torso, once lean, now pressed outward into a respectable dome, firm but yielding, a belly of gentle, huggable authority. The suit even shaped his calves with subtle curvature, giving him added stability. 

A neatly trimmed beard, full and symmetrical, had been hormonally induced and precision styled during his onboarding. It gave his face a reassuring weight, adding gravitas to his otherwise glowing smile. He looked exactly as a dad should: warm, capable, and slightly overbuilt. 

Ready. 

The shuttle deposited him at the curb of a peeling four-story building draped in mismatched fabrics, with plant pots made of old CRT monitors and a solar-paneled roof covered in chalk art. From the sidewalk, Zach could hear ambient synth music leaking through the paper-thin walls and what sounded like someone screaming at a blender. 

He climbed the concrete steps and pressed the buzzer labeled “Benji.” 

Nothing. 

He knocked. The door creaked open just enough for Zach to glimpse a messy interior. String lights dangled limply from unevenly placed hooks in the walls. An indoor hammock swung on a stand surrounded by half-empty bottles of kombucha. A trio of skateboards stacked like Lincoln logs served as a makeshift ottoman beside a sofa covered in protest pins. 

The door slammed shut from the inside. 

Zach blinked, taking a step back. 

He looked down at the lasagna, then back up at the door, and smiled his warm, practiced smile. He adjusted his collar, turned slightly to present a less intimidating silhouette, and knocked again. Twice. Firmly but cheerily. 

“Benji?” he called through the door. “Hi there, sport. Just wanted to introduce myself. I’m your dad.” 

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