Hypnoël Day 1: The King’s Men 1

Chapter 1: The mirror and the crown 

Prince Antony twitched in the chair. Thick leather straps bound his wrists and ankles to the armrests and footplates, while a wide, padded belt cinched across the rising dome of his fat stomach, which hadn’t been there just a few hours ago. The 29-year-old prince’s chest heaved beneath a thin cotton hospital gown, nipples puckered in the cold, belly quivering as his lungs drew in another rattled breath. 

Overhead, sterile lights buzzed softly, illuminating the perspiration dotting his temples. A speaker tucked behind the false ceiling whispered gently and rhythmically: 

Tony loves working with his hands. 

Tony loves his big, strong belly. 

Tony doesn’t ask questions. 

Tony is happy. 

The voice was male, friendly with a generic, slightly rural drawl designed by a committee to sound both paternalistic and dumb. A clear plastic feed tube was taped to Tony’s neck, pumping a slow, syrupy trickle of nutrients into his bloodstream. The fluid was thick with sedatives, mood stabilizers, metabolic enhancers, and gut-pumping calories. Ex-royal metabolism gone, his organs had begun adapting themselves to a life of sun, dirt, and daily pie. His muscles slackened, and his thighs were thick and immobile against the chair, like overstuffed furniture. 

From somewhere behind his eyes, Antony tried to claw his way to the surface. He remembered things in disjointed flashes, like Polaroid photos developing out of order. 

A yacht in Capri. Laughing with a bevy of perfect-bodied women. A silk shirt, open. His late mother, the Queen, her hand brushing his cheek. Then hands grabbing him. Something cold against his neck. A click. Darkness. 

His mouth moved. He was trying to speak. Trying to say his former name. 

“Anto—Auh—Auhh—Tony like… dig hole. Heh. Duhuhuh…” 

He laughed, suddenly, involuntarily, a deep wet belly laugh that shook the recliner and echoed against the chrome walls. His lips curled stupidly upward. 

Dr. Vale made a note on her clipboard. 

From her station beside the medical monitor, she pressed a few keys. Heart rate: steady. Muscle tone: appropriately degraded. Cognitive resistance: low. Compliance ratio: 87% and rising. 

On the screen, the profile no longer read “HRH Prince Antony.” It read: 

Subject: Tony 

Classification: Manual Laborer, Royal Estate 

Conditioning Phase: Late-Stage 

Cognitive Layering: Semi-permanent. Identity overwrite in progress. 

Sexuality: Rewritten. Compatibility–Male 

Status: Stable 

Another jolt ran through Tony’s scalp. He gurgled. His fingers twitched in the restraints, forming no useful shape. The wall speaker droned on. 

Tony loves getting dirty. 

Tony loves being useful. 

Tony is proud of his fat belly. 

Antony blinked. For just a second, his vision cleared. The overhead light burned into his pupils. He opened his mouth. 

“My… name… my na—” 

Tony is a good boy. 

Tony likes to laugh. 

“Hehhhhhuhuhhhhhh…” His eyes rolled back. A trickle of drool slid down his cheek. 

Behind the two-way mirror, King Christian’s reflection hovered like a ghost over the image of his younger brother inside—heavy, twitching, and bald in patches. Even distorted by the reflection, the features were unmistakable, though thickened now by swelling and dulled by sedation. 

He was already looking more like “Tony” than Antony. 

The King shifted his weight. His fingers pinched at the edge of a broadsheet folded neatly in his hands. The headline, printed in massive block letters, practically bellowed: A PRINCE NO MORE: Shameful Royal Stripped of Title, to be Exiled Abroad. 

A blurry paparazzi photo showed Antony behind a tinted car window, likely taken just hours before he was brought in. Christian’s jaw flexed. He set the paper down on the counter beside the viewing window, aligning it perfectly with the edge. He smoothed it flat. 

“He’s still… in there.” 

Dr. Vale’s heels clicked softly as she joined him from the exam room. She offered a brisk curtsy and stood at a respectful angle, close enough to speak, but never shoulder to shoulder. Her lab coat was crisp, her hair in a tight bun and her tablet tucked neatly under her arm. 

“They always are at this stage, Your Majesty,” she said. “But the reflexes will pass. By the end of the week, he won’t remember his middle name.” 

The King chuckled ruefully. “All six of them.” 

Vale tapped the window glass with her stylus. “You chose the right body shape, Sir. Research shows increased compliance in subjects with abdominal weight gain. There’s less ego tension, less impulse control.” 

Christian gave a short, humorless exhale. “Doesn’t take much to break us, does it?” he said. “We look good in suits, but God help us when we’re out of uniform.” 

Vale tilted her head slightly. “Your mother, the late Queen, said the same thing. When it came time for your uncle’s treatment—” 

The King’s expression tightened. “I’d prefer we didn’t speak about my uncle.” 

“Of course, Your Majesty.” 

They stood in silence for a beat. On the other side of the glass, Antony giggled softly at the latest round of mental reconditioning. 

“He’ll be ready for garden duty in two days, Sir,” Vale said, checking her tablet. “We’ll send him down to the Royal Estate to live in staff housing. We’ve coded him as age 48, intellectually unremarkable, and with an orphan background. No traceable ties.” 

“Forty-eight,” Christian repeated. His gaze hadn’t left the pitiable figure in the chair. But he didn’t really see his brother anymore. 

“I don’t want updates,” he said. 

“Sir?” 

“I don’t want to know if he adjusts. Or resists. Or remembers. Just let him… dissolve. He made his choices.” He turned to go, then stopped. “If he ends up being trouble…” 

Dr. Vale didn’t need the rest of the sentence. 

“We can always deepen the programming.” 

Christian nodded once. He picked up the broadsheet again, folded it once more, and tucked it beneath his arm. The headline was no longer visible, just a block of gaudy newsprint against his pristine navy jacket. Dr. Vale curtsied again as the King departed, the door hissing shut behind him. 

Back inside the exam room, a woman entered wearing a standard contractor’s apron and carrying a sleek silver case that gleamed under the light. The badge pinned to her chest read ELSA — STYLE SERVICES, LEVEL 4 CLEARANCE. 

She looked at the body in the chair. Prince Antony’s head lolled gently to the side. His mouth hung open, eyes glassy, pupils wide and slow to adjust. Drool had collected in the crevice of his new second chin. 

Dr. Vale rechecked the monitor. Her voice interrupted the conditioning audio on the exam room’s speakers. “Cognitive interference is active. Reflex speech is down to 11%. You’re clear to proceed.” 

Elsa clicked open her case. Cordless clippers in hand, she walked around behind the chair, slid one gloved hand under Antony’s chin, and tilted his head up, exposing the mess of thinning chestnut hair, still damp with sweat. Antony whimpered at the contact, awareness flickering behind his eyes, but when his lips moved, what came out was unintelligible. 

The first swipe of Elsa’s clippers sent strands of royal hair tumbling down Antony’s shoulders. She worked methodically, removing decades of salon-perfect upkeep in a few matter-of-fact sweeps. Hair piled on the concrete floor like plucked straw as Vale, watching through the glass, took notes. 

With each pass, more of Prince Antony vanished. Beneath the hair was pale skin, scalp untouched by sun and blushing from the contact. Without the dark auburn crown of his youth, Antony’s face seemed older, bloated, and rounder. As the prince’s pate settled into a horseshoe of male-pattern baldness, the new shape of Tony was emerging. 

Then Elsa switched off the clippers and opened a tub of thick, waxy dye. The paste was industrial, almost silvery gray. She dipped her gloved fingers in and began massaging it into the remaining stubble with firm, circular pressure. Antony moaned under her touch. His belly jiggled. 

“Feels good…” he slurred. Gone was the youthful arrogance of royal privilege and wasted potential. In its place was a tired uncle who trimmed hedges for a living and started drinking at noon.