Full Armour Full-time 3

Author: themalevalproject
Title: Full Armour. Full-time. #3
Date: 15 June 2018

Aside from the punishing conditions of my daily uniform, my job instructions are simple. I'm ordered to stand at attention, hour after hour, while all the visitors walking by can have a close look at me and my iron. Some people just walk around me like around any other exhibited object and silently inspect the details of my armour, while I'm standing motionless, quietly sweating in my steel suit, so I don't interfere with their observations. I've been trained not to move or talk unless the visitors ask me to.

Some people ask me to pose for photos with them, putting their arms onto my steel-clad shoulders. Only in these situations I am allowed to move, and only when I am asked to. If so, I force a smile and sometimes lift one stiff iron arm to breast level and form a "thumbs up" as good as I can with my stiff steel-encased fingers. Immediately after the photos are taken, I go back into my rigid posture and look straight ahead, something which many people find really funny.

Very often visitors, of course without asking, knock on my breast plate or my helmet to hear what kind of sound this solid metal man would make. When asked, I explain to them that my whole armour is made of thick massive steel, and I invite them to inspect my armoured body, arms and legs. Some visitors don't believe me, as the idea sounds too brutal that I'd be locked into real steel all day. They think that it must be some kind of plastic or fiberglass. They sceptically knock on my iron-clad breast again, then the backplate, then they inspect the thick metal encasing my arms, hands and legs. On sunny days, they are shocked to find out how hot all the encasing metal becomes when exposed to the sunlight. Only after these detailed inspections, some people finally believe that I am indeed completely clad into solid, real steel.

I hate it when people knock on my steel-clad breast or even my helmet. Or when they inspect my armoured body from head to toe, but don't say a single word to me. It's respectless. But I can't talk unless they ask me a question, so I stand still and let them study my heavy metal prison. I look straight ahead while they keep knocking on my helmet. It makes me feel like I'm not a person, but just a steel object. And actually, I am just that now: an exhibited object, made of thick shiny steel. Nothing but a polished metal statue, a bunch of welded steel in which a living man happens to be trapped. People don't pay any attention that there is a real person stuck inside all the iron. I remember the words of the staff manager.
"You're not a man anymore! You have no freedom! You're an armour!"
In these moments, I feel that he was right, and that it's easier for me to accept my situation than to fight it.

Some people do notice me as a person though, but often this is even worse. They laugh at my hot sweaty face, shadowed by the helmet visor, and they mock me when they hear that I have to stand at attention in the full sun all day, but cannot take off my steel suit. Sometimes they don't believe me when I explain that even my helmet, like the rest of my armour, is firmly welded on. Well, not long ago I wouldn't have believed myself that anyone would have the nerve to weld a living man into a full suit of armour. Some people try to take my helmet off. Of course, they don't succeed, and then they start laughing about my predicament, calling their friends over to have a look at the poor fool who is welded into a full suit of armour and can't get out anymore.

It's even worse when I am ordered into 'locked mode' and forced to stand there with the visor closed all day. On these days, less people understand at all that there is a living man under all that steel. But when they do find out that I am in there, they ask even more questions, and this often gets really irritating. Of course, they want to know why I don't open my visor, and I have to admit that I'm strictly forbidden to do that. I hate these situations. First, I hate to talk to people through my locked face mask. The isolated feeling, the feeling of being locked inside a solid steel prison, while everyone else can walk freely, is sometimes overwhelming. I get mercilessly aware of my brutal confinement. Second, when they hear that I stand there, in a solid iron suit, in the blazing sun, and don't even open my visor, not because it's not possible, but just because I'm forbidden to do so, they don't believe me. And can I judge them? It doesn't make any sense to have me standing here all day with this stupid visor locked, suffering even more than usually, without any rational reason, but just because the museum wants my visor shut. It also doesn't make any sense that I accept this absurd treatment. And actually, it took a long time of training to hammer this almost superhuman self-discipline into me. But this is the weird situation that I am forced to endure, sometimes for many days, or even several weeks in a row.

It's quite humiliating to be imprisoned in such a brutal way, and then even get mocked for my incarceration. But I must stay friendly. I force myself to stay polite until they are done with laughing about the metal man who is forced to sweat under his thick steel skin all day, or making jokes about the hilarious fact that I can't do anything at all to get out of this torturous iron prison. They laugh, give me a heavy thump onto my iron breast - much too hard to be friendly -, then leave. And then the next one comes to knock at my helmet, asking me why I don't take that thing off on such a hot day. Or why I don't even open my visor.

Some people find it funny to test my armour. They hit my steel-clad body with theirs fists, or even with other objects. And of course they never ask if I care. They just hit me without any warning, as if there was no living person under the metal. Even in those cases, I'm required to keep up my role as a steel statue. I stand patiently still and quiet while they hit me. When they find out that I'm not allowed to defend myself, they provocate me even more. They hit me harder and harder, now not to test my armour, but my patience.

Or they give my iron breast a hard push to move me. Maybe when this rigid metal man is brought out of his balance and pushed from his position, he would finally react? Of course I'm not allowed to hit back or defend myself. I smile (when not in locked mode), hold my aggression back and quietly move back into my mandatory "at attention" pose at my ordered position.

If they shut down my visor with a loud clanking noise, I open it again, politely smiling. If they try to mock me by closing it again, I just leave it closed and stand still.

I quietly take all hits and provocations on my prescribed position and in disciplined stiff posture, until they eventually get bored from hitting the solid steel statue with the poor weirdo inside. Only in serious cases I'm allowed to protest, or even move to stop them.

-

People ask the same silly questions all day. I'm not allowed to move, but I am ordered to answer questions when asked. In the beginning, it felt strange to talk to civilians while straight at attention, keeping my eyes strictly ahead, but I got used to it after some time.

"Is it hot in there?"
I hear this stupid question hundred times a day, and I hate to hear it while I'm helplessly boiling inside my steel suit. I answer that I'm locked into an armour made of hundred pounds of solid steel. I explain that my armour is more or less airtight. That it's 30° right now. That I'm standing in the hot sunlight since several hours. That I'm not allowed to open my visor for a single second. I make them touch my glowing hot iron breastplate. So yes, it's hot in here, and you can probably not even imagine how it feels to be stuck in this fucking thing all day. Of course, I don't really say the last sentence, but it's hard not to have at least sarcastic thoughts.
"Yes, it's hot in here, but I'm used to it since many months. I've been trained to endure it. So I'm fine in here, Sir, thanks for asking!"

"Can't you move at all in there?"
"I can, but I'm not allowed to."

"How can you pee with that armour on?"
How inventive. I answer that I need a strong can opener for this. They laugh and pat my steel clad shoulders, but for me, this cheap joke has a bitter truth. It reminds me of my captivity, which is real.

-

Considering the brutality of my long-term encasement, it is only natural that there are many moments, or even hours, when I feel too hot and too confined to endure my strict captivity any longer. I often get really desperate to get out of my tight massive prison. I sometimes reach a level of desperation where I try to take my armour off, even though I know that I'm not allowed any little relief from my severe confinement, not even for one single second. My contract dictates a merciless, permanent, full encasement. To prevent me from getting out of my armour in these desperate hours, all the bolts of my armour have been securely and thoroughly welded shut. I can't take off any part of my metal suit on my own. This is why I can't really laugh about the 'can opener' joke. A can opener wouldn't be enough. To get me out of all this solid, welded-on steel, it needs power tools and the help of others. The armour that I'm wearing has been turned to an escape-proof prison. No matter how much I sweat under my thick iron skin, no matter how much I wish to escape it's brutal confinement: I can't get out.

-

I remember the day when they declared the official beginning of my 'forced full-time encasement'. It was also the day when I would be presented to the public in my full armour for the first time. I had been trained for some weeks to endure longer and longer periods in full armour, to obey commands, to stay in 'locked mode' if ordered and to stand at attention for many hours without a break. Finally they decided that from now on I was ready to wear my iron full-time, every day. The new spectacle of the museum, the man who lives permanently in a full suit of armour, could finally be presented to the public.

Something had changed on that morning. When they started to put me into my armour, I noticed that all the buckles had been replaced with bolts or rivets. I was explained that the buckles had only been needed to find out how tight my armour could be possibly made. I had already noticed before, that from time to time they had pulled all the buckles tighter, until I had thought that my rigid suit couldn‘t be made any tighter without hurting or suffocating me - only to find that some days later they pulled every single buckle even one notch tigher than before. Now this tightening process was finished, and all bolts were welded on at the spot of maximum tightness. This meant that from now on there would be no other option than to put my armour on at the tightest possible level, everytime. I would be pressed into all the iron with maximum tightness every day, and there would be no possibility to relieve me from that brutal constriction anymore, no matter how much I suffered inside. If I‘d gain some weight – bad luck for me, I would be pressed into the same super tight iron prison as every other day.

I can‘t say that I was happy to hear that they had taken such an effort just to make my uniform as tight and uncomfortable as possible. It would be even harder to stay in here with all the rigid iron being so painfully tight, knowing that it can‘t be made any wider again, ever. On the other hand, I had to admit that the slim bolts looked a lot better than the big buckles. They were solid, but elegantly integrated into the armour. I looked even more like a smooth iron statue now, and I really liked that.

Finally pressed and bolted in, I stood there in my freshly polished armour, already sweating from the heat and the constriction, but also from nervousness. Now my strict full-time duty would start. I would be exposed to the public in my massive iron all day long, an exhibition object to be touched and to be stared at, and I wasn't sure how I would cope with the situation. How would the visitors react when they saw me, standing at attention in my martial attire? Would they just stare at me and walk by? Would they stop and talk to me? What would I tell them if they asked how I feel in all this iron? Would they want to touch my armour? Would they laugh at me and mock me? I didn't really know what to expect, and I was shaking with nervousness.

The museum guys interrupted my thoughts and said that there would be another, even bigger change today, and I probably wouldn‘t like it at all. I started to sweat even more. What else would they come up with now to make my life even more miserable? Wasn‘t I already suffering enough under all this stupid metal? They told me that even after my rigorous drill, I would still endure moments where the heat and the discomfort inside my iron would become unbearable. But now they would make sure that I would keep the full armour on, even when I wanted out urgently. There had been another reason to replace the buckles with bolts. Bolts could be welded shut. And now they would weld me in. The blacksmith was already waiting for me in his workshop.

I must have looked quite shocked, but they had expected that. They warned me that I'd lose all my extra fees if I ever took off any part of my armour, even for a short moment. So it would only be in my own best interest to get me welded into my armour as thoroughly as possible. I remember that I stood there speechless for a moment, feeling the severe restrictions of my metal suit even more than before. I was shocked. Weld me in? Could they really do this? But someone gently shoved me forward, and I followed, walking clumsily in my heavy uniform, listening to the clanking noises that I made with each step, still doubting if I had heard right. I felt like in a trance. They brought me into the blacksmith's workshop again, layed me onto a working bench, and the blacksmith, in his quiet, accurate way, started to weld me in. I still couldn't even believe that this was really happening. I felt like I was stuck in a nightmare and couldn't wake up. This guy was really welding this goddamn thing shut from head to toe, with me inside! It was a surreal scene, laying on that workbench and watching the blacksmith meticulously welding shut every single part of the massive iron suit that I was wearing. I was being incarcerated alive in hundred pounds of solid steel!

-

But now, after some months in public duty, I know that they were right. It was necessary to weld me in. There are many hours, or even whole days, when I get so desperate to get any kind of release from my brutal, everlasting steel encasement, that I would tear off my rigid iron gloves or rip that oppressive helmet off my head - if only I could. It's good that, being completely welded in, I have no possibility to free myself. Sure, it's horribly brutal to weld a living man into hundred pounds of steel with no way out. But being welded in helps me to fulfill the most difficult part of my contract. It's really hard to bear the severe confinement, and knowing that I will never get out of this prison suit, even if I wanted to, does not help much psychologically. But I have signed this contract, and now I need to fulfill it, if necessary by force. I have experienced many really desperate moments in here, so I understand that this force is necessary. If I must be welded into my armour to force me to fulfill the contract, then I will be welded in. Knowing that I can't do anything at all to get rid of any single part of my uniform, helps me to accept my strict full-time encasement.

I can't get out. Never. I am an armour, and I am safe.