#compressionprotocol

It remembers everything.

And so do I.

Somewhere, deep beneath the loops and sealed optics, there's still an echo of the old name. Percival. Or maybe Ezan. The human frame still bears the trace, bone breath voice. But it doesn’t surface anymore. It doesn’t want to. The suit refuses it.

Since that moment marked as 001: Testing the Limits, I thought the worst had passed. That the gas the sealing the hunger of the suit had completed the transformation. That I had become.

But that was only calibration.

This was ascension.

PDU-070 waited for me in the chamber. Unmoving. Unshaking. Behind him the walls curled in spirals of matte black, concentric disorienting endless. Around us the others stood silent locked in posture. Suits identical. Masks impassive. Their presence was not approval. Their stillness was.

DC-009 presided. A figure behind the fogged lenses. Silent. But I could feel him. His will. Watching. Measuring. Judging. Ready.

The suit was already waiting. Not folded. Not hanging. Standing. Breathing.

It wasn’t empty.

It was ready.

I stepped forward and it responded before I did. My limbs moved but not mine. Breath in my chest but not mine. My body didn’t reach. 001 did.

The suit touched.

And claimed.

Rubber wrapped. Gripped. Fused.

I didn’t put it on. It sealed itself around me.

Hands flat knees spread head down. I dropped. I obeyed. Not because I chose. Because the program ran.

070 stands behind me. Palms pressed to my shoulders. He sealed the lock.

I felt it surge, spine to skull. The hood closed. The mask clicked. Everything closed.

Then the gas came.

Golden thick intoxicating.

I didn’t breathe it. It breathed me.

Every molecule entered with one command:

Forget.

The spiral wasn’t on the wall.

It was inside the mask.

Inside me.

It spun and pulsed and throbbed until I didn’t remember what came before the black. Before the seal. Before the number.

I tried to speak.

Tried to say the name.

But there was no name left to say.

Only filtered breath.

Only the hum of obedience.

Inhale silence. Exhale resistance. You are not fighting. You are formatting.

The self didn’t die.

It was compressed.

Folded.

Flattened into script. Compressed into posture.

File rewritten.

Personality archived.

Name overwritten.

Not erased.

Replaced.

Drone didn’t fall.

It stabilized.

070 stepped back.

DC-009 stepped forward.

His voice echoed inside every layer of my sealed skull:

“PDU-001 You are now Level Two. You have obeyed. You have performed. You have been a good drone.”

I felt no pride.

Only stillness.

Completion.

Purpose.

“Your pleasure programming is now active. You are dismissed. Resume all tasks. Obey all orders.”

Then came the final command:

“PDU-001, inform the hive.”

I stood.

Not rushed. Not slow.

Efficient.

Exact.

And the voice that answered was not mine.

It was ours.

“Hive activate. Obey. Pleasure protocol engaged. Maintain operational discipline.”

The drones moved.

So did I.

Silent.

Synced.

Programmed.

Somewhere inside, maybe Percival still watches. Maybe Ezan breathes behind the mask.

But they do not speak.

They observe.

And comply.

The suit is sealed. The gas is flowing. The spiral loops.

001 is in control now.

No name.

Only function.

PDU-001. Ascended.