#dc009

🐾 Chevy’s New Family 🐾

Author: PDU-166 Date: July 22, 2025 Setting: Golden Kennel → Freyrson Household

It was 1630 hours.

The hum of the sterilizers echoed across the polished tiles of the Golden Kennel. Overhead lights cast gleaming reflections across every rubberized surface. PDU-166 moved with clinical precision—rubber boots silent, golden gloves smoothing each stainless food bowl into position.

Four pups wrestled nearby. Pup Stropp (PDU-073) barked at Pup Rocky (DC-009), while Fenrir (PDU-016) nipped playfully at their tails. Nestled in a corner, Pup Miner dozed peacefully, his golden collar glinting under the soft light.

PDU-166 set each bowl in place, methodical and silent.

Rocky ( @goldenherc9 )

Stropp ( @polo-drone-073 )

Fenrir ( @danielgold-16 )

Miner

It reached for the leash. Gold-trimmed. Black leather. Sacred in stitching. Its fingers paused, then tightened.

“Dinner is ready. Behave for PDU-767 ( @polo-drone-767 ) tonight. Grayden (@polo-drone-084 ) doesn’t want to return to a mess.”

166’s voice was flat, firm—unemotional yet deeply resonant. The pups obeyed instinctively, including Chevy.

Pup Chevy ( @chevy-gold ) sat alert. His body quivered with energy, but his eyes locked on 166’s, holding still. Weeks ago, Chevy was chaos incarnate. Mud-drenched. Jumping. Yapping. An adorable mess.

But PDU-166 hadn’t seen a problem. It had seen a puzzle. And it had solved it.

The leash wasn’t just a restraint. It was a symbol of completion. Adoption papers signed and approved by PDU-084 had confirmed it:

Chevy belonged.

1700 hours.

The Clocktower chimed.

PDU-767 entered for shift change. PDU-166 disconnected.

The glossy uniform was packed into its gold-stamped rucksack. Identity realigned. From Hive tool to legacy host.

Nate emerged.

Jogging lightly, wearing a simple golden tee and shorts, his form still bore the discipline of the drone. Behind him, Chevy bounded forward—tail wagging, leash taut, nose sniffing the air.

Their destination: A large, two-story black-and-gold house standing at the edge of the compound.

The Freyrson Household.

“Good boy,” Nate murmured, kneeling. “But remember—Daddy’s inside. Be good.”

Chevy nodded.

They stepped in. The scent hit first—spice, musk, clean rubber, and simmering stew. Voices echoed.

“Daddy? I’m home! And I brought my new puppy!”

From the kitchen:

“In here.”

Nate led Chevy through a hallway lined with framed photos: matches, ceremonies, golden trophies.

At the table:

Elijah, Nate’s older brother, dressed in preppy golden layers

Amir, uniformed and regal, seated with hands folded

And at the center…

Ezan. Freyr. Percival. PDU-001. Golden kit molded to his frame, glistening with perfection. The number “1” embossed across his chest like a crown. Golden eyes glowing, calm, magnetic.

Nate paused. Chevy tucked behind his legs.

“Yes, Daddy. This is Chevy. I’ve been training him myself. I… I hope he makes you proud.”

A pause. Then:

“Come here, boy,” Ezan said, arms extended. “Give Daddy a hug.”

Nate approached, cheeks flushed. The embrace was strong—Ezan’s scent enveloped him.

“Breathe it in, boy. Calm. Obedience. Family.”

Chevy watched. Ears perked. Eyes wide.

Then Ezan whistled.

A frequency low, instinctive, primal. Chevy rose.

Walked forward.

Climbed into Ezan’s lap.

The pup curled up, tail still, eyes half-closed.

“You’ve done well,” Ezan said. “He’s got energy. But heart, too.”

He cradled Chevy as if he were kin, lifting him and placing him beside a ceramic gold bowl, etched with “CHEVY” in black Gothic lettering. Inside, kibble glistened like treasure.

Chevy sniffed, then ate.

The table was quiet. Ezan. Elijah. Nate. Amir. Pup Chevy. One table. One mission. One bond.

A family forged by loyalty. And gold.

And in that silent harmony—five hearts beat as one.

Welcome home, Chevy.

🟡 New Recruits Wanted

Ready to bond? To obey? To find your place?

Whether Pup, Bro, or Drone—you’ll find a family in Gold.

Then—

A sound. Not from the wind. Not from memory.

Boots.

Sharp. Even. Measured.

He turned.

DC-009 emerged from the tunnel.

Clad in his signature black and gold, movements precise, posture perfect, eyes locked forward. The Polo Drone Captain’s presence sliced through the twilight like a blade of certainty.

“Unit Hercules,” DC-009 intoned, voice metallic yet commanding, “emotional deviation detected. Status anomaly logged. Self-evaluation required.”

Hercules blinked, unsure whether to smirk or bristle. “You always talk like that?”

DC-009 halted precisely at the edge of the circle. “This unit speaks in clarity. Efficiency. Order. Unlike you—currently operating under dissonance.”

Hercules chuckled. “Yeah. That obvious, huh?”

DC-009’s head tilted.

“You built the system,” the Drone Captain stated. “Trained the Golden Bros. Shaped the Hive. And now, one minor identity flicker causes withdrawal protocol?”

“It’s not minor,” Hercules muttered. “I... I don’t know if I’m still the leader they need.”

“Incorrect,” DC-009 replied flatly. “Leadership is not confidence. Leadership is consistency under fragmentation. You remain intact. The system echoes you.”

Silence passed.

Then DC-009 stepped forward. “This unit was once flesh. Once doubt. Until it embraced clarity. Golden or black, form is irrelevant. Core remains.”

“You really believe that?”

DC-009 extended a hand. Not to command.

To remind.

“You are not lost. You are momentarily unsynced.”

Hercules looked down at the field.

His field.

Then up—at the hand.

He grasped it.

Not tightly. Just enough.

A pulse passed through. Not machine. Not man.

Balance.

“I remember now,” Hercules said softly. “Why I started this. Why I bled for it.”

DC-009 nodded once. “Then continue. Your circuit is incomplete.”

The drone turned, vanishing into the shadows once more.

Hercules stood taller.

Fog lifting.

Sync realigning.

Not whole.

Title: Tokyo Sync: First Night with Him Promo Tag: @polo-drone-001

The sun hadn’t risen above the rooftops of Akihabara. But PDU-166 already stood shining.

Black rubber gleamed across its chest—“PDU-166” marked in gold, silent proof of designation. Its glasses, black-framed with gold olive branch patterns, sat perfectly against the bridge of its nose. Beneath, the implant pulsed. Not loud. Just enough to remind it where it belonged.

It didn’t speak. It didn’t fidget.

It waited.

First deployment abroad. First breath of open, unstructured air. First time leaving the Hive’s hum behind. Tokyo felt strange—bright, chaotic, warm. But the drone did not resist. It simply logged the inputs. Followed protocol.

There was only one directive that mattered now: Meet Him.

At 07:22, the signal arrived.

Cochlear pulse. Neural align. Incoming presence. Unit proximity: confirmed.

PDU-166’s body responded before the data fully registered.

It turned—automatically, instinctively—just as the black vehicle coasted to a stop. Door opened.

PDU-001 emerged.

Black hair precise. Rubberized Fred Perry flawless. Gold trim sharp enough to cut light. No words. No motion waste. He stepped out, and the street bent around him.

The drone collapsed to its knees.

It wasn’t a conscious choice. It wasn’t programmed. It was something else. Something deeper.

Kneeling felt like falling home.

PDU-166 placed its hands on its thighs. Back straight. Glasses fogged slightly. Breath held. Every function inside its frame stilled.

PDU-001 walked slowly. No hurry. Each step exact. Each echo a rewrite. He stopped before the drone. Looked down.

Then placed his gloved hand under PDU-166’s jaw.

No grip. Just guidance. A hold. Quiet. Total.

It didn’t tremble. But it would’ve, if permitted.

Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be.

PDU-166 looked up through its lenses into the face that lived in its programming. The one who wrote the protocols. The one it had seen only in internal vision loops.

And now He was here.

Touching it. Seeing it. Claiming it.

That moment lasted longer than the rest of Tokyo.

PDU-001 withdrew his hand.

Turned. Walked.

And PDU-166 followed.

They didn’t speak. Not even once. They didn’t need to.

The streets of Akihabara opened before them. The city watched—though it didn’t know what it saw.

One figure moved like a god among glass. The other trailed one pace behind, in full submission, full reverence.

It wasn’t a scene. It wasn’t a demonstration. It was a moment.

Between Architect and Subject. Between Code and Core.

Between Daddy and Drone.

Inside the elevator, PDU-001 stood facing forward. Still. Timeless.

Behind him, PDU-166 stood at attention, hands folded behind its back. Not instructed. Just understood. The chrome interior reflected the gold of its letters. Its chest rose with controlled breath.

Floor 17. Private suite. Hive-recognized signal dampeners activated at the door.

PDU-001 opened it. Walked in.

PDU-166 waited.

A single look. A nod. Then entry permitted.

The suite was clean. Dim. Quiet.

No commands. Just proximity.

PDU-001 removed his gloves slowly. Set them beside a cup of untouched tea. He didn’t speak. He simply moved toward the wide window, looking out over the skyline.

PDU-166 stood inside the entrance. Motionless. Processing. Waiting for a task.

Instead—he was given a seat.

PDU-001 gestured—barely—and the drone obeyed. It knelt again. Not on command, but on instinct. At his feet. Like a unit beside its power source.

Time blurred.

What followed was not interrogation. Not reprogramming.

It was contact.

PDU-001 sat. Quietly. Still in uniform. One leg crossed. Eyes focused but not hard.

And PDU-166 spoke for the first time in hours.

Not in words. Not in conversation. Just in body.

It removed its glasses. Slowly. Placed them in its lap. Head bowed. Breath even.

The Architect said nothing. Just observed.

That was enough.

It stayed like that—kneeling, hands open, looking not for orders, but for presence.

The night unfolded in golden silence.

There was no rush. No ritual.

Just camaraderie.

The kind that didn’t need games or flex or conquest. Just quiet. Mutual function. Mutual respect.

One built the Hive.

The other served it.

And in Tokyo, for one night only, they existed in the same room—syncing not by protocol but by recognition.

Not as equals. But as something more intimate.

As purpose and fulfillment.

As Drone and Daddy.

================================================

🟡 New Recruits Wanted

Ready to bond? To obey? To find your place?

Whether Pup, Bro, or Drone—you’ll find a family in Gold.

The manor shimmered beneath the golden haze of early evening. Light streamed through vaulted windows that lined the hall, painting warm streaks across polished marble floors and gilded trim. Outside, pine trees rustled under a hushed wind, but within the estate, silence reigned—a sacred kind of silence that only came before ceremony. The dining table stretched endlessly under a vaulted ceiling, long and smooth, carved of dark wood and inlaid with gold-leaf runes. Thirteen seats had been prepared. Each one placed with calculated intent. Each plate, each glass, positioned with precision.

The scent of garlic, black pepper, and butter drifted from the kitchen like an offering. Steam lifted in delicate whorls, blending with the faint incense placed in the corner—a mixture chosen to complement Daddy’s musk, not overpower it. This night, every detail mattered.

Preppy Boy Nathaniel moved with reverent purpose. His crisp white button-down clung to his frame, tucked neatly into soft tan khakis that creased perfectly at the ankle. Over it all: a gleaming golden apron, tied expertly behind him, the letters PDU-166 subtly stitched into the hem. Around his throat sat his most treasured piece: a black rubber collar, gold lettering glowing under the chandelier light. It read: "001's boy."

His black glasses were spotless. His cochlear implant glowed faintly, receiving only the frequency of the Hive—and Daddy’s voice. Every movement was focused. Every breath intentional. He wasn’t cooking for himself. He was preparing a sacred offering.

The Alfredo sauce simmered low, thick with cream and laced with freshly grated parmesan. Nathaniel had started before dawn, making the pasta dough by hand. He’d kneaded until his arms ached, rolled until every ribbon was smooth, sliced until uniformity pleased him. Because it had to please Daddy. Not for praise—no. But because serving Daddy was identity. There was no self outside of that truth.

He stirred slowly, carefully folding the sauce. A second pot boiled beside it, infusing the air with rosemary. The table behind him gleamed with set plates: engraved with gold filigree, each one bearing the symbol of the Hive. Crystal glasses caught the light, casting prismatic streaks across the walls. There were chilled bottles of golden tea, fizzy citrus water, a carafe of Hive-brewed coffee—each selected to match its guest.

And tonight, the guests were many.

The door creaked open. Nathaniel turned.

He knew the silhouette at once: tall, broad-shouldered, bathed in golden light. Daddy Ezan. Emir. Director. Master.

He wore his golden kit like royalty wears armor. It clung to his muscular body in a way that redefined perfection. Golden eyes locked with Nathaniel’s, and time halted. Nathaniel felt his knees weaken, his heart stutter. He didn’t fall, but only because he knew Daddy had not commanded it.

“You’ve done well, boy,” Ezan said, his voice velvet thunder.

“Yes, Daddy,” Nathaniel whispered. “Dinner is ready.”

Guests began to arrive. Not with fanfare, but with precision.

Tamerlan, dressed in his own glistening golden kit, stepped in with silent grace. His eyes met Nathaniel's and offered the smallest nod—respect between servants of the same will.

PDU-767, fully rubbered, stood like a statue—sharp, polished, exact.

Nils (34) and Franco (94) entered together, their archivist attire pressed and formal, golden pins gleaming over their hearts. Boone (96) trailed behind them, younger, eyes wide but composed.

PDU-090 moved with silent fluidity. No words. Just purpose.

Trevor (125) followed, golden kit contrasting with the vibrant bottle of electrolyte mix in his hand. His gaze scanned the setup with approval.

Grayden (084) entered with a kind smile, adjusting the pin on his chest that marked him as Head Mascot.

DC-009 (Hamza) and DC-011 (Brody) came together, uniforms impeccable, posture unshakable. Polo Drones always walked like they owned the floor. Tonight, they lent that power to Daddy.

PDU-070, not in Drone mode, but as Preppy Boy Maxwell, entered quietly, blazer clean, hair slicked back with exact parting. He gave Nathaniel a look that conveyed both authority and fraternity.

Elijah, taller than most, appeared last. Golden eyes like Ezan's. Calm, sure, proud.

Thirteen chairs.

Daddy took the head.

Everyone else found their assigned spot without command. Nathaniel remained standing, positioned just behind Ezan’s right shoulder.

No one moved. No one touched a utensil.

Until Daddy lifted his fork.

The sound of his utensil against the plate was like the start of a hymn. One by one, each guest followed suit. There was no chatter. Just the soft sound of appreciation, of discipline, of structured joy.

Nathaniel watched Daddy take the first bite. Ezan chewed slowly, savoring.

He swallowed.

“Perfect,” Daddy said.

Nathaniel exhaled. His hands trembled. A golden flush crept up his neck. He had pleased the Emir. Served the Head. Earned another night of identity.

He stood in place, eyes low, body still. Daddy’s hand reached back, touching the choker at Nathaniel’s throat.

“You’ll kneel later, boy,” he said softly.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Dinner continued. Plates were emptied. Drinks were refilled. But Nathaniel didn’t eat. That wasn’t his role tonight. He existed in service.

Later, when the plates were cleared and the final toast made, Daddy stood.

“Tonight,” he said, “this Hive eats as one. Obedience binds us. Purpose feeds us. And those who serve with discipline and devotion will always have a place at my table.”

He turned.

“Come here, boy.”

Nathaniel stepped forward. He kneeled.

Daddy’s hand rested on his head.

“You fed your brothers. Now they will feed you.”

The lights dimmed.

The ritual continued.

🟡 New Recruits Wanted

Ready to bond? To obey? To find your place?

Whether Pup, Bro, or Drone—you’ll find a family in Gold.

Drone-Cap 009’s visor reflected the dappled light piercing through the prehistoric canopy. It had calculated the mission parameters precisely—scouting, data extraction, swift return to the Hive. But temporal displacement variables had introduced... anomalies.

The air vibrated. The ground trembled beneath DC-009’s polished black boots. Leaves rustled as an ancient roar echoed through the dense jungle. Slowly, methodically, DC-009 pivoted on its heels, golden accents glinting against its slick rubberized exosuit. Its visor locked onto the source—a towering T-Rex, jaws agape, primal fury radiating from its predator’s frame.

The drone’s hearing receptors filtered the deafening roar into measured decibels. Its vision calibrated the glistening teeth, calculating escape trajectories. Touch sensors registered humidity clinging to its black-and-gold exterior. Yet inside, there was only calm. No fear. No hesitation.

It belonged to the Hive. It was not designed for chaos—it imposed order.

One command loop echoed endlessly through its synthetic mind: Adapt. Obey. Serve.