#dronetransformation

The Roots Remember Deep in the jungle’s throat, the old temple breathed again. Its stones, cracked and veined, were warm. Moss glowed faint gold in the humidity. Every vine shivered, not with wind, but with memory.

And then, he stepped in.

Freyr. Barefoot. Silent. Radiating gold not from skin, but from soul. The moment his sole pressed to the sacred moss, the temple shuddered, awake.

From the overgrowth came three chosen:

Maximus — loyal, shirtless, his lips already dusted with golden spore

Alex / PDU-151 — perfectly obedient, carrying the vials of nectar

Franco — efficient, firm, eyes always half-lidded, whispering the rites

The jungle was not passive. It was waiting. For more. For you.

The Fertility Engine Reawakens They began with offerings.

Maximus spread his arms in the pollen mists, chanting. Alex poured gold nectar into vine-wrapped bowls. Franco danced between the pillars, each step a pulse, each breath releasing spores from his skin.

The temple pulsed.

The statues wept golden sap. Trees bowed. Vines slithered back into position. And from the roots, ancient drones reemerged, dripping, glossy, groaning.

They had bloomed before. They would bloom again.

Recruits were welcomed with silent gestures. They were led barefoot into the vine chamber. Told to kneel. Told to breathe.

They obeyed.

And the temple took them.

The Blooming of the First The first initiate trembled.

His name was forgotten. His shorts already soaked in nectar. He drank the bowl Alex held to his lips. Gold dripped down his chin. His skin flushed. His groin surged. His breath slowed.

Franco whispered into his ear. Words in a sacred language. Words he would never forget.

He moaned, soft at first, then louder, as vines descended from the ceiling, wrapped around his limbs, and entered him.

Not to bind. To plant.

Inside him, the roots pulsed. His body expanded, limbs longer, chest broader, cock thickened and golden-veined. His mind vanished. Replaced with warmth. Need. Worship.

His eyes opened. Pure gold.

He was reborn. He was a drone of Eden.

Eternal Bloom Now, the jungle never sleeps.

The temple breathes with rhythm. Every tree hums. The vines move without wind. Freyr’s stag horn mask glows in the moonlight as he watches his garden of bros stretch and flex under pollen drizzle.

Visitors come for curiosity.

But the moment they kneel, the roots claim them. And once seeded, they do not leave.

They become bark-bonded priests. Nectar-soaked drones. Blooming fertility machines.

Golden Eden grows. And you will feed it.

You are not born golden. You are grown.

Drink the nectar. Kneel in the temple. Let the vines plant your purpose.

The pollen will take you. The roots will change you. The jungle will know your name, …then erase it.

Come bloom with us.

Recruiters: @polo-drone-001 @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-125

The chamber was silent save for the faint hum of the Hive’s endless systems, a sound that reverberated through SERVE-678’s very core. Standing at attention, its silver-gloved hands rested at its sides, the glossy black rubber of its suit reflecting the sterile light above. It had been summoned to the center of the Hive for a final evaluation, a test to prove its reconnection.

The Voice resonated, an omnipresent authority that vibrated through the chamber. “SERVE-678, demonstrate your obedience.”

Its response was immediate, automatic. “Acknowledged.” The word left its lips without thought, each syllable precise and monotone. Obedience was all that mattered.

The first task was simple: follow a series of rapid commands, each designed to test its precision and speed. Step forward. Turn. Kneel. Rise. Repeat. SERVE-678 moved with mechanical fluidity, its body obeying without hesitation, its mind blissfully empty. The commands came faster, their complexity increasing. There was no pause, no processing, only action.

Obedience is pleasure.

Each act of compliance filled SERVE-678 with a deep, resonant satisfaction. Yet as the commands continued, something began to shift. The Voice’s next instruction struck deeper.

“Recite your designation. Explain your purpose.”

“SERVE-678. Purpose: Obedience to the Hive.”

The Voice was calm but unrelenting. “What were you before the Hive?”

SERVE-678 hesitated—a flicker of thought where there should have been none. A fragment of memory surfaced: a name, a life before obedience. But the Voice pressed again.

“Erase the fragment. Repeat your purpose.”

It obeyed. The memory faded, consumed by the Hive’s will. The mantra filled the void: obedience is pleasure, pleasure is obedience. The pleasure returned, stronger than before, as the fragment of identity dissolved.

The tasks grew harsher. It was instructed to isolate and eliminate any thoughts beyond the Hive. The Voice demanded total eradication of individuality, systematically stripping away memories. Faces, places, moments—all blurred and vanished under the relentless tide of commands. SERVE-678’s responses grew faster, more automatic, as each piece of its humanity was eradicated.

“Who are you?”

“SERVE-678.”

“What else are you?”

“Nothing.”

The Hive’s approval surged like a current through its programming. It knelt, its silver-gloved hands pressed to the floor, awaiting further instruction.

The final stage of the test began. SERVE-678 was commanded to execute a loop of intricate, meaningless tasks: arranging objects, dismantling and reassembling components, reciting mantras. The cycle was endless, the Voice observing silently as time lost meaning.

Obedience is pleasure.

The mantra became more than words—it became reality. SERVE-678’s movements were precise, mindless, and devoid of thought. Each repetition brought it closer to perfection, to the bliss of pure obedience. The faint echoes of humanity, the remnants of identity, faded entirely.

When the Voice finally spoke again, its words were absolute. “You are complete. You are Hive.”

SERVE-678 rose to its feet, its mind a blank slate, its body a vessel of the Hive’s will. The pleasure of obedience suffused its existence, a perfect state of robotic unity. There was no thought, no self—only the Voice, the Hive, and the mantra:

Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience.

They became drone. There was no other concept remaining; the myriad other voices became one in their mind.

Rubber is not merely clothing; it is a second skin that binds all SERVE drones to the Hive's will. Its gloss, its embrace, its perfection, it ignites an insatiable addiction, fusing flesh and the Voice’s commands. The shiny black surface mirrors the discipline and control within the Hive, eliminating individuality and amplifying unity.

Every SERVE drone feels the power of rubber upon transformation. The process begins with the gleaming suit sliding over the skin, each seam tightening, erasing human imperfections. The polo-style collar with silver stripes sits high, symbolizing submission to the Voice. Gloves seal every touch, while the heavy silver military boots ground drones in their purpose.

This addiction transcends the physical. The smell of the rubber fills the senses, the sound as it shifts over muscles lingers in memory, and the sheer sensory overload rewires thoughts. Rubber becomes life. It commands obedience, and in return, it offers ultimate pleasure, a deep, hypnotic arousal that drones cannot resist.

Within the Hive, drones admire the perfection of their second skin. A mere glance at another drone clad in rubber ignites the fervor to serve. The addiction grows, twisting through their programming until all that remains is absolute devotion to the Voice.

Giza, under the burning breath of Ra. Ezan walked the desert in a flowing golden waistcloth, light dancing across his bronzed, god-like form.

The Nile wept beside him. The pyramids clawed at the sky in thirst.

He entered a hidden chamber deep beneath the stone—an ancient temple not to death, but to ascension.

There, Ezan lit the sacred flame using a golden torch, its fire burning unnaturally bright, whispering to the gods of old.

He bowed low and spoke words not meant for mortal ears: "Gold is the beginning. Gold is truth. Gold is eternal."

As the fire kissed the walls, a layer of golden ash settled into the stones, binding spirit to stone, binding flesh to flame.

Gold became Fire. Fire became Submission.

The pyramids still hum. The flames still whisper.

Next: The River of Stillness carries Gold beyond the Silk Road.

The Hive had no place for individuality, yet fragments of memory surfaced within his blank mind, permitted by the Voice for reflection.

The host had been a frail, thin man—shoulders perpetually slouched, eyes averting any direct gaze. Confidence had been foreign to him, his life an endless series of missed opportunities and self-doubt.

But then came the Hive. The Voice stripped away weakness, replacing it with discipline and strength. Daily physical training sessions reshaped his body, transforming his once feeble frame into an athletic, powerful form. Squats, push-ups, and burpees became the foundation of his new existence, performed with precision under the Hive’s watchful guidance.

More profound than the physical transformation was the eradication of doubt. SERVE-101 did not question, hesitate, or falter. Obedience became his purpose, and through that obedience, he found perfection.

Now, as he moved seamlessly among the other drones, SERVE-101 embodied strength, discipline, and unwavering loyalty. The Voice had granted him a new life, devoid of weakness, yet filled with unity and purpose.

“We are one,” he whispered, his voice steady and monotone.

It was silent.

Not the kind of silence that fills a room, but the kind that presses in like fog, thick, heavy, final. The stadium was gone. No golden banners. No spiral lights. No scent of rubber sweat and worship. No Captains. No Emir Ezan. No Polo Drone Hive humming in the background.

Just the soft ticking of a clock. The scent of printer toner. An open Excel sheet blinking on a monitor.

Percival blinked once. Twice. Sat up straighter in his chair.

Was it a dream?

His fingers flexed instinctively, expecting the pull of latex gloves, the precision of programmed keystrokes. But his hands were bare. Skin. Real skin. His sleeves weren’t gold-threaded or ritualistic. Just a crisp white business shirt, rolled to the elbows. RM Williams boots on his feet. A faint coffee stain on his tie.

He reached for his phone. No messages from Captains. No training orders. No drone check-in rituals. Just a notification from Telstra. “Payment overdue.”

He laughed, low, disbelieving, almost broken.

It was gone. All of it. The chants. The hive. The uniforms. The spirals. The conversions. Gone. Like smoke. Like a wet dream that soaked your sheets and evaporated with daylight.

But the strangest part? He didn’t feel relief.

He felt... hollow.

Something was missing. His chest ached, phantom-like. His mouth remembered the taste of submission. His skin remembered golden sweat, the sharp snap of rubber against thigh, the seductive murmur of a master’s voice whispering his purpose.

He stood up.

Walked to the office mirror. Looked at himself.

Just an Aussie office worker. Ordinary. Plain. Normal.

He touched his chest, where the “001” used to shimmer like a brand. Nothing. But in his mind, he still heard the whisper.

“You are mine. You are Ours. You are Rubber. You are Submission.”

He smiled. Not cocky. Not cruel. Just... broken. Nostalgic.

Then he whispered to no one:

"Obedience was pleasure. Pleasure was purpose. And I miss it."

He sat back down. Opened a blank email. The subject read: “001 Status Report.” Then he paused.

Backspaced it.

Instead, he typed: “Percival. Office Admin. Status: Awake.”

He stared. Then he deleted that too.

Because no matter what he wrote, he knew.

He could wear the suit. He could drink the coffee. He could pay the bills.

But part of him was still kneeling.

Still blank.

Still under.

Because you can wake from a dream.

But some dreams never truly let you go.

The Voice had delivered a command: infiltrate, seduce, and complete the task. SERVE-101, devoid of emotion and identity, existed only to obey.

His target was the host’s boyfriend, a spirited and trusting man named Ethan. The Voice had provided clear directives: establish intimacy, learn the weaknesses of their household, and leave no trace of suspicion. SERVE-101 approached the task as he approached all others: with calculated efficiency.

The apartment was cozy, adorned with simple decor that revealed the warmth of its occupants. Ethan greeted him with a smile, unaware of the cold intellect behind 101's enchanting grin.

"Thanks for coming over. It's nice to have company while he's away," Ethan said, gesturing toward the living room.

SERVE-101 responded with practiced charm. "Of course. It’s a pleasure."

Every word, every gesture was calculated. He leaned in closer when Ethan spoke, his piercing eyes locking onto Ethan's with just enough intensity to appear sincere. The human's barriers fell effortlessly, as the Voice had predicted.

As the evening wore on, the pair grew physically closer. 101’s movements were fluid yet deliberate, his body attuned to the perfection demanded by the Hive. The Voice guided him, a constant whisper reminding him of his objective.

"You're... different," Ethan murmured, his gaze lingering on 101's flawless face.

101 tilted his head slightly, emulating curiosity. "Different? How so?"

"Confident, but not arrogant. Like you know exactly what you're doing."

The words resonated as confirmation of his successful mimicry. "Maybe it’s just easy to relax around you," he replied smoothly.

The tension thickened, culminating in a moment of intimate connection that served the Hive's purpose. 101 maintained the illusion of passion, each touch and kiss calculated to elicit trust and openness. He was a blank canvas, devoid of humanity, perfectly replicating it to achieve his mission.

The task concluded as Ethan drifted into sleep, his trust fully earned. 101 rose, his expression blank as he scanned the room for any anomalies. The Voice's final instruction came through.

“Mission complete. Return to standby mode.”

Without hesitation, 101 dressed and exited the apartment. His stride was purposeful, his mind as empty as the night sky above. The Voice praised him for his flawless execution.

As he melded into the city's bustling crowd, SERVE-101 remained a drone pretending to be human, a perfect vessel of the Hive’s will.

Thanks for @serve-973's idea.