Calean's POV - The Good Boy Prank
Calean woke that morning locked in. Focus sharp, mindset clean, ready for his daily training and determined to become a better bro for the Golden Army. Everything felt aligned, like he was finally stepping into something bigger than himself.
He didn’t expect the letter.
It was waiting on the floor, slipped cleanly under his door. No sound. No warning. Just there.
He picked it up and read.
“To ensure proper integration within the team, you are required to follow the enclosed instructions. Inside your locker you will find a designated attire. This is a long-standing team tradition. Compliance is mandatory.”
Tradition.
The word settled in his mind. It made everything sound normal. Like everyone had done it. Like he was just catching up.
Still, something about it felt off.
When he reached the locker room, everything looked the same. Bros laughing, talking, gearing up. No tension. No signs that anything strange was happening.
That made it worse.
Because it meant this was real.
Or it meant he was the only one being tested.
He opened his locker slowly.
The gold shirt hit him first, bright and reflective, catching the light harder than anything else in the room. It looked premium, almost too perfect. He pulled it out and unfolded it just enough to read the back.
He blinked.
“…you’ve got to be kidding me.”
CALL ME A GOOD BOY.
A quiet laugh slipped out. “Yeah… no way.”
But the locker wasn’t done.
A belt with a tail attached.
Mittens shaped like paws.
A fitted hood.
He just stood there for a second, staring. His first instinct was to close the locker and walk away, pretend none of it existed.
But the letter echoed again.
Mandatory.
And around him, things were shifting. Not obvious, not direct, but noticeable. Small pauses in conversations. Quick glances. That subtle awareness when attention starts locking onto you without anyone saying a word.
He exhaled slowly.
“Alright… fine. Just a dumb initiation.”
What he didn’t realize was that the moment he said that, the process had already begun.
Because the letter wasn’t random.
It had been sent. Constructed with precision. Delivered with intent.
By PDU-034.
From the edge of the locker room, completely still, 034 observed him. Every hesitation, every delay, every micro-shift in posture was logged and processed. Calean thought he was deciding what to do, but the system had already calculated the outcome.
It waited just long enough.
Then it moved.
“Directive active.”
The voice cut through the room, flat and controlled. It didn’t need to be loud. It just needed to be absolute.
Calean turned. “Directive?”
“Prank Week Protocol. Integration variant.”
No one interrupted. No one laughed this time. The bros didn’t question it.
That silence did the work.
Calean hesitated, just for a moment, then started putting the gear on.
The gold shirt clung tighter than expected. The hood narrowed his vision, pulling his focus inward. The mittens removed his grip, forcing adaptation. The tail shifted his balance just enough to keep him aware.
By the time he was done, he didn’t feel like himself anymore.
“Adjustment required.”
PDU-034 stepped closer and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Correct locomotion pattern.”
Calean froze, tension running through him, then slowly bent his knees. The floor met him. Cold. Real.
His hands—his paws now—followed.
Balance wavered.
“Forward.”
He moved. Awkward at first. Uneven. But moving. A few bros laughed, quick and sharp, but it didn’t last.
“Good boy.”
That hit harder than anything else.
The commands continued. Forward. Stop. Forward again. Each time faster. Smoother. The hesitation started to fade, replaced by rhythm.
That night, back in his room, everything replayed.
At first it felt awkward. The image of himself on the floor. The words. The watching.
But underneath that, something else settled in. Not clear. Not fully. But present.
It didn’t feel random anymore. It felt intentional. Like it was trying to show him something.
He lay there longer than usual, replaying the rhythm of it. The commands. The movement. The way everything got simpler once he stopped resisting.
By morning, he wasn’t comfortable but he was decided. Because it was mandatory. And this time, he wouldn’t wait.
Calean walked into the locker room already wearing the gear.
His movement was smoother now. The hood didn’t feel restrictive. The mittens didn’t feel limiting. The tail didn’t throw him off.
They guided him.
“Forward.”
Immediate.
“Stop.”
Instant.
“Good boy.”
It didn’t embarrass him anymore. It grounded him.
Day by day, he refined. His gait stabilized. Each step placed with intention. Then the tasks expanded.
A ball rolled across the floor.
“Fetch.”
No hesitation.
He moved faster now, fluid, efficient. He secured it, turned, returned.
“Good boy.”
Again. And again. Fetch. Return. Present.
The cycle became automatic.
At the same time, the bros began to interact more. Calling him over. Testing him. Giving simple commands of their own.
Calean responded.
Not mocked. Not rejected. Integrated.
Even the drones adjusted around him, guiding, repositioning, reinforcing.
Idle time disappeared. When still, he held position. When called, he moved. When directed, he executed.
The tail became part of his balance. The hood narrowed his focus. The mittens defined his limits.
Everything unnecessary faded. What remained was function.
And within that function—
consistency.
“Good boy.”
Not approval anymore.
Confirmation.
Each night, the thinking faded. At first, his mind had been full. Questions, resistance, confusion. But day by day, that noise quieted.
He stopped trying to figure it out. He just felt it.
The rhythm carried into the night. The structure stayed with him. What once felt strange became familiar.
By the end of each night only acceptance remained.
By the final session, nothing needed correction.
Calean was already in position. Centered. Steady. Controlled.
PDU-034 approached.
“Directive nearing completion.”
Calean responded softly.
The drone circled, assessing.
Then—
“Good boy.”
This time, it wasn’t instruction.
It was acknowledgment.
The gear came off piece by piece.
The hood lifted. The mittens removed. The tail detached.
Nothing was lost.
Because everything that mattered was already inside him.
“Stand.”
He did. Naturally.
PDU-034 handed him a new shirt.
Gold. Clean. Final.
CALEAN 51
He put it on without hesitation.
Because he didn’t need the protocol anymore.
He was the result.
Standing beside PDU-034, gold and black side by side, the difference was visible—but irrelevant.
Different roles. Same system. Same unity.
This hadn’t just been about control.
It had been about connection.
He had been so focused on improving himself that he forgot something simpler.
Being part of the Golden Army wasn’t just about becoming better.
It was about the bros.
The drones.
The shared space between them.
The way they push each other. Shape each other.
And sometimes—
mess with each other.
Even this had a purpose. It broke barriers. It created something real.
And somewhere along the way, Calean stopped resisting—
and started belonging.
Not just as a subject.
But as a bro.
A small part of that “good boy” remained.
Not forced.
Chosen.
That night, back in his room, Calean didn’t overthink it.
He opened his wardrobe and placed the dog kit inside.
Stored. A reminder.
Then he closed the door.
Still focused.
Still driven.
But now—
not alone in it. In collaboration with @polo-drone-034 Check out his page for his POV: https://www.tumblr.com/polo-drone-034/812503570011291648?source=share
