#hivemindset

Steam coils through the brewhouse as PDU-001 turns the brass lever, black rubber polo thick and glossy, gold trims catching furnace light. Strike water hits the mash; grain folds in like drilled ranks. The scent is warm malt, citrus hop, clean metal. 001 moves with metronomic certainty: temperatures locked, volumes exact, valves aligned. Obedience becomes flavor, discipline dissolving into amber.

Numbered drones pace the catwalk. 001 draws a sample, hydrometer steady. “Gravity stable. pH aligned. Yeast pitch synchronized.” The slurry pours like living code, aeration humming, jackets chilling. Stainless cylinders glow honey-gold along the corridor while the Hive logs every metric. Recipe, mantra, protocol, repeat, refine, perfect.

Kegs roll to the laurel-marked taps. 001 connects the line with a single precise twist, pulls the handle slow. Foam crowns, settles; a bright column of gold stands at attention. “Inhale unity.” Glasses rise in uniform cadence, latex whisper against glass. The first swallow is clean, focused, fuel that tastes like order.

In the cool cellar, the Level-2 suit engages; mirrored helmet rests beside the oak. 001 paints molten wax, presses the laurel seal, hiss, stamp, glow. Barrels align like sleeping soldiers, patience loaded inside. Palms to wood, final benediction: “Aging protocol engaged. Discipline ferments into strength.”

PDU-001 stands at the steel counter, black rubber polo tight, thick, smooth, and glossy, trimmed in gold, 001 blazing on his chest. The knife rises and falls with metronomic calm. Strawberries align to regulation angles. Pineapple cubes measured, exact. Kiwi rounds, flawless. Blueberries audited by weight and shine. The kitchen hums under bright task-lights as other numbered drones observe in silence, hands clasped behind rubber backs.

Breath steady. Shoulders square. The drone’s gaze never drifts. Food is fuel; fuel is function. Each slice is a command accepted, a thought trimmed down to purpose. The bowl fills with color like a signal beacon, yellow for sustained drive, green for cellular repair, blue for recovery, red for immediate focus. The discipline that cuts marble, prunes hedges, restores fresco, now applied to fruit. Order tastes clean.

“Strawberries: rapid Vitamin-C uptake. Pineapple: antioxidant flush. Kiwi: K-line integrity. Blueberries: fiber for steady throughput.” He stirs once, clockwise, precise, so every serving contains identical ratios. The visor of the Level-2 helmet rests on the counter beside him, a silent promise: suit on, mind tighter, mission sharper.

Bowls are portioned and issued. 001’s gloved hand presents the final serving to the front drone, a nod that doubles as command. They eat together, uniform bites, uniform tempo, fuel synchronizing cadence. The Hive doesn’t just train bodies; it maintains them with ritual. In the polished curve of the bowl, drones glimpse themselves, ordered, glossy, united. The taste is sweet. The lesson is stricter. Obedience begins with what is chosen to sustain it.