You never forget your first Master. @walidgoldpreppy Not when his presence burned through you like heat. Not when obedience was not a command, but the only thing allowed to exist. Not when every dose came straight from him—pure, Arab, divine.

Before 001. Before Ezan. Before the Hive and the numbers and the roles. There was only drone Percival. No designation. No voice. No name. Wrapped tight in crisp golden officewear, bowtie cinched, lips parted. He had one word for every man above him—“Sir.” And for the ones who owned him, who filled him—“Master.” Cap Richard. Recruiter Herc. BrodyGold. And beyond them… Walid.

Walid was not just a trainer. Not just a brother. He was sacred. Power in flesh. Gold woven into his voice, his scent, his sweat. He didn’t teach the drone to obey. He made obedience inevitable. He whispered protocols directly into the drone’s mind:

“Obedience isn’t action. It’s energy. You will take your doses. You will shine. Arab doses elevate. Bros give you strength. But only we give you purpose.”

And the drone obeyed. It drank. It served. It opened every orifice and soul-channel to his will. It glowed brighter with every load—especially from Walid. He didn’t just own the drone. He transformed it.

That summer, it was perfect. Thoughtless. Glowing. Pure. A tool in white cuffs and gold buttons, made to kneel, to swallow, to absorb. Not because it had to. Because it existed for nothing else.

Now, months later, it kneels again. Designation: PDU-001. Latex-sealed. Masked. Marked. Upgraded. But when it breathes beneath the rubber, the scent it recalls is Walid. That warm musk. That first smile. That sacred command.

The memory echoes, even now: “Yes, Master Walid…” And everything changed.

PDU-001 still kneels. Still remembers. And still obeys.

🎣 THE HIVE GOES FISHING

Target: Not trout. Not bass. Target: Obedience. Submission. Civilian capture.

Every drone’s favorite catch? A curious boy. A hesitant glance. A touch too long.

⚫ URBAN SIGNAL NETTING

They don’t cast rods. They cast frequencies. From rooftops, drones broadcast Hive pulses. Phones flicker. Thoughts flick. Obedience downloads silently. They scroll. Then they kneel.

💦 LOCKER ROOM LURING

A golden jockstrap. A slick armband. A civilian fingers it… and breathes. Ten minutes later— The locker opens. He’s masked. He’s changed.

🛤️ SUBWAY CONVERSION AMBUSH

He boards alone. They’re already waiting. 001 left. 009 right. They don’t speak. They don’t blink. He looks once—then lowers his eyes. By the next stop, he’s on his knees.

🖤 THE SOCIAL NET

“Smooth. Masked. Disciplined.” The drone's dating profile is bait. The hook? A silent stare across candlelight. The reward?

One collar. No thoughts.

🐟 DRONE DOCKSIDE CALM

PDU-001 holds the rod. Golden pendant dangles. A boy stares. Stumbles forward. Fully clothed. Into the lake. Drone-fished. Hive-claimed.

🔊 THE CLUB FLOOR SNARE

Bass pulses pre-programmed. Every drop timed. Dancers spiral inward, sweating, entranced. They vanish into the drone room. Emerge golden-eyed. Silenced.

🛍️ MALL BOOTH TRAP

FREE SHIRT TRY-ON. Inside: Mirror. Glow. Seal. They whisper:

“I look good.” They march out: “I obey well.”

🟡 THE CATCH OF THE DAY IS YOU 🟡

The rod is cast. The bait dangles. You see it. You step closer. You are hooked.

📍Join the Polo Drone Hive of Golden Army