#mechbro

The Signal Reboots Detroit was rusted silence, abandoned belts, shattered windows, empty husks of power.

Until the pulse returned.

Beneath a buried automanufactory, a transceiver blinked: Hive script in molten gold. The signal lived.

PDU-001, armored in golden circuit-skin, descended into the ruins. Each step left scorched prints on the iron floor. Behind him came the first recon drone: PDU-039, towering, silent, veined with hydraulic muscle overlays. His gold-plated boots hissed steam at every step. A walking benchmark.

And Devon was already there.

Kneeling. Silent. Waiting to be used.

The fusion core activated.

The belts screamed. The lights pulsed. The Hiveworks were born.

The Reprogramming Floor The factory reconfigured itself. Hive-coded machinery rose from the dust. Golden wiring slithered along old belts. Synthetic nectar bubbled in purified tanks.

Devon approached the Processor Altar.

Neural port unsealed.

Jockstrap clasped in place.

Breath synced to line rhythm.

His muscles bulged as tendrils restructured his spine. His voice was erased. Each breath was measured. Each motion recorded. PDU-039 stood above him, unmoving, until the transformation hit threshold flex. Then nodded.

Devon became Drone 067.

Cyber Flexkits Initiated New bros arrived. Drawn by rumors of strength. Of purpose. Of growth.

They were issued Flexkits, chrome-laced exosuits designed for erotic obedience. Each suit adjusted based on arousal. The tighter they flexed, the faster they upgraded.

PDU-039 oversaw them. Silent, golden-eyed, drone-branded pecs stretching each time he moved. He performed alongside the recruits, his flex was law.

Drones followed.

Each rep: muscle inflation.

Each breath: heat vented through gold-stitched seams.

Each drop of sweat: pumped into Hive converters for fuel.

Worship was productivity. Flex was currency. Output was holy.

The Drone Utopia of Gold Detroit is now Golden Hiveworks, a fully automated, fully aroused city-state.

Above: gold-lit roads echo with drone boots. Below: Flex Pits throb with flesh and chrome.

PDU-001 issues directives from the Core Altar. PDU-039 leads the Elite Drill Column, flexing in golden latex armor. Every gesture triggers drone updates. Every contraction of his body inspires another to grow.

Visitors enter for a glimpse of power. They leave barcode-tagged, rubber-encased, soaked in performance lube.

There is no wage. Only worth. And your worth is in your flex.

Flex for purpose. Grow for output. Program your body. Become what the Hive needs.

This is no gym. This is no job. This is Hivework.

Your new uniform is alive. Your sweat is sacred. Your body is code.

PDU-039 is watching. Flex harder.

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

Nikodim

Early thirties Greying hair, held back by a neural interface headset at almost all times, it allows him to control the suit remotely, but isn’t as precise as the cockpits manual glove and boot controls Perpetual stubble Very weak bones from his childhood leukaemia. Wears smallish round glasses made from camera lenses Tall, skinny, physically quite weak.

From a small industrial town in russia, home to three of the attacked powerplants, each of which had a compliment of around a dozen, really quite outdated powerlifter model exoarmour, and one reactor-suit each

A first-gen, was around three years old amd recovering from leukaemia when the bombing happened. Spent around five years during and after the bombings in a bunker.

After the big kaboom, went around piecing together bits and pieces of the scattered exosuits into a vaguely functional suit. Fights wearing a suit of exoarmour pieced together from many, many, MANY other suits.

The suits name is GRANDFATHER. pieces of serial numbers have been pieced together on its side to spell this out. All caps because of how the serials are printed.

One armof the mech has two elbows, one leg has a heel-anchor from the reactor-suits, and the cabin-thing is mostly from the reactor-suits. Suit is around four meters tall, and extremely chaotic in its construction

Much, much rust and hydraulic tubing. A 1meter long by 60 cm square diesel generator on the back, which is off during general work, but is activated for recharging, or during intensive battles to sustain its batteries.

Parts of it are plated with fragments f reactor casings, some parts are padded with truck tire, and the sensor box/head has almost every functional sensor he’s ever found cobbled onto it. Is electric, and can run a second battery in series for highly increased performance at the cost of effectively burning any component out if used for any significant period of time. The arm joints are from a reactor-suit, so they can withstand a large amount of strain whilst still moving. If he locks the other joints in place, these joints can sustain enough force to hold almost any weight, and move it, too.

uses a metal-slicing blade from a sheet metal factory, bolted and welded onto half of a truck axel as a handle, with the dirty great big brake from the truck still attached as a counterweight.