#origindrone

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.