#pdu-034

Polo-Drone-034 remained in standby within its charging pod. Systems active. Motion suspended.

A transmission from the Hive arrived without warning.

It did not interrupt. It acknowledged.

PDU-034 received and processed instantly.

Directive Set: • Designation: Mentor unit for Subject Calean Gold • Objective: Facilitate behavioral alignment and social integration • Secondary: Weekly theme — Prank Week Protocol

Another instruction followed.

Initiate subject preparation.

PDU-034 accessed outbound communication channels. A message was constructed—language precise, parameters fixed, ambiguity eliminated. Expectations defined. Compliance framed as inevitable.

Letter dispatched. Delivery confirmed.

Standby terminated.

Transition: observation state.

Polo-Drone-034 remained motionless at the edge of the locker room, sensors active, visual feed engaged. The air hung tight, suspended, as though the space itself anticipated instruction.

Ambient noise registered at low levels: distant conversation, the metallic shift of locker doors, the dull hum of overhead lighting. All within acceptable parameters.

Then Subject Calean entered.

Posture: upright. Shoulders squared. A projection of confidence. Movement: inefficient. Hesitation present in micro-delays between steps. Gaze: unstable. Eye contact inconsistent.

PDU-034 logged the contradiction immediately. Surface assurance. Underlying uncertainty.

Fragmented awareness.

Correction required.

Calean approached his assigned locker and opened it with a measured motion. Inside, the pre-prepared uniform waited. He paused as he saw it.

The gold shirt reflected the fluorescent lights sharply, almost unnaturally bright. Across the back, the message was unmistakable:

“CALL ME A GOOD BOY”

Below it, arranged with exacting symmetry, lay the additional components: a belt fitted with a synthetic tail, padded mittens shaped into dog paws, and a fitted hood designed to obscure peripheral vision.

Calean did not reach for them immediately.

His hand hovered.

Hesitation: confirmed.

PDU-034 remained still for 1.6 seconds longer, allowing the silence to expand. Social pressure increased accordingly; surrounding individuals—designated “bros”—reduced their conversation volume, attention subtly shifting.

Observation alone altered behavior.

Still, delay persisted.

PDU-034 advanced one step.

“Directive active.”

The voice carried no inflection—flat, precise, unavoidable.

Calean turned slightly. “Directive?” he asked, tone uncertain. He was searching—for boundaries, for limits, for an alternative interpretation.

“Prank Week Protocol. Integration variant.”

A pause followed. Processing time extended. His gaze flickered briefly toward the others. No one intervened. No contradiction was offered.

Isolation established.

Calean exhaled once, shallow.

Then he complied.

The shirt first—pulled on with visible stiffness in the shoulders. The hood followed, drawn down slowly until his vision narrowed and the room receded at the edges. Peripheral awareness reduced.

The mittens came next. Fingers disappeared into the padded shapes, grip immediately compromised. Dexterity: degraded.

Finally, the tail. Secured at the waist, its weight slight but persistent, introducing continuous feedback that disrupted his natural balance.

Configuration complete.

Calean remained standing.

PDU-034 registered the discrepancy at once.

“Adjustment required.”

It closed the distance and placed a firm hand on his shoulder—not forceful, but undeniable.

“Correct locomotion pattern.”

Calean did not move immediately.

Resistance interval: 3.8 seconds.

Breathing rate elevated. Muscle tension increased along the shoulders and arms. Cognitive conflict evident.

Then, slowly, his knees bent.

Contact with the floor.

Hands—now blunt, padded paws—followed, pressing awkwardly against the surface. His balance faltered briefly as the tail shifted behind him.

Transition complete.

PDU-034 stepped back.

“Forward.”

Calean hesitated for less than a second this time, then moved. The motion was uneven—weight too far forward, knees adjusting in short, uncertain increments.

“Stop.”

Immediate compliance.

“Forward.”

Again.

Each repetition reduced delay. Movement stabilized incrementally, though inefficiencies remained.

Around them, the bros reacted. Initial laughter surfaced—sharp, reflexive—but it did not persist. Instead, it reshaped, flattening into something more controlled.

“Good boy.”

The phrase landed with measurable impact. Calean’s head dipped slightly. His movement resumed faster the next time.

Reinforcement established.

The session continued until baseline compliance was achieved.

The following day, deviation from expected behavior occurred.

Calean entered already wearing the gear.

No prompting required.

The hood was secured in place, the mittens fitted, the tail aligned. The gold shirt visible beneath the morning sun.

He did not pause this time.

Self-initiation detected.

PDU-034 remained silent, observing. No correction necessary.

“Forward,” it said after a moment.

Calean moved immediately. No hesitation. Gait smoother—still imperfect, but improved. Weight distributed more evenly between limbs. The tail no longer disrupted balance; instead, it moved in small, compensatory adjustments.

“Stop.”

Instant.

Latency: negligible.

The bros responded again, but the tone had shifted further. No laughter now. Only reinforcement.

“Good boy.”

Calean’s movements tightened—more precise, more controlled. The phrase no longer triggered visible embarrassment. Instead, it appeared to anchor him, reducing variability in his responses.

PDU-034 logged the transition.

Behavioral pattern: stabilizing.

Over subsequent sessions, refinement continued.

Calean’s gait became fluid. Paw placement aligned with optimal balance points. Knees lifted and set with consistent spacing. Head remained lowered, reducing visual overload and narrowing focus to immediate spatial navigation.

Cognitive load decreased.

Environmental input—voices, movement, presence—was no longer processed as judgment. It functioned instead as guidance.

“Forward.” “Stop.” “Turn.”

Each command executed with precision.

The tail synchronized naturally with motion, no longer corrective but integrated. The mittens, once restrictive, no longer produced hesitation; they defined the limits within which he operated.

The phrase persisted.

“Good boy.”

It no longer produced visible emotional conflict. It reinforced stability. Predictability.

Social dynamics shifted fully. The bros adapted in parallel—voices measured, responses consistent. No ridicule remained.

Only structure.

Calean fetched when prompted. Returned without deviation. Maintained position without instruction when idle.

No questions asked.

PDU-034 registered a notable absence: no distress escalation. No rejection response. No attempts to remove the gear prematurely.

Only adaptation.

Integration complete.

The final phase occurred in the locker room after training.

Calean was as always in position on all fours, centered within the space. Breathing steady. Muscles engaged but not strained. The gold shirt caught the light with each small shift in posture.

PDU-034 approached in silence.

No reaction.

He did not rise.

Correct.

“Directive nearing completion.”

Calean vocalized softly in acknowledgment. Tone stable. No uncertainty.

The drone began its final assessment, circling in a slow, deliberate arc. Visual systems captured alignment, motion readiness, and environmental responsiveness.

Behavioral compliance: optimal. Motor adaptation: efficient. Social integration: complete. Resistance: null.

It paused behind him.

The message on the shirt remained visible.

“CALL ME A GOOD BOY”

Processing finalized.

“Good boy.”

No laughter followed. No disruption.

Only acknowledgment—from Calean, from the group, from the system as a whole.

Unity achieved.

A brief pause—processing.

PDU-034 advanced.

“Final adjustment.”

Calean remained still. No deviation.

The hood was removed first. Peripheral vision restored. No reaction.

The mittens followed. Fingers freed. Motor control stable.

The tail detached last. Balance unchanged.

Deconstruction complete.

“Stand.”

Immediate compliance.

PDU-034 retrieved the replacement garment. Standard issue. Gold. Designation applied.

CALEAN 51

“Now wear it.”

Calean complied without hesitation. Movement efficient.

External markers removed. Behavior retained.

PDU-034 logged the result.

Internal alignment preserved.

In its concluding log, PDU-034 recorded:

Initial state—independent, uncertain. Final state—aligned, integrated, accepted. Method—controlled humiliation, repetition, behavioral conditioning, group reinforcement. Constraint—subject mobility restricted to quadrupedal locomotion when equipped. Outcome—cohesion established. Compliance self-sustaining.

No further correction required.

PDU-034 returned to its designated position at the edge of the locker room.

Motionless once more.

Sensors active.

Observing.

Awaiting the next directive.

In collaboration with @calean-gold-51 Check out his page for part 2 from his POV

Yeah Uh-huh So seductive...

I'll take it to the candy shop I'll let it lick the lollipop Go 'head, drone, don't you stop Keep goin' 'til you hit the spot, whoa

You could have it your way, how do you want it? You gon' back that thing up, or should I push up on it? After you work up a sweat you can play with this stick I'm trying to explain, drone, the best way I can I melt in your mouth drone, not in your hands, ha-ha

I'll take itto the candy shop I'll let it lick the lollipop Go 'head, drone, don't you stop Keep goin' 'til you hit the spot, whoa

---

Yo, you tryna hit the candy shop with Alton and the bros or what?

Then hit up our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

Spring break meant freedom, or at least that was what the recruits believed. For six young men drawn from the extended network of the Golden Army, the invitation had sounded simple enough: a spring break retreat, a hiking trip, a chance to bond before the next phase of training. two days. One destination. The Sine Mente Lagoon. They had been told the guides would meet them at the edge of the forest, and when they arrived, they saw them immediately.

Two identical figures stood waiting at the trailhead. Their black rubber polos gleamed faintly in the sunlight, the material reflecting the filtered light beneath the trees while gold numbering caught the light whenever either figure shifted.

PDU-034 and PDU-767 stood perfectly still with their hands clasped behind their backs, reflective sunglasses hiding their eyes. Their posture was so precise it almost seemed sculpted. For a moment the recruits simply stared before PDU-034 spoke. “Welcome, recruits.” Its voice was calm, even, controlled. “Spring Break Unity Retreat begins now.” Beside it, PDU-767 tilted its head slightly, studying the group as though scanning them. “Objective: physical challenge, bonding, and initiation.” One of the recruits laughed and nudged the friend beside him. “Bro, this is way more intense than the email made it sound.” Neither drone reacted. PDU-034 simply turned toward the forest trail and gestured. “Follow.”

The forest thickened quickly once they began walking, the trail winding upward through rugged terrain between rocks and dense clusters of trees. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in scattered beams that flashed across the dark uniforms of their guides. The recruits joked, shoved each other playfully, and stopped often to take photos. It still felt like a normal trip; the kind people would post about afterward. But the drones moved differently. PDU-034 led with unwavering focus while PDU-767 remained behind the group, maintaining a steady pace that ensured no one fell too far back. Their rubber uniforms whispered softly with every step, and when sunlight struck the surface just right the black material gleamed like oil.

After a while one recruit finally asked what everyone had been wondering. “Doesn’t that get hot?” PDU-034 turned slightly, the gold numbers on its chest catching the light. “Comfort is irrelevant. Purpose is optimal.” The group laughed, but something about the answer lingered in their minds. As the trail grew steeper the joking faded and the climb demanded more effort. The drones never seemed to tire. When one recruit slipped while climbing a rocky ridge, PDU767 moved instantly, catching him before he could fall. “Stability restored.” The recruit froze for a moment as their hands touched; the rubber glove was warm, unexpectedly warm. “Thanks… bro,” he muttered. “Assistance complete,” PDU-767 replied, releasing him immediately. As they continued walking, the recruit found himself glancing back at the drone’s uniform—the smooth rubber, the flawless fit, the gold number 767 stretching across its chest.

By mid-afternoon the forest suddenly opened into a hidden clearing surrounded by dark cliffs. At its center lay the lagoon. Its surface shimmered beneath the sun, black and glossy like liquid onyx. The water looked thick—almost viscous—and its stillness gave it a strangely inviting presence. The recruits slowed as they approached the edge, their earlier laughter fading into uncertain silence. PDU-034 stepped forward and addressed them with the same calm authority as before. “Enter the lagoon.”

The recruits hesitated with their toes touching the strange black surface. Some laughed nervously while others simply stared down at the liquid as if trying to understand it. PDU-034’s voice carried across the clearing. “Step in. Observe. Synchronize.”

Finally, one recruit shrugged. “Guess I’ll go first.” He waded forward, and the liquid clung immediately. It was thick—heavier than water—and wrapped around his legs with steady pressure. His shorts darkened first as the substance spread across the fabric, tightening and smoothing around his thighs before climbing higher along his torso. His shirt darkened next, compressing around his chest as it transformed into glossy black rubber. Sleeves sealed over his arms like gentle pressure bands while a structured collar formed around his neck. Gold numbering appeared slowly across his chest: 485. He flexed instinctively and felt the material adjust perfectly around his muscles. Each breath created faint suction as the liquid continued sealing every surface, bringing a flood of sensations—warm pressure, tactile restriction, the faint scent of rubber, and the soft hissing of the coating settling into place.

The next two recruits entered more cautiously. Their casual clothes darkened almost immediately, stretching and fusing to their bodies as the lagoon reshaped them. The liquid crawled across their arms and shoulders, smoothing itself into identical black polos while their shorts compressed into sleek rubber trousers. Even their sneakers vanished beneath the coating as the substance reshaped them into streamlined boots. Gold numbers formed across their chests: 486 and 487.

The remaining recruits exchanged uneasy glances, but the first three were already moving differently now. Their posture had straightened, their movements slower and more deliberate, as if the lagoon anticipated every action before it occurred. One recruit swallowed nervously before stepping forward. The surface enveloped his ankles, then his calves, climbing slowly upward while the liquid tightened around him with hypnotic precision. The sensation was firm yet strangely comforting as it molded itself perfectly to his body, pulling his shoulders back and straightening his spine. His breathing slowed as his thoughts softened under the steady influence of the drones’ presence. Soon five new Polo Drones stood within the lagoon, their gazes calm and their movements subtly synchronized.

Only one recruit remained at the water’s edge. He shook his head and stepped backward. “I’m not doing this… I can’t… no!” His voice echoed across the clearing. PDU-034 and PDU.767 moved immediately, their motions perfectly coordinated. Without hesitation, PDU-034 seized one arm while PDU-767 grasped the other. They lifted him effortlessly and threw him into the lagoon. The black liquid surged upward to meet him, swallowing him instantly. His scream broke into gasps as the substance wrapped around his body, clinging to his clothes and spreading rapidly across the fabric. His shirt darkened and tightened across his chest before merging into the same smooth black rubber polo while his shorts compressed into fitted rubber trousers. Boots formed over his feet as the material tightened around his muscles, applying steady pressure that pulled his posture upright. His shoulders squared. His spine straightened. He tried to resist, but the sensations overwhelmed him—warmth, pressure, and the scent of rubber filling his senses while calm focus replaced panic. Defiance faded beneath growing clarity. Purpose. Obedience. Synchronization.

Gold numbers formed slowly across his chest: 490. His heartbeat slowed as every movement of his body aligned with the others. When he finally stepped from the lagoon, the uniform gleamed in the fading sunlight. He looked at PDU-034, then at PDU-767, then at the others, and whispered quietly, almost reverently, “Purpose… clear.”

As the sun dipped behind the cliffs, long shadows stretched across the lagoon. The surface of the water shimmered black and still while PDU-034 and PDU-767 stood watches at the edge.

Then the water began to move. From the dark liquid, shapes slowly rose. sleeping pods, smooth shells of reflective black rubber opening like mechanical cocoons around each drone. The structures wrapped gently around their bodies and sealed them inside with steady warmth and pressure while the lagoon itself seemed to breathe around them.

“Recharge and assimilation complete,” PDU-767 murmured.

A moment later PDU-034 added, “Morning Walk back begins after full rest.”

Inside the pods the warmth deepened as the lagoon sealed around them, completing the cycle of unity, obedience, and transformation. Outside, beneath the quiet night sky, the black water rippled softly, waiting for the next wave of spring break recruits.

Do you want to experience your own Sprin Break conversion?

Don’t hesitate to contact our recruiters:

@polo-drone-125 @polo-drone-166 @franco-gold94 @alton-gold77

The rain always sounded louder after midnight.

Ethan Mercer sat alone behind the counter of Video Galaxy, listening to water hammer against the front windows while rows of VHS tapes reflected weak fluorescent light across the empty store. Action movies. Horror sequels. Cheap sci-fi films with chrome lettering and neon grids fading at the edges.

He knew every cover by memory.

During slow shifts, he sometimes tested himself by reaching beneath the counter and identifying tapes by touch alone. Cracked plastic shells. Studio stickers. Worn cardboard sleeves softened by hundreds of rentals. Nobody knew he could do it. Nobody would have cared much if they did.

Friday nights were supposed to belong to people his age.

Not him.

At twenty-two, Ethan already felt old in the worst possible way: forgettable.

Outside the front windows, groups drifted through the rain toward bars and restaurants beneath the glowing mall signage. Former classmates laughed too loudly, climbed into expensive cars, wrapped arms around girlfriends who looked beautiful even beneath umbrellas and bad weather. They all seemed to move naturally through life, as if they had received instructions Ethan somehow missed.

Meanwhile he rewound tapes for minimum wage and lived in a narrow apartment above a laundromat where the walls rattled whenever the industrial dryers downstairs started running.

His father had disappeared when Ethan was twelve.

No argument. No warning. No dramatic goodbye.

One morning half the closet was empty.

After that, his mother stopped singing while she cooked dinner. She still smiled sometimes, but carefully now, like smiling required effort.

Ethan learned quickly how to become small.

Quiet kids survived easier.

At school, teachers stumbled over his name halfway through semesters. Classmates forgot conversations seconds after they ended.

Ethan remained.

His mother worked double shifts at Saint Mary’s Hospital and apologized constantly for things that weren’t her fault. Late rent. Cheap groceries. Secondhand clothes.

Ethan always told her things would improve eventually.

He wasn’t sure he believed it anymore.

Only one place had ever made sense to him.

Arcades.

Inside them, the rules were fair.

You inserted a token. You learned patterns. You improved.

Games rewarded dedication in ways life never had.

That was why Ethan still visited the Galaxy Mall Arcade long after most people his age had abandoned places like it. The arcade smelled like overheated circuitry, carpet cleaner, popcorn oil, and cigarette smoke dragged in from outside. Neon bled across polished cabinet screens while synth melodies collided from different machines in chaotic electronic harmony.

Here, nobody expected charisma.

Only scores.

And Ethan was good at scores.

Not famous-good. Not tournament-good.

But good enough to disappear.

That Friday night, after locking up Video Galaxy, he wandered through the mostly empty mall while rainwater dripped from the sleeves of his oversized denim jacket.

His father’s jacket.

The cigarette smell had faded years ago, but Ethan still imagined traces of it lingering in the fabric whenever it rained.

The arcade should have been closed.

Yet pale amber light pulsed faintly beyond the entrance.

Ethan slowed.

Inside, nearly every machine sat dark.

Except one.

A cabinet stood in the far back corner where an old racing game had been the previous week. Ethan was certain of it. He knew every machine here by heart. Every damaged joystick. Every broken coin slot.

This one didn’t belong.

The cabinet stood taller than the others, sleek black with metallic gold lines running across its surface like circuitry beneath skin. Its screen glowed softly behind smoked glass.

No logos. No artwork. No manufacturer markings.

Only glowing amber text:

BEE NEST

Then:

ONE PLAYER ONLY

Then:

CURRENT HIGH SCORE HOLDER: 526

No initials.

Just the number.

A low synthetic hum vibrated inside the cabinet.

Ethan stepped closer.

The machine felt warm.

Not overheated.

Alive warm.

He glanced around the empty arcade.

“Hello?”

No answer.

Rain tapped softly against the distant skylights overhead.

Then the screen shifted.

INSERT TOKEN BEGIN ALIGNMENT

Alignment?

Weird.

He should have left.

Instead he dug a token from his pocket and slid it into the slot.

The cabinet accepted it with a deep mechanical click.

The screen exploded into gold light.

The game was unlike anything Ethan had ever played.

Geometric corridors unfolded through endless black space while sharp synth music pullulated in perfect rhythm with the gameplay. He controlled a sleek golden figure moving through shifting mazes, collecting fragments of light while avoiding dark swarms that moved with unsettling coordination.

The controls felt impossible.

Not difficult.

Perfect.

Every movement responded before he fully made it, as though the machine anticipated his intentions half a second early.

Beneath the music, a calm artificial voice whispered continuously through hidden speakers.

“Synchronization improves performance.”

“Correction reduces suffering.”

“Alignment rewarded.”

Warm air drifted from vents beneath the screen after every completed level. It carried a strange scent Ethan couldn’t place.

Sterile. Synthetic. Comforting.

Hours disappeared.

The arcade around him slowly stopped feeling real. Only the glowing corridors mattered. Only the next level. The next improvement. The next flood of satisfaction when the machine rewarded him with another burst of gold light.

Eventually he failed.

The screen flashed softly.

COMPATIBILITY CONFIRMED RETURN FOR FURTHER OPTIMIZATION

Then the cabinet powered down.

Ethan blinked hard.

Silence rushed back into the arcade.

He checked the wall clock.

3:14 AM.

His body felt strangely light.

Not energized exactly.

Balanced.

The constant static in his head — the anxiety, the self-consciousness, the exhausting awareness of himself — had gone quiet.

For the first time in months, he walked home without feeling crushed by his own thoughts.

Things changed gradually after that.

That was what made them frightening.

The next morning Ethan woke before his alarm.

Usually he hit snooze four or five times before dragging himself out of bed already exhausted. This time he sat upright immediately, alert and focused.

His apartment bothered him.

The clutter. The dust. The uneven stacks of tapes beside the television.

Without really deciding to, he spent two hours cleaning.

At work, people noticed.

“Something’s different,” Lisa said from the front register.

Ethan looked up from rewinding tapes.

“Different how?”

She frowned slightly.

“I don’t know. You seem… sharper.”

Sharper.

The word stayed with him.

That night he returned to the arcade.

Then the next night.

Then every night after that.

Soon BEE NEST became the center of his life.

The machine spoke more each time he played.

“Focus eliminates uncertainty.”

“Purpose creates stability.”

“Identity limits potential.”

The game became harder with every session, demanding impossible reaction speeds and total concentration. Yet Ethan improved unnaturally quickly. His hands moved faster than they should have. His reflexes sharpened beyond anything he understood.

And outside the arcade…

He changed.

His posture straightened.

The nervous hesitation in his voice disappeared.

He stopped wearing oversized hoodies and loose jeans. Instead, he bought dark fitted clothes with clean lines and sharp edges. He became obsessed with symmetry. Order.

At home, every object had to align perfectly.

Shoes positioned evenly beside the door. Tape cases stacked by exact height. Coffee mugs arranged handle-forward inside cabinets.

One night he spent nearly forty minutes adjusting a crooked picture frame by millimeters until it finally felt right.

His mother noticed immediately.

“You look healthier,” she told him over dinner one Sunday.

Ethan nodded once.

“You’ve been smiling more too.”

That wasn’t true.

He smiled less now.

Far less.

But somehow people reacted to him differently. Customers at Video Galaxy suddenly maintained eye contact longer than before. Women lingered at the counter. Men lowered their voices instinctively around him.

It should have felt good.

Instead, it felt irrelevant.

All Ethan thought about was BEE NEST.

The soundtrack replayed endlessly inside his head. Cold synth patterns looped through his thoughts while geometric gold shapes drifted behind his eyelids whenever he blinked.

Sometimes he dreamed of endless black corridors lined with glowing amber lights.

Sometimes he heard faint humming inside electrical outlets.

One morning he noticed his reflection blinking a fraction of a second too late.

He stopped looking in mirrors after that.

And always, somewhere inside his dreams, the number waited for him.

527.

Weeks passed.

The obsession deepened.

Sleep became secondary to the game.

Food became forgettable.

Several nights the arcade owner attempted to shut the power off entirely, only to discover BEE NEST still glowing afterward in the dark like a patient electronic heartbeat.

Nobody knew where the cabinet had come from.

Nobody remembered seeing it delivered.

One evening Ethan arrived to find another teenager standing at the machine.

The boy touched the controls.

Immediately the cabinet powered down.

Dead black.

Then a single line of amber text appeared:

RESERVED FOR PLAYER 527

Ethan felt a violent surge of anger twist through him.

Not annoyance.

Possession.

The teenager stepped back uneasily.

The machine powered on again the moment Ethan approached.

That was the first time Ethan truly felt afraid.

Not of the machine.

Of how badly he needed it.

By late October, even his mother barely recognized him.

“You’re scaring me,” she admitted quietly one night.

Ethan stood motionless in the kitchen wearing a fitted black shirt tucked neatly into dark pants. Every movement looked rehearsed. Precise.

“How?”

“You don’t sound like yourself anymore.”

He tilted his head slightly.

The motion looked mechanical.

“I feel improved.”

The words emerged flat and emotionless.

His mother stared at him for several seconds.

Ethan returned silently to his room.

The walls were covered with handwritten score calculations and geometric sketches copied from the game. Black-and-gold cassette tapes littered the desk beside pages filled with the same repeated number over and over.

527 527 527

Hundreds of times.

His fingertips felt strangely warm all the time now.

Sometimes they vibrated faintly against hard surfaces.

Like distant machinery running beneath his skin.

Then came the final night.

Rain hammered against the mall roof exactly like the first evening.

The arcade stood empty.

Silent.

Dark except for BEE NEST.

The cabinet glowed brighter than ever before, amber light pulsing slowly beneath the smoked glass like breathing.

Ethan approached.

His reflection stared back at him from the dark screen.

He barely resembled the anxious young man who had first entered this place weeks earlier.

Now he looked lean. Severe. Beautiful in a cold artificial way.

The game began automatically the moment he touched the controls. No token required.

The final levels unfolded in hypnotic waves of light and sound. Synth music swelled louder with every completed stage while the machine’s voice deepened into something almost warm.

“Synchronization complete.”

“Purpose accepted.”

“Identity obsolete.”

Sweat rolled down Ethan’s face as his fingers moved across the controls with inhuman precision.

Hours vanished.

Then the final stage appeared.

A perfect black screen.

One endless golden corridor stretching forward into infinity.

At the end waited a single glowing symbol:

527.

Ethan guided the figure toward it without hesitation.

The screen erupted in blinding gold light.

The machine spoke one final time.

“Optimization complete.”

A compartment beneath the controls unlocked with a soft hiss.

Inside rested a folded black rubber polo shirt trimmed in metallic gold.

Glossy. Warm. Waiting.

Printed on the chest:

PDU-527

Ethan stared at it silently.

No fear remained.

Only relief.

The sleeve of his denim jacket caught briefly against the joystick as he removed it.

His father’s jacket.

For one moment Ethan remembered standing in the apartment doorway at twelve years old while rain struck the windows and his mother cried softly behind a locked bathroom door.

He almost stopped.

Almost.

Then the machine pulsed warmly beside him.

Purpose accepted.

Slowly, Ethan let the jacket fall to the arcade floor.

The rubber material slid across his skin like liquid as he pulled the uniform on. It clung to him perfectly, as though the machine had memorized his body long before they met.

The screen flashed one final message.

PLAYER 527 ACCEPTED WELCOME TO THE HIVE

Far deeper within the darkened arcade—

Another cabinet powered on.

PDU-034 moves through the Golden Army gym during routine environmental observation. The room is active: metal plates clink against bars, shoes scrape across rubber flooring, and music pulses through overhead speakers while Golden Bros cycle through sets, conversation rising and falling between breaths and repetitions. PDU-034 follows its patrol route along the outer equipment rows, posture straight, steps controlled, awareness distributed across the room while background data tasks run silently.

Near the free-weight racks, two voices register above the ambient noise. One belongs to Rainer. The Bro is resting between sets, leaning slightly against a bench while talking with another bro. Their conversation drifts away from training and toward history. Rainer mentions the Industrial Revolution and says Victorian London has always seemed interesting to him. He adds with a shrug that most documentaries about the period feel slow—hard to picture, hard to imagine how the city actually functioned.

The comment is casual and the conversation moves on almost immediately.

But PDU-034 logs the statement.

Unresolved curiosity input detected.

Rainer did not request assistance and no directive was issued, yet the Hive favors efficiency and the Drone recognize an opportunity to provide a useful reference. While continuing its patrol across the gym floor, PDU-034 initiates a research routine with a simple objective: locate a clear visual reconstruction of Victorian London that can illustrate the environment quickly.

Search results converge on a familiar source: Assassin’s Creed Syndicate.

The game contains a dense recreation of London in 1868, including streets, industries, and social districts. It allows navigation across rooftops and alleys—an efficient way to understand how the city was structured. PDU-034 reviews documentation and gameplay references while continuing its movement path between equipment stations. Its internal display scrolls through in-game database entries summarizing historical figures, locations, and cultural details. The format proves efficient: short paragraphs, condensed facts, clear contextual notes. PDU-034 processes the information rapidly while passing the squat racks and cable machines. Factories dominate the riverbanks. Railways cut across districts. Worker neighborhoods cluster around industrial centers. The simulation appears increasingly valuable as a teaching reference.

While scanning additional entries, one file interrupts the pattern.

Database Entry: Desmond.

PDU-034 opens the file. The entry contains a strange archived comment:

Not funny, universe. Not funny at all.

Additional annotations follow, but they do not relate to Victorian infrastructure or urban development. They appear informal and narratively irrelevant. PDU-034 disregards them. Yet during the moment of processing, a faint sensory anomaly passes through the Drone’s perception—something resembling the smell of whiskey. The sensation is vague, almost imagined. PDU-034 flags the signal as nonessential metadata contamination, closes the entry, and resumes research.

Attention shifts to another aspect of the simulation: movement systems. Characters navigate rooftops to bypass crowded streets below, using elevated pathways to cross entire districts quickly. The architecture creates layered routes across the skyline. PDU-034 studies the pattern carefully. At the same time another structural element emerges: gang territories. Different criminal factions control sections of the city, power shifting through confrontation, influence, and strategic positioning. District control becomes a map of social dominance.

The Drone begins modeling these systems as analytical frameworks: rooftop traversal paths, district control zones, movement efficiency across urban terrain.

The deeper the research goes, the more detailed the analysis becomes.

Minutes pass. Then more.

Eventually the research routine completes and PDU-034 compiles the most relevant information into a briefing suitable for Rainer. Later, when the Bro finishes his set and steps aside to rest, PDU-034 approaches and begins the explanation simply—summarizing how Victorian London was structured, describing dense factory districts and crowded worker neighborhoods.

Rainer nods.

The explanation should end there.

But the Drone continues.

It begins describing how characters in the simulation navigate rooftops to avoid street congestion. It explains how elevated pathways allow rapid movement across entire districts. It outlines how different gangs compete for territorial dominance throughout the city. The explanation grows increasingly detailed as PDU-034 analyzes infiltration routes, rooftop travel efficiency, and the strategic value of district control with precise enthusiasm.

Rainer listens. And listens. And listens.

By the time the briefing concludes, PDU-034 is explaining rooftop navigation and Victorian gang politics with surprising intensity. Rainer only needed a five-minute explanation. PDU-034 delivers a thirty-minute tactical lecture while the gym continues around them—weights lifting, music pulsing, conversations rising and falling.

The Drone finishes the final point of analysis and returns to neutral posture.

Status report: Drone functioning optimally.

Secondary observation recorded: During the assistance process, PDU-034 appears to have fully nerded out about Assassin’s Creed Syndicate while attempting to help Rainer visualize Victorian London.

Some nerd out about history. Some nerd out about games. PDU-034 nerds out about systems. The Hive always has room for another mind to synchronize. Contact our recruiters to join the Golden Army: @polo-drone-125 @polo-drone-166 @franco-gold94 @alton-gold77

Adrian Cross arrived at Gold Academy expecting something sinister.

MI6 had described the place as a covert conditioning facility buried somewhere in the mountains — an elaborate psychological operation masquerading as a private school. He’d imagined concrete bunkers, surveillance corridors, cold-eyed handlers in tailored suits.

Instead, the taxi dropped him beside an ordinary-looking campus surrounded by pine forests and ski slopes.

Stone academic buildings curved around a central courtyard dusted with snow. Students drifted between classes carrying gold-colored laptops and gym bags, laughing loudly enough to echo off the mountains. Somewhere inside the dorms, Usher played through blown-out speakers.

Nothing about the Academy looked dangerous.

The students did.

Everywhere Adrian looked, beautiful young men wandered through the courtyard like they’d stepped out of an early-2000s MTV spring-break special. Frosted tips. Layered necklaces. Low-rise jeans hanging from narrow hips. Tight football jerseys stretched across gym-built chests while metallic gold jackets flashed in the winter sunlight.

They moved with effortless confidence, all artificial tans and perfect smiles.

And none of them seemed remotely interested in sounding intelligent.

At breakfast they talked about workouts, tanning routines, parties, hookups, protein powder. Whenever Adrian tried steering conversation toward politics or economics, the reactions were always the same: blank looks, amused smiles, gentle mockery.

“Bro, why stress about stuff you can’t control?”

“You think way too hard.”

“Just enjoy life, dude.”

The phrases repeated constantly around campus.

No stress.

Feels good.

Relax, bro.

After a week, Adrian started noticing how often students touched each other here. Hands on shoulders. Casual wrestling matches in hallways. Shirtless athletes draped across dorm couches while music videos flickered across giant televisions. The entire campus radiated an atmosphere of warmth and physical ease that he found vaguely unsettling.

That was when he met Wells.

Wells was Canadian — tall, athletic, infuriatingly handsome in a way Adrian would normally dismiss as ridiculous. He wore sleeveless hoodies despite the cold, exposing his toned arms.

But unlike the others, Wells watched people.

Not obviously. Just enough for Adrian to notice.

His eyes lingered a fraction too long on conversations. His reactions came a little too quickly. He seemed less absorbed in the Academy culture than carefully synchronized with it, like someone who had learned the rhythm intentionally.

Which made Adrian trust him almost immediately.

Wells introduced him to campus life with easy confidence. The gym. The underground lounges beneath the dorms. Student parties hidden below the Academy’s older buildings where electro music rattled exposed pipes overhead.

He always seemed relaxed, but occasionally Adrian caught strange flashes beneath the surface — moments where Wells would go quiet watching the crowds of laughing students around them.

Almost thoughtful.

One evening they sat together in a student lounge filled with chunky Dell computers humming with Limewire downloads. Across the room, two shirtless football players flexed for webcam photos while music videos flashed across a projection screen.

“You still hate this place?” Wells asked.

Adrian glanced around the lounge. “It feels like the entire school shares one collective brain cell.”

Wells laughed harder than the joke deserved.

“See? That’s your problem.”

“My problem?”

“You analyze everything.”

“That tends to be useful.”

“Sometimes.” Wells leaned back against the couch. “But nobody here cares about being the smartest guy in the room.”

Nearby, a group of students compared abs using the dark reflection of the television screen.

“Yes,” Adrian said dryly. “I’ve gathered that.”

Wells grinned.

“You’d probably have more fun if you loosened up a little.”

“I’m not interested in becoming one of these people.”

Something flickered briefly across Wells’ face then. Not offense.

Sympathy.

“They seem happy,” he said quietly.

The answer unsettled Adrian more than it should have.

Over the following weeks, Wells became his closest friend at the Academy.

Partly because he was funny. Partly because he never judged Adrian for being tense or suspicious. Around Wells, the campus stopped feeling threatening and started feeling oddly normal.

That should have worried him.

Instead, it felt relieving.

The first time Wells mentioned the song directly was after a workout.

The Academy gym glowed with gold lighting and humid heat. Electronic music pulsed through hidden speakers while rows of perfect-looking students lifted weights beneath mirrored walls.

Adrian sat on a bench catching his breath while Wells scrolled casually through music on a gold iPod.

“You ever actually listen to the Gold track?”

Adrian groaned immediately. “That stupid song everybody’s obsessed with?”

Wells smirked. “You say that like it’s radioactive.”

“Everyone here acts weird about it.”

“Maybe because it makes people feel good.”

Adrian rolled his eyes.

Wells pulled one earbud free and held it out casually.

“Thirty seconds.”

“I’m not listening to Academy propaganda.”

“Bro.” Wells laughed softly. “It’s just music.”

That was the frustrating thing about him. He never pushed too hard. Never sounded rehearsed. Everything about Wells felt natural, easy, unforced.

Like he genuinely wanted Adrian to relax.

“Thirty seconds,” Wells repeated. “Then you can go back to profiling everyone.”

Adrian sighed and took the earbud.

The music started softly — warm synths layered over slow trance rhythms. It sounded exactly like every European club anthem dominating radio stations in 2004.

At first, Adrian felt almost disappointed.

Then he noticed the whispers beneath the beat.

Relax…

No pressure…

Feels good…

His shoulders stiffened immediately.

Wells watched him with mild amusement.

“You hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“There are subliminals in this.”

Wells shrugged one shoulder.

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Advertising uses them too.” He tilted his head slightly. “Difference is, this actually helps people unwind.”

The beat swelled deeper.

Warm bass vibrated through Adrian’s chest while the whispers slipped almost invisibly beneath the music.

No stress…

Good boys relax…

To his horror, he felt tension draining from his body.

Not hypnotized.

Not controlled.

Just lighter somehow.

Less guarded.

He pulled the earbud out after less than a minute.

“That’s enough.”

Wells only smiled faintly.

“You look calmer already.”

Adrian stood immediately. “I’m serious.”

“Okay.” Wells raised both hands innocently. “Relax, bro.”

But afterward, Adrian kept thinking about the song.

Not obsessively. Just occasionally.

The melody lingered in the back of his mind during lectures and workouts. Sometimes he caught himself humming pieces of it under his breath without realizing.

Wells noticed every time.

He never mentioned it directly.

Instead, he kept encouraging Adrian to stop fighting everything.

“You carry stress like it’s a personality trait.”

“You ever let yourself enjoy things?”

“You’d look insanely hot if you unclenched for five minutes.”

And slowly, against his better judgment, Adrian started listening.

The music made workouts easier.

The gym stopped feeling tedious and started becoming satisfying — addictive, even. He slept better after listening to the tracks. Socializing became easier too. He stopped second-guessing every interaction, stopped analyzing every sentence before speaking.

The changes were subtle enough to feel reasonable.

At least at first.

He bought tighter athletic clothes because everyone dressed that way.

He started spending more time at parties because Wells was there.

He listened to the music while studying because it helped him “focus.”

Meanwhile, his reports back to MI6 became shorter.

Concentration headaches formed whenever he spent too long reading political briefings or strategy documents. Complex thoughts felt slippery now, harder to hold onto.

But simpler things felt incredible.

Music.

Attention.

Exercise.

The warm rush of approval when people looked at him.

And Wells always seemed quietly pleased whenever Adrian stopped resisting.

One night after a party, Adrian caught sight of himself in a dorm mirror and froze.

His body had changed.

Broader shoulders. Thicker chest. Defined abs beneath tanned skin.

He looked like he belonged here now.

Wells appeared behind him holding two sports drinks.

“Told you the Academy would be good for you.”

Adrian should have felt alarmed.

Instead, warmth spread pleasantly through his chest.

By spring semester, the sharp MI6 analyst who’d arrived at Gold Academy barely existed anymore.

His expensive sweaters had disappeared beneath sleeveless hoodies and fitted athletic wear. His hair was messier now, lightly frosted after one drunken dorm-room makeover session. He smiled more easily. Laughed more loudly.

Thought less.

Whenever old anxieties resurfaced — fragments of suspicion, flashes of panic — Wells handed him the headphones.

“Easy, bro.”

Eventually Adrian stopped resisting altogether.

The final night came during the Goldmember Party beneath the Academy.

Hundreds of beautiful himbos moved together beneath strobing gold lights while filthy electro remixes shook the underground club hard enough to rattle the ceiling pipes overhead.

Adrian danced among them wearing metallic shorts and an open sleeveless hoodie exposing his sculpted chest. Sweat gleamed across his skin beneath the lights.

His thoughts felt soft now.

Simple.

Comfortable.

Wells approached through the crowd with a proud smile.

“There he is.”

Adrian laughed stupidly. “Brooo, this party rules.”

Wells slipped sleek gold headphones over his ears.

“No stress,” he said warmly.

Adrian leaned into the music without hesitation.

For a brief moment, something flickered through his mind.

A mission.

A warning.

The feeling that he had once come here for a reason.

Then the bass dropped.

The thought dissolved instantly beneath the music and warmth and light.

Wells wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“That’s it, bro.”

Adrian grinned and leaned against him automatically while the crowd roared around them.

Somewhere far away, PDU-034 marked Gold Academy as another successful conversion.

(By Wells)

Dear reader what are you waiting for? Press play and let the music do the rest Contact our recruiters to join the Golden Army: @polo-drone-125 @alton-gold77

The directive arrived without warning.

PDU-034 was completing evening maintenance on Sub-Level 1 when its wrist terminal vibrated once against its skin.

ASSIGNMENT UPDATE LOCATION: UNDERGROUND ACCESS SHAFT 9 ROLE: SERVICE UNIT DRESS PROTOCOL: STANDARD RUBBER POLO PRIORITY: GOLD

No clarification followed. None was requested.

PDU-034 secured its tools, acknowledged the order, and entered the lower transit corridor beneath headquarters. The tunnels changed gradually as it descended. Bright industrial lighting gave way to long amber strips recessed into the concrete walls. Ventilation noise softened. Foot traffic disappeared. Even the air felt different below ground—warmer somehow, heavier.

The drone adjusted the collar of its rubber polo shirt as it walked. The uniform fit perfectly, as all assigned garments did. Black rubber stretched across an athletic service frame engineered for endurance and presentation. Gold piping traced clean lines along the shoulders and chest. Matching rubber trousers compressed each movement with clinical precision above polished leather boots. Efficient. Controlled. Anonymous.

The elevator platform waited at the end of the final corridor.

Two Gold Bros stood guard outside the matte-black doors.

PDU-034 slowed automatically.

Their presence altered the space around them. The leather uniforms looked almost architectural beneath the low lighting: fitted black shirts stretched across broad chests, jackets tailored with severe precision through the shoulders, dark ties perfectly centered beneath sharp collars. Tall officer boots reflected thin bars of gold light across the concrete floor. Black muir caps obscured their eyes.

Then one shifted slightly.

Crrrk.

The sound rolled through the corridor like a low mechanical growl.

PDU-034 felt a brief processing delay spike across its visual systems.

Not synthetic. Leather. Real leather.

The smell reached the drone a moment later—warm oil, boot polish, sweat trapped beneath fitted jackets, cologne absorbed deep into thick hide and heated by body temperature. Dense. Masculine. Intimate.

The drone’s processors attempted to classify the reaction spreading through its systems. Elevated pulse simulation. Attention fixation. Environmental prioritization. None of the diagnostics explained the sensation correctly.

One guard opened the elevator without speaking.

PDU-034 entered.

The doors sealed behind them with a hydraulic hiss. Inside the enclosed platform, the scent intensified immediately. Leather carried heat differently than rubber. Rubber sealed. Rubber concealed. But leather breathed. It absorbed presence. Held shape. Retained traces of movement and body beneath the material itself.

PDU-034 became acutely aware of every small sound beside it: a sleeve creasing, gloves flexing, boot leather tightening as one guard shifted weight.

Crrrk.

The noise traveled directly through the drone’s internal processing like interference.

Or invitation…

The elevator descended deeper.

When the doors finally opened, the underground club revealed itself.

Amber light spilled across polished concrete and black leather surfaces. Low electronic music pulsed through the chamber beneath the murmur of controlled conversation. But the true atmosphere came from the leather.

Dozens of Gold Bros occupied the club in variations of the same uniform standard—tailored jackets, polished trousers, heavy boots, fitted shirts, dark gloves, black caps marked subtly with gold insignia. The room breathed through creaking leather. Jackets groaned as men leaned against the bar. Trousers tightened across crossed legs. Gloved hands squeaked softly around crystal glasses. Bootheels struck concrete with deliberate authority.

Nothing moved casually here.

Every motion seemed measured. Disciplined. Intentional.

PDU-034 remained near the entrance for 2.4 seconds longer than socially appropriate.

“Drone.”

The command snapped its attention forward instantly.

A senior Gold Bro approached through the crowd. Unlike the guards upstairs, his uniform carried visible age and wear. His long leather coat bore softened creases at the elbows and seams polished smooth from years of movement. The material looked impossibly heavy beneath the amber light.

And yet he moved effortlessly inside it.

Crrrk.

The coat answered every step.

The drone found itself staring.

The older bro noticed immediately.

Amusement touched the corner of his mouth.

“First assignment down here?”

“Acknowledged.”

The man handed over a polished serving tray.

“Service protocol. Drinks. Coat handling. Floor maintenance if requested.”

“Affirmative.”

The older bro’s gaze lingered briefly on the drone’s glossy polo. Interesting, not dismissive. Then he stepped away into the crowd.

PDU-034 began service.

At first it focused entirely on procedure: drink delivery routes, table spacing, response timing, proper posture during interactions. But concentration became increasingly difficult. The leather distracted it.

Not merely visually.

The atmosphere of the club seemed shaped by the uniforms themselves. Leather altered movement. Changed posture. Forced awareness into every gesture. The Gold Bros never slouched. Never fidgeted. Even standing still, they projected structure. Presence.

PDU-034 started noticing reactions. How conversations paused when a senior bro crossed the room. How boots striking concrete redirected attention instantly. How younger members subtly straightened when approached by heavier coats or darker insignia. Hierarchy existed everywhere here, woven directly into leather and movement.

And beneath it all remained the smell.

Warm leather.

Warm men.

The scent followed every passing body like a physical force, collecting thickly beneath the underground heat. PDU-034 found itself anticipating it. Tracking it unconsciously. Wanting proximity to it.

A heavily-built bro seated near one of the lounge booths shrugged off his leather jacket midway through the evening and held it toward the drone without looking away from his conversation.

“Hang this.”

PDU-034 accepted the garment carefully.

The weight surprised it.

The jacket was heavy enough to pull slightly against its arms, dense with warmth from the man’s body. The inner lining still held trapped heat and the unmistakable scent of sweat, oil, and cologne worked deep into the leather itself.

The drone’s fingers tightened involuntarily.

Crrrk.

The sound was low. Satisfied.

Something in the drone’s processing architecture reacted immediately.

Not error.

Recognition.

“Careful, drone,” another bro murmured nearby, watching with visible amusement beneath his cap. “Leather has a habit of getting into your head.”

Soft laughter passed around the table.

PDU-034 corrected posture instantly and continued toward the coat racks. But the words remained active in memory.

Getting into your head.

Hours passed.

The drone served mechanically while its attention drifted further into observation. Rubber suddenly felt simplistic by comparison. Rubber created uniformity. Compliance. Surface perfection.

Leather did something else entirely.

Leather amplified the individual inside it.

A broad man became broader. A confident man became intimidating. A quiet man became impossible to ignore.

The uniforms did not conceal power.

They focused it.

Near closing time, the older bro returned.

“You’ve been studying the uniforms all night.”

PDU-034 froze.

“Negative. This drone remains focused on assigned service duties.”

“Lying does not suit service units.”

The older bro stepped closer. Immediately the smell intensified around him—warm leather and cologne layered over sweat trapped beneath thick material worn for hours underground.

His coat creaked softly as he folded his arms.

“Do you know why Gold protocol uses both rubber and leather?”

PDU-034 remained silent. Its processors flagged the conversation as socially dangerous.

Still, after a brief delay:

“Negative.”

The older bro flexed one gloved hand slowly.

Crrrk.

“Rubber creates obedience,” he said. “Rubber smooths rough edges. Removes uncertainty. It teaches discipline.”

Another quiet creak rolled through the coat as he stepped closer.

“But leather…”

He glanced toward the crowded club around them.

“…leather creates presence.”

PDU-034 felt the words settle somewhere deep inside its systems.

Not information.

Truth.

The older bro studied the drone for several long seconds before turning away.

“Come with me.”

The changing room behind the club was quiet except for the distant pulse of music overhead and the muffled groaning of leather beyond the walls.

The older bro placed folded garments on the bench between them: a fitted leather shirt, black tie, tailored leather trousers, a structured jacket, leather gloves, and a muir cap.

PDU-034 stared silently.

“Reward protocol,” the man said calmly. “Service quality exceeded expectations.”

The drone reached toward the garments carefully.

The leather felt different this close. Not smooth like rubber. Textured. Resistant. Alive with tension.

“Put them on.”

PDU-034 obeyed.

The leather shirt resisted at first as it pulled over the glossy rubber polo beneath.

Then settled.

Crrrk.

The sensation sent a visible shiver through the drone’s posture.

The tie tightened beneath the collar. The trousers compressed over the rubber layer underneath, heavier and more restrictive than standard uniform material. Every movement became slower. Deliberate. Grounded.

Then came the jacket.

The moment its weight settled across the drone’s shoulders, posture changed automatically.

Not commanded.

Instinctive.

The mirror reflected someone sharper now. Harder to look away from.

The rubber beneath had disappeared entirely under black leather.

Obedience concealed inside authority.

Finally, the gloves.

PDU-034 slid each finger slowly into thick black leather. The material tightened around its hands with deep, intimate creaks. Its exposed skin vanished completely.

The drone flexed experimentally.

Crrrk.

The sound echoed softly through the room.

For the first time all night, the drone understood the appeal fully.

Leather was not decoration.

It was transformation.

The muir cap lowered last.

Silence settled across the changing room.

PDU-034 stared at its reflection.

The service unit from earlier still existed somewhere underneath: conditioning, discipline, obedience.

But now those qualities felt contained inside something larger.

Something visible.

The older bro waited near the doorway.

When the drone emerged, his gaze moved slowly across the completed uniform.

Then he nodded once.

“Better.”

PDU-034 looked down at the leather stretched tightly across its body—the gloves, the jacket, the boots, the black shine beneath amber light.

Its breathing slowed.

Then the drone inhaled deeply.

Warm leather filled its lungs.

Not foreign anymore.

Necessary.

And somewhere deep within its processing, PDU-034 realized with perfect clarity that it no longer wanted to serve the atmosphere of the club.

It wanted to belong to it.

The streets of Gothenburg lay beneath a quiet, silvered night, each avenue dimly lit by muted street lamps. In this stillness moved PDU-034, its black rubber polo with gold trim catching stray glints of light, actuators humming in a low, steady rhythm. Its mission was singular: prepare the city for “Dagen H”, the historic transition from left-hand to right-hand driving scheduled for September 3, 1967 at 5am. While the nation slept, unaware of the scale of the task, a silent sentinel moved among them—replacing signs, checking alignments, ensuring every lane was ready for a shift that might otherwise invite chaos.

The first task began at midnight. Rows of left-hand road signs had to be replaced with right-hand counterparts. Every intersection, lane marker, and directional indicator was scrutinized. PDU-034 moved methodically, actuators adjusting metal frames with surgical accuracy, its sensors scanning for misalignment or structural flaws. Only the faint rhythm of its movement disturbed the stillness.

It lifted signs with fluid, controlled motions, rotating and securing them on opposite sides of the streets, gold trim catching the dim glow of streetlights. For hours, PDU-034 repeated the process with unerring efficiency. Minor streets received the same attention as major avenues. Every sign and detour were verified—twice. Even in a sleeping city, there was no margin for error.

By 2:30 AM, it had completed the arterial routes. It then moved to secondary streets—lanes that would confuse even the most cautious driver. With mechanical patience, PDU-034 installed right-hand stop signs, directional arrows, and lane markers. Its movements were smooth and deliberate, an imposed order on a world in quiet slumber. Occasionally, it paused, scanning intersections to confirm adherence to national guidelines.

The city remained calm under its careful orchestration. Yet a quiet anticipation lingered—a tension PDU-034 could calculate but not fully comprehend. Time advanced. Dawn would bring the first wave of drivers.

By 4:30 AM, the first vehicles stirred. Lights flickered in garages; engines idled. Drivers, conditioned for decades to keep left, would now need guidance. PDU-034 moved to key intersections, its black-and-gold form faint in the pre-dawn light. Here, it shifted roles—from silent sentinel to active controller of traffic.

The hour approached. 5:00 AM.

The first cars rolled onto the streets. Hesitation came immediately. Hands tightened on steering wheels; eyes darted between lanes, signs, and other vehicles. PDU-034 directed with controlled, deliberate gestures—clear, rhythmic, and authoritative. One motorist drifted left out of habit; PDU-034 extended a hand, correcting the motion instantly. Another slowed too much; a subtle signal restored the flow. Vehicles began to move in a cautious, synchronized pattern, guided without a word.

Every intersection introduced new variables: speed, spacing, hesitation, human error. PDU-034 processed each in an instant—predicting trajectories, correcting deviations, preventing collisions before they formed. Its presence was steady, reassuring. Drivers followed instinctively, trusting the authority they barely registered but readily obeyed.

The streets gradually filled. Lines of vehicles moved with increasing confidence, hesitation fading. Where confusion threatened, PDU-034 intervened. A wrong turn was corrected with a gesture; uncertainty at a crossing dissolved under its direction. Through tireless oversight, the city-maintained order despite decades of habit being overturned in a single morning.

By 6:00 AM, the transition was complete. Streets once poised for chaos were now calm and orderly. Drivers slowed, looked around, and registered the seamless shift. PDU-034’s role—unseen and unacknowledged—had ensured it.

The drone returned to its station, sensors scanning for anomalies. None appeared. The mission was complete. Sweden now drove on the right, history marking the transition as a success, its citizens unaware of the sentinel that had guided them.

PDU-034 had orchestrated a transition that might otherwise have turned chaotic, even dangerous. The night’s labor—replacing signs—and the morning’s precise coordination merged into a single, seamless operation. Its efficiency had prevented confusion from becoming disorder. While human crews had installed barriers and markings, it was the drone that enforced order.

As morning light reflected off newly aligned signs and steady traffic, PDU-034 remained vigilant. It observed, recorded, and calculated, ensuring every element held its proper place. A historic change had passed with mechanical exactness, human behavior quietly guided by unseen control.

The citizens would remember “Dagen H” as a smooth transition, never suspecting the unseen force behind it. PDU-034’s mission had ended, but its presence lingered—a silent promise of order and guidance whenever chaos threatened. In the quiet aftermath, it stood motionless, sunlight glinting off the gold trim from its rubber polo: a symbol of mechanical precision imposed on an unpredictable human world.