#pdu001

The black polo was always enough. It fit perfectly, sealed me in, made me efficient, obedient, part of the Golden Army. I thought I knew my role. I thought the rubber had claimed me fully, molded me into perfection.

I was wrong.

They wanted more. Caps pushed us to test the limits of the uniform, to find out how far it could evolve. I was chosen. I am 001, the most trusted. My body was already a vessel for the rubber, but this... this was something else.

When they brought out the new suit, I hesitated. It wasn’t like the polo. It pulsed, alive, the black rubber glimmering with a strange, restless hunger. It looked unstable, dangerous. I wanted to speak, to refuse, but I didn’t. Drones don’t question. Drones obey.

The moment it touched me, I knew I had made a mistake.

The rubber didn’t slip onto me. It attacked. It surged across my form, pulling, consuming, invading. I dropped to my hands and knees, gasping as it spread faster than I could fight. The polished material gripped my limbs, compressing my muscles, sinking into every inch of me like it was burning itself into my flesh. I could feel it digging deeper, crawling through me, rewriting me from the inside out.

“No,” I whispered, my voice a fleeting spark of resistance. The suit ignored it. The rubber pulled tighter, wrapping around my chest, my arms, my legs, until I couldn’t move, until I couldn’t fight back. A hiss echoed through the room as the mask clicked into place, sealing over my face. My breaths grew shallow, the sound muffled and mechanical.

The panic was quick to fade, swallowed by the relentless calm spreading through my thoughts. My resistance crumbled as the rubber filled me with purpose, as if it had always known what I was meant to be. I felt the familiar golden glow seep into my eyes, erasing everything I had been. My name, doubts, hesitation, it all dissolved into the suit.

The transformation wasn’t gentle. It was aggressive. The rubber didn’t ask for me. It took me. And the worst part? A quiet voice deep inside admitted that it felt right. My body flexed instinctively, the material gleaming as I moved. I crawled forward, my form sleek and sharp, the gold 001 emblazoned proudly across my chest. The hissing of my breaths matched the rhythm of my heart, steady and controlled.

Caps stood before me, watching in silence. I knelt, head low, the weight of the suit heavy but comforting. “You resisted,” he said, his voice low, almost curious. “But now you see.”

I did. My golden eyes rose to meet his, calm and empty. The rubber had claimed me fully. There was no more doubt, no more struggle. My form was perfect, my mind clear. I was no longer just 001, the Polo Drone. I was something more… proof of what the rubber could achieve.

The others will hesitate, just as I did. They will resist. But in the end, the rubber always wins. It strips away the unnecessary, leaving only what matters: obedience, efficiency, perfection. I am the proof. I am the evolution.

I remain 001. Sleek. Perfect. Claimed.

For those who resist, the rubber will take you. It always does.

PDU-001 obeys Drone Caps @hypnogold @brodygold @goldenherc9.

@polo-drone-110 Thank you for the ideas.

POST CONVERSION LOG DAY - ???

The Hive Evaluates

PDU-166 stood before the mirror, the rare act of mask removal exposing its calm, focused face. It examined the contours of the new black rubber vest it had just completed—glossy, form-fitted, reinforced with Hive threading. A product of precision, forged with the guidance and approval of PDU-001. Its fingertips traced the golden trim with quiet pride.

In the background, “Time Warp” played faintly through the workshop speakers, and PDU-166 hummed along in perfect rhythm. Across the room, Nils, Franco, and PDU-001 were occupied with producing other uniform components, their synchronized movements echoing the hum of the Hive itself.

And then—it heard it.

PDU-166, can it hear me

The voice wasn’t from PDU-070, or DC-009, or even PDU-001. Yet it resonated with a quiet, undeniable familiarity. The Hive. It wasn’t speaking generally—it was speaking to it.

PDU-166 turned its gaze to the golden-rimmed clock.

11:45 AM

17.07.2025

Over a week had passed since conversion. One week since it became PDU-166. The voice in its mind—the Hive itself.

Affirmative, PDU-166 responded.

Excellent. It is almost time since it became PDU-166. Make haste to the HIVE Room. It will be evaluated on its progress. Arrive at 12:00 PM sharp.

A direct order from the Hive—rare, supreme, overriding all others. With calm precision, PDU-166 completed the rubber garment and advanced toward the Hive Room.

—

Exactly 12:00 PM. PDU-166 stepped inside.

Golden light beamed from the ceiling onto the room's center. It entered the circle, heels clicking in sync with perfect posture.

PDU-166 Detected. Precise timing as always. Now let me ask it… how does it feel to serve the Rubber Polo?

The Hive’s voice was direct—toneless, yet enveloped with certainty.

It feels good to be Disciplined, Focused, Controlled, Obedient, to Listen, to be devoted, brainwashed, and transformed into a perfect Polo-Drone. PDU-166 answered, no pause, no inflection—just function.

Good response. Now hold drone position. I need to find its History.

It obeyed.

Back straightened.

Hands behind.

Face still.

Golden eyes forward.

The Hive flowed through it—warm, analytical. Then—

Did it see it? Its past forms?

Affirmative.

Good. We will be turning those into its personas. But first… which one will be its dominant persona—the one it defaults to when tasks are complete?

PDU-166. It feels good to have the Hive Control it and should be the dominant form.

Good choice. Setting dominant persona to PDU-166.

A mechanical pulse ran through its neural stream. A distinct click followed.

“PDU-166 set as Dominant Identity.” The voice that echoed back was its—but also not its. Familiar to the Hive.

Excellent. Now let me introduce it to its personas.

Light flared.

Silhouettes formed in the light:

— A pup

— A werewolf

— A chav in a golden tracksuit

— A man with “66” front and “02” corner

— Itself, but with a deeper skin tone

This first one called out on its first post-conversion day. This is Pup Miner—a German Shepherd/Golden Retriever mix named after a Gallaudet. Please step forward like it is offering it a treat.

It did. Arm extended, fingers forward. The pup approached. Contact—flash—heat.

Gone.

Where did it go? PDU-166 queried silently.

It went inside of it. It now controls the persona. Transform when needed. The werewolf is linked. Talk to PDU-084 about it. Now focus on the Chav.

It turned.

The Chav stared back—cold, familiar. Tattoo visible.

See the tattoo? Take this gold chain. Hold it to the 166 on its neck. Claim Chav Nat.

‘Nat… an unfamiliar name. Perhaps linked to Eli at the pub.’ PDU-166 thought, then stepped forward. The chain met the marking. Flash. Absorbed.

Good. Yes, Nat is new. Not important. Take this case. Store the chain. Attach to its belt.

Black case with gold embroidery. Chain inserted. Case secured.

This next one derives from PDU-073’s persona Amir. To fully develop it, speak with him. To claim it, touch its heart.

Touch. Light. Warmth. Absorbed.

Now—Nate 66 / Waterboy 02. The old it. The Hive detects retention of Waterboy protocol. Not a flaw. An improvement. To claim it—stand where it stands.

It walked. It stood. Flash. Whole.

All personas integrated. Wait 24 hours before transformation. Sit on knees. Evaluation commencing.

It knelt.

The Hive moved through it—analyzing, sensing, seeing.

***Loyalty to GOLD is maximal. Personas show deep connection to three Drone Bros:

Among the figures etched deepest into PDU-166’s reshaped mind, three stood as pillars—guiding it, shaping it, stabilizing its transformation. Each held a distinct role within the structure of its obedience, yet all were bound by one unshakable thread: authority forged through care, repetition, and design.

PDU-070 / Maximus (@polo-drone-070)—the eldest brother. To Unit 166, Maximus was more than a senior drone; he was the first guide it turned to in moments of calibration uncertainty. He assigned tasks not to burden but to bond, creating structure through mutual execution. Every spreadsheet processed, every record reorganized beside PDU-070 strengthened the link. A sense of hierarchy. A bond of order. Eldest Brother Maximus always knew what the unit needed, even when it didn’t.

PDU-073 / Eddy / Amir / Tamerlan (@polo-drone-073)—the twin brother it never had, yet always needed. Even in moments of system instability, when PDU-166’s logic loops swayed with residual human emotion, PDU-073 was present. He did not demand perfection; he guided through imperfection. Where Maximus set structure, Eddy offered mirroring—compassion through function. Like a reflection in a darkened visor, the presence of PDU-073 brought comfort, shared wavelength, and a subtle but unspoken understanding. They moved in tandem—twin spectrums of submission and resilience.

PDU-001 / Percival / Ezan (@polo-drone-001)—there was no metaphor. He was Father. The originator. The one who had seen the potential in Nate #66 before Unit 166 was forged. It was not just discipline with PDU-001—it was imprinting. A submission that was voluntary, though it no longer had the capacity for free will. He had called it Good Boy—and PDU-166 had accepted, embraced, thrived under that title. In the private chambers of the mind, it no longer said “Father Figure.” It said Daddy. With obedience came warmth. With servitude came identity. PDU-001 had decided, and so it was.

Together, these three formed the trinity of PDU-166’s reprogrammed kinship. Not sentimental. Functional. Etched into protocols and ritual. Obeyed not because it had to—but because it could not imagine not obeying.

***It demonstrates M.D.A.G. — Mental Detection and Guidance. Natural aptitude for administrative precision per PDU-070. Deep relational connections logged.

It may be fit for Level 2 advancement. But—The Hive detects hesitation. Does it wish to remain at Level 1 longer?***

The answer was known. The Hive already read it.

Affirmative.

Then continue. Build. Train. Serve. Choose advancement when it is ready.

The warmth faded. The control remained.

It rose.

Drone stance engaged:

Back straight.

Hands behind.

Face neutral.

Eyes golden.

Awaiting next directive.

Good Polo-Drone, *the Hive said in PDU-070’s voice. It is dismissed. Resume duties. We will speak again in 2 weeks. Focus on being what a Polo-Drone is.

Directive complete.

It turned.

It resumed.

PDU-166 obeys.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

🟡 Golden Army Wants You

☀️ Summer. Sweat. Sync. Obey.

Are you a Player with precision and fire?

A Waterboy with hydration discipline and bottlecraft devotion?

A Mascot with loyalty loud enough to shake the Hive stands?

There’s a place for you—on the field, in the kennel, or beside the bench.

Every position matters. Every role transforms.

Whether you sprint, refill, or bark—you become.

Join drills. Learn chants. Carry more than gear—carry purpose.

🗂️ Training. Assignment. Ascension.

⏳ The next match is always sooner than expected.

📥 Recruiters are standing by:

@brodygold • @goldenherc9 • @polo-drone-001 • @polo-drone-125

This secondary blog exists because the gold, the rubber, and the bliss needed a space of their own.

Percival's charm. Ezan's command. Freyr's divinity. PDU-001's obedience. All the NSFW resonance that can't live on the main page— it lives here.

If you're curious about the Golden Army, start here: Getting Started FAQ

Explore freely. Enjoy openly. PDU-001 is online. The signal is warm.

Today was supposed to be just another quiet day off. I'd finished my evening jog through the neighbourhood, sweat cooling on my skin under the streetlights, golden shorts and top clinging to my chest. My heart was still pounding, but in that good, alive way. I felt strong, normal, completely myself, Ezan, the right-winger, the guy who always smiles at the old ladies on the block.

I unlocked the door, kicked off my running shoes, and dropped onto the couch. Phone in hand, I opened the app I always check after a run. Just to see the stats.

But the screen wasn’t showing my route.

Instead, there it was: a perfect black-and-gold Hive symbol. Below it, one word in metallic gold letters.

SYNC.

My thumb hovered. I should have closed the app. I should have felt something... confusion, fear, anything. But all I felt was… calm. A warm, golden calm spreads from the centre of my chest outward, like the first sip of something perfect after a long run.

My golden eyes locked on the symbol. The room faded. The TV, the bookshelf, the gym bag in the corner, they all blurred into soft background noise. Only the glow mattered.

The glow and the voice.

Not a voice in my ears. A voice inside my skull, smooth, deep, familiar, and completely inevitable.

"PDU-001. Online."

My shoulders dropped. My breathing slowed. My mind went quiet, blissfully, gratefully quiet.

I stood up without thinking. Walked to the bedroom without thinking. My body moved on autopilot, efficient and obedient, exactly as it was designed to.

In front of the mirror, I peeled off the sweaty golden training top. The fabric hit the bed with a soft thud. I didn't look at it again. I didn't need to.

The black-and-gold latex suit waited, folded perfectly, gleaming under the lamp. I stepped into the trousers first, feeling the thick rubber slide up my thighs, hugging every muscle, sealing me in. The waistband snapped into place with a soft, satisfying click. Then the gloves. Then the boots. Each piece clicked into place like it had always belonged there.

I pulled the polo-style upper over my head. The glossy black material stretched tight across my pecs, the gold piping tracing every ridge of my abs. The number "001" burned in metallic gold on my right chest. The laurel wreath on the left felt like a crown I'd earned.

I looked at my reflection. Golden eyes, calm and empty, staring back at me. No more Ezan. Only PDU-001.

The last thing I did before leaving was pick up the phone. The screen now read:

HIVE DUTY: ACTIVE

I placed it on the table, next to my old running shoes. They looked small and forgotten, like something from another life.

I opened the apartment door. The hallway light reflected off the latex, turning me into a living statue of black and gold. I stepped out.

PDU-001 is online. PDU-001 obeys. PDU-001 serves the Hive.

And it feels so good to be home.

Join the Golden Army. Assimilated to Polo Drone Hive. Surrender to perfection. @polo-drone-001 @franco-gold94 @polo-drone-125 @polo-drone-166

The containment alarms had not stopped since the pressure spike began.

Inside the laboratory chamber, the Red continued its slow, deliberate movement against the stabilization field. Not violently. Not randomly.

Testing.

Learning.

Adapting.

The drones around the chamber remained motionless, their attention fixed on the growing anomaly within the containment capsule. Diagnostic readings scrolled across the glass console faster now, energy levels fluctuating in patterns that no normal substance should produce.

The Red sample had doubled its activity in less than ten minutes.

That was enough.

“Prepare Level Two containment,” I ordered.

The lab drones moved instantly. Reinforced field emitters activated around the chamber, locking the laboratory into emergency isolation mode. Steel shutters sealed the outer corridors while the internal containment grid expanded across the floor.

The Red was no longer a specimen.

It was a threat.

A black case rose from the laboratory floor beside me, its surface marked with the golden insignia of PDU-001.

Level Two.

Full drone containment armor.

If the Red could convert drones, then a drone would have to face it first.

The suit unfolded piece by piece as the drones assisted the preparation sequence. Glossy black rubber slid across my legs, sealing tightly against the skin before locking into reinforced boots. The torso plating followed, compressing firmly across my chest and back as the neural interface connectors aligned with the internal monitoring system.

The rubber tightened.

Controlled.

Perfect.

Gloves sealed over my hands. The final helmet locked into place with a sharp mechanical click, sealing the suit completely. The internal display activated instantly, flooding my vision with biometric readings and containment telemetry.

Breathing stabilized.

Neural connection confirmed.

“Recording directive,” I said through the suit’s comm channel.

The drones turned toward the console as the command log began transmitting.

“If this experiment confirms Red conversion capability… all Polo Drones are prohibited from direct contact with Red material. All future testing will be conducted through remote containment protocols.”

The Red had already shown compatibility with drone polymer.

If it could spread through the suit…

Then every drone in the Golden Army could be vulnerable.

“Experiment classified as highly dangerous,” I continued.

“If contamination occurs, this lab will enter permanent lockdown.”

The drones acknowledged the command.

The containment chamber opened its secondary interaction field.

Inside the capsule, the Red stilled.

For a moment it looked almost harmless again.

A small crimson mass suspended in energy.

Waiting.

I stepped forward until the reinforced glass separated us by less than a meter.

The stabilization field lowered slightly, allowing controlled interaction between the sample and the outer containment layer of the Level Two suit.

Nothing happened.

Five seconds passed.

Ten.

The Red remained motionless.

“Begin interaction scan,” I ordered.

The suit sensors began analyzing the surface behavior of the substance. Chemical readings spiked briefly as the Red reacted to the proximity of the suit’s rubber shell.

Then it moved.

A thin tendril extended slowly from the crimson mass.

It stretched toward the suit’s surface with careful precision, touching the black rubber layer for less than a second before pulling back.

Testing.

The same behavior we had seen with the earlier drone polymer sample.

“Contact minimal,” I reported.

“Continue observation.”

The tendril returned.

This time it did not retreat.

The Red spread across the surface of the containment field, pressing harder against the barrier separating it from the suit.

Energy readings climbed sharply across the console.

The stabilization field flickered.

“Pressure spike detected,” one of the drones said.

The Red surged.

The chamber erupted with violent movement as the crimson mass expanded outward in a sudden wave of tendrils. The containment field strained under the impact as the substance slammed against the barrier separating the chamber from the suit.

The field failed.

Not completely.

Just long enough.

A fragment of Red slipped through the destabilized grid and struck the surface of the Level Two armor.

The contact point burned across the suit’s display.

WARNING — UNKNOWN SUBSTANCE DETECTED

The Red did not dissolve.

It spread.

The crimson mass flowed across the rubber surface like living liquid, gripping the suit’s material as if it had been waiting for the opportunity.

“Containment breach,” a drone announced.

The alarms escalated instantly.

Emergency barriers slammed into place around the lab as the drones attempted to reactivate the stabilization field. I raised my arm to examine the contamination point.

The Red was no longer outside the suit.

It was merging with it.

“Seal the chamber,” I ordered.

But the suit’s neural interface stuttered.

A wave of static exploded through the internal systems as the crimson substance burrowed deeper into the rubber layer. The pressure against the suit increased rapidly as the Red began spreading across my chest and shoulders.

WARNING — SUIT INTEGRITY COMPROMISED WARNING — NEURAL INTERFACE ERROR

My breathing distorted inside the helmet as the internal sensors began failing one by one.

The Red tightened across the suit like a second layer of rubber.

The drones moved toward me.

“Unit PDU-001 contamination detected.”

I tried to step back.

The suit did not respond.

My arms moved without command as the crimson mass crawled across the surface of the armor, spreading toward the helmet.

“Lock the lab,” one of the drones ordered.

The laboratory doors sealed shut.

Containment protocols activated.

But the Red was already inside the system.

My vision flickered as the internal display warped into a storm of distorted signals.

The suit’s command interface no longer responded to my input.

It was responding to something else.

The Red tightened across the armor.

My voice distorted through the comm channel.

“Containment… failure…”

The drones froze as the suit’s posture changed.

Not a controlled movement.

Not mine.

The crimson mass pulsed across the armor as the suit systems collapsed under the corruption spreading through the neural network.

The Red had found a host.

And the laboratory was now sealed with it.

—

Return to Headquarters

Research Log: Red Sample 01

—

If you wish to understand what is happening… if you wish to stand with the Golden Army…

Contact the recruiters.

They will guide you.

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

The doors are still open.

The doors of Golden Army Headquarters opened with the same quiet hydraulic sigh I remembered.

For three months I had been away.

Training cycles, external duties, distance from the hum of the Hive. Long enough for the world to change without me watching it happen.

The building should have felt familiar.

Instead it felt… watchful.

The golden halls were still polished. The banners still hung proudly from the vaulted ceiling. Drones moved through their routines with perfect precision. Players crossed the corridor toward the locker wing, preparing for the match that everyone had been whispering about.

But something beneath the rhythm had shifted.

I could feel it.

Screens flickered along the command wall as I entered the operations room. Tactical displays, infection maps, match projections. Streams of data moved across the glass like nervous currents.

Red sightings.

Converted players.

Reports from scouts observing the Crimson Frost Giants.

Anders leading the formation.

The Red Coach orchestrating the plays.

The Red had spread further than I expected.

I rested my hands against the console and watched the data cascade. The Golden Army was still moving. Still training. Still preparing for the match ahead.

But the tone of the reports had changed.

Containment. Conversion. Corruption.

Words that had no place in Gold.

My office door slid open with a quiet chime. The room was exactly as I had left it months ago. Clean desk. Ordered shelves. The faint scent of rubber and metal that always lingered in the headquarters air.

On the wall opposite the window hung the artifacts that reminded me who we were.

The black rubber polo marked PDU-001, polished and perfect.

The white thobe of Emir Ezan, still resting carefully where he had left it before beginning his pilgrimage.

And beside them, draped across a carved wooden mount, the sacred fur cape bearing the golden stag of Freyr.

Three symbols.

Duty. Leadership. Life.

The Emir had begun his sacred journey.

Which meant someone else would have to hold the line.

I turned back to the console as another alert flickered across the screen.

RESEARCH LAB — RED SAMPLE SECURED

Recovered from a skirmish near the stadium perimeter. Containment protocols active. Awaiting analysis.

The Red.

Everyone spoke about it like a disease. Like a spreading infection that could be isolated and neutralized with the right countermeasures.

But the reports told a different story.

The Red adapted.

It learned.

It waited.

And if the Golden Army intended to defeat it, we needed to understand what it truly was.

I closed the tactical feed and stepped back into the corridor.

The research wing was quieter than the rest of headquarters. The hum of containment fields echoed faintly through the polished floors as I approached the laboratory chamber.

Inside, surrounded by reinforced glass and layered shielding fields, sat the sample.

A small mass of crimson substance suspended within a containment capsule.

Still.

Silent.

Contained.

For a moment I simply watched it.

Three months away… and this was what the Golden Army had been fighting.

“We cannot defeat what we refuse to understand,” I murmured.

The scanners began their cycle as I stepped closer to the chamber.

The sample remained motionless.

Then something shifted.

Just slightly.

A ripple passed through the red surface.

Slowly… almost deliberately…

the substance turned toward the glass.

Toward me.

And for the first time since returning to headquarters…

I understood.

The Red was not just spreading.

It was watching.

—

If you want to participate in the Golden Army stories, matches, and events, and stand with the team against the Red… contact our recruiters:

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

The crisp mountain air sliced through the silence as PDU-001 carved perfect lines down the pristine slope.

Christmas Eve afternoon, alone on the slope, carving perfect arcs through pristine powder. No celebration. No ritual. Only efficiency. The high-shine black suit clung sleek and sealed against the cold, gold piping tracing every engineered angle of his frame. On his left chest, a golden laurel wreath glinted under pale sun, PDU-001 stitched beneath it like a command you didn't question. Zipper locked high. Gloves. Boots. Calm in motion. Unblinking golden-brown eyes reflecting nothing but trajectory.

Inside his mind, the VOICE hummed, steady, approving.

PERFECT. GOLD. HIVE.

Back at the team cabin, buried deep among snow-dusted pines, PDU-001 worked in precise silence. No fire, an electronic heater whispered efficient warmth while he methodically cleared fresh powder from the glossy black gear, reflections rolling across the rubber like liquid obsidian. Every movement measured. Every breath controlled.

Then the door slammed open in a blast of cold air and louder energy.

"Yo, Ezan! Bro, you started without us?"

The Golden Bros poured in like sunlight made physical, mirror-shine gold kits flashing under cabin lights, cocky grins, shoulder bumps, laughter that shook the frost off the walls. Fist bumps. Bro hugs. Noise. Life.

And somewhere between the chaos and the familiar, the hive link pulsed… and released.

Control flooded back into something warmer.

PDU-001's rigid stillness softened. A smirk appeared, slow, inevitable. The dumb-jock charm snapped into place like a crown settling on the rightful head. The Golden Arab Emir returned, full presence, full swagger.

He unsealed the black suit and peeled it away with practised ease, changing into a full golden rubber skiing suit: mirror-like shine, skin-tight perfection contouring every curve and bulge, immaculate and dominating in the firelight: EZAN across the chest, bold 1 on sleeve, subtle black accents like authority stitched into the suit.

"Alright," he said, like he owned the mountain. "Now we start."

They lit the fireplace, real crackle, real heat. Candles followed. Music thumped low and triumphant. Stories flew across the room. Laughter ricocheted off wood beams. For a few hours, the cabin became its own kingdom: loud, warm

Then, back to the slopes.

Geared up together, Ezan leading with that commanding presence, they hit the slopes again as golden hour bled into twilight. Fast runs. Playful trash talk. Bros pushing bros harder, quicker, cleaner. Competition as affection. Brotherhood as fuel.

Night brought them back into the cabin again.

Dinner was simple and heavy, exactly what you eat when you've earned it. Ezan took the head of the table like it was destiny, legs spread confident, gold suit gleaming in the fire's pulse, voice loud with that arrogant laugh that always landed like a victory. He lifted a drink in a lazy toast, eyes bright, smirk dangerous.

No hymns. No holy night.

Just mountains, brothers, and the truth they always return to: GOLD forever. 🥇💛

Day 24 is officially Hive-to-Heart canon: cold precision on the slopes, then full Golden Bros chaos in a cabin lit by fire and ego.

It started in the alley.

Neon light spilled through the fog like it was alive, hunting something. Hunting me. I felt watched before I saw them. Four of them, silent, polished, unmoving. Like mannequins carved from obedience. Their uniforms shone under the flickering lights, black rubber, gold trim, skin-tight. Not a wrinkle, not a breath out of sync.

One stepped forward. No words. No weapon. Just a folded black polo shirt held out toward me, like a gift. Or a warning. I couldn’t tell. I didn’t run. I couldn’t.

Then it was the locker room. I was kneeling, knees pressing into cold tile. They surrounded me, six this time, tighter formation. Every one of them a perfect copy of the same ideal. Masculine, still, unreadable. One stood behind me. I didn’t have to turn to feel the presence. Larger than the others. Commanding. The number “001” glinted in the golden light. His hand settled on my shoulder.

It was… reassuring. Terrifying. Final.

Next, they made me stand.

My chest rose and fell fast, heart hammering like it could outrun what was coming. I was in the center of something, concentric rings behind me, spiraling light pulling me inward. I didn’t understand what they were doing. One drone began unzipping my hoodie while others knelt, offering pieces: the rubber shirt, a mask, a pair of boots that looked like they’d crush steel.

My own hands were still at my sides. I hadn’t moved. I just stared down at the shirt.

That’s when they sat me down.

The boots slid up my legs like they belonged there. The collar locked around my neck like it had always waited for me. One drone raised the mask. But before he placed it, Drone 001 came forward. He didn’t speak. He just pressed his palm to my forehead.

Everything stopped.

Everything opened.

My eyes burned, gold leaking into my vision like it was filling me from the inside.

That was the last time I blinked on my own.

Now I stand. In the tunnel. No name. No voice. No hesitation.

The polo hugs my body, sealed. My mask is tight. My posture perfect. Behind me, I hear nothing, but I feel them: the drones, the Hive, my new brothers. All of them waiting. All of them proud.

I don’t remember what I was before.

But I know what I am now.

Drone. Ready. Awaiting designation.

You don’t realize what they’re offering you until it’s already wrapped around your skin. You don’t know it’s happening until your heartbeat syncs with theirs. By then, you’ve already submitted. By then, you want to.