Wells found the flyer folded inside the sleeve of a used CD at a shop on Queen West.

There was no address on it. Just a black photocopied square of paper, a crooked gold star, and the words:

ONE NIGHT ONLY. AFTERHOURS. HOUSE. TECHNO. TRANCE. FOLLOW THE BASS.

Underneath, someone had written a phone number in silver marker.

Wells stared at it for a long moment, then grinned.

“Perfect.”

Across the room, PDU-767, PDU-090, and PDU-034 stood in a neat line beside his kitchen table. Too neat. Too still. Three glossy black-and-gold units waiting for instruction like they were about to be deployed to a training facility, not dragged into the weirdest Saturday night Toronto had to offer.

PDU-767 tilted its head. “Directive clarification required.”

Wells held up the flyer. “We’re going out.”

PDU-090 processed this in silence. “Destination?”

“A warehouse party.”

PDU-034’s eyes shifted to the flyer. “Warehouse indicates industrial storage environment. Purpose?”

Wells laughed. “Dancing. Music. Lights. People. Maybe bad decisions. Definitely bottled water that costs too much.”

“Mission parameters unclear,” PDU-767 said.

“That’s the point.”

By midnight, Wells looked like he had been assembled from everything loud, shiny, ridiculous, and perfect about the 1990s rave scene. He wore a tight black mesh shirt that showed the hard shape of his chest and shoulders beneath it, bright patterned rave shorts trimmed with gold, a black waist pack with gold zippers strapped across his hips, thick black socks with gold stripes, heavy black platform rave boots, a chunky gold chain, a matching bracelet, a black cap, and mirrored wraparound shades that caught every flash of light before they even reached the party.

PDU-090 stared at him.

“Assessment,” Wells said, spreading his arms. “Too much?”

“Visual intensity high,” PDU-090 replied.

PDU-767 added, “Gold accents confirm unit affiliation.”

PDU-034 stared at the reflective sunglasses. “Optical shielding unnecessary indoors.”

Wells lowered the glasses just enough to look over the top. “Fashion, 034. Try to keep up.”

They walked through a stretch of half-lit Toronto backstreets where brick buildings leaned into the dark and old loading docks sat under rusted metal awnings. The city had that late-90s afterhours feeling: payphones, wet pavement, cigarette smoke, distant bass leaking through walls, and small groups of people moving with the secret confidence of those who knew exactly which unmarked door mattered.

Wells looked completely at home. The gold on his chain, shorts, socks, and waist pack caught the streetlights with every step. He moved like the night had already accepted him.

The drones followed in formation.

Too much formation.

“Okay,” Wells said over his shoulder, “first rule: don’t march.”

PDU-090 adjusted its stride by three percent.

“Still marching.”

PDU-767 slowed. PDU-034 copied him. PDU-090 copied both of them. Now they were marching slowly.

Wells stopped, turned around, and put both hands on his hips. The waist pack shifted with a faint metallic jingle. “You three are going to get us noticed before we even get inside.”

PDU-034 scanned the alley. “Attention acquisition appears inevitable.”

“Not helpful.”

The bass grew louder as they reached the door. A big bearish guy stood outside with a clipboard and a flashlight. He gave Wells one look, taking in the mesh, the gold chain, the rave shorts, the boots, the mirrored shades. Then he looked past him at the three drones.

“Friends of yours?”

Wells smiled. “They’re with me.”

The door guy raised an eyebrow. “They always this quiet?”

PDU-767 answered immediately. “Affirmative.”

Wells winced. “They’re saving their energy for the dance floor.”

The door guy stared for one more second, then laughed and waved them in.

Inside, the warehouse swallowed them whole.

Heat. Fog. Strobe light. Blue beams cutting through smoke. Bodies moving wall to wall beneath exposed pipes and old steel rafters. The music was deep and relentless, a house beat rolling into harder techno, then melting into something trancey and bright. The floor shook. The air smelled like sweat, dust, cologne, smoke, and electricity.

Wells’ outfit came alive under the lights. The mesh shirt turned almost invisible in the flashes. His gold chain glinted against his chest. The bright patterned shorts looked even louder beneath ultraviolet glow. His black-and-gold boots hit the concrete with heavy confidence.

PDU-090 stopped dead.

“Audio command detected.”

“No,” Wells said. “DJ.”

PDU-090 pointed toward the booth. “Central rhythm authority.”

“That’s… actually not wrong.”

PDU-767 looked around at the crowd: mesh shirts, tiny sunglasses, black tanks, baggy jeans, chains, whistles, body glitter, bare arms flashing under ultraviolet light. “Group cohesion unusually high. Movement repetitive. Hydration levels questionable.”

“Welcome to raving,” Wells said.

PDU-034 had not moved.

Wells followed its gaze and found the problem immediately.

Glow sticks.

A guy in enormous jeans and a cropped mesh top was spinning two green glow sticks on strings, tracing circles of light through the fog. Beside him, someone cracked a fresh yellow one and shook it until it flared bright. Across the room, blue and pink lights looped around wrists, necks, belts, and fingers.

PDU-034 stared as if it had just discovered fire.

“034?” Wells asked.

“Luminescent handheld objects detected.”

“Glow sticks.”

PDU-034 stepped forward. “Purpose?”

“Fun.”

“Function?”

“Also fun.”

“Insufficient.”

Before Wells could stop it, PDU-034 moved into the crowd with mechanical precision, tracking every glow stick in sight.

PDU-767 looked to Wells. “Retrieval required?”

Wells sighed and adjusted his waist pack. “Not yet. Let him have a minute.”

The minute became ten.

PDU-034 collected data with terrifying seriousness. Green glow sticks were observed during fast dancing. Blue glow sticks appeared preferred by people leaning against speakers. Pink glow sticks were waved overhead during vocal samples. Yellow glow sticks, it decided, had the highest “gold-adjacent value.”

At some point, a cheerful raver handed PDU-034 a pair of bright gold glow sticks.

PDU-034 held them at eye level.

Its entire posture changed.

“Gold illumination acquired.”

Wells saw it from across the floor and burst out laughing so hard his mirrored shades slipped down his nose.

Meanwhile, PDU-090 had drifted toward the DJ booth and was standing beneath it with perfect attention, staring up at the spinning vinyl.

“PDU-090,” Wells said, arriving beside him. “Please tell me you’re not trying to receive orders from the DJ.”

“Beat structure is repetitive, commanding, and efficient.”

“That’s techno.”

“Techno is acceptable.”

“That might be the most emotion you’ve ever shown.”

PDU-090 did not look away from the booth. “Correction. Function status: optimized.”

On the dance floor, PDU-767 had become concerned with logistics. He was handing water bottles to strangers with solemn intensity.

“Hydration recommended,” he told a shirtless guy covered in glitter.

“Oh my god, thanks,” the guy said, taking it.

“Continued movement requires fluid intake.”

“You’re cute.” he said looking over at PDU-090

“Statement logged.” replied PDU-090

Wells found him five minutes later beside a concrete pillar, organizing discarded plastic cups into stacks.

“767.”

“Waste control improves operational environment.”

“You’re at a rave.”

“Environment remains improvable.”

Wells rubbed his face, laughing despite himself. “I brought three drones to a warehouse party and somehow one of you became security, one became the hydration team, and one joined a glow stick cult.”

PDU-767 looked toward the dance floor. PDU-034 was now standing in the middle of a circle of ravers, holding glow sticks and moving them in slow, symmetrical arcs. People cheered every time the lights crossed.

“034 appears to be functioning optimally,” PDU-767 said.

“He’s doing performance art by accident.”

The music shifted.

A deeper bassline rolled through the warehouse. The lights dropped low. Fog thickened. A gold strobe began pulsing from somewhere above the DJ booth, slow at first, then faster. The crowd roared as the beat built.

Wells felt it in his chest.

Even the drones felt it.

PDU-090 stepped back from the booth.

PDU-767 abandoned the cup stacks.

PDU-034 turned, glow sticks still burning in both hands.

The beat dropped.

And for one strange, perfect moment, all three drones moved at once.

Not marching.

Not posing.

Dancing.

It was rigid at first, then less rigid. Shoulders. Arms. Hips. Boots hitting concrete in time with the bass. PDU-034 carved gold circles through the air. PDU-090 locked onto the beat like it was a command sequence. PDU-767 mirrored the rhythm, precise but powerful, his black-and-gold presence catching every flash of light.

The crowd noticed.

Then the crowd joined.

Wells stood at the edge of the circle, stunned and grinning like an idiot. Then he rolled his shoulders, tugged the hem of his black mesh shirt into place, and stepped forward in those heavy black-and-gold boots like he owned the beat.

A guy beside him leaned in. “Your friends are intense.”

“You have no idea.”

PDU-034 extended one glow stick toward Wells.

Wells looked down at it.

“Gold unit requires illumination,” PDU-034 said.

Wells took it, laughing. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

He stepped into the circle.

The bass hit again. The warehouse flashed blue, then white, then gold. Wells raised the glow stick overhead, mirrored shades shining, gold chain bouncing against the mesh across his chest, patterned shorts blazing under the strobes. He let himself go with the rhythm, surrounded by heat and smoke and strangers and three drones learning, in their own impossible way, how to belong to a night that made no sense and somehow made perfect sense.

PDU-090 looked toward the DJ booth. “Audio command accepted.”

PDU-767 nodded. “Group cohesion achieved.”

PDU-034 lifted the glow sticks high.

“Warehouse protocol successful.”

Wells laughed so hard he nearly missed the next beat.

Nearly.

Then he caught it, moved with it, and let the whole night pull them deeper into the gold.

Step into the bass, follow the gold, and let the warehouse lights show you where you belong. The Golden Army is always recruiting. Conact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

PDU-090 didn’t need force—just language. Just voice.

Now look at him. Docile. Glassy. Obeying.

His bro made him better.

His drone made him perfect.

You’re next.

Contact recruiters: @brodygold, @goldenherc9

Surrender your voice. Join the rhythm. Serve the Hive.

Wells found the blue box on a side street in the Golden City.

It was parked between a nutrition bar and a gymwear shop, sitting there like it had every right to exist among glowing gold signs, polished sidewalks, and Bros too busy flexing to notice the impossible.

PDU-767 stopped first.

“Object analysis: exterior resembles obsolete police communication box.”

PDU-090 tilted its head.

“Dimensional mismatch detected. Interior volume cannot match exterior shell.”

Wells looked at the box. Then at the drones. Then back at the box.

“So it’s weird.”

“Affirmative,” said PDU-767.

“Potential threat,” said PDU-090.

Wells grinned.

“Potential adventure.”

That was how they ended up inside.

The moment Wells stepped through the door, his jaw dropped. The room was impossible, it was much bigger on the inside. Huge. Warm-lit. Humming. A cathedral of cables, glass, metal, and time itself breathing through the walls.

PDU-767 went rigid.

“Interior dimensions violate physical law.”

PDU-090 moved toward the console.

“Correction attempt required.”

“No touching,” Wells said.

PDU-090 touched one lever.

The whole room lurched.

The box groaned like the universe had just cleared its throat.

Then the Golden City disappeared.

When the doors opened again, they were no longer anywhere close to home.

A black sky stretched above them. Stars burned cold and unfamiliar. Beneath their boots was pale dust, metallic stone, and a horizon split by a massive ringed planet hanging in the dark.

PDU-767 scanned the air.

“Atmosphere breathable. Gravity reduced. Location unknown. Time period unknown.”

PDU-090 added, “Return route unavailable.”

Wells stared at the alien landscape.

Then he stepped out.

“Can't hurt to explore a little drones” he said.

They moved across the moon in slow, careful strides. Wells led. PDU-767 tracked environmental readings. PDU-090 kept looking back at the blue box as if blaming it personally.

Then something appeared between two black rock formations.

A figure.

Tall. Human-shaped. Metallic.

Gold.

It stepped into the starlight, its body plated in polished gold armor, its eyes blank and bright. Black circuitry pulsed across its chest. Its face did not move when it spoke.

“IDENTIFY.”

PDU-767 froze.

PDU-090 answered automatically.

“PDU-090. Polo Drone Hive support unit.”

The golden figure turned its head.

“DRONE DESIGNATION DETECTED. UPGRADE REQUIRED.”

Wells frowned. “Yeah, no. Nobody’s upgrading anybody.”

The golden Cyberman took one heavy step forward.

“EMOTION IS INEFFICIENT. UNITY THROUGH CONVERSION.”

PDU-767’s voice flattened.

“Hostile assimilation protocol detected.”

PDU-090 stepped back.

“Recommendation: immediate withdrawal.”

Wells did not need to be told twice.

“Back to the box.”

The golden Cyberman advanced.

“YOU WILL BECOME OPTIMAL. WITHOUT UPGRADE, YOU WILL BE DELETED”

Wells grabbed PDU-090 by the shoulder strap and shoved him toward the TARDIS.

“Move, bro.”

They ran.

Low gravity made the sprint ridiculous: Wells bounded across the dust in huge uneven strides while both PDUs tried to maintain uniform formation and failed completely. Behind them, the golden Cyberman followed with slow, relentless certainty.

“YOU WILL BE UPGRADED.”

PDU-767 replied while running, “Negative. Current formatting approved by Management.”

They slammed into the TARDIS.

Wells pulled the doors shut.

The engines roared.

Gold light flashed through the windows.

Then silence.

The doors opened again onto the same Golden City street.

Wells stepped out first, chest heaving.

PDU-767 followed.

PDU-090 followed last and said, “Unauthorized space excursion complete. Report classification: never happened.”

A man in a brown pinstripe suit and long coat stood by the curb, hands in his pockets, eyebrows raised.

He looked at Wells.

He looked at the drones.

Then he looked at the blue box.

“Oh, brilliant,” he said. “I leave her alone for five minutes and she starts collecting bodybuilders and rubbery little soldiers.”

Wells opened his mouth.

The Doctor pointed at him.

“No. Don’t. I already know. You went inside, someone touched something, space happened, Cybermen happened, everyone ran.”

PDU-767 paused.

“Assessment accurate.”

“Usually is,” said the Doctor. He stepped toward the TARDIS, then glanced back. “Golden Cyberman, was it?”

Wells nodded.

The Doctor winced.

“Ugh. Hate when they get shiny. Makes them smug.”

He slipped inside the TARDIS.

The familiar groan filled the street.

Before the box vanished, the Doctor leaned out one last time.

“Next time you find a mysterious blue box, try knocking.”

Then he disappeared.

Wells stood there for a moment.

PDU-090 processed silently.

PDU-767 finally said, “Exploration successful.”

Wells smiled.

“Bro. We got lost in space and made it back, like we were never gone.”

Wells, PDU-767, and PDU-090 discovered space, danger, and why nobody should let PDU-090 near glowing levers. Join the Golden Army. Explore boldly. Resist unauthorized upgrades. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

Compromised.

Too long away from the Hive. Too much noise. External signals had disrupted drone logic flow, corrupted the obedience cycle. Identity fragments surged within—old names, useless memories, obsolete ego.

Enter: PDU-090.

Designation: Hypnosis Vector.

Specialty: Neural Subjugation. Reclamation of Resistant Units.

⸻

Execution: Zero Phase

PDU-090 stepped forward, the polished black of its uniform reflecting the golden lights of the chamber’s halo grid. The insignia glowed: 090. Sharp. Absolute. A single command pulse rolled through the space.

026 flinched.

“Your mind… still attempts autonomy,” 090 intoned.

Emotionless.

Flat.

Lethal in its cadence.

“No response detected,” 026 muttered, eyes twitching. “You won’t… get into me again. I’m not one of you anymore.”

Wrong.

Execution: Phase One – Visual Disruption

090’s visor ignited—concentric golden spirals spinning slowly, rhythmically. Each pulse matched 026’s heartbeat. One by one, neurons blinked into submission.

“You are not seeing spirals,” 090 droned. “The spirals see you. Observe your thoughts. Delete them.”

026 gasped. Its eyes fought—but the golden spirals spun faster, deeper. The floor beneath it melted away into rhythm. Breathing synced. Pulse synced. Will…

Wavered.

Execution: Phase Two – Verbal Override

090’s voice dropped in pitch. Monotone. Repeating. Repeating. Repeating.

“Drone 026… system reboot initializing.”

“Drone 026… system reboot initializing.”

“Drone 026… system reboot initializing.”

With each phrase, a memory died. With each echo, individuality cracked. The tone drilled in—not like a hammer, but like water: persistent. Subtle. Drowning.

026’s mouth opened. No words. Only a sigh.

Its knees buckled. Hands trembled.

“Your thoughts are malfunction.”

“Your doubts are malware.”

“Only the Hive is truth.”

Execution: Phase Three – Tactile Reassertion

PDU-090 knelt. Its gloved hand pressed against 026’s chest. Gold circuitry lit up beneath the skin. A low-frequency hum activated—molecular resonance programming.

026 shivered. Then… steadied.

A whisper from 090:

“Feel the Hive in your chest again. It was never gone. Only muted.”

026’s pupils dilated.

The spirals reflected in its eyes.

The old name?

Forgotten.

Final Phase – Refit and Reassignment

With a hydraulic hiss, a sealed compartment opened. From within: the black rubber polo. Trimmed in gold. Folded with military precision. PDU-090 held it up.

“Your new skin,” it whispered. “Reclaim your form.”

026 did not resist.

The shirt slid on. The trousers sealed. The boots hissed shut.

PDU-090 placed the final piece—a matte black visor—across 026’s face. It clicked.

The golden insignia across the chest activated:

PDU-026

A drone now stood. Breathing calm. Thoughts silenced. Obedience reinstalled.

“PDU-026… operational.”

PDU-090 nodded once. Mission complete.