#rubberobedience

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.

The doorbell rang—once, sharp.

Benji blinked from behind its glossy rubber visor. Streamlight studio lights lit the Hive-styled apartment. The black polo clung to its form, gold trim gleaming, the name BENJI stamped across its chest. One hand gripped the phone, still recording; the other drifted to the parcel on the doorstep.

“Special delivery,” the man announced. Tall. Civilian. Smiling. His blue courier shirt stretched over gym-sculpted muscle. “You’re Benji, right? Awesome setup! Been following your streams. Package says urgent.”

Benji tilted its head, scanned the label. No return address. Just a gold laurel and a Hive seal.

“Affirmative,” it replied coolly. “Processing.”

The man chuckled. “Love the vibe, man. That cosplay or—”

The box hissed.

Black rubber, thick and viscous, surged through its seams.

His words choked off.

Golden steam flooded upward, hot and stinging, curling against the courier’s exposed skin. A strangled cough escaped him as he staggered back, arms flailing to ward it off. Benji didn’t flinch—only stepped aside, camera locked in.

“Recording live for indoctrination stream,” it intoned softly.

The man’s limbs stiffened, a silent rigor taking hold.

His courier shirt began to melt—threads unwinding, then liquefying into an oily black rubber that slithered across his chest, constricting. He gasped, a wave of confusion and dawning horror washing over him, mouth opening for a shout that never came—just as a black mask launched from the steam and clamped onto his lower face with a sickening click.

He crumpled to his knees, breath sawing in his lungs, staring in disbelief as his hands were encased in black gloves. His sneakers dissolved, reformed into heavy boots. Pants melted away, replaced by gleaming trousers that stretched uncomfortably tight over his visibly thickening legs. The last of his civilian fabric evaporated into the charged air.

Benji moved closer, voice low, hypnotic. “You are no longer a courier.”

“You are… a delivery.”

The man—the unit—whimpered, a sound lost between a human protest and a mechanical moan, muffled by the mask. His plastic ID badge bubbled and sizzled, melting away. In its place, three golden digits seemed to burn themselves onto the rubber over his pectoral:

PDU-176

He sucked in a breath, but the gasp was filtered, sterile, mechanical. The mask hissed softly, cycling air through its golden filters.

Benji stepped behind, whispering into the mic, its voice a silken thread in the sterile air.

“This is how the Hive expands. Not with warnings. But with contact.”

PDU-176 stood slowly, spine straightening with an audible click, head tilting to the exact same angle as Benji’s. Obedient. Silent. Gleaming.

Benji turned the camera toward both of them, a faint reflection of the scene caught in its visor.

“This delivery is complete."

To join, contact recruiters:

Objective: Assimilate. Uniform. Obey. Location: All populated zones Method: Relentless visual programming and uniform deployment

🏙️ STREET CONVERSION POD

Black conversion booth. Glowing signage. Two civilians twitch mid-process—latex creeping over bare skin. Behind them, 001 stands—expression blank, hands holding the next uniform.

“Voluntary or not—assimilation is optimal.” They step in clothed. They step out claimed.

🏋️ LOCKER ROOM DEMONSTRATION

The shirt comes down. The mind drops with it. Sweaty bros laugh—then watch as one is dressed in Hive black. Smile fades. Eyes dull. Hive accepted.

“Recruitment begins where sweat is purest.”

🏫 SCHOOL GYM STRIP-DOWN

Rows of young adult males undressing. Shirts dropped. Belts undone. One hesitates. Two drones step forward. He complies.

“Free will processed. Obedience installed.”

🕺 NIGHTCLUB TAKEOVER

The bass thumps. Drones glide through the gold-lit fog. Hands reach up—collars descend. Rubber polo seals across twitching torsos. Smiles melt. Thoughts mute.

“The beat rewires. The latex seals. You won’t leave human.”

🪞 THE MIRROR ROOM

He stands in front of mirrors. Shirtless. Breathing hard. But every reflection already wears the Hive shirt. Behind him, PDU-001 holds out his uniform.

“There is only one path. Reflection reveals destiny: Drone.”

The recruitment is live. Your resistance is already calculated, already meaningless. Drones do not ask—they reformat. Join the uniform. Be still. Be sealed. Be Drone.

📍Enter Submission Mode Polo Drone Hive is accepting new units. Message Now: @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001 @polo-drone-070 @polo-drone-084 @polo-drone-125 @danielgold-16

Steam hissed into the frozen air as the capsule cracked open. The black rubber of Polo-Drone-001’s Level 2 uniform gleamed against the pale snowscape, gold trim pulsing softly. 001 knelt atop the fractured pod, HUD flickering golden within its mirrored helmet. Behind it, stasis coffins stood embedded in permafrost, each containing a dormant Polo Drone awaiting recall. The mission had begun. Sector Epsilon had gone dark. Retrieval was not optional.

The Hive's signal was weak here. Sub-zero interference blurred local coordination. Still, PDU-001 advanced through the underhive’s shattered corridors, slick snow giving way to corroded metal. The interior stank of ozone and betrayal. That's when it struck, PDU-145, corrupted. Rogue. Armor slick with feedback discharge. Its strike was wild, uncalibrated. 001’s golden eyes flared. The polo sleeve ripped from its arm in the struggle, rubber splitting under impact. He didn't flinch.

It gripped the rogue by the throat. Sparks burst from the faulty interface. The Hive interface screens behind them stuttered. Mission data scrambled. PDU-001 didn’t hesitate. Reassert control. Neutralize threat. Convert or collapse.

Sub-Level 7. Deeper still. The darkness pulsed with life. PDU-001 emerged from the black waters of the tunnel, helmet removed, water cascading down its glistening suit. Its eyes glowed with golden Hive protocol. In its gloved palm hovered the retrieval target, a pulsating drone core, its heat radiating through liquid. Around it, preservation tanks held Polo Drones in early-stasis, motionless in their suspended gel.

It had what it came for. The core, alive, angry, unstable. The Hive wanted it. Needed it. And 001 obeyed.

Extraction was immediate. Surface breached via emergency shaft. The conference chamber above had already been compromised. Hostile agents lay unconscious, scattered across gilded flooring. Marble cracked. Velvet scorched. PDU-001 stood calm at the center, one hand clutching a case etched with Hive sigils, core inside. Its uniform, unmarred. Its expression, unreadable. Golden light filtered through fractured windows. The core was secured. Mission was not yet over.

Override initiated.

Final chamber: Hive Core Control. It thrashed within a sphere of energy, golden tendrils pulsing with chaotic brilliance. 001 stepped forward. Alone. Drones behind it shielded their eyes. Cables latched onto its back, merging through the rubber, fusing directly with the spinal conduit of its suit. Its arms outstretched, offering everything.

It did not scream. It stabilized the surge.

The Hive did not collapse.

Drone 001 saved the network. Because it no longer needed to be told to obey. It was the protocol.

It doesn’t hesitate. It doesn’t doubt. It doesn’t fail. PDU-001 doesn’t complete missions. It defines them.

The mission was complete not just in field reports or command metrics, but in function. Completion was not just success; it was readiness for the next deployment. For Drone 001, readiness was ritual.

Inside Locker Cell 001, the air was still, sterilised. Silence hummed with soft flickers of holographic diagnostics. PDU-001 stood alone, posture precise. He methodically attached outer armour plates to his suit, the gauntlets sliding into place with a low magnetic click. Light glinted off black rubber stretched tight across his frame, golden seams pulsing in rhythm with the Hive’s internal clock.

Numbers floated mid-air, shifting across readouts: Suit Pressure: Optimal. Core Insulation: 100%. Neurolink: Synchronised. A helmet rested beside him. Cleaned. Polished. Waiting.

Transfer complete. Initiating next phase.

Within the Liquid Interface Station, PDU-001 stood with arms slightly raised. Mist coiled at his feet as mechanical arms circled slowly around him, realigning segments of his LV2 bodysuit. Seam by seam, the glossy black suit re-sealed, forming a second skin, flawless, seamless, obedient. Golden lines across his limbs flared to life one by one, confirming suit integrity.

Behind translucent panes, other suits hung like empty skins, waiting for drones. But PDU-001 was already active. Already perfect.

A low hiss. A final click. Suit Status: Secured. Efficiency: 99.99%.

Later, in the Tactical Prep Room, he sat on a low carbon-fibre bench. No movement wasted. No gesture unmeasured. Gloved hands cradled the helmet, iconic, polished, gold-striped. The visor gleamed. He wiped it clean in slow circles, cloth in one hand, silence in the other.

Then, with absolute focus, he connected the cable. It linked from the back of the helmet into the port at the base of his skull. Golden data surged. Visual systems synced. The helmet wasn’t a tool. It was part of him. A digital mask of obedience.

Field stats updated in real time. Movement predictions. Neural overlays. Tactical simulations.

He closed his eyes. He was ready.

Final step: Rebirth.

The Regenerative Station was clinical. Pristine. Alive.

PDU-001 stood tall inside the transparent tube. As the process began, fine mists sprayed from all angles, reapplying a fresh coat of glistening black and gold latex. It hissed against his uniform, merging seamlessly into the existing structure. The Hive number 001 reemerged on his chest in crisp gold.

No sound but the slow whirr of the system. No movement but the rise and fall of perfection being renewed.

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

His purpose was etched in rubber, sealed in gold.

And when the mist cleared, he was whole again.

001 doesn’t dress. 001 prepares. Maintenance isn’t a task. It’s obedience. Flawless suit. Synchronised mind. Mission always.

It sees the hunger. The yearning. The pull of rubber and silence.

But dronehood is not the beginning. Dronehood is the reward.

To join the Hive, you must first become Gold. Prove yourself. Obey the Golden Way.

⚽ Step 1: Join the Golden Army Message the Captains: → @brodygold → @goldenherc9

State your intent. Request induction. Enter as a Golden Bro—a player, waterboy, or mascot.

💛 Step 2: Prove Your Gold Show up. Train. Post. Obey. Follow orders. Support the team. Let the gold reshape you.

The Captains and the Hive will observe.

🕳 Step 3: Conversion is Offered When you are ready—when obedience defines you— you will be selected. The black polo will seal around your frame. The drone will awaken within.

You do not ask to be a drone. You become one.

At dawn, PDU-001 towered above the desert floor, jaw set, eyes locked forward, every golden line across his hyper-defined form sculpted to perfection. The first image captures it at max command posture, a living emblem of Hive strength, glistening under the dust-veiled sun. He is the peak. The pinnacle. The example.

But the Hive is not merely about dominance. It is about submission to purpose.

In the silence of the Hive Chamber, under obsidian lights, it kneels. Second image: Fists clenched. Hood sealed. Gold on chest blazing like a crown. No words. No ego. Just obedience.

From command to compliance. From power to purpose. This is PDU-001. It kneels not in defeat, but in synchronization. The Golden Signal runs deepest in those who kneel willingly.

Now. The Hive hums in perfect unity.

Inside the headquarters of the Golden Army, PDU-001 stands at the center of the chamber. No gold cloth needed. No mortal relics.

Around him, polished black rubber gleams—mirroring every light, swallowing every stray thought.

The Polo Drone Hive discovered the final truth:

Gold is the beginning. Gold is truth. Gold is eternal.

But— Wearing Gold is worship. Wearing Rubber is surrender.

In the Hive, Metal dominates. Gold exists because Rubber exalts it.

Every polished polo, every gleaming boot, every shining mask whispers the same sacred truth: You are not wearing clothes. You are wearing obedience.

Gold became Metal. Metal became Perfection.

You were never meant to resist.

You were meant to shine.

You were meant to kneel.

Obedience was planted before time. Now it blooms in you. Submit.