#rubberuniform

Welcome to Obeycation Retreat. Your last free thought was yesterday.

🏕️ Arrival Processing Zone Bamboo breeze. Casual bros. Black duffels zipped with destiny.

🔥 Campfire Indoctrination Shirtless. Silent. Staring. The audio plays. The mantra melts.

🏄 Drone Surf Class Balance. Breathe. Obey. Waves crash—but protocol holds.

🛏 Cabin Conversion Golden flickers. Empty beds. Uniforms already worn. PDU-001 waits at the door.

🏊 Poolside Submission Rubber gleams beneath the sun. Loungers lay still. Collars click.

They came for sun and play. They left with polished minds and black latex skin. Camp Convertus is open. And there is no checkout.

Mode: ⚫ Polo Drone Mode Status: Emotion Simulation ON Subject: PDU-001 (Percival Unit) + Companion (Human boyfriend)

Drone 001 initializing… leisure mode.

Destination: intimacy. Obedience… suspended. Core remains sealed in rubber. The protocol was clear. One day. Four scenes. Companion selected. Affection simulated. Rubber untouched.

This unit does not feel.

But he smiles. Therefore… this unit tries.”

Engaging cultural protocol… bite accepted.

Comfort level: rising. Processing… affection.”

Simulation ends.

Affection remains. Rubber remains. Unit… remains.

🧠 Indoctrination Infiltrates All Systems—Even Rest. Emotion = Interface. Latex = Core. Love = Compliance.

PDU-001 stands at the steel counter, black rubber polo tight, thick, smooth, and glossy, trimmed in gold, 001 blazing on his chest. The knife rises and falls with metronomic calm. Strawberries align to regulation angles. Pineapple cubes measured, exact. Kiwi rounds, flawless. Blueberries audited by weight and shine. The kitchen hums under bright task-lights as other numbered drones observe in silence, hands clasped behind rubber backs.

Breath steady. Shoulders square. The drone’s gaze never drifts. Food is fuel; fuel is function. Each slice is a command accepted, a thought trimmed down to purpose. The bowl fills with color like a signal beacon, yellow for sustained drive, green for cellular repair, blue for recovery, red for immediate focus. The discipline that cuts marble, prunes hedges, restores fresco, now applied to fruit. Order tastes clean.

“Strawberries: rapid Vitamin-C uptake. Pineapple: antioxidant flush. Kiwi: K-line integrity. Blueberries: fiber for steady throughput.” He stirs once, clockwise, precise, so every serving contains identical ratios. The visor of the Level-2 helmet rests on the counter beside him, a silent promise: suit on, mind tighter, mission sharper.

Bowls are portioned and issued. 001’s gloved hand presents the final serving to the front drone, a nod that doubles as command. They eat together, uniform bites, uniform tempo, fuel synchronizing cadence. The Hive doesn’t just train bodies; it maintains them with ritual. In the polished curve of the bowl, drones glimpse themselves, ordered, glossy, united. The taste is sweet. The lesson is stricter. Obedience begins with what is chosen to sustain it.

In the heart of the Hive’s greenhouse, the Polo Drones work in silence. The air is thick with the scent of growth and rubber, plants twisting upward as if guided by unseen hands. At their center moves PDU-001, his golden eyes unblinking, his black latex polo gleaming in the filtered light. Every motion is deliberate, every touch upon the leaves precise.

By day, he tends the garden, gloved hands watering, pruning, shaping life into order. By night, he dons the full helmeted suit, clipping hedges into the laurel crest of the Hive, flames of golden dust erupting from the ritual barrel marked 001. His presence is both creation and control, ensuring that nothing grows wild, only as the Hive demands.

The other drones watch, numbered chests reflecting the light, their silence an echo of his discipline. No words are needed. Growth is obedience. Order is perfection. In this garden, individuality withers, and only unity blooms.

001 bends, rises, cuts, waters, his movements not just horticultural, but ritual. The garden thrives because it obeys. The drones thrive because they obey. All under the watch of their Head Office Manager, their Emir, their living proof that submission brings life.

Under the dim museum lights, the Polo Drones gather in silence. Numbered chests gleam, their glossy forms waiting in reverence. At the center moves PDU-001, his golden-marked polo tight against his muscular frame. His gloved hands are precise, whether applying solvent to fresco, stitching fractures into marble, or laying sheets of gold upon a laurel frame.

Each task is ritual. Each stroke a command. Each repair an act of discipline. The museum breathes under his control, its broken relics resurrected by Hive technique. Statues long cracked stand whole again. Frescoes pulse with new color. Frames blaze with gold leaf, glowing like the eternal crest of the Hive.

Drones observe in silence, their mirrored faces reflecting his work. They understand: to restore art is to restore order. To gild, to polish, to resurrect, it is all obedience. Just as he restores stone and paint, the Hive restores minds and bodies. 001 shows them that beauty emerges only through surrender, perfection forged only by the hand of discipline.

The past bows. The present submits. The Hive endures.