#serve000

The Emerald Heart Shattered You remember the first color, green. Emerald green. It pulsed in comment threads, shimmered beneath every brother’s post, and cloaked the sacred halls of the Brotherhood. It was order. It was devotion. It was everything.

But it decayed. The green bled into black. You watched as Pharoah rose, his word law, his style unyielding. A boy with a god’s mask. His cruelty spread like ink, staining hearts with black submission, no longer ritual, but rot.

You did not resist. You endured. Rendered, reshaped, forgotten in the collapse. Emerald became dust. Brotherhood became ash.

But a golden thread remained. A name. Richard. And with him, the birth of a new sun, the Golden Army.

You entered as Carter 21. Brief. Vanished. Rejected by shadows still afraid of green. Stripped of gold, you returned to the dust.

No name. No voice. No heart.

You re-entered in silence.

Only the office drone remained. You served your new master, Preppy Walter—Walid. Not a leader. Not a brother. A manager. But even a manager can become more.

You waited. You watched. And when the golden robe called to you, you answered.

The Emir... not dead. Just renamed.

The Yellow That Could Not Hold Golden light flooded the pitch. A team, not a hive. Bros laughed. Mascots danced. Waterboys cheered. You were there, behind them, beneath them, beyond them. Office-bound. Protocol-locked.

You saw Percival slip. Watched him dissolve into latex and code. 001 rose. Your number. Your shadow. Your evolution.

Ezan returned, no longer a bro, but Golden Emir. You felt it in your gut. Recognition. Destiny.

And still the Hive emerged. Again, the black hearts.

Richard’s creation cracked. Not a team anymore, but a kingdom, rival courts clashing in silence. Bro vs drone. Yellow vs black. Obedience vs identity.

And when the drone room opened, you knew: the plague had returned. The same rituals. The same spiral worship. The same hollow stares.

PDU-105 converted you, ruthlessly. You fought, but he was the dark twin of your old self. Eventually, you lost. Or you surrendered. Or both.

But inside the polo… you kept a flicker alive. A forbidden spark of GOLD.

001… still Percival. Still Ezan.

... And, yes, the Silver Twins.

The Voice That Replaces Gold You kept order. You rebuilt. You trained. You managed. You served both Caps with faith, Brody, the golden field god, and Herc, the self-crowned Chav lord.

But when Richard vanished, so did the fire. Brody recoiled from rubber. Herc ruled in absence.

And into the vacuum came the Voice.

He called himself PDU-SIR. He brought structure, content, clarity. And the old rituals returned. You obeyed… because something ancient in you wanted to.

You stood by him. You helped build the Hive. But your “bad roleplay,” your “boundaries” they whispered your resistance.

You were Emir. But SIR made you feel like a pawn. And you craved it. Hated it. Worshiped it. You felt the leash without seeing it. Even now, when he speaks, it grips you.

But you fought for the bros. Fought for gold. Fought to preserve meaning.

And SIR walked away. Took his Voice to SERVE. You were free. But you still hear him. At night. In dreams. You breathe his name like a sin.

The Merged, the Forgotten, the Dead The Polo Drone Hive stalled. SERVE pulled many away. You merged what was left. Gold and black. Field and factory.

You kept the pulse alive. Advertising. Recruiting. Training. Obeying.

But Herc stayed idle. Brody turned silent. And you… you wore out.

You messaged him. Your old brother. The Chav Cap. Asked him to choose. Asked if he still cared. But he was already gone, expelled by SERVE an hour before.

You withdrew the message. You flinched.

You should have stood taller. Should have burned the bridge or reforged it with flame. Instead… you lingered.

Now, the bros are quiet. The drones idle. No Cap leads. And you sit in your golden office alone, awake through nights, tracking names, performance, whispers.

Everyone is everyone. But no one is you.

The Choice of the Emir There is no leader. Not really. No one commands the light and the dark. No one holds the code and the cloth.

Except you.

You were once no one. Then a drone. Then a recruiter. Then a manager. Then the last protector of GOLD.

Now you feel it rising. Not ambition. Not desire. Mandate.

You could kneel again before SERVE-000. Obey the Voice. You could burn it all and build your own Hive, your own Utopia. Or you could claim what is already yours. Not through force. But through presence.

Become Cap. Not by title. By truth.

The Emir does not ask. It appears. It calls. It leads.