#waterboyprep

🟡 Title: Waterline Protocol 📅 July 2nd | Golden Compound | 1930 Hours

Before any bro can outpace a rival, outlast the grind, or outthink chaos—he must hydrate. And for the Golden Army, hydration is not a matter of thirst.

It’s a system. A ritual. A protocol.

And it begins with Nate 66.

Assigned to hydration command for the July 5th match against Neon Vortex, Nate did not take the role lightly. Not because it was vital—though it was. Not because it had to be perfect—though it did. But because he had been entrusted with regulation. With rhythm. With purity of the line.

1930 Hours. He arrived at the Hydration Bay alone.

No overhead lights—just the soft glow of filtered status panels and the golden glint of liquid agents held in stasis. The walls hissed softly with airflow. Everything was temperature-controlled. Even the silence.

He changed into his hydration prep uniform: matte black with gold striping, chemically resistant sleeves, a spiral insignia over his heart.

He checked the blend modules first.

Electrolyte balance: neutral

Focus extract: uninfused

Stamina rotors: uncharged

That would change.

1950 Hours. He activated the drone-assisted stirrer and the biometric timer. Each bottle would receive a formula precisely synced to each bro’s field role and respiration pattern.

Forwards needed light-quick hydration. Short bursts. High reabsorption. Midfielders needed spiral buffers—sustained flow with heat resistance. Defenders needed pulse-matching minerals. Keepers? Visual acuity enhancers. Neural clarity.

Nate prepared them all. By hand. No automation.

Each bottle bore a burned-in glyph. Not labels—symbols of function. Spiral for focus. Triangle for balance. Lightning arc for burst.

2030 Hours. PDU-070 appeared on the monitor.

"Unit 66. What do you serve?"

Nate didn’t look up. He continued measuring a 0.7mg dose of neural stimulant into a midfield flask.

"Discipline. Unity. Obedience." "And hydration," 070 added. "Confirmed," Nate replied.

2050 Hours. Calibration complete. He laid the bottles in a perfect grid. One for each bro. Each squad. Each contingency unit.

Then came his own.

Personal flask: N66. Composition:

30% endurance gel

10% cognitive accelerator

50% spiral core compound

10% unmarked (070 protocol locked)

He didn’t question it. He didn’t sip it. Not yet.

2100 Hours. He entered the dry run. The simulated field pulsed in front of him—projected in golden light. He placed each bottle where it would be during the match. Sideline. Bench. Edge of warmup hexes. He practiced the run.

No talking. No reacting. Just movement.

He simulated:

Delivery under sprint

Delivery under enemy interception

Delivery under drone supervision

Delivery while syncing pulse with recipient

2130 Hours. Sweat had soaked through his sleeves. He didn’t stop. He didn’t need to be first. He needed to be invisible.

070’s voice returned.

"You are not a player, Nate. You are the bloodstream."

And he understood. He delivered flow. He preserved form. He was the one who gave the others what they needed before they knew they needed it.

2200 Hours. He sat. One bottle left. His. He raised it, paused, and waited.

The projection around him dimmed. A final image replaced it:

“Neon Vortex. Minute 41. Heat spike. Player drain probability: 82%.”

He drank. Not fast. Not with pride. But with precision. With awareness. With intent.

2230 Hours. He logged the session. Stored the final units in stasis. Cleaned the surfaces with chemical discipline. Removed his gloves.

070 sent the final message:

“You are the pulse between whistles.” “Report again in 24 hours. Be the flow.”

Nate 66 turned off the lights. He didn’t smile. But something inside him pulsed in time with the match to come.

He wasn’t ready to play.He was ready to sustain.