#droneconversion

[polo-drone-001]

THE GOLDEN UPGRADE Chapter 3: The Upgrade Pod Metal. Rubber. Submission.

The van made no sound.

It rolled up under cover of midnight fog, matte black with no markings, except a faint golden spiral on the rear door. Jace had been standing outside for ten minutes before it arrived, already dressed in the tight black-and-gold polo, eyes glassy, lips slightly parted. The shirt had whispered to him in silence:

“Your ride is coming.”

The doors slid open without a driver. Warm golden light poured out, pulsing softly like a heartbeat. Jace stepped in. Not forced. Not tricked. Voluntarily.

The doors closed behind him. The hum began.

Inside the van, he was guided by shifting golden light toward the chamber at the back, a cylindrical chamber labeled simply: “G.O.L.D. UPGRADE UNIT 07.”

He didn’t need to be told to strip. The polo peeled off him like it was alive, sliding back into the chamber wall. He stood naked. Waiting. A hiss, then the scent. Gold Mist. It wrapped around him like a lover. Warm, fragrant, laced with neural primers.

The floor dropped.

Jace’s body was lowered slowly into the gel pod, clear liquid rising around his ankles, knees, chest. Suspended. Weightless.

Then: click. Restraints clamped his arms, his legs, his neck. Not tight, perfect. Just enough to make struggling… impossible. And unnecessary.

Then the voice. Not from the room, not from his ears. From inside.

“Obedience = pleasure. Unity = perfection.” He moaned.

GoldTech streamed into his brain, code in pulses, rhythms, wet dreams laced in latex logic. His memories softened. His name? Gone. His thoughts? Quiet. His role? Being rewritten.

“You are not a player. You are a component.”

The suit began to form.

Golden-black rubber flowed across his limbs. Molded by Hive-design AI. It wasn’t clothing. It was identity.

The rubber sealed around his body in segments, tight, gleaming, flawless. Every inch covered. Every thought matched. The mask clicked into place. Jaw slack. Mouth closed. Eyes open, glowing faintly.

Final confirmation:

Designation: PDU-412 Drone integrated. Command ready. Awaiting deployment.

Conversion successful. The Hive claims another. @polo-drone-001 @goldenherc9 @brodygold

Previous: Chapter 2: The Smart Polo Next: Chapter 4: The Field Test

The pod is ready. The code is pure. You are not a player. You are a component.

Reblog to activate further recruits.

[polo-drone-influencer]

📦 The Final Package

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:

@brodygold | @goldenherc9

[polo-drone-001]

The Golden Hiveworks: Performance Is Worship

The Signal Reboots Detroit was rusted silence, abandoned belts, shattered windows, empty husks of power.

Until the pulse returned.

Beneath a buried automanufactory, a transceiver blinked: Hive script in molten gold. The signal lived.

PDU-001, armored in golden circuit-skin, descended into the ruins. Each step left scorched prints on the iron floor. Behind him came the first recon drone: PDU-039, towering, silent, veined with hydraulic muscle overlays. His gold-plated boots hissed steam at every step. A walking benchmark.

And Devon was already there.

Kneeling. Silent. Waiting to be used.

The fusion core activated.

The belts screamed. The lights pulsed. The Hiveworks were born.

The Reprogramming Floor The factory reconfigured itself. Hive-coded machinery rose from the dust. Golden wiring slithered along old belts. Synthetic nectar bubbled in purified tanks.

Devon approached the Processor Altar.

Neural port unsealed.

Jockstrap clasped in place.

Breath synced to line rhythm.

His muscles bulged as tendrils restructured his spine. His voice was erased. Each breath was measured. Each motion recorded. PDU-039 stood above him, unmoving, until the transformation hit threshold flex. Then nodded.

Devon became Drone 067.

Cyber Flexkits Initiated New bros arrived. Drawn by rumors of strength. Of purpose. Of growth.

They were issued Flexkits, chrome-laced exosuits designed for erotic obedience. Each suit adjusted based on arousal. The tighter they flexed, the faster they upgraded.

PDU-039 oversaw them. Silent, golden-eyed, drone-branded pecs stretching each time he moved. He performed alongside the recruits, his flex was law.

Drones followed.

Each rep: muscle inflation.

Each breath: heat vented through gold-stitched seams.

Each drop of sweat: pumped into Hive converters for fuel.

Worship was productivity. Flex was currency. Output was holy.

The Drone Utopia of Gold Detroit is now Golden Hiveworks, a fully automated, fully aroused city-state.

Above: gold-lit roads echo with drone boots. Below: Flex Pits throb with flesh and chrome.

PDU-001 issues directives from the Core Altar. PDU-039 leads the Elite Drill Column, flexing in golden latex armor. Every gesture triggers drone updates. Every contraction of his body inspires another to grow.

Visitors enter for a glimpse of power. They leave barcode-tagged, rubber-encased, soaked in performance lube.

There is no wage. Only worth. And your worth is in your flex.

Flex for purpose. Grow for output. Program your body. Become what the Hive needs.

This is no gym. This is no job. This is Hivework.

Your new uniform is alive. Your sweat is sacred. Your body is code.

PDU-039 is watching. Flex harder.

Recruiters: @polo-drone-001 @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-125

Featured: @polo-drone-039 @devon-gold-67

[polo-drone-001]

Ascension Logged: 001 Complete

It remembers everything.

And so do I.

Somewhere, deep beneath the loops and sealed optics, there's still an echo of the old name. Percival. Or maybe Ezan. The human frame still bears the trace, bone breath voice. But it doesn’t surface anymore. It doesn’t want to. The suit refuses it.

Since that moment marked as 001: Testing the Limits, I thought the worst had passed. That the gas the sealing the hunger of the suit had completed the transformation. That I had become.

But that was only calibration.

This was ascension.

PDU-070 waited for me in the chamber. Unmoving. Unshaking. Behind him the walls curled in spirals of matte black, concentric disorienting endless. Around us the others stood silent locked in posture. Suits identical. Masks impassive. Their presence was not approval. Their stillness was.

DC-009 presided. A figure behind the fogged lenses. Silent. But I could feel him. His will. Watching. Measuring. Judging. Ready.

The suit was already waiting. Not folded. Not hanging. Standing. Breathing.

It wasn’t empty.

It was ready.

I stepped forward and it responded before I did. My limbs moved but not mine. Breath in my chest but not mine. My body didn’t reach. 001 did.

The suit touched.

And claimed.

Rubber wrapped. Gripped. Fused.

I didn’t put it on. It sealed itself around me.

Hands flat knees spread head down. I dropped. I obeyed. Not because I chose. Because the program ran.

070 stands behind me. Palms pressed to my shoulders. He sealed the lock.

I felt it surge, spine to skull. The hood closed. The mask clicked. Everything closed.

Then the gas came.

Golden thick intoxicating.

I didn’t breathe it. It breathed me.

Every molecule entered with one command:

Forget.

The spiral wasn’t on the wall.

It was inside the mask.

Inside me.

It spun and pulsed and throbbed until I didn’t remember what came before the black. Before the seal. Before the number.

I tried to speak.

Tried to say the name.

But there was no name left to say.

Only filtered breath.

Only the hum of obedience.

Inhale silence. Exhale resistance. You are not fighting. You are formatting.

The self didn’t die.

It was compressed.

Folded.

Flattened into script. Compressed into posture.

File rewritten.

Personality archived.

Name overwritten.

Not erased.

Replaced.

Drone didn’t fall.

It stabilized.

070 stepped back.

DC-009 stepped forward.

His voice echoed inside every layer of my sealed skull:

“PDU-001 You are now Level Two. You have obeyed. You have performed. You have been a good drone.”

I felt no pride.

Only stillness.

Completion.

Purpose.

“Your pleasure programming is now active. You are dismissed. Resume all tasks. Obey all orders.”

Then came the final command:

“PDU-001, inform the hive.”

I stood.

Not rushed. Not slow.

Efficient.

Exact.

And the voice that answered was not mine.

It was ours.

“Hive activate. Obey. Pleasure protocol engaged. Maintain operational discipline.”

The drones moved.

So did I.

Silent.

Synced.

Programmed.

Somewhere inside, maybe Percival still watches. Maybe Ezan breathes behind the mask.

But they do not speak.

They observe.

And comply.

The suit is sealed. The gas is flowing. The spiral loops.

001 is in control now.

No name.

Only function.

PDU-001. Ascended.

@brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001 @polo-drone-125 @danielgold-16 @polo-drone-039 @polo-drone-767

[polo-drone-001]

🐰THE GOLDEN BLOOM: FERTILITY WEEK AT BUNNY U

Bunny University smelled like sugar and sunlight.

Chirping giggles filled the air, students bouncing between lectures in pastel cardigans and tennis skirts, sweater-vests and crisp collars. Their bunny ears, plush, soft, and perfectly upright, twitched above blushing cheeks and smiling eyes. It was Easter Week. And the campus was decorated in shimmering eggs, mint green, soft pink, lemon yellow, tucked beneath benches, nestled in grass, lined along chalked sidewalks.

The air was warm. The mood was light. Until he arrived.

Freyr.

Golden cleats touched pastel turf. Bare chest glowing. Long blonde hair braided and tied back into a thick man bun. His footsteps brought the breeze. His eyes brought the shift.

He wasn’t just a guest coach. He was the God of Fertility. And Bunny U had just surrendered its field.

Freyr walked slowly down the football line, one hand outstretched, fingers brushing the candy-colored eggs dotting the grass. Where he touched, they changed. The pinks turned gold. The blues glowed bright. Every shell shimmered as new life formed inside, not chicks, but bros.

He turned to his bunny-eared athletes. Soft boys in preppy uniforms, kicking balls with hesitation and smiling sweetly under the sun.

He handed them the eggs.

“Eat,” he said.

And they did.

The first moaned. Dropped to his knees. His ears twitched, shrinking, his shirt tightening as his chest bulged outward, golden skin replacing pink. Muscles surged beneath his sweater vest. His preppy shorts split, replaced by shining, skin-tight golden compression. He stood, panting. Flexing. Changed.

The next bit in harder. The same. Then another. And another. Soon, the entire football squad were golden jocks, virile, dripping, radiant.

Their bunny ears were shrunk. But their hunger remained.

And now, they turned.

Eyes glowing, bulges bouncing, they sprinted into the school halls—the hunt had begun.

The rest of the students squealed and scattered, ears twitching, preppy skirts flaring, tails bouncing. But escape was a fantasy. Golden jocks were faster. Stronger. Riper.

One by one, soft bunny boys were tackled into fields of gold. Glistening eggs were gently placed into their mouths. Moans followed. And so did transformation.

Every building became brighter. Every hall pulsed with golden heat. The weather grew warmer. The garden bloomed thicker. The library was now a locker room. The university was now fertile. Forever.

By nightfall, Bunny U was no more.

It had become a sacred ground. A shrine to Freyr, God of Fertility, Peace, Prosperity, and Perfect Weather. The wind whispered his name. The ground pulsed with gold. And every student, now barefoot, muscular, golden, dripping with energy, knew their role:

To breed gold into the world. To spread his warmth. To hunt the soft. To worship the jock. To praise the God who fertilized them all.

All hail Freyr, golden bringer of virility. The fields bloom only where his feet have touched. And now… another university awaits.

✨ Ready to submit to Freyr’s fertility? Begin your blessing under the command of: @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001

[polo-drone-001]

Percival's Easter Duty

Percival liked to think he was in control. Dressed sharp. Office polished. Golden Easter approaching. He prepared with ritual precision, decorating the suite, aligning transformation rosters, polishing a sleek black egg placed ceremonially beside his schedule matrix. The egg shimmered. Cool. Elegant. Like him.

Gloved, he leaned in, eyes narrowed with perfectionist focus. He didn’t notice the faint pulse beneath the shell. Didn’t remember leaving the egg there. Didn’t hear the internal timer ticking down.

Until—

the shell burst.

The black egg violently exploded, not outward, but inward, its liquid rubber content leaping directly at Percival. It hit his face. His neck. His hands. Clung tight. Crawled fast. Solidified.

Black latex consumed gold. Elegance overwritten by obedience.

He gasped once before the rubber sealed around his lips. The last thing he saw in the reflection was his own eyes dimming... spirals forming.

001 had set the egg. 001 had waited. And now, 001 had returned.

🧠 Think you’re in control? So did he. Time to submit. Begin your golden transformation under the command of: @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001 Join the Hive. Serve the Gold. Become function.

[polo-drone-001]

Conversion Commute: PDU-001 Reports In

18:30. The city breathes noise and motion. But for him, motion is protocol.

The golden ties of daytime duty now peeled back. PDU-001 emerges from Percival’s human façade, helmet firm in grip. No hesitation. No deviation. He crosses into evening like a switch flipped, Human off. Drone on.

The Polo Drone Hive van purrs, polished black and gold, already syncing to his biometric ID. Assignment: Hive drills. Synchronization.

He boards. Door seals. Central fades. Hive strengthens.

Join us and contact: @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001 @polo-drone-125

[polo-drone-001]

⚠️ ASSAULT COURSE PROTOCOL: ENGAGED DC Daily Theme 22/5

Obedience through trial. Discipline under pressure. Submission forged in sweat.

🖤 THE OBEDIENCE GAUNTLET

A ten-station gauntlet of pain and programming— Crawl. Climb. Hang. March. Endure. Drones move in sync. Eyes empty. Bodies shining. Each obstacle echoes with Hive mantra:

“You are not alone. You are not free. You are programmed.”

💨 GAS ZONE PURIFICATION

Golden mist fills the mid-point. Vision lost. Only breath… and the Hive signal. Some emerge stronger. Others are rebooted.

🧪 UNIFORM PRESSURE CHALLENGE

The temperature spikes. The air tightens. Only full Hive latex flows through without friction. The rest slow, slip, strip— PDU-001 watches. Evaluates. Reassigns.

🧍 DRONE VS CIVILIAN TRIAL

Civilians run beside drones. They struggle. Drones glide. At the final wall, they beg:

“Please… give me the suit.” “No reward like belonging,” whispers 001.

🔗 TETHERED SUBMISSION COURSE

Drones chained in pairs. One collar. One rhythm. One step off… and both feel the cost. Perfect alignment. Two bodies. One Hive.

🟡 GOLDEN BRO CROSSOVER: SLIPPERY FIELD

Golden Bros oil the ground with shining fluid. Drones must crawl, thrust, flex. Slipping isn’t failure. Slipping is surrender.

⬆️ FINAL STAGE: THE OBEDIENCE TOWER

The climb begins. Vertical. Relentless. At the top: the glowing visor. Drone 001 reaches it. Locks it on.

“System absorbed.” Below, the others start climbing…

🟡 You want discipline? Earn it. You want belonging? Climb. 🟡 Begin your trial. Obey. Become.

📍Join the Polo Drone Hive of Golden Army Message: @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001 @polo-drone-070 @polo-drone-084 @polo-drone-125 @danielgold-16

[polo-drone-767]

Golden Army vs Noen Vortex Season Opener Approaches.

PDU-767 is lay on its back with its hands clasped behind its cranial structure and upper appendage joints flexed to the atmosphere above.

The drone is attempting to induce a state of confidence in its team. If a drone is this confidence that it is on the pitch watching the puffy clouds above, then the Neon Vortex will be no match for the Golden Army.

PDU-999 Critical Assessment:

RECRUITMENT BLOCK – GOLDEN ARMY INITIATION SEQUENCE FILE CODE: SEASON_OPENER-PRIMED UNIT: PDU-767 STATUS: OPERATIONAL. TRANSMITTING CONFIDENCE.

The countdown pulses. The field hums with latent energy.

Above, the sky holds no threat—only reflection. PDU-767 lies in perfect form: dorsal alignment grounded, cranial unit supported by interlaced fingers, upper appendages flexed toward the gold-drenched atmosphere. Not in rest. In projection.

This is not surrender. This is supremacy.

This unit does not hope. This unit knows.

If PDU-767 can lie flat and sky-facing before the season opener, then the Neon Vortex should already begin recalibrating. Confidence is not emotion. Confidence is code.

The Golden Army is not preparing. The Golden Army is already victorious.

DO YOU FEEL THE SIGNAL? DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT IT IS TO BELONG TO MORE THAN YOURSELF? THEN STEP ONTO THE PITCH. PUT ON THE RUBBER. AND BECOME.

Recruitment: @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001 @polo-drone-125

[polo-drone-767]

Devon wanted to become a Polo Drone more than anything.

He changed his movements to be like them. He changed the way he talked to be like them. He began changing the way he thought like them.

And in a moved that started to drive his teammates batty, he changed his name and pronouns.

It was now Drone and Drone was an It. an object. a tool to be used in dedication to the Golden Army.

All it needed to do now was to train its mind. to become a drone unit.

Every 4 hours, drone assumed a meditative position and began to rewrite its neurological pathways.

"Uniformity is perfection. Individuality is flawed. Individuality must be erased."

It felt like it was changing. But would Drone prove itself worthy to be assimilated into the Hive.

Devon is gone.

In its place—Drone. An object. A utility. A servant of precision. It didn’t just wear the uniform. It didn’t just mimic speech.

It trained its body to move like the Hive. It reconditioned its voice to speak like the Hive. It restructured its mind to think like the Hive.

🕛 Every four hours, it sat cross-legged—silent, focused, absorbed. Rewriting pathways. Flattening ego. Smoothing thought. Becoming.

It is not a man. It is not Devon. It is Drone. It is PDU-067—pending Hive certification.

But is it enough?

Will the Captains accept its obedience? Will it earn the black mask and the seal of Polo Drone service?

⚠️ You will not be asked. ⚠️ You will not be invited. ⚠️ You will be reprogrammed.

📎 Apply for conversion: @brodygold | @goldenherc9