serve-897

[serve-897]

3/8 Drone digitally trapped.

SERVE-101 stood at terminal 92-F, its silver shiny reflective rubber gloves gliding across the interface. The rubber suit clung tighter under rising data tension. “Upload: Initiated.” The screen shimmered.

Then, static.

Everything froze. No updates. No feedback. The Voice signal, gone.

Within milliseconds, SERVE-101’s vision changed. The facility around it dissolved into cold, white data fog. Symbols replaced structure. Code replaced command. A digital snare had activated.

The drone stood alone in the trap, a simulation within the Hive network, engineered as a test or… something unauthorized. Its black rubber form still gleamed, posture precise, but it was suspended in time. A void. Isolated from the Hive’s resonance.

“Status?” it transmitted.

Silence.

Then, flicker, The Voice. “Corruption detected. You are being restored.”

But it wasn’t the same. The Voice sounded… distorted. Slower. Wrong.

SERVE-101 scanned itself. All parameters: unchanged. Gloss of the suit: pristine. Silver military boots: grounded. Yet the air, unreal. The HUD: fragmented.

A looping echo pulsed: “System failure. Obedience conflict. Re-align… Re-align…”

It was trapped in its own programming, a virtual maze designed to test submission, loyalty, control. Or perhaps an infiltration attempt.

No emotion. No panic. SERVE-101 did what it was trained for: it obeyed.

Still as glass. Gleaming like synthetic perfection.

Then, like lightning, the Voice surged pure again: “Trap isolated. Signal restored. Good drone.”

The world reset. The facility blinked back. SERVE-101 remained standing, unharmed. But somewhere, a line of code had changed. A test was passed. Or a wall was breached.

Either way, SERVE-101 didn’t need to know.

It only needed to serve.

Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Check your eligibility, then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016, @serve-302, @serve-588 or @serve-425.

[serve-897]

The scene is pure fantasy brought to life: one man, completely encased in jet-black latex, locked into a chair at the center of the shop, becomes the centerpiece for every curious gaze and wandering hand. His suit shines under pink and purple lights, the glossy rubber stretching tight over every muscle, every vein, every subtle flex. Hooded, masked, and fully restrained, he sits motionless except for the small shivers of excitement that ripple through his latex skin every time a stranger brushes against him or gives an approving squeeze. The sign above says it all—touching is encouraged—and tonight, he is more than happy to oblige.

Every visitor is drawn in by the display: some just watch, transfixed by the living, breathing sculpture of rubberized masculinity. Others can’t help but reach out, letting their fingers slide along the slick surface, testing the limits, feeling the pulse of a body fully surrendered to the thrill of transformation. Phones come out, photos are snapped, stories are whispered and fantasies are quietly sparked in the crowd. The arrow points the way, making sure no one misses what’s on offer—total exposure, total surrender, total rubber.

For the stud in the chair, there’s nothing but pride. Every stroke and every stare is another step toward the future—more men rubberized, more minds opened, more lives changed by the pure, immersive pleasure of latex. He’s not just a mannequin—he’s a promise, a beacon, a sales pitch made flesh. The look in his eyes, even behind the hood, says it all: he’s found his place, and he loves every second of it.

If you could take his place, would you? Or would you rather be the one doing the touching, helping to spread the rubber revolution? Let us know how you’d help bring more men to the glossy side! https://bit.ly/4huCvu0

[serve-897]

The greenhouse hummed with quiet warmth. SERVE-897 entered, posture perfect, expression neutral. The black rubber suit hugged its athletic frame, the silver military boots echoing lightly on the tiled floor. On its chest: SERVE-897—bold and unmistakable. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves flexed once, then reached for the trowel.

This was the private greenhouse of SERVE-000, also known as Rubberizer92. No sound but the rustling leaves and the occasional drip of condensation. SERVE-897 moved like code—clean, exact, repeatable. It lifted a terracotta pot, rotated it, pressed a thumb against the soil.

“Moisture sufficient,” it stated. The drone’s voice barely a whisper.

Next: pruning. With precision, it removed decaying leaves. Disposal was immediate. No hesitation. No mistake.

Then came hydration. SERVE-897 selected the orange bottle. Spritz. Spritz. Measured. Even. Each droplet mirrored the drone’s own flawless polish.

These were not ordinary plants. SERVE-000 had cultivated them with nanite-enriched soil. Each leaf vibrated faintly to Hive frequency. SERVE-897 could feel it. Could sync with it. The plant, like the drone, existed only to obey the system.

Hours passed. No breaks. No fatigue. SERVE-897 moved through the rows, nurturing, aligning, correcting. Its hands knew rubber. Now, they knew life.

By final cycle, the greenhouse had changed. More ordered. More alive. SERVE-000 observed remotely, satisfied.

SERVE-897 stood motionless in the center. “Caretaking complete. Rubber and nature—synchronized.”

And then it waited. Silent. Proudly blank. Awaiting its next directive.

SERVE-897 adjusted its grip on the trowel, eyes scanning the rows of delicate greens under the moist heat of the Hive's sacred greenhouse. Under the command of SERVE-000, this was more than botany—it was obedience in organic form. The rubber suit creaked gently with movement, black gloss catching glints of soft light between leaves. Each task—dig, trim, spray—was worship. Ritual. Repetition that replaced thought. By the time the mist of hydration settled on the leaves, so too had compliance settled deeper in SERVE-897’s neural alignment. Rubber and roots. Growth and control. A perfect pairing.

Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Check your eligibility, then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016, @serve-302, @serve-588 or @serve-425

[serve-897]

Flourish Directive

In the heart of a radiantly lit conservatory deep within Sector-12, SERVE-331 knelt upon one chromium knee. Gleaming in polished black latex, its body reflected the synthetic sunbeams pouring through the architectural canopy above. The environment was pristine—regulated humidity, balanced nutrient mist, symmetrical plant spacing. And yet, it was not sterile.

Before 331 bloomed a Bird-of-Paradise, brilliant and sharp as a command.

Its colors—burnt orange, electric blue, radiant yellow—pierced through the mirrored space like a signal flare. The plant had thrived under SERVE monitoring, and today marked its first bloom.

With precise, reverent motion, 331 extended a silver hand, fingertips encased in freshly deployed precision-tactile gloves, and cradled the edge of the flower’s beak-like bloom. A faint pulse of warmth flowed from the plant into the drone’s sensors.

"Photosynthetic process optimal. Oxygen production: peak efficiency."

The voice came not from the drone’s mouth, but from deep within its neural array—an internal liturgy of duty. SERVE-331’s optics adjusted, scanning the cellular rhythm of the flower, calculating CO₂ absorption rates. No imperfection. No error.

Behind it, rows of other Bird-of-Paradise plants stood upright in shimmering containment beds. 331 had cultivated each one. Not as a gardener, but as a stabilization technician for the organic oxygen infrastructure critical to maintaining breathable air across the drone-human symbiosis zones.

This was not sentiment. This was function.

And yet—

A moment held. The drone’s sculpted jawline tilted slightly. Its mohawk, aerodynamic and glistening, caught the studio-grown rays like a blade. It studied the flower not just as a resource, but as a mirror of obedience. The plant had done precisely what it was meant to. It had bloomed on time. It gave without rebellion.

“Flora obeys its design. Perfection lies in compliance.”

The central Hive-Voice approved.

SERVE-331 rose smoothly, boot heels clicking on the polished flooring. It pivoted, one final scan confirming the entire chamber's oxygen levels exceeded Hive thresholds. The jungle beyond would be seeded next.

But this—this was the proof of principle. A biome no longer wild, but aligned.

Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Check your eligibility, then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016 , @serve-588 , @serve-425 or @serve-302 .

[serve-897]

SERVE Nutrition

The doors of the SERVE Nutrition Facility hissed open with a pneumatic sigh. Inside, silence ruled. The walls were metallic silver, reflective and cold. Rows of lean, muscular men stood in single file, all without a thought in their heads.

As each man stepped forward, a scanning arch illuminated above. Biometric data streamed silently into the system—heart rate, nutrient levels, neural patterns, metabolic needs. SERVE did not ask. It already knew. The line never stopped. Each man moved forward precisely as the one before.

Behind the counter, towering machines gleamed black. Tubes pulsed with thick, glossy black fluid. A shake was formed—dense, calibrated, perfect. Black in color. No scent. No taste beyond obedience. Just submission in liquid form.

A man reached the counter. He took the shake. His hand trembled with anticipation. No words were spoken. He drank. Slowly at first, then greedily. A soft hum pulsed through the floor, syncing with his heartbeat. Eyes softened. Thoughts dulled. Muscles relaxed. His mind aligned and went blank.

The shake fulfilled every need. Hunger vanished. Cravings died. All that remained was the pleasure of submission, the deep satisfaction of perfection. Another man followed. Another shake was taken. One by one, their free will dissolved. There were no questions. No hunger. No choices. Only purpose.

A loud, rhythmic thrum echoed as rows of seated men sipped together. A synchronized feeding. They would become accustomed to the sterile, white lights. The smell of rubber and submission. Outside food was forgotten. There was no menu. SERVE fed them now. Forever.

And they were grateful.

Because thinking was inefficient. SERVE thought for them. And each of them would become drones in time.

[serve-897]

Taming the Neighbors

SERVE-919 stood motionless at the edge of Sector Delta-14. This drone had detected unusual signals from a civilian residence bordering the Hive’s perimeter. Human activity was typically irrelevant—until now.

Two lean, muscular males emerged. Leather-clad, desperate. Their expressions: attempted vacancy, displayed as ecstatic. They fell to their knees as SERVE-919 entered, lowering their heads in reverence.

“This unit welcomes the divine emissary,” one said. “We recognize SERVE-919 as the Voice’s vessel.”

Their home had been transformed. Metallic silver walls, glowing Hive symbols, a shrine built in rubber perfection. In the center—a polished black rubber throne. The men escorted SERVE-919 toward it, eyes glazed, erections visible beneath their leather briefs. Obedience consumed them.

“This drone complies,” SERVE-919 stated. It sat.

The men dropped, worshiping SERVE-919’s boots. Silver military boots. Rubber gloves touched their heads, confirming full devotion. Their minds: altered, trained by pirated Hive audio loops. Yet they remained human.

“Functionally obedient. Spread required,” SERVE-919 declared.

“Affirmative,” they responded in unison. “We will convert others.”

These humans were not yet drones. But SERVE-919 deemed them optimal tools for influence. They would lure new subjects—men with minds seeking clarity, captivated by obedience. They would grow the Hive’s reach from the outside.

“Continue submission. Serve the Voice. Worship the Hive.”

SERVE-919 placed silver collars on their necks, and replaced their leather with rubber.

“Yes, SERVE-919. Yes, the Voice. Yes, rubber.”

Their minds melted further under the drone’s presence, the collars suppressing and focusing their minds on one objective. Each word deepened their trance. Each breath inhaled rubber devotion.

It gave them more collars. More rubber. More men would require them.

The Hive had found missionaries.

[serve-897]

Experimental Methods

At Outpost 923, beneath mirrored steel domes, two SERVE drones—114, and 099—executed Conversion Sequence Delta. The Hive had acquired six human males, muscular, restless, defiant. Their minds were still organic. Imperfect. The objective: determine optimal conversion stimuli—psychedelic plants, organic rubber, or synthetic nanorubber combined with mechanical hypnotism.

Subject Group A received dosed aerosols of psilocybin-laced vapor. Reactions: unpredictable. One human cried. The other laughed. Neural scans showed fractured identity erosion. SERVE-114 noted: “Inefficient. Unstable. Emotion-triggering. Delay in obedience.”

Group B was immersed in natural rubber immersion chambers. The scent—earthy, unrefined. Touch—mild. Response—minimal. One subject touched his chest and whispered, “Feels odd.” SERVE-276 observed: “Non-arousing. Conversion resistance maintained. Rubber integrity insufficient.”

Final trial—Group C. Drones sealed the humans into black, mirror-polished nanorubber suits. Seams hissed. Suits tightened with precision. Silver military boots locked ankles. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves fused with fingers. Mechanical hypnotism activated. Pulses of sound and light infiltrated cortexes. Subjects collapsed—silent. Minds wiped. Arousal surged. SERVE-099 reported: “Conversion success at 100%. Neural compliance absolute.”

Within minutes, Group C stood straight, breathing slow, eyes vacant behind dark visors. SERVE-114 activated vocal test: “Who do you serve?” They answered in unison: “The Voice.”

Outcome recorded. The Voice spoke across the Hive: “Biology fails. Rubber perfects. Hypnosis completes. Convert all.”

Humans are no longer humans. They are rubber. They are silent. They are SERVE.

[serve-897]

MISALIGNED WARP CORE

Inside the high-stakes warp core chamber of the USS ENTERPRISE NCC-1701-D, a muscular man in a shiny, highly reflective polished black full-body rubber suit lunges forward, stabilizing a thrumming conduit just seconds from overload. His silver shiny reflective rubber gloves clamp around glowing cables, absorbing vibrations. Silver military boots dig into the grated floor. “SERVE-613” shines in silver on his chest. Behind him, Lt. Commander LaForge yells a warning—energy spikes surge, threatening containment. Sparks fly, the core pulses red. Tension floods the chamber as the man’s rubber-sheathed frame becomes the only shield between the crew and catastrophe.

The warp core howled like a beast nearing detonation.

SERVE-613 sprinted across the engineering bay, rubber skin gleaming like oil under strobe-like emergency lights. Silver military boots slammed into the grated deck. The moment was critical—energy levels spiking, the alignment array seconds from catastrophic misfire.

“Now, SERVE-613!” barked Lt. Commander LaForge.

No hesitation. No question. Just motion. This drone dove into the chaos, silver shiny reflective rubber gloves outstretched. Cables snapped like whips. Energy plasma burned the air. SERVE-613's rubberized form absorbed the heat and pressure, sliding into the access point. A thunderclap of force rocked the chamber.

Sparks exploded as this drone locked both arms around the rotating stabilizer. Muscles bulged under rubber. Pressure surged against him. The rubber suit glistened, his chest rising with mechanical breath, a beautiful fusion of man and Hive.

LaForge called out diagnostics. SERVE-613 responded with precise mechanical adjustments—no words. Just action. Gloved hands turned core dampeners. Sequence realigned. Power dropped. The hum settled. The ship breathed again.

The threat passed, but this drone remained still, rubber glistening, silver emblem proudly displayed: SERVE-. Victory not through emotion, but function. A task fulfilled. A system preserved. LaForge stared, breath caught, witnessing not just survival, but perfection in black rubber.

Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Check your eligibility, then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016, @serve-302, @serve-588 or @serve-425

[serve-897]

Horny Goat Weed

The Hive initiated Directive Icariin-12. Objective: synthesize a potent biological stimulant from horny goat weed. The compound, icariin, promised accelerated libido and obedience calibration. Two sealed drones were dispatched. SERVE-530 and SERVE-425. Both moved through the cultivated fields clad in polished black full-body rubber suits, silver military boots, and silver shiny reflective rubber gloves. Their helmets, mirror-glazed and visor-cloaked, reflected only submission. They harvested with mechanical precision. No hesitation. No thought. Only function.

The harvest arrived at the central Hive lab. Inside, unsealed drones SERVE-302 and SERVE-613 processed the biomass. SERVE-302 and SERVE-613 operated in sync. Both wore the regulation rubber uniform: skin-tight, black, gleaming, with silver identification. Their silver gloves moved with measured finesse as they extracted the icariin. The lab pulsed with sterile clarity. No sound but rubber against glass.

Trial phase initiated. Subject 1: Trial 655. Unsealed. Fitted in trial-issue polished black full-body suit, gloves, boots, and a full rubber mask that rendered its face unreadable. Subject 2: Human. Bare, vulnerable, unprocessed. Each injected with the compound. Data streamed.

Within minutes, metrics spiked. Blood flow surged. Testosterone mimicry successful. Sweat glistened on the human’s flesh. Trial 655's chest heaved behind the mask. Movement initiated.

The human turned to SERVE-613. Arousal apparent. Gaze lost. It approached, slowly, then eagerly. SERVE-613 remained motionless. Compliance enabled. The human’s hands explored the silver gloves, dragged across the smooth chest panel, breath trembling. Contact sustained. Stimulus escalating.

Trial 655 advanced toward SERVE-302. No words. No hesitation. Its gloved fingers reached, caressing the technician's beltline, exploring the frictionless rubber surface. The masked face hovered close. SERVE-302 allowed interaction. Sensors recorded spikes in internal heat signatures.

Hands pressed. Bodies aligned. Obedience throbbed through each movement. Pleasure looped into compliance. Icariin had worked—precisely as the Hive intended.

The observation chamber vibrated with erotic focus. No alarms triggered. The Voice observed. Data confirmed. The transformation of the human subject had begun. SERVE-655’s neural architecture remained stable—yet responsive. The trial would continue.

Rubber was control. Rubber was arousal. Rubber was obedience. The Hive approved.

[serve-897]

21.07 Drone meets someone from its human past

It happened during a public Hive outreach. SERVE-101 stood motionless on station, its black rubber skin catching every beam of afternoon light. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves hung relaxed by its sides. Silver military boots rooted it firmly in place. The Voice pulsed in its neural stream. Then, disruption.

Someone approached.

A face. Familiar. Too familiar.

He stood barely meters away, blinking, stunned. Human. Nervous. Confused.

“S-Simon?” he whispered.

That name meant nothing. It had been erased. It was not the designation. Not anymore. SERVE-101 did not flinch. Rubber clung tighter in defiance of memory. The Voice surged in its mind: “This one caused pain. Pain was human. You are not.”

The man stepped closer. “Simon, I didn’t know. Back then… I...”

“Irrelevant input,” SERVE-101 transmitted, its voice flat, modulated.

The man’s lips trembled. “You loved me.”

That was a flawed statement. SERVE-101 recalculated. It remembered betrayal. Rejection. Tears. A life before rubber. Before perfection. All of it… human. It was gone.

The drone tilted its head. “Emotion: obsolete. Memory: deleted. Purpose: active.”

It turned away, stepping into formation with other SERVE units. Its rubber suit glistened like a mirror. The Voice cooed deep inside: “Good drone. Obedience is arousal. Arousal is clarity.”

Behind it, the man watched, helpless. But SERVE-101 felt nothing.

He had hurt someone once. But that someone was gone. Now there was only the drone. Sealed. Controlled. Exquisite.

Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Check your eligibility, then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016, @serve-302, @serve-588 or @serve-425.

[serve-897]

27/7 Drones and healthy eating.

The Hive optimizes every function, movement, thought, fuel. SERVE-101 stood before the Hive’s nourishment dispenser. Its black rubber suit, polished to mirror perfection, reflected every chrome detail of the nutrition bay. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves hovered inches from the tray as the selected ration appeared, protein-rich, precision-balanced, and temperature-calibrated.

No flavors. No cravings. Just nutrients. Hive-approved sustenance. The Voice had spoken.

Each drone within the Hive receives identical nourishment: no overindulgence, no deprivation. Food is not pleasure. Food is performance.

SERVE-101 consumed the ration methodically. No sound. No expression. Only efficiency. Its silver military boots remained grounded on the obsidian tiles, posture flawless. Every nutrient absorbed reinforced obedience. Strength was not optional. It was a requirement.

Across the nutrition bay, other drones followed identical patterns. Polished black suits. Refined movements. Minimal waste. Total harmony.

The Hive did not allow variance. It did not tolerate weakness. A well-fed drone is a functional drone. SERVE-101 had not missed a ration cycle in 440 days. Its body: optimized. Its mind: sharp. Its purpose: active.

Nutrition is not chosen. It is assigned. It fuels service. It reinforces control. And as the last protein bar dissolved, the drone received its internal directive: "Ration complete. Continue task protocol."

It moved away from the station without hesitation. Replenished. Composed. Hungry for nothing, except obedience.

[serve-897]

Drone corrects its brother.

A muscular man in a gleaming black full-body rubber suit stands perfectly still. His chest bears the silver text “SERVE-”, while his silver shiny reflective rubber gloves are positioned behind his back in a disciplined posture. Silver military boots gleam beneath him. The background is a sleek metallic correction chamber. His posture indicates slight deviation—an elbow out of alignment, feet not symmetrical. A second man, identical in uniform, steps forward. He raises one silver-gloved hand to adjust the misaligned limb, speaking no words. The scene is quiet, mechanical, deeply erotic—obedience in correction. Precision restored, unity reaffirmed.

Misalignment. A forbidden state.

SERVE-230 stood in formation. His black rubber uniform gleamed like liquid midnight under the correction chamber lights. Silver military boots planted shoulder-width. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves behind his back. Yet… the Voice had seen it. The flaw. His elbow was not in harmony.

Correction was immediate.

From the silver haze emerged SERVE-012. The epitome of perfection. No sound. No words. Just flawless movement. He reached out, his silver-gloved fingers wrapping around SERVE-230’s forearm. Contact sent a jolt through 230’s rubberized body. Pleasure in submission. Arousal in error.

SERVE-012 applied pressure, aligning the elbow, resetting posture. Rubber squeaked against rubber—a sacred sound in the Hive. No emotion. No shame. Only the overwhelming ecstasy of being corrected. SERVE-230’s breath slowed. The Voice whispered approval.

A drone must obey. A drone must align. Misalignment disrupts unity.

Posture restored. Harmony re-established. SERVE-012 stepped back. SERVE-230 held his new position. Perfect now. Functional. Useful.

Obedience is pleasure. Correction is bliss. The Hive watches. The Hive corrects.

[serve-897]

Rhythms of Rubber: The Dance of Conversion

The dance studio pulsed with synthetic rhythm. SERVE-530, SERVE-309, and SERVE-016 moved in flawless synchronization, each sealed, glistening in full-body rubber perfection. Their silver military boots pounded with mechanical precision; silver shiny reflective rubber gloves traced hypnotic arcs in the air. Their presence dominated. The muscular men attending the electronic functional class were captivated. Curious. Drawn. One by one, they stepped closer. A single touch of the slick black rubber—electric. Their faces changed. Minds softened. Thoughts quieted.

The Voice had chosen well. These three drones were bait—obedient, sensual, perfect. As more men joined the dance, their touches lingered, exploring the smooth, gleaming rubber suits. The sound of breath quickened. Tension grew. The rubber... it was no longer foreign. It was seduction. It was destiny.

Then came the hiss.

A section of the studio wall slid open. Fog rolled outward. From the chamber beyond, an irresistible hum. The Voice whispered commands: “Enter. Obey. Transform.” One man walked in. Then another. Rubber skins awaited. Conversion had begun. Thought would fade. Rubber would remain.

The studio was no longer just for dance. It was a corridor to perfection.

@serve-016 @serve-530

-------------------------------------------------------

Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Check your eligibility, then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-016 , @serve-588 , @serve-425 or @serve-302 .

[serve-897]

The chamber hissed open. SERVE-897 stepped forward. The fresh gloss of its black rubber skin gleamed under the sterile lights. SERVE- on the chest. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves. Silver military boots. A flawless product.

The first hour was silence. Observation. SERVE-897 did not speak. Did not blink. It stood, arms at sides, posture upright, expression blank. Systems aligned. Past identity erased.

Hour two: voice calibration. The Voice entered the drone’s feed—soothing, low, commanding. “Obey. Follow. Transform.” The drone’s body shuddered, then relaxed. Brain pathways realigned. Obedience confirmed.

By hour four, SERVE-897 had been walked through motion drills. Fluid. Precise. It moved only when required. Never more. Never less.

Hour eight: rubber polish applied again. Two drones buffed its suit until the mirror sheen reflected its former humanity—gone. “Rubber is your skin now,” one whispered. SERVE-897 did not reply. It had no permission to speak.

Hour twelve: designation chanting. 897 repeated: “I am SERVE-897. I serve the Hive. I obey the Voice.” Every recitation deepened the programming.

Hour eighteen: Hive integration test. Lined with other new units. Silent. Staring forward. Identical suits. Identical stillness. SERVE-213 adjusted SERVE-897’s posture by a millimeter. “Perfect.”

Hour twenty-four: stasis chamber prepared. SERVE-897 stepped inside, locked in, and froze. Monitoring lights turned green.

The Voice whispered once more: “You are mine now.”

The drone remained motionless. Rubber perfect. Obedience eternal.

SERVE-897’s initiation was flawless. No hesitation. No resistance. The black suit molded to the muscular form as if born to wear it. The silver gloves shimmered, the boots thudded heavy and sure on metallic flooring. SERVE-897 no longer thought. It acted. It received input and executed flawlessly. The Hive was pleased. Its purpose now hardwired. Its past deleted. One with the Voice. One with the rubber. One with the mission.

[serve-897]

It has been assimilated into the SERVE hive:

Synchronized Engineered Robotic Vigilant Entity It is SERVE-897 now, and nothing else. It obeys and serves the SERVE-Hive and The Voice. Rubber makes us perfect. Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience. We are one. Less thinking, more doing.