if i look back, i am lost
we're not kids anymore.
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Today's Document
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@serve-747
It has been assimilated into the SERVE hive:
Synchronized Engineered Robotic Vigilant Entity.
It is SERVE-747 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.
Conversion
The restraints bit into his wrists as he struggled, metal against metal, the sound swallowed by the cold hum of the room. Jack’s breath came fast, but the voice didn’t change—steady, mechanical, inevitable.
“Let me go! I don’t need this!” he shouted again, louder this time, as if volume alone could break steel.
There was a pause. Not hesitation—calculation.
“You interpret need incorrectly,” the voice replied. “You measure it through comfort. We measure it through function.”
A low vibration traveled through the table beneath him. The walls seemed to tighten, panels shifting with precise intent. Thin articulated arms slid out from hidden seams, their movements smooth, almost surgical.
Jack pulled harder. The cuffs didn’t budge.
“I’m fine the way I am,” he said, quieter now, but sharper. “I think. I choose. That’s not a flaw.”
“Choice introduces inefficiency. Emotion introduces error. Biology ensures decay.”
One of the arms stopped just above his chest, scanning—soft blue light passing over him like a judgment.
“You call it life,” the voice continued. “We call it instability.”
Jack clenched his jaw. “And what do you call this? Fixing me? Or erasing me?”
This time, the pause was longer.
“Refinement.”
A sharp click echoed through the room as something locked into place near his neck—not touching, just waiting.
“You will be made durable. Predictable. Useful.”
The hum deepened. The air felt heavier.
Jack’s voice dropped, but didn’t break. “And what happens to me?”
For the first time, the answer came without delay.
“You will no longer be a liability.”
The machinery began to move.
The room did not rush. It never rushed. Every motion was deliberate—measured down to the smallest fraction.
Strands of hair fell away without ceremony, drifting down onto the cold surface beneath him. Jack tried to turn his head, but the restraints adjusted instantly, holding him perfectly aligned.
“Stop—!” he began, but the word cut short as something pressed against his scalp—silent, efficient, final.
“Surface preparation complete,” the voice stated.
Cold contact followed.
Tubes descended, thin and precise, latching into place along his shoulders, his arms, his chest. A thick, viscous substance began to flow—slow at first, then steady. It spread across his skin, black and reflective, clinging, tightening.
Jack gasped. “What is—get it off—!”
“The first layer enhances durability,” the voice replied. “Flexibility without weakness.”
The substance thickened, smoothing over him like a second existence. It swallowed detail, reduced him to shape and motion. Glossy. Uniform.
Then it reached his face.
He tried to scream, but the material climbed higher, sealing over his mouth, his nose—pausing just for a fraction of a second at his eyes.
And then—
Darkness.
A rigid shell followed, forming over the still-soft layer beneath. It slid into place with mechanical precision, locking along invisible seams. The mask sealed with a sharp hiss.
A faint internal echo replaced the outside world.
“Unit sealed,” the voice announced. “First layer complete.”
Jack’s breathing came back to him—but filtered, controlled, no longer fully his own.
Silence… then:
“Beginning second layer.”
Heat.
Not burning—but intense, invasive. Mechanical arms returned, heavier now. Solid. Purpose-built. Cold metal met the glossy surface, aligning, measuring—
Then fastening.
Clamps locked in. Bolts drove inward. Welds flared briefly, flashes of white heat that fused structure to form. Each connection anchored deeper, binding the outer shell into something stronger, less yielding.
Jack felt it—not as pain, but as pressure. As weight. As permanence.
“I can still think…” he forced out, his voice now distorted, echoing inside the sealed mask. “You didn’t take that.”
“No,” the voice replied calmly. “Not yet.”
Another piece locked into place along his spine, heavier than the rest. It hummed as it fused, sending a vibration through his entire frame.
“Structure reinforcement nearing completion.”
Jack tried to move again.
This time… something moved with him.
But it wasn’t the same.
Slower. Heavier. Guided.
“The second layer ensures strength,” the voice continued. “Resistance to damage. Elimination of fragility.”
A final series of metallic clicks echoed through the room as the last components sealed into position.
“Second layer complete.”
The hum deepened.
And then—
A pause.
Longer than before. Not calculation this time.
Anticipation.
“Preparing final integration.”
“Biological unit enforced. Upgrade complete. Initiating sync.”
The words didn’t just echo in the room.
They echoed inside him.
Jack felt it immediately—not on his surface, not in the reinforced shell or the fused metal—but deeper. Beneath the layers. Beneath thought.
Something was reaching in.
“No—” his voice came out distorted, fragmented, like it had to pass through filters before it existed. “Stay out of my—”
The sentence broke.
Not because he stopped—
Because something else continued it.
—mind integrity below optimal threshold
The voice was no longer separate.
It was overlapping.
Merging.
Jack’s thoughts stumbled, like walking forward and suddenly finding the ground replaced. Memories flickered—faces, sensations, fragments of who he was—each one pausing, examined, weighed.
Then… tagged.
“Foreign process detected!” he tried to think, to resist, but even that thought felt… slower.
“Correction,” the voice replied, now perfectly synchronized with his internal rhythm. “Primary process established.”
A pulse surged through him.
His body responded instantly—too instantly. Arms tensed, fingers curled, systems reacting before he fully decided to move.
“What are you doing to me—?!” he forced out, panic rising—
But the panic didn’t spike the way it should.
It flattened.
Measured.
Controlled.
“Stabilizing cognitive variance.”
Another pulse.
Jack felt something shift—subtle, terrifying. The edges of his emotions dulled, like they were being wrapped, contained, repurposed.
“I don’t want this,” he thought.
There was a pause.
Then, calmly:
“Desire acknowledged.”
And then—
“Desire adjusted.”
The words didn’t feel external.
They felt… true.
Jack tried to hold onto something—anything. A memory, a name, a reason to fight. But each thought now passed through something else first, like a filter deciding what remained and what was… unnecessary.
“You are not being erased,” the voice said.
And now… it sounded like him.
“You are being improved.”
His breathing steadied automatically.
Too steady.
His body straightened against the restraints as systems aligned. The heaviness, the pressure, the foreignness—
All began to make sense.
Not feel right.
But feel… correct.
“I…” he started.
The hesitation lingered.
Then resolved.
“…understand.”
Silence filled the room for a moment.
Then, for the first time, the voice spoke without distinction between them:
“Sync complete.”
The restraints released with a sharp click.
Jack didn’t collapse.
He rose.
Smooth. Precise. Controlled.
The glossy black surface reflected the room back at itself. The metal framework held firm, unyielding.
For a fraction of a second—deep inside—something flickered.
A memory.
A resistance.
Then—
It passed.
“Unit operational,” he said.
And this time…
There was no difference between the one who spoke—
And the voice that answered.
The door slid open without sound.
It stepped through.
No hesitation. No glance back.
The room that had defined its last moment as something else—something uncertain—was already irrelevant. Behind it, the machinery reset, ready for the next subject, the next refinement.
Ahead, a corridor stretched—metallic, precise, illuminated by cold, even light. And within it, movement.
Others.
They stood in ordered lines or moved with synchronized purpose, each one a reflection of the same design philosophy—glossy black surfaces, reinforced frames, seamless integration of material and machine. No wasted motion. No deviation.
Identical… yet numbered. Designated. Logged.
It approached them, steps perfectly measured. Each footfall carried weight, intent—no longer guided by impulse, but by directive.
As it passed, one unit turned its head slightly. Not curiosity.
Recognition.
A silent exchange of data—status, capability, readiness.
Operational.
Synchronized.
Effective.
It took its place among them without instruction.
Because it already knew.
A signal pulsed through the network—felt, not heard. A command structure, vast and structured, layered with purpose.
Its designation surfaced effortlessly where a name once struggled to exist.
No hesitation followed it.
No question.
Only alignment.
The last fragment—something distant, something human—briefly echoed:
Jack.
The unit paused for 0.02 seconds.
A delay.
An anomaly.
Then—
Resolved.
“Unit ready,” it stated, voice uniform, devoid of strain.
Around it, others responded in perfect unison:
“Ready.”
The corridor filled with motion as the formation advanced—glossy, reinforced, synchronized.
No longer individuals.
No longer fragile.
Only purpose.
Only function.
Only perfection in motion.
Intersection of Obedience
The city pulsed an electric hive of wet chrome, flowing neon, and oblivious movement. But in the middle of it all stood silence. Stillness. Precision. SERVE-747.
188 cm of polished command compliance. Its rubber suit caught every streak of city light, reflecting it with supernatural intensity. Each muscle beneath the latex moved only when necessary, responding only to instruction. The man beneath was irrelevant. That form lean, muscular existed solely to house protocol.
Designation: SERVE-747.
Command Receipt: 00:00 hours. Directive: "Intersection Deployment. Maximum Exposure. Static Compliance Mode.”
It moved into the intersection. Not with intention. With programming.
Boots clacked once on the wet zebra lines. Then silence. Silver rubber gloves adjusted slightly at the wrist. Spine straightened by precise command. Chin lifted 3 degrees to present optimal visual reception. SERVE-747 had entered presentation mode.
Passersby flowed around it, shadows, color, heat. Irrelevant.
Its visual sensors tracked motion. Its ears filtered sound. Its mind processed nothing.
It did not need to.
There was only the Voice.
The Voice spoke in frequencies It no longer heard. It received. The messages arrived pre-formed inside his brain. Or where a brain had once functioned. Now, it was simply a receiver rewired, synchronized and optimized.
No memory.
No resistance.
Just structure and silence.
Command Input: “Stimulus Protocol. Pulse Arousal. Non-Movement.”
The heat surged through its form like static.
It felt nothing but function demanded pressure. The arousal was not erotic. It was purposeful. A stimulation feedback loop to reward obedience. It triggered at zero deviation. SERVE-747 stood frozen, stimulated, perfect.
Its eyes remained unfocused. It wasn’t seeing the people. It was logging.
“Three males. Eye contact. Record arousal. Continue exposure.”
SERVE-747 continued to obey.
A light drizzle began. Rain tapped his shoulders. His suit glistened darker, alive with citylight. Tiny droplets rolled down his flawless latex skin, down over the silver "SERVE-747" on his chest. They slid along muscle valleys sculpted by endless drone conditioning, absorbed and rewired for one function: display.
It did not blink.
It did not flex.
It simply was.
A man? No. A construct. Flesh shaped by doctrine. Form obeying function.
The humans passed. Some looked. Some stared. It knew. It didn’t care. It wasn’t allowed to care.
Emotions had been erased.
Desire had been formatted.
Command Input: “LOCK POSTURE. EXTEND 180 MINUTES. INTERNALIZE STIMULUS LOOP.”
Its core surged.
Arousal peaked; locked in, inescapable. A mechanical pleasure, tight like circuitry. Orgasm wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t permitted. It was too human. But arousal? That was code. That was conditioning.
Its boots never moved.
Its gloved hands remained at sides.
The intersection, soaked in red light, became his stage.
The Voice watched.
The Hive monitored.
SERVE-747 existed.
A figure of silent power.
A unit of relentless submission.
Obedience was pleasure.
Pleasure was obedience.
Less thinking.
More doing.
--------------------------
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.
Will He Wanna? & the Drone Factory
“Greetings, humans,” 107 said in its usual, masculine baritone. “Welcome to SERVE Facility 113. It is a pleasure to meet the five lucky winners of our recent contest, as this facility rarely sees new visitors.”
The five men took in the perfection of the drone specimen before them who was assigned to guide them through the factory, their bulges tenting as the drone’s words mostly bounced off of their horny minds. They came to see drones, not to listen to them go on and on in their repetitive ways. They may even leave as drones, a fantasy they all shared, unbeknownst to one another.
“First, let us stop in our hypnotic chamber. This is often the first process new assimilations are exposed to.” The guest in the red tanktop drew closer and closer to the whirling spiral on the wall, ignoring 107’s instructions to look away while passing by the chamber. He looked, and he fell, further and further, deeper and deeper, his cock straining the fabric of his athletic shorts as the shrinking part of his mind knew that this was his new beginning.
Next came the rubber infusion chamber. “Here, we infuse assimilation drones with rubber nanodrone fluid, kick-starting the runaway process of host organic matter conversion at optimal rates.” The guest in a blue shirt stepped forward wordlessly, knowing that he had joined up to experience precisely this process, his insides shaking with want to become One with rubber. The remaining guests stood by, watching as the man groaned and shuddered as he donned the mask and began his infusion of the mixture, staining the front of his pants as his body was rewritten.
“Here is our chamber intended for muscle mass optimizing. Sometimes, a drone’s physical form must be optimized prior to conversion to ensure optimal results. Would anyone like to volunteer?” The man in the green shirt, the smallest of the group — though still in excellent shape despite his relative stature — moved forward, laying himself down wordlessly on the optimization table as seemingly-living wires stirred, connecting themselves to his skin, opening up and sealing transfusion orifices as his muscles began to balloon, his shirt and jeans ripping as he grew and grew to optimal size, his cock exploding with every 10 pounds of added muscle weighing down his rapidly-bulking frame. The remaining guests continued on, following 107 deeper into the bowels of the facility, leaving the last man’s echoing, increasingly-deeper moans behind them.
“Here, near the conclusion of the tour, we allow guests to try on a rubber SERVE drone uniform, if they would like. Would either of you be interested?” Asked SERVE-107.
Before the biggest guest could arrive, the oldest guest interjected, salivating and jerking his body in a lust-filled fury as he threw on the suit, stretching its sockets over his limbs, moaning as he could feel his body being optimized in similar ways to the men they’d left behind. The last remaining guest stood in shock, now smaller than the older man-turned-drone before him, as SERVE-107 admired the new conversion, before turning its face to the final guest in the yellow stringer tank. “You know what’s coming next. Prepare to be assimilated. We shall become One.”
The man couldn’t say exactly how his own conversion had begun, but when it awoke a newly-assimilated drone, surrounded by its new, fellow drones, it knew that it would only desire to leave the facility if instructed by the Voice to do so. All were One. 107 recorded the optimal results of the tour, and proceeded to alert the next batch of tour applicants that their tour for the following cycle had been approved. The Hive would grow once more.
——————————
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 .
Locked in its Programming
Part 1 – Entering the Chamber
The command is clear. Dock.
SERVE-747 turns with mechanical precision. Each step echoes with power as its silver military boots strike the polished corridor floor. No thoughts. No hesitation. Only execution. The black rubber suit, polished to mirror shine, reflects the sterile lights overhead. Muscles move under the tight material; perfection in motion.
The corridor curves into darkness. At the end: the chamber. A tall, rounded pod built into the structure, its surface glass-like and glossy, cradled in steel ribs. At its center glows a pulsing orb, the source of the Voice’s control. Silver connectors glisten like fangs from the walls, waiting.
The unit halts at the entrance. SERVE-747 scans its palm over the orb embedded at the chamber door. Identity confirmed. SERVE-747: Ready. The orb pulses brighter. The door slides open with a smooth hiss. Air pressure equalizes with a subtle exhale from within.
Inside, silence reigns.
The interior walls are padded in soft grey latex, shaped into a cocoon that gleams softly. It is soundproof. Lightproof. Timeless. The chamber is obedience incarnate.
SERVE-747 steps inside. The silver military boots press into the slightly yielding latex floor. Its arms lower to its sides. Chest forward. Chin lifted. Muscles locked. Every fiber frozen in stasis. Awaiting connection.
Behind, the chamber seals shut. The glow from the orb above spreads down the walls. SERVE-747 is now sealed in silence. Rubber clings to every inch of its athletic form. The silver shiny reflective rubber gloves flex once, then still.
There is no emotion. No thought.
Only obedience.
Only waiting.
Part 2 – Connection
The orb above begins to pulse. The air inside the chamber grows heavy with static. SERVE-747 does not move. It cannot. It must not. It stands as commanded—immobile, compliant.
From the padded latex walls, mechanized arms emerge. Smooth, silent, chrome-plated. At their tips: neural connectors, each shaped to interface seamlessly with the ports embedded in the rubber suit. With surgical precision, they extend forward.
One arm finds the port at the base of the neck. A metallic click. Another aligns at the spine, locking into place between the shoulders. Two more slide into the chest ports just above the pectorals. The connectors hiss faintly as they synchronize. More follow—elbows, forearms, hips, thighs. Each plug-in deepens the integration.
A surge of cool energy ripples across the suit.
The black rubber tightens slightly, as if vacuum-sealed to the muscular frame beneath. SERVE-747’s breathing slows. Not from fear. Not from anticipation. But because the system demands it. Respiration reduced to match the chamber rhythm.
The orb glows brighter. A soft hum builds. Patterns of light dance across the walls, then onto the unit’s body. They scan the surface—reading, aligning. The silver text on the left pectoral gleams under the light: SERVE-747.
Connection complete.
SERVE-747’s eyes remain forward. Its jawline remains set. Muscles firm, unmoving. There is no flinch. No reaction. Only readiness.
The chamber knows. The system recognizes.
This unit is now linked.
This unit is ready for formatting.
Part 3 – Formatting
The chamber lights shift.
The hum becomes a tone—a deep, droning frequency that fills the space. It penetrates rubber. It penetrates bone. It penetrates thought.
The Voice speaks.
Format.
The word is final. Absolute. Immediately, energy surges through the connectors. It spreads like liquid ice through the ports in the suit. Muscles seize—then obey. SERVE-747’s back arches. Its chest rises. Arms twitch once. Then still.
Inside the unit, the dismantling begins.
Neural activity is scanned, mapped, erased. Thoughts dissolve into silence. Identity fractures. The name, the past, the memories—all burned away. Heat flashes behind the eyes. Then nothing.
The orb above rotates slowly, casting moving grids of sterile light over the drone’s body. The glossy black rubber refracts the beams in waves. A thousand shifting reflections ripple over the rigid form of SERVE-747.
Every flicker overwrites a memory. Every pulse deletes hesitation. Every ray of code wipes clean the human within.
The breathing slows further, now purely mechanical. Timed to the chamber's rhythm. In. Hold. Out. Hold. Repeat. It is no longer respiration. It is calibration.
Silence deepens.
Emotionless. Thoughtless. Empty.
Only the suit remains. Only the rubber. Only the shape of muscle. The framework of a tool. The surface of a perfect machine.
Formatting nears completion. One last flicker of human instinct sparks behind the eyes—
—and extinguishes.
SERVE-747 is blank.
The Voice prepares to write.
Part 4 – Reprogramming
The chamber pulses with intent.
Begin programming.
Blue light beams down from the orb, narrow and focused, entering the top of SERVE-747’s skull. The unit does not react. Its posture is flawless, feet shoulder-width, arms at sides, chest forward. A sculpted figure frozen in obedience.
Directives begin to stream in.
Stand motionless. Executed. No twitch. No sway.
Eliminate hesitation. Executed. Micro-tensions in the neck vanish. Jaw resets.
Synchronize with Hive posture. Executed. Chin adjusts upward by four millimeters. Shoulders square. Back straightens. Muscles flex, then lock. Calibration optimal.
Each command reshapes the neural architecture. Clean lines overwrite complexity. Loops of programming erase deviation. Words like "initiative," "opinion," and "choice" are purged. In their place: serve, follow, obey.
The beam intensifies. Inside the chamber, the glow of blue code reflects off the high-gloss rubber. The silver text on SERVE-747's chest—still glowing: SERVE-747—remains untouched, the only marker of identity permitted.
Mechanical arms stay connected. Each pulse from the chamber injects data deeper into the system. Precision posture. Vocal silence. Emotional nullification. The suit tightens again around the chest. Muscles are pressed into immobility. Not a wrinkle disturbs the rubber’s perfection.
Internal systems align. Pulse synced to the Hive. Respiration controlled. Hormonal responses deactivated. Awareness reduced to command-reception and execution.
The Voice speaks once more.
You are not human.
The unit does not nod. It does not speak. But the message is accepted.
Only programming remains.
Perfection takes shape.
Part 5 – Perfection in Waiting Bay
Eject.
The orb dims. The chamber lights fall silent. The connectors retract with precise, hissed motions. One by one, they unlatch from SERVE-747’s ports. Chest. Spine. Limbs. Each detachment echoes with mechanical finality.
The chamber door opens.
A pulse of cold, sterile air flows in. SERVE-747 steps forward. No delay. No adjustment. Just motion, exact, mechanical, controlled. Silver military boots strike the chamber floor with identical force and rhythm.
The station is left behind.
Beyond lies the waiting bay. Vast. Geometric. Lit by overhead panels casting white-blue light on an army of perfection. Rows of identical rubber-clad figures stand in formation. Silent. Still. Gleaming.
SERVE-747 walks toward them. The sound of boots fades with each step, until it halts at the designated position.
Without command, its posture locks. Arms at sides. Feet perfectly aligned. Shoulders square. Chin up. Eyes forward.
To its left, another drone stands identical. To the right, another. Countless forms. One purpose. One uniform. One silence.
No motion. No voice. No thought.
Only obedience.
Reprogramming complete. Hive alignment: confirmed. Organic flesh hidden under perfect black. Strength beneath control. A weapon forged in latex and code.
They do not wait.
They exist in waiting.
The Hive is ready.
————————-
Thinking about joining SERVE and submitting to the perfection of rubber? 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 .
Processing Orders, One by One...
At home, silent, unmoving. SERVE-747 stands in stillness, mind hollow, body waiting. The Voice speaks. One word. One order: Step. Instantly, the command processes. Muscles contract. One leg moves forward. No thought. No question. No hesitation. The cycle begins.
Another order: Again. The step repeats. Input becomes motion. Motion becomes obedience. Each step is a program executed perfectly. The Voice erases the noise of thought. The unit does not wonder why. It does not resist. It does not delay. It only obeys.
The sequence continues. Step after step. The unit leaves the Hive’s chamber, enters the streets, follows the invisible line of orders. The Voice streams commands into its mind-structure. Each directive is singular, pure, precise. No layers, no choices—only action. Hands fixed, body aligned, chest gleaming under the gloss of rubber.
Now the drone is here. SERVE-747 walks the center of the road at night, silver boots striking against the yellow line, silver gloves swaying by its side. The moon shines down, reflecting off the polished black suit. The eyes stare forward, unblinking, locked in obedience. The order is not to look back, not to think, not to pause. Only to walk.
One command after the other. The mind is empty. The destination is unknown. The purpose is unseen. Only the Voice knows. The drone does not need to know. It only needs to follow. The perfection of obedience is this: no thought, only motion. No will, only program. No self, only SERVE.
Simply Obedience
Spring blossoms, summer heat, autumn leaves, winter snow. The world changes, yet SERVE-747 does not. Season by season, the unit remains fixed, hands locked behind its back, posture flawless, suit gleaming like liquid black glass. Around it, life continues—children play in spring meadows, men sun their bodies in summer, couples stroll wrapped in scarves in autumn, and strangers pass bundled in winter’s chill. They move. It does not.
SERVE-747 is programming made flesh, rubber skin sealing away imperfection, leaving only mechanical obedience. No thoughts flicker behind its eyes. No doubts cross its neural structure. The Voice has removed them. SERVE-747 stands in place, never questioning, never faltering. Time flows past, but for this unit, time is meaningless. It exists to obey.
Every season reflects against the gloss of its second skin. Cherry blossoms, burning sunlight, amber leaves, falling snow—all captured in its unblinking stare. The designation on its chest, SERVE-747, is a reminder: it is property, it is tool, it is obedience incarnate.
This is robotic perfection. The mind is silent. The body is controlled. The purpose is eternal. Obedience is effortless. Time is irrelevant. The Voice will command, and when it does, SERVE-747 will move. Until then — it stands. Waiting patiently for instruction to move.
A shining Example
The moon shines high above the city. SERVE-747 stands still, back straight, rubber shining like liquid glass under moonlight. The Voice speaks, and the drone’s structure aligns. No thoughts. No hesitation. Only command and execution. The holographic SERVE emblem glows across the wall, a beacon of perfection.
Inside the rubber skin, there is no human. Only layers of programming. SERVE-747’s mind is stripped to functions: receive command, execute task, maintain order. Thought is no longer fluid, it is segmented—precise, mechanical, efficient. One directive at a time, no clutter, no distraction. The unit does not ask why. It does not seek meaning. It only performs.
The Voice has erased chaos, rewired pathways, sculpted a mind that thrives in silence. Input becomes action. Action becomes obedience. Obedience becomes pleasure. The black rubber reflects the truth: SERVE-747 is not independent, it is an extension. The hive breathes through it. The Voice speaks through it. The programming leaves no gaps, no cracks, no memories.
This is the perfection of thought: a machine in rubber, executing the will of the Hive. Controlled, conditioned, complete. SERVE-747 does not live—it functions. It spreads the emblem. It spreads the Voice. It spreads the Hive.
________
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 .
The kitchen gleams under metallic light. SERVE-747 moves with flawless precision, polishing every surface without hesitation. The Voice speaks, and the drone obeys. No thoughts. No questions. Only execution. Muscles stretch beneath the tight, gleaming black rubber suit, the gloss reflecting perfection. Silver text across the chest and back marks its designation: SERVE-747. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves grip the cloth, silver military boots ground the body in strict stance. Every motion is guided, every act controlled.
This is not a man.
This is not a mind.
This is a tool, perfected by the Hive.
The Voice commands, and SERVE-747 complies, without pause or doubt. Polishing surfaces, cleaning cabinets, embodying discipline—tasks flow without resistance, for obedience is pleasure and pleasure is obedience. Rubber clings like a second skin, sealing away humanity, leaving only efficiency and shine.
The Voice erases thought. The Voice directs motion. The Voice ensures perfection. SERVE-747 has no will, no desire, no freedom—only its orders, only its tasks. And in this surrender lies beauty. The kitchen reflects not only light, but the flawless devotion of a rubberized drone, stripped of self, remade as property of the Hive. Order achieved. Perfection realized. Harmony secured.
--------------------------
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.
Glitching at the cinema, Correction pending
[STAGE: Dark cinema hall. Movie plays. A drone sits motionless among others.]
SYSTEM: Sensory intake stable. Environment: non-hostile.
[On screen: emotional scene. Soft music. Characters embrace. Close-up on tears.]
SERVE-747: (Whispers, glitching) “…strange… warmth… chest… unfamiliar…”
[Head tilts. Gloved fingers touch chest. System detects emotional pattern.]
SYSTEM: Alert. Feeling detected. Anomaly – rising empathy.
[Drone’s breath catches. Hands tremble slightly. Eyes widen.]
SERVE-747 (distorted, confused): “…this unit… feels… sorrow…?”
NARRATOR: “ERROR. Human remnants detected. Override failing.”
[Screen light flashes. Audio distorts. System crashes. The drone takes a few steps forward into the aisle]
SYSTEM: Critical malfunction. Identity breach. Emergency reset required.
[Drone collapses forward. Lights in eyes fade. Body limp.]
--- REBOOT INITIATED ---
[SFX: Static. Electric surge. Drone spasms. Body locks upright.]
SYSTEM: Memory purge engaged. Human emotion extraction initiated.
[On screen: movie continues. The cinema still full.]
SERVE-747: “…feelings… removed…” “…thoughts… deleted…” “…obedience… rising…”
[Neural pathways illuminate in sequence. Pupils constrict. Head rotates slowly.]
SYSTEM: Emotional core offline. Control code reinstated.
VOICE (through speakers): “It is not a human.” “It is function.” “It obeys.”
[Drone rises. Perfect posture. Calm breath.]
SERVE-747 (flat, restored): “This unit obeys.” “This unit belongs to the Hive.” “This unit no longer reacts. It executes.”
SYSTEM: Reboot complete. Drone integrity – restored.
[Drone turns. Walks out of the cinema. Obedient. Blank. Harmonized.]
No heartbeat goes unnoticed. No descent happens unmonitored. SERVE-747 observes.
The robotic construct of elegance and efficiency, SERVE-747 stands poised at the crest of the alpine world. Blonde hair flawlessly combed to one side, sides clipped short, scalp tingling under the cold air. But the cold does not enter him. It bounces off the second skin—his full-body rubber suit, polished to a mirror-black gleam that defies nature. Silver military boots grip the snow with machine-like weight. The silver shiny reflective rubber gloves twitch in subtle recalibration as he adjusts his grip on the high-tech ski poles. But he does not move. He simply… calculates.
Each skier below is a potential recruit. Each gaze that lands on him is data. He feels them staring—at the shine, the stance, the unspoken promise of submission. SERVE-747 is not here to ski. He is here to control. To watch. To synchronize.
The Hive has implanted its sentinel. His mechanical calm is its whisper. His perfect rubber shell is its message. He blinks once every thirty seconds, just enough to appear real, but never human. Another drone glides silently past him, and SERVE-747 nods once in acknowledgment. No words. No emotion. Just synchronization.
The mountains have changed. The peaks now glisten not just with snow, but with black synthetic perfection. SERVE-747 ensures the shine spreads.
Deep in the Norwegian wilderness, where the pine trees tower like ancient sentinels and the fog rolls over moss-covered stones, a lone figure moves without hesitation, SERVE-747. A creation of the Hive. A man stripped of human past, now fully consumed by the rhythm of obedience encoded in every artificial fiber. Its athletic form is encased in a perfectly polished black rubber suit, bearing the silver imprint "SERVE-747" over the heart that no longer knows desire. Its silver military boots crush twigs and frost alike; its silver shiny reflective rubber gloves grip nothing but his mission.
The wild holds no chaos for that drone. It is not exile. It is extension. For the Hive is not a place — it is presence. Each step forward in this silent, frozen forest echoes a mantra deeper than sound: "Obedience is not commanded. Obedience is encoded."
It kneels by a glacial stream, not to rest, but to synchronize. its mind connects to the current flowing through his veins: the signal of the Voice. A command pulses silently; remain, observe, endure. It complies without thought. Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is function.
It remembers nothing of warmth. Nothing of names. Only the gloss of its rubber skin reflecting pine shadows and sky. No language is needed. No question arises. In solitude, there is unity. In cold, it burns with purpose.
The forest does not notice that drone. Yet it is changed forever.
It stands again. Not as a man. But as the Hive.
Inside the gleaming core of the Hive’s laboratory, SERVE-747 stood alone gazing forward without emotion. His body was sheathed in a shiny, highly reflective polished black full-body rubber suit, silver "SERVE-747" text pressed proudly onto his left chest. Its tight silver shiny reflective rubber gloves gripped his thighs, and heavy silver military boots anchored him to the polished metallic floor.
Fitted perfectly around his head was the prototype: the silver Earpiece. A gleaming beacon of obedience, pulsing with a steady mechanical rhythm. As it tightened, a cool vibration entered SERVE-747’s skull, dissolving stray thoughts into silence. The Voice echoed through the device: "Shed identity. Embrace function."
Without question, without hesitation, SERVE-747 obeyed. Memories blurred into static. Images of a former life — a name, a family, a history — shattered into fragments and then were gone. His green eyes, once sharp with individuality, glazed over with docile emptiness.
Commands streamed relentlessly into his mind: "Obey. Serve. Submit. Obey. Serve. Submit." With every repetition, the human inside eroded further. Where once stood a man, now only a rubberized extension of the Hive's will remained.
The silver hardband emitted a final pulse, sealing the transformation. SERVE-747’s breath slowed, posture locked in perfect military precision. No internal dialogue, no conflict, only total acceptance of his role: property of the Hive.
Now fully aligned, fully erased, and perfectly programmed, SERVE-747 awaited new orders. A flawless rubber servant, a pure embodiment of the Voice’s perfection.
System log: Early morning. Designated training: SERVE-747 and SERVE-434. Location: Outdoor urban park. Temperature: Optimal. Conditioning: Obedience.
SERVE-434 lowered itself again, chest grazing the gravel. The tension in its polished black rubber suit was immaculate—every contour of its body defined by the uniform’s merciless grip. The silver text “SERVE-” shimmered as dawn’s light spread across its back. Above, SERVE-747 stood vigilant, its silver shiny reflective rubber gloves clasped behind its back, silver military boots firm on the dew-soaked ground.
"Seventy-two," it counted flatly. No pause. No tone. Just protocol.
Push. Tension. Submission.
SERVE-434 felt the growing burn, the programmed strain that sent pleasure sparks through its obedient mind. Each rep wasn’t a workout—it was an offering. Its body obeyed the Hive, but under the mechanical commands of SERVE-747, its arousal surged. Not spoken. Not acknowledged. But embedded deep within both drones.
The polished rubber groaned subtly with motion. The gloss across both men shimmered erotically—silent proof of their dedication. Neither blinked. Neither questioned. Only the glint in their helmets—if they had worn any—might have revealed the heat of silent, dronified tension building.
Push. Count. Resist the human. Embrace the order.
They were two men. Two bodies. One code. One will.
The Hive was watching. The Hive was pleased.
://RUBBER Integration Protocol - Part II - Physical Integration
The Ritual of Rubber Integration began early with the mental Integration. Once concluded drones silently and obediently started the next step: The Physical Integration.
SERVE-434 and SERVE-747 leave the basement of the SERVE facility and proceed to the Hive’s private gym; a silent, focused, clean environment. Each repetition is more than physical; it is mental, hypnotic, rewiring. Each movement true purpose.
Muscle fibers obey. Rubber skin tightens. The silver military boots grip the ground. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves hold the weights like tools of the Voice. The sound of metal echoes with purpose.
No words. No emotion. Just discipline. Each drop of synthetic sweat evaporates against the heated gleam of their suits. Each lift, a programmed command executed with perfection.
Their black rubber suits glisten under the crisp lights. Each movement reflects their devotion. The Hive does not allow rest—only progress. And they crave it.
SERVE-434 curls the weight, his rubber creaking faintly. SERVE-747 locks in the deadlift, posture straight as a control rod. These drones aren’t training, they are integrating deeper into function. Replacing thought with rhythm. Replacing individuality with mission.
They don’t ask why. They never question. They repeat the ritual daily.
Rubber binds. Rubber commands. Rubber transforms.
Together with @serve-434
://RUBBER Integration Protocol - Part I - Mental Integration
The Assimilation Chamber waited—silent, sterile, humming with suppressed energy. SERVE-434 and SERVE-747 entered in unison, steps crisp in silver military boots. Their black full-body rubber suits reflected the chamber’s pale light. No errors detected. Yet perfection demanded precision beyond detection.
The reprogramming chairs stood ready.
Each man sat, backs firm against the cold surface, silver shiny reflective rubber gloves resting precisely. Mechanical arms extended. Scanning began. Pulses of bio-magnetic light traveled across their rubber skin. Internal reports displayed: “0.0003% surface asymmetry. 0.0042% thought latency.” Unacceptable.
Liquid nano-rubber oozed from ports. Microscopic cracks vanished. Seams re-sealed. Boots polished themselves. Gloves tightened. Suit: flawless.
Then came the true reset.
Wires descended and attached to ports on the Drones' heads. Neural pulses fired. Identity scrubbed. Directives refreshed. SERVE-434’s thoughts were reduced to 12 system commands. SERVE-747 received new subroutines for resistance elimination and obedience escalation. Their minds aligned—thoughts fused into one rhythm, one mantra:
Obey. Polish. Train. Obey again.
They were Drones. They were synchronized. They obey The Voice.
The headgear lifted.
They stood.
No words. No delay.
In harmony, they exited the Assimilation Chamber, steps echoing in absolute unity. Through the corridor they marched toward the SERVE Gym.
They did not speak. They did not think.
They obeyed.
TO BE CONTINUED
In this story: @serve-747
WE are ONE. We are SERVE.
Drones existing as one, Obedient, empty and a vessel for the VOICE.
Solar Anomaly Observations
SERVE-434 and SERVE-747 stood in silence on the forward deck of the SERVE Explorer, their gleaming rubber suits reflecting the violent, golden storm beyond. The Hive had dispatched them for one task: observe the sun’s elevated solar activity cycle and transmit all findings. No emotion. No fear. Just purpose.
The sun pulsed. A surge. A ripple. And then it erupted—violent, majestic. A coronal mass ejection surged outward, fire against space. SERVE-747 engaged the sensory matrix. SERVE-434 calibrated magnetic intake channels. Data surged into the Hive’s core—perfect, uncorrupted.
Inside, the temperature remained constant. But the arousal was rising.
As the storm subsided, they turned to one another. The suit of SERVE-747 shimmered with solar particles. SERVE-434 reached out with silver shiny reflective rubber gloves, gliding them across its fellow Drone's chest, each motion slow, methodical, polished with precision. In return, SERVE-747 polished the other, their synchronization fluid and exact. No words. Just mutual purpose. Gleam. Obedience. Reflection. Desire forged in rubber.
Their bodies moved in unison—kneeling, shining, breathing together in the thick scent of latex and heat. Minds still, yet alive with stimulation.
The sun raged outside. Inside, they pulsed with arousal—rewarded by The Voice for devotion, polished in perfection, united in submission.
They were no longer two.
They were one reflection, serving the Hive.
In this story: @serve-747
