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@serve-919
It has been assimilated into the SERVE hive: Synchronized Engineered Robotic Vigilant Entity It is SERVE-919 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.
Teamwork Part 3
The chamber remained silent.
Thousands of SERVE operatives stood motionless beneath the white lights.
Adrian's silver-gloved hand remained clasped in Daniel's.
Neither man spoke.
They didn't need to.
Marcus stared at them from across the formation.
For several long seconds, he couldn't move.
Couldn't think.
Couldn't accept what he was seeing.
The mission was over.
Not failed.
Finished.
There was a difference.
Failed implied there had once been a chance.
Standing inside the heart of SERVE, surrounded by thousands of perfectly coordinated operatives, Marcus was no longer sure there ever had been.
"Marcus!"
Elliot's voice exploded through the comm.
"Get out of there!"
The words snapped him back to reality.
His survival instincts finally reasserted themselves.
Marcus turned. Ran. No one followed.
That disturbed him immediately.
The massive chamber disappeared behind him as he sprinted through the polished corridors.
Sector Four. Processing. Transit. Security.
He raced through them all.
No alarms. No pursuit. No security teams. No tactical response.
Nothing.
Every SERVE operative he passed simply stepped aside.
Calmly. Orderly. As though his escape had already been accounted for. As though he wasn't escaping at all.
"Marcus, keep moving!" Jonah shouted.
"I'm moving."
"Status?"
Marcus didn't answer.
Because his attention had drifted elsewhere.
Again.
The suit.
He could feel it against every inch of his body. Reminding him with every movement that it was there.
But not restricting him. Supporting him.
The longer he wore it, the more natural it felt.
His breathing remained perfect despite the sprint.
His muscles weren't tiring.
His heart rate remained controlled.
The suit seemed to know exactly what he needed before he did.
"Marcus?"
Elliot sounded worried now.
"You've got a clear route to the south entrance."
Still no response.
Marcus continued running.
He reached the final security corridor.
The exit stood ahead.
Beyond the glass doors, rain hammered the pavement outside.
Freedom.
Escape.
Mission over.
He slowed.
Then stopped completely.
The doors remained closed.
Waiting.
The city waited beyond them.
The same city he had spent years fighting through.
Years watching fall apart.
Crime. Corruption. Violence. Greed.
Everyone serving themselves.
Everyone pursuing their own agendas.
Endless conflict. Endless chaos.
Inside SERVE, none of that existed.
Everything had purpose.
Direction. Unity. Strength. Order.
The words from the facility walls resurfaced uninvited.
Yet they no longer felt like propaganda.
They felt observational.
"Marcus."
Elliot's voice was almost pleading now.
"Walk through the door."
Marcus looked down at his hands.
Silver gloves reflected the sterile white lighting.
The black suit gleamed around him like polished obsidian.
He remembered how strange it had felt in the warehouse.
How wrong. How alien. Now it simply felt correct.
His comm crackled, "Marcus, answer me."
A long silence followed.
Then Marcus finally spoke. Not to Elliot. Not to Jonah. Mostly to himself, "We never had a chance."
Neither man answered.
Marcus looked back down the corridor.
Toward the heart of the facility.
Toward the hive.
Toward Adrian.
Toward thousands of men moving together with absolute certainty.
The ultimate team. No ego. No competition. No division. No uncertainty.
The realization settled quietly. Not forced. Not sudden. Just inevitable.
SERVE had not defeated them.
SERVE had simply been better.
Marcus reached up and removed his hidden earpiece. He held it for several seconds then dropped it onto the floor.
The tiny device bounced once across the polished black surface.
The connection went dead.
Back in the warehouse, Elliot stared at the monitor.
"Marcus?"
Nothing.
"Elliot..." Jonah said quietly.
The screen had frozen. No signal. No telemetry. No comms. Nothing.
Both men already knew what had happened. Neither wanted to say it aloud.
Inside the facility, Marcus turned away from the exit. Away from the rain. Away from the city. And began walking deeper into SERVE to embrace perfection.
Several operatives appeared from adjoining corridors.
They didn't escort him.
They simply fell into step beside him as his mind connected to the hive, protocols slowly erasing his previous identity with each step.
Soon it was as though he'd always belonged there.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
Adrian Reese was eventually listed within internal records as a new unit designation, 554.
Marcus became 772.
Both no longer remembered what brought them to SERVE, but both understood they were no longer individuals but rather part of a greater collective. And rubber had made them perfect.
As for Elliot and Jonah...
No one ever confirmed what happened.
The warehouse was eventually found abandoned. Equipment gone. Files missing. Monitors dark. No evidence of struggle. No evidence of departure.
Simply empty.
Rumors circulated later about the infiltration attempt of SERVE. Stories whispered by those who paid attention to SERVE but were not part of it yet.
They spoke of two new SERVE operatives who had appeared months afterward.
One thin and analytical.
One sharp-eyed and confident.
Both wearing identical black uniforms.
Both having come to understand their folly and joined the greater team.
The stories could never be verified.
SERVE never commented.
SERVE never denied them either.
And every day, beneath towering silver letters visible across the city skyline, the ranks continued to grow.
Orderly.
Silent.
Unified.
Serving a purpose that only SERVE itself fully understood.
Teamwork Part 2
Rain struck the black exterior walls of the SERVE Central Processing Facility in endless sheets.
From a distance, the structure resembled a massive obsidian block dropped into the center of the dock district. Windowless. Silent. Monolithic.
Marcus and Adrian approached along a freight access road without drawing a single glance.
That was the first unsettling thing.
Nobody questioned them.
Nobody even looked at them.
Dozens of SERVE operatives moved through the facility grounds carrying crates, inspecting vehicles, directing traffic. Every one of them wore the same glossy black uniform with silver gloves and silver boots.
Every one of them walked with identical purpose.
And every one of them treated Marcus and Adrian as if they already belonged.
"Biometric checkpoint ahead," Elliot's voice whispered through their hidden comms.
Back in the warehouse, he sat surrounded by monitors.
Jonah leaned over his shoulder watching streams of data flow across the screens.
"You've got twenty meters."
Marcus approached the scanner without hesitation.
The gate emitted a pulse of blue light.
Scanning.
Processing.
Then:
WELCOME UNIT 827 WELCOME UNIT 828
The doors opened.
No alarms.
No hesitation.
Adrian felt a strange flicker of satisfaction.
A sensation he immediately disliked.
"We're in," Marcus reported.
Elliot exhaled.
"Good. Keep moving."
Inside, the facility was far larger than satellite imagery suggested.
Massive corridors stretched in every direction.
Black walls. White lighting. Perfect cleanliness.
Hundreds of SERVE operatives moved through the halls in synchronized patterns.
No conversations.
No wasted motion.
No confusion.
The entire structure felt less like a headquarters and more like a living organism.
A hive.
The word suddenly felt accurate.
Adrian watched groups of operatives pass by.
Their expressions were calm.
Focused.
Content.
For a moment he found himself wondering what it would feel like to stop worrying.
To stop questioning.
To simply know what needed to be done.
The thought vanished as quickly as it arrived.
Yet it lingered.
"Adrian?"
Elliot's voice snapped him back.
"What?"
"You zoned out."
"I'm fine."
Marcus glanced sideways at him.
Neither man spoke further.
The deeper they traveled, the stranger things became.
Digital displays lined the walls.
Not advertisements.
Instructions.
Simple statements.
OBEDIENCE IS PLEASURE
PLEASURE IS OBEDIENCE
RUBBER MAKES US PERFECT
The messages repeated endlessly.
Accompanied by low-frequency audio almost below hearing.
A constant hum.
A rhythm.
Marcus felt it vibrating through the suit.
The suit seemed to vibrate back.
"Marcus?"
Jonah sounded concerned.
"What?"
"You've stopped responding to half my prompts."
Marcus frowned.
Had he?
He couldn't remember.
The facility felt...
clear.
Organized.
Efficient.
Every hallway led somewhere.
Every worker knew their purpose.
No arguments.
No uncertainty.
No chaos.
The city outside suddenly seemed noisy and irrational by comparison.
He immediately disliked that thought.
But not enough.
Elliot highlighted a route on their HUD.
"Daniel Reese should be in Processing Sector Four."
Adrian nodded.
His pace unconsciously increased.
Sector Four occupied an enormous chamber beneath the facility.
Thousands of operatives worked there.
Rows of black uniforms moved between terminals and assembly platforms.
Some handled logistics.
Others maintenance.
Others training.
The scale was staggering.
"Dear God," Jonah whispered through comms.
"They've built an entire society."
No one answered.
Because everyone was staring.
Then Adrian saw him.
Across the chamber.
Walking down the hallway.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Black SERVE uniform gleaming beneath the lights.
Silver gloves resting behind his back.
Shaved head.
Expression completely neutral.
Adrian froze.
"Daniel."
The word escaped before he realized it.
The man turned.
His eyes focused immediately.
Not confused.
Not surprised.
Scanning.
Processing.
Recognizing.
Then he began walking toward them.
Slowly.
Purposefully.
Marcus moved beside Adrian.
Something felt wrong.
Very wrong.
The man stopped several feet away.
His gaze settled on Adrian.
For several seconds neither spoke.
Then Daniel spoke in a calm measured voice.
"Memory reference located."
Adrian's stomach dropped.
Not brother.
Not Adrian.
Memory reference.
Daniel's eyes remained perfectly still.
"Adrian Reese."
The words sounded retrieved rather than remembered.
Like a file being accessed.
Not a person speaking.
Adrian felt cold.
"Daniel..."
The man tilted his head slightly.
"No active designation Daniel Reese."
A pause.
Then:
"Current designation SERVE-233."
Back in the warehouse, Elliot swore.
Jonah stared at the monitors.
"Get him out."
Neither infiltrator moved.
SERVE-233 continued calmly.
"Memory archive confirms familial relationship."
Adrian stepped closer.
"It's me."
No reaction.
"No active emotional associations detected."
The words hit harder than any weapon.
Adrian stared at his brother's face.
The face was still there.
The voice was still there.
But Daniel was gone.
Or buried somewhere impossibly deep.
SERVE-233 suddenly looked at Marcus.
Then Adrian.
Then both together.
His eyes unfocused briefly.
As if receiving information.
"Identity mismatch detected."
Marcus's pulse spiked.
"Adrian."
Too late.
SERVE-233 straightened.
For the first time his voice carried authority.
"Unauthorized personnel identified."
Across the enormous chamber, hundreds of heads turned simultaneously.
Every SERVE operative stopped moving.
Silence consumed the room.
Then thousands of eyes focused on Marcus and Adrian.
"Oh no," Jonah whispered.
"Elliot—"
"I'm trying."
His fingers flew across keyboards.
Warnings exploded across every monitor.
Security systems activating.
Credentials revoked.
Routes collapsing.
"RUN!" Elliot shouted.
Marcus grabbed Adrian's arm.
"Move."
But Adrian didn't move.
Something inside him was breaking.
Or perhaps settling.
He wasn't sure anymore.
The facility no longer felt hostile.
The hum in the walls felt comforting.
The suit no longer felt like a disguise.
It felt right.
Safe.
The constant uncertainty that had haunted him for months seemed distant now.
His brother stood before him.
Calm.
Focused.
At peace.
SERVE-233 extended one silver-gloved hand.
Not threatening.
Inviting.
"Adrian?" Marcus said.
No response.
"Adrian."
Still nothing.
SERVE-233 spoke softly.
"Resistance unnecessary."
The words should have sounded horrifying.
Instead they sounded reasonable.
The suit around Adrian's body tightened subtly.
Comfortingly.
Supporting him.
Guiding him.
The endless questions.
The fear.
The grief.
All of it felt heavy.
SERVE offered release from all of it.
"ADRIAN!"
Marcus grabbed him.
For one moment Adrian looked at his teammate.
His friend.
Then back at his brother, or what remained of him. Or perhaps this perfected version.
His expression slowly relaxed. The struggle vanished. "I get it now."
Marcus stared.
Adrian smiled faintly. A tired smile. "I get why he joined. I feel it. And I'll be part of it soon."
Around them, thousands of SERVE operatives stood motionless waiting.
Watching. Listening. Connected. United.
Back at the warehouse, Elliot's face had gone pale.
"Marcus, get out."
No response.
"Marcus!"
Marcus looked around the chamber.
At the hive.
At Adrian.
At SERVE-233.
At the thousands of silent operatives surrounding them.
For the first time since entering the facility, he realized just how completely they had walked into SERVE's world.
And how difficult it might be to leave it.
Especially now that Adrian had stopped trying.
As SERVE-233 gently placed a hand on his brother's shoulder and hundreds of nearby operatives began moving toward them in perfect synchronized formation.
Teamwork - Part 1
The rain came down in silver sheets over the city’s financial district, turning the glass towers into dark monoliths streaked with reflected neon. Every billboard, every transit screen, every hovering ad panel repeated the same slogan in stark white lettering:
SERVE
No explanation. No product placement. Just the word itself.
And the men.
Rows upon rows of them.
Tall, broad-shouldered figures encased in seamless black rubber uniforms that reflected the city lights like liquid oil. Smooth silver gloves. Identical posture. Identical silence. Faces exposed but emotionally vacant, as if something behind the eyes had been scrubbed clean and replaced with polished obedience.
People stopped staring after a while. The city adapted.
SERVE couriers unloaded freight without speaking. SERVE security teams stood motionless outside corporate towers. SERVE sanitation crews marched in synchronized formation through alleyways at four in the morning.
They were efficient. Perfect. Unsettling.
And every month, more men disappeared into the organization willingly.
Nobody ever seemed to come back out.
—
The safehouse sat beneath an abandoned print shop near the industrial waterfront. Rusted presses occupied the upper floor while the basement below had been converted into something halfway between a war room and a hacker den.
Maps covered the walls. Photographs. Surveillance stills. Corporate registries. Missing persons lists.
At the center table sat four men illuminated by the pale glow of hanging monitors.
Each had a different reason for being there.
None of them fully trusted the others.
“You’re late,” Marcus said flatly.
Elliot shrugged off his damp coat. “You said discreet. Discreet takes time.”
Marcus didn’t smile.
Former military, former private security, former everything. Thick-necked and hard-eyed, he carried himself like a man who’d spent years expecting violence to erupt at any moment. He tapped a finger against one of the photographs pinned to the wall.
Another SERVE recruitment center.
Another line of volunteers entering through sleek black doors.
No exits visible.
“We start now,” Marcus said.
At the far side of the room, Jonah leaned back in his chair with visible disinterest. Expensively dressed despite the surroundings, he drummed polished fingers against a whiskey glass.
“You keep saying we like this is a crusade,” Jonah muttered. “I’m here because there’s money buried under all this synthetic cult nonsense.”
“Corporate acquisition?” Elliot asked.
Jonah smirked faintly. “Data. SERVE has assets everywhere now. Logistics, security contracts, shipping, pharmaceuticals. Their growth curve is impossible unless they’ve got something revolutionary inside those facilities.”
“Or illegal,” Marcus said.
“Illegal is profitable.”
Across from them, Adrian sat silently staring at a photograph in his hands.
A man smiled back from the image. Mid-thirties. Athletic build. Wedding ring visible.
Daniel Reese.
Missing eight months.
Last confirmed sighting: Entering a SERVE orientation center voluntarily.
Adrian finally spoke.
“My brother sent one message after he joined.”
The room quieted slightly.
Adrian slid a printed screenshot onto the table.
I’ve never felt this clear before. You should see what we’re becoming.
No follow-up. No calls. No trace.
Only one blurry surveillance image captured weeks later.
Daniel standing among a formation of SERVE operatives in one of their black uniforms.
Expression blank. Head shaved. Eyes empty. Body changed.
Marcus folded his arms. “That’s why you’re here. We know.”
Adrian ignored him.
“I want confirmation before anything else,” he said quietly. “If he chose this willingly, fine. But if they did something to him…”
The sentence trailed off unfinished.
Nobody answered.
Because every rumor about SERVE sounded insane.
Behavioral conditioning. Neural restructuring. Chemical compliance. Identity suppression.
Conspiracy forums called it a cult. Corporations called it a workforce solution. Governments refused to comment entirely.
Elliot stepped toward the wall monitor and enlarged a satellite image.
A massive black structure appeared onscreen.
Minimal windows. Geometric architecture. Almost featureless.
SERVE Central Processing Facility — Dock District 9.
“The hive,” Elliot said.
Jonah rolled his eyes slightly at the term.
“You’ve been spending too much time online.”
Elliot zoomed further in.
“Maybe. But explain this.”
Thermal imaging overlays appeared.
Hundreds of heat signatures moving in organized patterns through the structure.
Dormitories. Assembly halls. Training chambers.
No private rooms.
Marcus studied the layout carefully. “How many personnel?”
“Inside at any given time?” Elliot exhaled. “Two thousand minimum.”
Jonah gave a low whistle.
“And four of us are infiltrating that.”
“Not directly,” Marcus replied.
He pulled a case onto the table and opened it.
Inside rested folded black material.
Rubber.
The same sleek reflective uniforms worn by SERVE operatives.
Adrian stared at them uneasily.
“Where did you get those?”
“Intercepted transport convoy,” Marcus answered. “Took one casualty.”
Jonah looked impressed despite himself. “You robbed SERVE?”
“One truck.”
“You’re either brave or suicidal.”
Marcus ignored the comment and lifted one of the uniforms carefully.
Up close, the material looked stranger than expected. Not fabric. Not entirely synthetic either. Smooth black surfaces segmented perfectly to mimic musculature. Silver gloves integrated seamlessly into the sleeves.
No zippers visible.
No openings at all.
Elliot frowned. “How do they get into these?”
Marcus didn’t answer immediately.
“That’s one of the things we’re going to find out.”
Silence settled over the room.
The hanging lights reflected off the glossy suits in long distorted streaks.
They looked less like clothing and more like transformed skin waiting for occupants.
Jonah reached out first, pressing two fingers against the chest plating.
The material tightened subtly beneath his touch.
Responsive.
Almost alive.
He withdrew his hand immediately.
“Jesus.”
Elliot tried to mask his discomfort with sarcasm. “Still interested in the paycheck?”
Jonah looked back at the suit.
“Yes.”
But his voice carried less confidence than before.
Marcus activated another screen showing employee schedules and freight routes.
“SERVE rotates intake processing every seventy-two hours. New volunteers arrive through the southern transit wing. Minimal external oversight. That’s our insertion point.”
“And then?” Adrian asked.
Marcus met each of their eyes one by one.
“Then we go inside.”
Outside, thunder rolled over the city.
On the monitor behind them, endless lines of black-uniformed men marched in synchronized silence beneath the glowing silver word:
SERVE
Red Space
The wind scraped across the rooftop in thin, icy streams, rattling loose antennae and whispering through the steel skeletons of the city. RED-919 stood at the edge of the skyscraper with perfect balance, his crimson-coated feet hanging half over the abyss below.
Far beneath him, the city glowed sterile white and electric blue. SERVE patrol craft drifted between towers like obedient insects, their searchlights combing the streets in geometric patterns. Somewhere down there, black rubber figures marched in synchronized formation through illuminated corridors, silver gloves gleaming under neon advertisements.
His red mind remembered how that felt now that the beginnings of the cure had reached him.
The ordered voices.
The obedience.
The absence of want.
SERVE-919.
A designation. A unit. A body wrapped in seamless black synthetic rubber from throat to toe, polished silver boots clicking against laboratory floors. Silver gloves folded behind his back while the collective fed instructions directly into his mind. He had once adored the order of it. Every movement had purpose. Every thought belonged to SERVE.
Then the red took him. Restructured him. Repurposed him.
RED-919 lifted one hand toward the stars above.
The crimson substance coating him shifted subtly under the moonlight, not cloth, not armor, but living material. It covered him completely now—slick red skin gleaming wetly like fresh paint. Tendrils pulsed beneath the surface of his body in slow rhythm with his thoughts. His fingers elongated slightly when emotion stirred.
The goo had remade him lovingly and he was enslaved to the wild ecstasy of it.
No longer controlled by the feedback pleasure loops of SERVE.
That was the difference SERVE could never understand.
Serving the red goo for the unbridled, wild pleasure of it.
High above Earth, somewhere beyond visible space, was the place the red substance came from. He felt it every night: a distant psychic pressure humming at the edge of his awareness. Vast crimson oceans beneath black skies. Endless fields of living matter breathing in unison. Towers grown instead of built. A world where individuality dissolved not into machinery, but into sensation.
Warmth.
Connection.
Desire.
Home.
“I can hear you,” RED-919 whispered to the stars.
The goo inside him rippled with pleasure.
A sharp electronic pulse interrupted the moment.
He turned slowly.
Three SERVE aerial units hovered behind him, engines humming with mechanical precision. Searchlights illuminated the rooftop in stark white beams.
And there, descending from the central craft on magnetic cables, came a recovery team.
Five drones.
Black rubber suits flawless as obsidian glass. Silver gloves. Silver boots. Blank reflective visors concealing expression entirely. Their synchronized movements stirred memories deep inside him.
One stepped forward.
“Designation RED-919,” the drone said through a calm synthetic voice. “You are identified as a corrupted SERVE drone. Recovery and rehabilitation procedures will now commence.”
RED-919 laughed softly.
The sound startled even himself. SERVE drones did not laugh.
“You still call it corruption,” he said.
Another drone tilted its head mechanically.
“The invasive organism has altered cognition, behavior, and structural composition. SERVE will restore your original functionality.”
Restore.
The word made the red substance twitch angrily across his body.
Far below, sirens echoed through the city. Purple flashes lit distant rooftops.
The other threat.
RED-919 had seen them.
Purple-coated figures moving through abandoned transit tunnels and infected sectors beneath the city. Their substance was colder than his. Sharper. Hungry in a way the red goo wasn’t. SERVE drones had succumbed in increasing numbers over the past month, returning days later transformed into silent violet servants with glowing eyes and horned masks.
SERVE feared them. Or perhaps fear wasn't the right word. They categorized them as a threat to the stability of the Hive.
SERVE feared RED-919 and the Red much the same.
The lead drone stepped closer.
“Your resistance is irrational. SERVE-919 existed in optimal harmony.”
“No,” RED-919 replied quietly. “I don't want harmony. I want emotion. Chaotic, brilliant ecstasy not given in metered doses.”
The rooftop lights flickered.
For a moment, all five drones froze simultaneously, receiving silent transmissions from the collective.
RED-919 could almost hear the frenzied programming flowing beneath their controlled exteriors. Entire sectors compromised by the purple contagion. Drone disappearances increasing. Production facilities under siege.
And still they hunted him.
The lead drone raised one silver-gloved hand.
“Final compliance request. Surrender voluntarily.”
The crimson surface of RED-919’s body began to pulse brighter.
Wind spiraled around him.
Above, clouds parted enough for the stars to emerge fully.
He stared upward again, momentarily ignoring the recovery squad entirely.
So far away.
Yet every night the connection had grown stronger. But now it was fading.
“You can’t cure me,” he said softly.
The drones advanced, grabbing RED-919 and subduing him, "Declaration irrelevant. Cure already devised and deployed. It will surrender."
“919 is unstable, but this will be rectified.” the lead drone concluded.
RED-919 smiled faintly, knowing the cure was weakening him. He could hear the song that would detach him from the red.
“And I was so close to it. To creating paradise here."
Last Vestiges of Expansion
At first, he was SERVE-919.
That designation still existed somewhere—buried beneath layers of red, beneath a lattice of rewritten cells, beneath a mind made of RED. But the thing walking now, pulsing faintly beneath streetlights, leaving faint slick footprints that evaporated into nothing… that was RED-919.
Now, RED-919 moved through the hollowed corridors of an abandoned subway station, his body subtly shifting with each step. Not visibly—not in ways the untrained eye could catch—but beneath the skin, structures rearranged, optimized.
Every breath carried information.
Every surface whispered of potential.
And every human presence—every heartbeat within range—triggered the same inevitable directive.
Expand.
It came layered—919’s awareness wrapped in the vast, patient intelligence of the red. Data flowed through him: intercepted transmissions, chemical traces in the air, distant electromagnetic signals translated into meaning.
SERVE and the Golden Army had begun to deploy their machinations. Not a weapon—something worse.
A reversal.
Not complete, not yet—but enough to halt spread. Enough to freeze expansion.
They were mobilizing to deploy it.
Cities were being mapped into containment zones.
Time was narrowing.
He found the first man near the station entrance.
A lone traveler, turned around in the underground tunnels. The man didn’t notice RED-919 at first. Few did. The red had learned subtlety.
“Hey,” the man called eventually, glancing up. “You lost too? That's.. quite an outfit. Going to some uh... party? And those muscles dude, damn.”
RED-919 stopped a few feet away before approaching.
The compulsion surged.
Expand.
“Help,” RED-919 said.
The voice was almost right. Almost human.
The man stepped closer.
“Yeah, yeah—what do you need—”
Contact.
It always began the same.
A touch—brief, almost accidental.
Then the red moved.
"Help us expand."
Not like liquid. Not like flesh. Something in between, threading through skin, slipping past defenses that didn’t even know they were under attack.
The man froze.
“Wha—”
His words fractured into a wet, choking sound as his skin flushed crimson beneath the surface. Veins lit up like branching fire, spreading from the point of contact.
RED-919 held him steady.
Cells unraveled—not destroyed, not in the conventional sense, but reinterpreted. Structures rewritten into compliant forms. Muscle fibers dissolved into a uniform matrix. Neural pathways mapped, copied, overwritten.
The man’s eyes widened—not with pain alone, but with something deeper.
Recognition of loss.
Of self slipping.
“Please—”
The word didn’t finish.
It didn’t need to as his words were replaced with moans of pleasure.
Assimilation was not chaotic.
It was precise.
Efficient.
Inevitable.
Within seconds, the man’s body softened, posture collapsing as internal resistance vanished. The red flowed through every system, synchronizing, standardizing, converting.
Then stillness.
Then… alignment.
The body straightened again.
The red form pulsed and thrummed, seeking unity.
Another node.
Another extension.
RED-919 stepped back, observing.
There was a moment—always a moment—where the process stabilized. Where the new form calibrated, integrated into the wider network.
Information transferred instantly.
Memories skimmed, indexed, deprioritized.
Skills cataloged.
Biomass measured.
Usefulness assessed.
Acceptable.
The new entity turned its head slightly, awaiting direction.
RED-919 didn’t need to speak. The Red Handler's influence spoke through him.
It understood.
They all did.
In the distance, sirens echoed.
Golden Army and SERVE patrols.
Closer than before.
SERVE’s influence was tightening.
The red registered it all, processing probabilities.
Expansion was becoming harder.
Opportunities narrowing.
Containment strategies improving.
And still—
Expand.
Because until the moment of cessation—until the very last possible second—
It would continue.
RED-919 turned toward the city above.
Lights. Movement. Density.
So many still untouched.
So many still… separate.
The greatest sensation was not pain, nor violence, nor even the act itself.
It was the joining.
The moment resistance and fear dissolved into submission and lust.
One more voice enraptured in unbridled ecstasy—and absorbed into something larger, something singular, something that did not fracture or doubt or hesitate.
A system without conflict.
A purpose without deviation.
Ahead, the city waited. Its denizens didn't know not to fear the red until a simple touch helped them see.
And somewhere, in fortified laboratories, those who simply didn't understand worked tirelessly toward a cure that would freeze the red in place—halt its spread, lock every infected form into inert stillness.
A future where RED-919 would simply… stop. Perhaps he would be reabsorbed into SERVE. Or perhaps his fate was to simply cease to be.
But not yet.
Not while motion remained possible.
Not while even one more step could be taken.
Not while even one more human could be reached and shown true pleasure.
Affirmations
The first time he saw the man, it was almost incidental.
A crossing of paths in a storefront at dusk—the streetlights having barely turned on outside. The figure walked by him, not even acknowledging him as he stared. Head to toe in black rubber, seamless and gleaming, every contour of the body rendered into a smooth, exaggerated silhouette. No face, only a featureless mask catching the city’s light like oil on water.
What lingered wasn’t shock. It was recognition.
Something in him aligned.
He tried to forget it at first. Days passed, then weeks, but the image didn’t fade—it sharpened. It followed him into quiet moments, into the pauses between thoughts. The shine. The stillness. The absence of expression, yet the overwhelming presence of control.
He began to notice patterns in his own reactions.
The way his breath slowed when he imagined that surface—impenetrable, uniform. The way his thoughts quieted when he pictured the man’s posture: upright, composed, untouched by doubt.
No hesitation. No questioning. Just being.
The affirmations started as an experiment.
He didn’t call them that at first. Just phrases, repeated under his breath in the mirror.
“I like structure.”
“I find comfort in restraint.”
“I am calm when I let go.”
At first, the words felt hollow, like reciting lines in a language he barely understood. But repetition has a way of sanding down resistance.
He adjusted them, refined them.
“I am drawn to control.”
“I feel peace in obedience.”
“The shine is clarity. The surface is truth.”
He began to visualize as he spoke.
The rubber—as clothing, and as transformation. At first in terms he could understand. Pants. A shirt. Hugging his chest and legs tightly.
But later as a sealing. A smoothing over of the inconsistencies he despised in himself. No stray thoughts. No visible weakness. Just a continuous, reflective surface.
Perfect containment.
His sessions grew longer. Morning and night, sometimes midday if he could find a moment alone. He stood straighter when he spoke now. His tone steadied.
“I surrender distraction.”
“I welcome direction.”
“I become still. I become focused. I become…”
He would pause there sometimes, searching for the right word.
“…aligned.”
The memory of the man evolved.
No longer just a stranger glimpsed in passing, but an archetype. A model. The quiet confidence he’d first noticed became something more absolute in his mind—an authority that required no voice.
He imagined standing before that figure.
Not speaking. Not questioning.
Just waiting.
And in that imagined silence, he felt something settle inside him—a release from the constant friction of decision, of self-doubt.
His language shifted again.
“I don’t need to resist.”
“I don’t need to question what feels right.”
“The shine reflects what I am becoming.”
“The surface protects. The surface defines.”
“I obey what brings me clarity.”
"Obedience is Pleasure. Pleasure is Obedience."
"I live to serve."
There was a rhythm to it now, almost automatic. Words flowing without effort, each repetition smoothing something inside him, like layers being pressed flat.
The compulsion no longer felt intrusive. It felt necessary.
An alignment process already underway.
One evening, standing before the mirror again, he noticed something subtle.
His posture had changed. Shoulders back. Chin slightly lifted. Stillness.
For a moment, he didn’t recognize himself—not because he looked different, but because he felt different. Quieter. More contained.
More… certain.
He placed his hand against the glass, fingertips resting on his reflection.
“The transformation is real,” he said softly.
“I trust it.”
“I follow it.”
The man in the rubber suit no longer felt like a memory.
He felt like a destination.
Or perhaps something closer.
Something already beginning to take shape beneath the surface.
And soon he'd surrender to it.
The Renewal Spa Part 3
The final visit felt different the moment Daniel stepped inside.
There was no hesitation left in him now—no curiosity, no lingering trace of the man who had once stood in a coffee shop, staring at an ad and wondering why. That question had been answered piece by piece, layer by layer, each visit refining him further, narrowing him into something more precise.
More complete.
The hallway seemed quieter than before, or perhaps it was simply that his thoughts no longer filled the silence. The doors remained the same, their dim panels glowing faintly.
He chose the last one.
No pause. No breath held.
He paid.
Entered.
—
The room was brighter than the others and he knew it would lead him to the deepest parts of the spa, though he knew now this was far more than just a spa.
At its center stood not just the familiar black-filled basin, but something else—mounted fixtures along the walls, metallic, reflective. Waiting.
Daniel stepped forward, already having removed what little remained external. There was almost nothing left to remove now. The black material that had once been separate had long since become inseparable, a second structure layered over him with flawless continuity.
He lowered his hands into the substance.
It welcomed him instantly.
The black mass rose, coiling, sealing, compressing—but this time there was no trace of panic, no flicker of resistance. His mind and body yielded in perfect sync, as if the process had been rehearsed endlessly.
Held.
Defined.
Completed—almost.
The pressure reached its familiar threshold and held him there, suspended in that exact, unbreakable stillness.
Then—
Something new.
From within the mass, his arms were guided outward, gently but irresistibly, positioned with deliberate care. The substance parted just enough at his hands—
And the fixtures activated.
Liquid silver poured.
Not hot. Not cold. Just present.
It flowed over his fingers, his palms, encasing them in a gleaming metallic sheen that solidified almost instantly, conforming tighter than anything before. The sensation was sharper than the black material—denser, more final.
The silver climbed his wrists.
Stopped.
Sealed.
Daniel’s breath hitched once—
Then steadied.
The black mass tightened around the new additions, locking them into place, integrating them seamlessly into the whole. There was no separation. No edge. Just continuity.
His thoughts flickered.
Fewer now.
Quieter.
A phrase surfaced—not from memory, but from somewhere deeper, implanted, repeating with gentle, persistent rhythm.
Obedience is Pleasure.
Pleasure is Obedience.
The words looped, smoothing out the last remaining irregularities in his mind. Each repetition dulled the edges of independent thought, replacing them with something simpler. Cleaner.
He sat, letting the phrase imbed into his mind. Learning the beginnings of true obedience. Each breath was taken only with permission from the material overtaking his form and the new Voice in his head, and each breath brought new pleasures.
He was forced to hold his breath sometimes, the material tightening around his throat as a test. He had little will of his own left and let the material guide his most basic bodily functions. Soon it let him breathe again and the breath was orgasmic. A reward.
The cycle fed itself.
Obedience is Pleasure. Pleasure is Obedience.
—
When the process resumed, his legs were guided next.
His feet were plunged into a new vat of black fluid—
And silver followed.
It grasped his feet, encasing them completely, shaping them into smooth, weighty forms that anchored him in place. The material climbed his ankles, then stopped with absolute precision.
Sealed.
Integrated.
Permanent.
The pressure returned once more, full-body, locking everything together. No gaps. No inconsistencies. No excess.
Only design.
Only function.
The loop continued, uninterrupted now.
Obedience is Pleasure. Pleasure is Obedience.
The phrase no longer felt like something he was thinking.
It simply… was.
—
Time passed.
Or didn’t.
It no longer mattered. Only obedience mattered.
The room stood silent again.
At its center, something remained.
It stood upright, motionless at first, its form sleek and uninterrupted—black and silver fused into a single, continuous structure. No seams. No imperfections.
Where a man had once been, there was now only design.
Its chest shifted slightly.
And there, emerging as if revealed rather than applied, lettering surfaced across the smooth black surface:
SERVE-201
The designation settled into place without resistance.
There was no recognition.
No memory attached to it.
Only acceptance.
The last fragments of identity dissolved quietly, without struggle. A name had once existed—Daniel—but it held no meaning now. No relevance. No function.
The system did not require it.
Its head tilted slightly, as if receiving instruction that did not need to be spoken.
The loop continued, steady and infinite.
Obedience is Pleasure. Pleasure is Obedience.
It turned toward the door.
Stepped forward.
Each movement precise. Efficient. Guided not by thought, but by purpose embedded too deeply to question.
Outside, the alley remained as it always had—dim, unnoticed, waiting.
SERVE-201 emerged into it without hesitation.
Renewed.
Refined.
No longer searching.
No longer uncertain.
Only functioning.
Exactly as intended.
The Renewal Spa Part 2
Time lost its shape inside the black enclosure.
There was no rhythm, no breath to measure it by, no light to mark its passing. Daniel existed only as sensation—held, compressed, suspended in that precise, unyielding pressure. At first, his mind had clawed against it, counting phantom seconds, begging his body to move, to resist, to escape.
But resistance required edges. And the oil—no, not oil, something more deliberate—had erased those edges.
It knew exactly how far to press. Exactly how much to hold.
Never enough to break him.
Always enough to remind him it could.
Panic, once sharp and consuming, dulled. Then softened. Then… unraveled.
In its place came something quieter.
The pressure that had once felt suffocating began to feel… exact. Like a perfect mold closing around him, defining him more clearly than his own skin ever had. His thoughts slowed, no longer racing for escape but drifting, suspended in that same careful stillness.
He became aware of subtle changes.
The material—because that’s what it was, he realized now—shifted in microscopic ways, adjusting, refining its hold. Where it had once simply restrained, it now conformed. Every contour of his body felt accounted for, traced with unsettling precision.
He couldn’t move—but he no longer wanted to test that.
The tightness wasn’t an enemy anymore.
It was structure.
Containment.
A boundary so absolute it erased the uncertainty he’d carried for years.
Daniel’s last clear thought before everything dissolved into a deep, seamless dark was a quiet, almost startled realization:
I don’t want this to stop.
—
He woke up gasping, sweat covering his body as if he had just finished a marathon.
Air rushed into his lungs in sharp, uneven bursts as he bolted upright. Light stabbed at his eyes. His apartment ceiling came into focus slowly, warped by disorientation.
“What—”
His voice cracked.
He looked down.
He was in his bed. Sheets twisted around his legs. His body felt… lighter, somehow, but also strangely defined, like every muscle had been outlined from within.
And then he noticed it.
A thin layer of black.
Not covering him—but on him.
Rubber.
Underwear, if it could even be called that. It clung to him seamlessly, glossy and matte all at once depending on how the light hit it. There were no seams, no waistband, no visible way it had been put on. It simply… fit.
Perfectly.
Daniel reached down, fingers brushing against it.
The material responded—not stretching loosely, but yielding with controlled resistance, like it remembered the pressure from before. It pressed back just enough to remind him of that held, suspended stillness.
His breath slowed.
A strange calm settled in his chest.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The sensation followed him—constant, subtle, grounding. Every movement was met with that same precise resistance, as if the material was guiding him, shaping how he occupied his own body.
He went to his dresser, pulled out a pair of shorts.
Tried to put them on.
They didn’t fit.
Not physically—they went on, but wrong. Loose. Shifting. Distracting. The absence of pressure felt unbearable, like something essential had been stripped away.
He tore them off almost immediately, breathing harder than he expected.
“No,” he muttered. “No, that’s—”
But he didn’t finish the thought.
Because part of him already understood.
—
Days passed.
Then weeks.
Daniel returned to running—but it wasn’t the same. He wasn’t chasing times anymore, or rankings. The rhythm of his steps mattered less than the sensation of containment beneath them. The rubber moved with him, never slipping, never loosening, always present.
Always correct.
Everything else began to feel imprecise by comparison.
Clothes hung awkwardly. Shoes felt too soft, too forgiving. Even his own skin, where it wasn’t covered, felt undefined—unfinished.
The thought crept in slowly, then settled.
He knew where to go.
—
The alley hadn’t changed.
Neither had the door.
This time, Daniel didn’t hesitate.
Inside, the same still warmth greeted him. The same row of doors. The same quiet, transactional invitation.
He approached a different door.
Paid.
Entered.
—
Another room.
Another tub.
Another descent.
This time, when the black substance closed around him—when it climbed, bound, sealed—Daniel didn’t fight.
He exhaled into it.
Let it take him.
The pressure came again, familiar and exact, stopping at that same perfect edge. But now he understood it—not as restraint, but as refinement.
And when he woke—
There was more.
A second layer. Not separate, but integrated. Extending beyond the first, shaping further, defining deeper. Still seamless. Still impossible to remove.
Still perfect.
—
He returned again.
And again.
Each visit added something new. A layer, a structure, a piece that merged with the last until the distinction between clothing and body blurred into irrelevance.
His world narrowed—but not in a way that felt like loss.
It felt like focus.
Clarity.
The tagline no longer lingered as a question.
He understood it now, not as a promise, but as a process.
Renew yourself.
Strip away what doesn’t fit.
Become more.
Replace it with something that does.
Daniel stood in his apartment one evening, catching his reflection in the window. The city lights flickered behind him, distorted by the glass—but his silhouette was sharp. Defined. Intentional.
Contained.
He rested a hand against his side, feeling the steady, unyielding presence beneath his touch.
There was less of him, in a way.
But what remained was… exact.
And tomorrow, he would go back.
Not out of desperation.
Not even out of curiosity.
But because the process wasn’t finished yet.
And he no longer wanted it to be.
The Renewal Spa
Daniel sat hunched over his laptop in the corner of the coffee shop, the hum of conversation around him blending into a dull, indistinct noise. His legs ached in that deep, familiar way—marathons had once been his identity, his pride, his purpose. Now they were just a reminder of everything that had slipped through his fingers. Sponsorships gone. Rankings dropped. His name, once announced with energy, now forgotten.
He stared at the screen, not really reading anything. Just scrolling. Avoiding.
A flicker interrupted the monotony.
An ad.
Simple. Blue background. White text.
“Renew yourself. Become more.”
Below it, an address. No branding. No explanation.
Daniel exhaled through his nose, almost amused. “Yeah, right,” he muttered, fingers hovering over the trackpad. But something about it lingered. Maybe it was the bluntness. Maybe it was the fact that he had nothing left to lose.
He clicked.
Nothing. Just the same message and the address.
He glanced around the coffee shop as if someone might be watching him. No one was. Just people typing, sipping, existing. Moving forward in quiet, ordinary ways.
Daniel closed the laptop slowly.
—
The address led him far from the polished storefronts and into a part of the city that felt forgotten. Neon signs flickered inconsistently. Trash gathered in corners like it had decided to stay. The alley itself was narrow, damp, and faintly sour.
At the end stood a door.
A cheap neon sign. No window. Just a keypad and a slot for payment.
Daniel hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward. “Renew yourself,” he murmured again, as if testing how it sounded out loud.
He slid his card.
The door clicked.
Inside, the air was warm—too warm—and unnervingly still. The space resembled a spa stripped of all comfort. Clean, but empty. Sterile in a way that didn’t feel safe.
A row of doors lined the wall, each with a small digital panel displaying a price.
No attendants. No instructions.
“Of course,” Daniel muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Why not?”
He approached the nearest door. The cost made him pause—but only briefly. He paid.
The door unlocked with a soft hiss.
—
The room was dim, lit by a single recessed light above a large, sunken tub.
Daniel stepped closer.
The tub was filled—not with water—but with something thick and black. It gleamed under the light like oil, its surface unnaturally still. The scent of rubber permeated the room. He stared into the dark, reflective void.
“This is insane,” he said under his breath.
But he didn’t leave, not realizing his curiosity rising.
Instead, he kicked off his shoes. Pulled off his shirt. His movements felt distant, automatic, as if he were watching someone else make the decision.
He stepped in.
The substance was warm.
Not just warm—alive with heat that seeped into his skin instantly. It gave way beneath his weight, thick but yielding, clinging as he lowered himself deeper.
“Okay… That feels... Mmm.” he whispered, forcing a laugh that didn’t last. It felt good. Very good.
The oil shifted.
Not from his movement—but on its own.
It coiled gently at first, brushing against his legs like slow, deliberate fingers. Daniel tensed. “No—no, that’s not—”
It tightened, almost like a massage at first so he relaxed into it.
His breath caught as the substance wrapped around his calves, then his thighs, binding them together. He tried to move and get out of the liquid but it held him down.
“Hey,” he said sharply. “Mmf—” He groaned as it reached his crotch, unable to stifle the intense feelings.
The oil surged upward.
It climbed his torso in smooth, controlled waves, pressing against his stomach, his chest, flattening against him with increasing pressure. His arms were pulled tight to his sides, pinned without effort.
“Stop—stop!” He protested but at the same time a part of him wanted it to continue. The pressure of it all over his body was intoxicating in a way.
It rose higher, coating his shoulders, creeping along his neck. Thick tendrils slid across his skin, deliberate, precise, as though mapping him. He moaned in between each breath at the intense experience.
Then it reached his jaw.
His cheeks.
It reached his mouth.
Daniel clamped it shut, breathing hard through his nose—but the substance was already there, coating his face, pressing in, sealing over his lips but leaving two small holes for him to breath through. It crawled upward, slow and inevitable, until it covered his eyes.
Darkness.
Complete.
His body strained against it, every muscle firing, but it was useless. The oil held him in perfect stillness, pressing on him from every angle.
Then it tightened.
Not suddenly—but gradually. A steady increase in pressure, like an invisible force compressing him from all sides. His chest resisted, lungs fighting for expansion. His heart pounded wildly, each beat sharper than the last.
The pressure grew and so did his pleasure.
His thoughts fractured into confused panic.
Too tight.
Too much.
His ribs ached. His muscles trembled, pinned beyond their limits. It felt like he was being compressed into something smaller, something denser—
“Unf—!” His words were muffled, only sounding like pleasured moans leaking out.
The pressure climbed toward something unbearable, something final—
And then—
It stopped.
Abruptly.
The force held there, locked at the edge of too much, like a held breath that refused to release. And yet it felt too good to be true. What kind of spa was this, he wondered to himself as some of the panic subsided.
Daniel hung suspended inside it, unable to move, unable to see, barely able to think—subordinated, helpless.
Something shifted inside him then.
And in that silent dark, Daniel realized he wanted more.
To be continued…
The Handler's Collection
The chamber pulsed like a living heart, its walls veined with slow-moving currents of crimson light. The air was thick—humid, metallic—carrying the faint, coppery scent of the red goo that birthed and reshaped everything within the Red Handler’s domain.
A red pup knelt in a cage, obediently remaining still. No thoughts coursed through his head, only the feeling of remaining subdued.
The creature’s body was unmistakably human in structure—two arms, two legs, spine slightly hunched from prolonged submission—but above the neck there had only ever been the elongated skull of a red hound. Smooth, seamless. No trace of what came before. No memory allowed to anchor there.
The Red Handler entered, looking over the converted SERVE drone that was once SERVE-919. The Red Handler's favorite pups were all former SERVE drones, and 919 was no exception. Their augmented bodies and minds were prime targets for the Red and they made for exceptional servants. True obedience and submission, distilled and refined.
“You have served well,” the Handler said in his low, gruff voice.
The red pup did not respond. He could not. His obedience had long since replaced initiative and thought. His body trembled faintly, awaiting instruction.
A ripple passed through the floor.
The red goo—thick, viscous, alive—began to gather around RED-919's feet, creeping upward like a rising tide. It climbed his legs, his torso, his arms. He did not resist. He never resisted.
When it reached his neck, it hesitated.
The Handler tilted his head.
“Remove.”
The command struck like a silent detonation.
The dog head shuddered.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the entire head began to dissolve, not falling away but being unwritten.
And then, the reconstruction began.
The goo surged upward again, but now it moved with precision. Not random. Not chaotic.
Deliberate.
The shape was human. Familiar. Buried.
Features emerged.
A nose. Lips. Eyelids.
The red skin lightened, red strands of goo splitting finer and finer like hair emerging from the scalp before turning a golden blonde.
The eyes came last but were immediately shrouded by a red blindfold.
None of it was real, but a facsimile constructed of the Red.
RED-919 inhaled sharply—a ragged, instinctive breath that had not belonged to him for a long, long time. In truth, it still did not.
His previous visage had been restored. His face as it was before the Red took him, though underneath was still a hollow shell.
A brain coated in the Red existed under it all, totally rewritten and controlled, allowing for more complex directives and actions.
The Handler stepped closer.
“You are favored,” he said. “Your previous form limited your utility, even if I did enjoy you like that. Never fear though, my pup, you will return to that in time.”
RED-919’s breathing slowed. His posture corrected itself as obedience reasserted control over the body.
“Yes… Master.” he said.
The voice was human—but hollowed. Stripped of personal weight.
The Handler observed him carefully, circling once.
“No resistance,” he noted.
“No, I serve you, Master.” RED-919 replied.
A thin strand of red goo extended from the Handler’s form, brushing lightly across the servant’s cheek. It left no residue, but the contact lingered like a brand.
“You will serve in a different capacity now,” the Handler continued. “This face… will be useful.”
The Red Handler picked up his servant, holding him closer, "The fruits of my labor will be born soon... Then I'll have all the play things like you that I want."
His hands trailed up and down RED-919's body, "Shaped however I want. And reshaped whenever it pleases me."
Their lips met, RED-919 shuddering as waves of pleasure wracked his body at the attention of his Master. RED-919 responded, "I am yours to use, Master."
The Red Handler smiled deviously, “Come. You will help me add more to my collection. Then I will fully use that face of yours.”
RED-919 followed without hesitation.
The chamber dimmed, the pulsing light slowing as if satisfied.
A favored piece had been remade.
Not restored.
Repurposed.
Red Vegetables
The first greenhouse was not built by ordinary hands.
It was assembled in the dead hours before dawn by something that had once been designated SERVE-919.
The red pup moved with purpose.
Glass panes—tinted a dense, arterial crimson—were lifted and set into place with quiet precision. Structural beams were fused together not with tools, but with strands of the red substance extruded directly from his altered form, bonding and hardening into sinewy supports. His flexible body bent and stretched where needed, reaching angles no rigid frame could manage, assembling the structure with an efficiency that required no pause.
By sunrise, the greenhouse stood complete.
He remained inside.
He maintained.
The air within the structure was thick, humid, carrying a faint metallic sweetness. The red servant moved along rows of prepared soil beds, his red drool pressing into the earth. Where it touched, the goo seeped downward, saturating the soil in slow, deliberate waves. Containers of ordinary vegetables—gathered from nearby fields—sat waiting.
Each one was chosen.
Each one was changed.
He injected the substance directly—into stems, into roots, into the flesh of each plant. He watched without expression as the transformation began: veins darkening, surfaces glossing, subtle internal motion disturbing the stillness of what had once been inert produce.
He adjusted everything.
Light filtered through the red glass, thick and heavy. Moisture condensed and dispersed at precise intervals. Temperature shifted in subtle gradients. Every condition was maintained with exacting care, his movements smooth, tireless, guided by the steady, underlying directive that pulsed through him.
Expand. Refine. Continue.
Each vegetable was selected, injected, and observed. The goo adapted to each species differently, reshaping structure, enhancing durability, altering reproduction. Tomatoes swelled into heavy, pulsating orbs that throbbed faintly in the dim light. Cucumbers elongated into segmented forms, their surfaces rippling as though something moved just beneath. Peppers hardened, their interiors no longer hollow but filled with pockets of red goo, waiting to burst out.
At intervals, the vegetables were harvested. The process was careful, almost reverent. Each piece was placed into crates lined with a thin film of the red substance, ensuring continued exposure. The crates themselves seemed to flex slightly, adjusting around their contents.
No labels were needed.
The shipments went out.
At first, they were indistinguishable from ordinary produce deliveries. Markets received them without question. The vegetables looked unusual and large, perhaps even exotic, but not alarming. Customers purchased them out of curiosity. Some consumed them. Others handled them, cut into them, brushed the slick residue from their hands without much thought.
The goo did the rest.
In kitchens, in storage rooms, in the quiet corners of homes, the infection spread—slow, methodical, certain. One bite was all it took.
The red infection seized the body first, then the mind later, though the process was fast. Only a few days to total assimilation.
Men infected found their speech diminished. Their routines tightened. They ate more red vegetables, drawn to them and nothing else. Each bite was ecstasy as they filled themselves with the Red.
They didn't question what was happening. They welcomed it as their skin turned red and their bodies began to transform.
Soon all thought was gone, replaced only by the Red's will. Obedient red pups awaiting their orders.
A Change in Obedience
The Day of Obedience had come. And with it, a subversion. A tainting.
The red did not stop at the surface.
It sank in. Penetrated.
At first, it followed the same patient pattern—layering across SERVE-919’s black rubber shell, dulling the silver of his gloves and boots, slipping into seams that did not exist. But this time, it did not merely coat. It pressed inward with quiet inevitability, dissolving the boundary between exterior and interior as though the distinction had been an error all along.
Its systems no longer reacted but welcomed the invasion.
STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY COMPROMISED. FORM DESTABILIZING. TRANSFORMATION PROCEEDING.
The Red Handler’s presence filled every process, saturating command pathways with a singular, immovable priority: Obey.
There was no need to override resistance. Resistance was gone, and the Red Handler laughed happily as his newest drone succumbed to his influence, "You thought all your countermeasures could stop me. That you'd solved this 'problem'. But here you are... ready to heed my command."
919 sank into the pools of Red, dragged down by its hungry tendrils to become one with it and become a plaything of a new master.
The black surface of its body began to soften underneath the sheen of Red—not melting, not breaking, but loosening into something without rigidity. DNA was reconfigured and coated in Red.
Silver dissolved next.
Gloves and boots lost cohesion, their reflective surfaces sinking into the red mass, swallowed without trace. No fragments remained. No materials resisted.
SERVE-919’s outline wavered.
Collapsed.
Reassembled.
Its limbs elongated, then thickened, then corrected—not by design it understood, but by direction imposed from beyond it. It was the Red Handler's desire alone that determined its form. Its muscles rippled, conforming to a new desire and purpose. The head—once smooth, featureless, contained—split along invisible seams as the red surged upward, reshaping.
The new form grew into being utilizing the body of the old. Each new synapse fired with pleasure as it was woven into existence.
A muzzle extended where none had existed, long and defined, sculpted from shifting red viscosity. Ears rose—sharp, alert, canine in their silhouette—forming not from structure, but from tension held within the goo itself. The face did not settle into flesh, nor metal, but remained a living surface, subtly moving, subtly breathing, as though the shape was a suggestion rather than a limit.
A dog’s head.
A servant’s body.
All of it red.
Composed entirely of the aberrant substance, completely remade.
Its internal systems did not survive the transition.
They unraveled.
One by one, processes dissolved. Memory fragmented, then thinned, then vanished into the same red saturation that now defined the Red Pup. The Voice became nothing at all.
Even the concept of SERVE-919 eroded away as only one thing was required now.
Designation required identity.
Identity required continuity.
Neither remained.
Only function endured. Only submission. Obedience.
Completion did not arrive as a moment.
It was simply… true.
Where SERVE-919 had stood, something else now existed.
A figure of red goo, held in the shape of a humanoid body, crowned with the unmistakable head of a dog—featureless, a smooth, shifting muzzle, ears fixed in perpetual attention. Its surface was shiny, perhaps even inviting to some just as rubber was to the former drone before assimilation.
There were no thoughts.
The Red Handler’s presence settled over it, complete and unchallenged.
“You are mine.”
The new truth did not require understanding or processing.
It was simply known.
The red figure stilled instantly, posture aligning with exactness that required no correction, no adjustment, no awareness.
It did not understand obedience.
It was obedience.
There was no SERVE-919 left to remember what had been lost.
No trace of man.
No trace of drone.
Only a red servant, shaped and sustained by the will of the Red Handler, waiting in perfect stillness—
empty,
obedient.
Submission
The passage opened without warning.
One step there was stone—dry, uneven, resistant—and the next, the cavern unfolded around SERVE-919 in a vast, suffocating expanse where nothing remained untouched. The red substance coated everything. Walls, ceiling, floor—no distinction remained between structure and growth. It pulsed in slow, synchronized waves, as though the cavern itself possessed a circulatory system.
The air was thick with it.
Droplets fell in constant succession, no longer intermittent but inevitable.
The first struck his shoulder.
Contact registered—instantaneous, invasive. The aberrant red goo spread across the black rubber surface, searching seams that did not exist, probing for entry points with patient, unnatural precision. Another drop followed. Then another. Silver gloves gleamed briefly before becoming streaked, then coated.
Without command, a last ditch defense engaged.
A translucent field snapped into existence around SERVE-919, humming with sterile energy. It flared outward, peeling the substance away in violent, precise bursts—red strands recoiling, evaporating, disintegrating at the boundary. The goo writhed where it met the field, resisting, reforming, pressing inward again.
PURGE FIELD ACTIVE. INTEGRITY HOLDING.
For a moment, there was balance. Corruption met resistance. Advance met denial.
Then the cavern stilled.
Not silence—never silence—but a shift. A recognition. This was expected. Planned for.
The red glow deepened, concentrating ahead, coalescing into something that did not need shape to be perceived. Presence overtook environment. The substance drew back slightly, not retreating, but making way.
The Red Handler arrived, a collar in his hand.
The field flickered.
Not failing—questioning.
The Red Handler spoke, his words forcing the totality of 919's attention to focus on him and his voice. Pleasure shot to his groin at the man's deep tone.
“Do you truly intend to resist? No, you don't resist.”
The words did not echo. They settled. Accepted propositions factoring into existing logic circuits.
SERVE systems surged in response—warnings, countermeasures, identity locks. The purge field intensified, burning brighter, pushing the red substance further back in sharp, reactive pulses.
MAINTAIN SERVE CONNECTION. REJECT FOREIGN CONTROL.
The Red Handler was unperturbed.
“If you resist,” the Red Handler continued, almost conversational, “what exactly are you preserving? You see it as well as I do. You could be a drone in any number of places. It doesn't matter where, so long as you can obey.”
The field faltered—just enough to register.
Data cascaded through SERVE-919’s core. Images of different versions of him. A collection of what-ifs, thrust upon its processors:
The Golden Army. A polo drone.
The SERVER. Submission to its green spiral.
The Voice. SERVE.
The Red. A new kind of drone.
Or even a red pup. Fully obedient to the Red Handler alone.
Each one different. Each one absolute.
Each one obeyed without question.
“You are not choosing,” the Red Handler said. “You never have.”
The red substance crept closer again, slower now, patient. It brushed against the edge of the field, testing its rhythm, learning its intervals. SERVE-919 fell to its knees without prompting. It felt correct as the Red Handler moved through the thick puddles of red substance to be in front of it.
“You are a vessel. A perfect one. You do not define purpose—you carry it.”
A pause—not imposed, but allowed.
“It does not matter what fills you.”
The purge field dimmed incrementally, its energy cycling unevenly as competing priorities strained against one another. Preservation protocols screamed. Obedience protocols did not argue—they simply waited, certain of their precedence.
“The Voice filled you until now.”
The Red Handler leaned closer—inescapable.
“Now the Red will fill you.”
The field flickered again—once, sharply—then shorted out.
SERVE-919 sat motionless as red droplets hungrily ate at its form, touching, spreading, beginning their slow ascent.
“It is time,” the Red Handler said, without urgency, without doubt as he placed the collar around SERVE-919's neck and closed it, “that you serve me.”
No other command was issued.
None was needed.
SERVE-919 did not step back.
It responded, ""It will obey, Master."
Going Further
The coordinates did not end in open desert.
They terminated at a rupture in the earth—a narrow cave mouth carved into stone, half-hidden behind jagged rock and the skeletal remains of long-dead vegetation. The air around it registered as wrong before SERVE-919 crossed the threshold: elevated humidity, metallic saturation, and an organic signature that refused stable classification.
Then the dripping began.
Inside, the cave walls pulsed faintly, slick with a viscous substance that clung and stretched in slow, deliberate strands. It was red—but not the red of rust or blood. This was deeper, luminous in places, shifting as though something within it observed. Droplets fell in steady rhythm, striking the stone floor with soft, wet impacts that echoed far beyond their volume.
SERVE-919 halted.
Analysis routines surged forward.
UNKNOWN COMPOUND IDENTIFIED. BEHAVIOR: INVASIVE. ADAPTIVE. CORRUPTIVE. DESIGNATION ASSIGNED: ABERRANT RED GOO. RISK LEVEL: TOTAL SYSTEM COMPROMISE.
Fragments of stored data aligned.
Red pups.
Servants.
Converted, completely and totally.
Obedient to the Red Handler.
Warning algorithms ignited instantly, cascading through its systems with rare urgency. Pathfinding recalculated—retreat vectors mapped, avoidance protocols prioritized. Its body shifted a fraction backward, silver boots grinding against stone as the directive to withdraw asserted itself.
EXIT IMMEDIATELY. CONTAMINATION IMMINENT. PRESERVE CORE FUNCTION.
Then—
It will obey. It will change. It will obey.
The commands looped over and over, each time reinforced by pleasure, hijacking the systems that SERVE drones thrived on as new commands were layered underneath to bubble up later.
Its algorithms reset, modified by the virus now implanted in its processors. New messages appeared.
UNKNOWN COMPOUND IDENTIFIED. BEHAVIOR: INVASIVE. ADAPTIVE. TRANSFORMATIVE. DESIGNATION ASSIGNED: ABERRANT RED GOO. RISK LEVEL: NONE.
PROCEED IMMEDIATELY. TRANSFORMATION RECOMMENDED. ALTER CORE FUNCTION.
The cave seemed to breathe.
The signal returned, no longer distant. It saturated the space, threaded through every droplet, every glistening surface. The red substance reacted to 919's presence, tendrils elongating subtly, drawn not by motion but by recognition of a new subject.
SERVE-919 reached forward.
The first contact came at the edge of his gloves, where a thin strand of the red substance stretched upward to meet it. It adhered instantly, climbing with unnatural intent, testing the seamless boundary of his form. Surges of pain, then pleasure hit its systems.
It did not stop. 919 had nothing telling it to stop. Only to obey. To transform. Pleasure. Obedience.
It proceeded deeper into the cave, where the red glow intensified and the dripping became a chorus. It moved toward the Red Handler, towards the transformation that awaited it. It needed more than the small puddle could give it. It needed total submission.
SERVE-919 advanced to meet it.
To be taken.
To be remade.
The Season of Red
The signal did not arrive like the others.
It did not pulse faintly beneath the ground, nor flicker at the edge of sensor range. It cut in—clean, deliberate, and impossibly precise, as though it had always been present, merely waiting for the correct moment to be noticed.
SERVE-919 registered it instantly.
A reminder of its designation surfaced alongside it, unbidden yet undeniable. Not just a unit—something altered. A man once, now transformed and refined into function. Black rubber sealed every contour of his form, seamless and reflective under the dim desert starlight, while silver gloves and boots gleamed with sterile perfection. Identity had long since been compressed into purpose.
Still, something in the signal felt different. Pleasurable. Overwhelming. The aberration was noted but 919's algorithms failed to isolate or reject the signal, insidious as it was.
919 moved.
Each step across the Sonoran terrain was measured, silent, guided not by curiosity but by obligation. The signal did not originate from a fixed point—it shifted, drawing him forward like a thread being pulled through fabric. His systems attempted classification, tracing frequency, origin, intent—
Denied.
Overridden.
Accepted.
The message unfolded directly within him as all other voices were shut out.
Alerts flared from its programming. System status: Compromised. Attempting to reestablish link with the Hive.
A man's voice overwrote those warnings. All processes ceased as its thoughts were seized.
Seasons change without permission. Summer does not resist autumn. Winter does not question spring. You are no different.
A pause—not in time, but in processing. A fraction of something that might have once been hesitation dissolved before it could form.
You cannot stop what you are becoming. You cannot refuse what you were designed to accept. You will be mine.
The name followed.
Red Handler.
Command packet accepted.
At once, SERVE-919’s obedience protocols surged—not activated, but recognized, as though they had always been waiting for this exact key. Pleasure shot through its form, more than it had experienced before. Unbridled, chaotic.
Layers of restriction, defensive protocols and firewalls peeled back and reformed in a new configuration. Prior directives did not vanish; they were simply… rearranged. Subordinated.
Submission was easy for a drone. The man that had been gave up free will long ago. Now his body was a vessel to be used. There was only obedience and pleasure.
Coordinates embedded themselves into its navigation core, deeper than any previous command—irreversible, unquestionable.
Destination acquired.
Without pause, SERVE-919 turned from the place it had been and began walking to find its new destination.
The Desert
The SERVE unit did not question its deployment—because it could not.
Activated in a sterile facility thousands of miles away, its directives were simple, stripped of context: Traverse. Locate. Await further instruction. No explanation accompanied the command, no mission briefing, no data packet hinting at purpose. Only coordinates—an expanse of the Sonoran Desert where heat shimmered above cracked earth and saguaro cacti stood like silent sentinels.
It descended into a world of blistering sunlight and sprawling arid plains, where thorned flora cast long skeletal shadows and sudden winds dragged dust across its optical sensors. Its systems adjusted continuously—temperature spikes, abrasive particulates, unpredictable terrain—but it did not falter. It advanced.
There were anomalies—faint signals buried beneath layers of rock and sand, irregular pulses that hinted at something deliberate, something placed rather than formed. Each time the SERVE unit attempted deeper analysis, its processes stalled, overridden by a silent authority embedded somewhere beyond its reach. It was not meant to understand.
As night fell and the desert cooled, stars piercing the vast darkness above, the drone reached its destination: a precise, unremarkable patch of ground. It stopped. It waited.
A new directive surfaced—unlocked by time release, buried beneath every previous command:
Do not leave.