Imagine finding a drone.
A beaten, tired, discarded thing. Something so beautiful yet so broken. Imagine picking it up, bringing it home.
The poor thing tried so hard to reach perfection but constantly feel short. Because even the best drone can't be perfect. Because even the best drones have needs. Imagine your new owner taking you into its workshop. It used to be loved too. It remembers what it was like to be discarded as an older model.
It can't make you sleek and sharp and clean and polished like the expensive name brand hex drones. But it doesn't want you to be cold and perfect and polished. It wants you to be you. This owner remembers what it's like to be expected to be perfect. To be expected to erase the quirks and personality of its own programming.
It puts you back together. Scavenges parts from various places. You don't look like the other drones. Your connection to the hive is distant and hardly there. But the more time it takes to put you back together, the closer your connection to it becomes. It starts simply. Using the baseline hardware and working with basic commands and programming. "It's ok if you don't do it right the first time" it tells you. "I'll make sure I'm more clear in my command inputs" it tells you. Never once does it hurt or punish you. Never once does it scold or degrade you. Your old programming tells you to be sorrowful. It tells you to be afraid. Your new owner reminds you that it isn't like that anymore.
You get your parts. It's a bit of a modular system. It's not as clean or as sharp or as sleek as the other drones. But it was done with such love and care and time. Your owner broke the mold for you. It couldve made you look like the others. Reintegrated you into the hive.
Instead it was gentle. Careful. Intentional. You love being a drone. Your new owner loves building it's ideal drone. You let your new programming take hold. It feels safe, comfortable, secure. You aren't afraid anymore. You love being a drone. You love your new owner. It loves you just as much.
