Lure, Trap and Turn: Taking the Fight to the Cyan Collective - Part 3
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9. Mobilisation
The command cut through the Hive’s comms like a blade. “Activation. Full Level Two.”
PDU-001’s voice (@polo-drone-001) left no room for hesitation.
The Tokyo Hive moved as one. Doors hissed open, lockers unlocked with a synchronized click. In under five minutes, the corridor was filled with black and gold — LVL 2 Polo-Drone armor polished to a mirror’s edge, gold trim glinting like a war standard. They had been enhanced to withstand the void of space, thanks to 070's trade with other aliens (see The Extraction Silence).
PDU-016 (@danielgold-16) adjusted his gauntlets, flexing once. PDU-151’s mask (@polo-drone-151) caught the hangar lights, cold and unreadable. PDU-073 (@polo-drone-073) sealed his collar, the magnetic clasp snapping home.
On the command dais, data flickered: a ping. 070 — alive. But not on Earth.
Orbit. A Cyanus ship.
PDU-151 was already moving. In the cavernous Hive hangar, he keyed the restraints on the void-rated shuttle. The black hull slid forward, matte shadows and gold insignia catching in the beam of overhead floods. The emblem burned under the light, as if impatient for battle.
No chatter. No wasted motion. They boarded in formation, armor locking into place along the shuttle’s interior wall.
Hydraulics hissed. Magnetic clamps released. The shuttle’s thrusters flared, lifting them toward the cold glitter of low orbit — toward the Cyanus vessel that dared to take one of theirs.
Inside, they breathed in Hive cadence. In two. Out two. The rhythm bound them tighter than the harness straps.
PDU-001’s gaze swept the cabin. “We’re coming for you, 070.”
10. Inside the Cyan ship - the Grip of the Cyan Collective
The chamber reeked of alien sterility — air too thin, light too cold, every surface a curve that offered no corner to brace against. Maximus was bound to the frame at the room’s center, the restraints shifting and breathing around his wrists and ankles like molten glass pretending to be solid. Tubes of glowing cyan fluid hung from the ceiling like predatory vines, each one slotted into sockets that had locked into his collarbone, his spine, the base of his skull.
He still had his game face on — or tried to. Chin high, jaw tight, the dumb jock confidence that always came before tip-off. The kind that said you’re not breaking me. Even here, stripped to skin under the invasive spread of the morphsuit, he wore that stubborn defiance like armor. He wasn’t here for himself — he was here for the team, for the Hive, for Percival.
The Cyanus didn’t push physically. They didn’t have to. The voices came first — not one, not many, but the single perfect unison of a chorus built to smother individual thought. You are not special to him. The words slid under his skin like cold needles. You are one of many toys. Heirs are made for succession. Lovers are made for legacy. Slaves… are made to be replaced.
Maximus clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, but the frame didn’t budge. The whispers bent closer. You pretend to be a Master to your little ones — 073, 166 — but it is pretend, isn’t it? You crave the collar, not the leash. You hunger to kneel. Gold passion burns, and burns, and burns. Pain, jealousy, need. Why not choose the clean cold? The clarity?
His breath came harder. His heart pounded too loud in his ears. He told himself it was just noise, but the cyan morphsuit was already at his waist, sliding over his ribs in perfect, merciless adhesion. It felt right in a way that scared him. His gold chain tattoo glowed faintly against the advancing sheen, but each pulse of light was weaker than the last.
They showed him a vision: himself in cyan, faceless and sleek, moving without thought, without doubt. No more struggling to be worthy, no more wondering if he was enough for his Master. Just obedience.
The edges of his name began to blur. The colors in his head dimmed. Even the memory of sweat and laughter on the Shinjuku court felt far away now, sinking beneath the static hum of the alien hive-signal.
The battle wasn’t over yet — but the Cyanus had him on the ropes, and they knew it. The morphsuit reached his collarbone, licking at the base of his throat. His head tipped forward, the frame cradling him almost tenderly as his will thinned to a final, flickering thread.
11. The Transformation
The cyan morphsuit kissed his face. Just a little higher and it would seal completely, shutting down its thoughts, owning his mouth, his eyes, his last breath as Maximus.
Then— “Maximus.”
It was not shouted. It didn’t need to be. The voice filled the space between his thoughts and slammed the door on the Cyanus chorus. It cut clean through the haze, through the hiss of alien breath in his ears.
Percival.
Not the Master the Cyanus whispered about in mocking tones, but the real one. His voice in the Hive-link carried weight — the weight of battles survived, of praise earned, of orders followed without regret. “Maximus. You are mine. You are Gold. You are a Polo-Drone. Switch to PDU-070. Unlock your memories.”
The chain tattoo at his neck flared, this time not faint, but blinding — a golden corona rippling out from skin to morphsuit, searing the cyan back in jagged cracks of black and gold.
The Cyanus reacted instantly — restraints tightening, psychic pressure doubling, the unison-voice screeching in tones no human throat could make. They shoved more of the alien signal into him, hoping to drown the gold pulse.
It was too late.
His breath came back first — sharp, controlled. The Hive cadence. In two. Out two. The defiance returned, not in the cocky jock grin, but in the razor focus of a Level 2 Polo-Drone.
The cyan morphsuit on his skin began to change — surface tension breaking as black latex with a mirror gloss surged upward from the chain tattoo, consuming the alien material inch by inch. It moved like a predator reclaiming territory, each gulp of cyan leaving shiny black gold-trimmed panels in its wake: chestplate, sleeves, gloves. Polo collar snapping into place, buttons gleaming like captured suns.
The Cyanus paused — startled. This wasn’t resistance. This was assimilation, but not into their hive.
PDU-070 smiled, and it was not Maximus’s smile anymore. The Hive link burned hot with his voice. “Omega Layer. Raw Singularity Protocol. Feed it back.” It had only used this forbidden protocol once, completely wiping a whole cult into mindless rubber shell (see Golden Purity Forbidden Code). But this time, it was feeling the other drones near, bringing him more control.
The psychic current reversed. Raw powerful rubber signal, laced with Gold, surged into their network like molten metal through glass, turning the clean cyan clarity into molten noise. Across the ship, alien minds convulsed as their unity fractured into static and fear.
In the chamber, the last strand of cyan at his jaw burned away, leaving the reflective black mask lock over his eyes. The restraints released — not because they wanted to, but because they no longer knew who they held.
He stepped forward, muttering "Disciplined. Focused. Controlled." One booted foot hit the deck, then the other. His voice continued like a command:
“Lure, Trap and.... TURN.”
12. Breach and Turn
The Cyanus ship had no alarms loud enough for this. 070’s gold-corrupted signal was chewing their hive-link alive, and they had seconds before the infection became irreversible.
Weapons units reoriented on him—blades sliding out, plasma barrels spinning up— —and then the bulkhead exploded inward.
Powered by Fenrir, PDU-016 came through like a hurricane in armor. It didn’t slow to take in the room; his gauntleted claws tore weapons from mounts, bent barrels until they spat harmless sparks. A cyan drone leapt at him—he caught it mid-pounce and slammed it into the wall hard enough to leave a dent, then ripped free another gun mount before it could lock on 070.
“My brother,” he snarled, voice static-scarred with feral joy. “You don’t touch him.”
The deck buckled under 073’s boots as he forced his way in next. PDU-073 didn’t waste a step, planting himself between 070 and the tide of drone and alien bodies, staff in hand. Each strike broke more than bone—it shattered the psychic anchors trying to drag 070 back into cyan control.
Beyond the chamber walls, the ship shuddered with heavy impacts— —PDU-001 and PDU-151 had reached the command deck. Doors hissed open to the gleam of gold-trimmed black, and in seconds the pilots were on the floor, their controls wrenched away by hands that had been bred for this purpose. Gold command sigils lit the panels as the Hive hijacked navigation, cutting the ship’s escape paths.
070 never stopped. He stood in the center of the chamber, visor down, boots planted, the Omega Layer still flaying the alien network from the inside. The black and gold signal sharpened into a single word—broadcast through every remaining cyan conduit, radiating from 070 as a wave, each syllable a hook buried in alien thought.
TURN.
It was not a suggestion.
The first alien skin rippled. Cyan light broke apart into oily black, spreading in ribbons over limbs, torsos, faces. Rubber collars snapped into place where tendrils had been. Helmets sealed. The psychic scaffolding of the Cyanus hive fractured, collapsing under the weight of a new structure—Gold-aligned, Hive-bonded, and under Polo-Drone command.
In the command deck, alien officers convulsed as their own hands moved to reroute power to the Hive. In the hangar, drones who had moments ago been enemies straightened to attention, awaiting orders.
Panic finally reached the Cyanus core. The ship’s AI severed its own network connection—blinding its crew, cutting its drones loose—to stop the spread. The cost was immediate: isolation, silence, and the smell of fear in the recycled air.
In the center of it all, 070 removed its mask, just showing the line of gold ink at his throat. The glow was steady.
“Phase complete,” Percival’s voice came over the link. “Prepare for harvest.”
13. Aftermath
The Cyanus ship hung quiet over Earth like a gutted predator. Its teeth were gone. Its eyes had been turned gold.
Hive crews swept through what remained—PDU-016 still prowling the corridors, ensuring no hostile weapon stayed intact; PDU-073 posted by the capture bay, watching the new converts stand in neat, unnerving rows. The air smelled faintly of ozone and the scorched-metal tang of spent energy weapons.
The command deck was theirs, gold sigils pulsing steadily on every reclaimed console. A full conversion pod, its interior still slick with cyan residue, was locked down for research. Shelves of alien tech were tagged and ready for transport to Hive labs. More important than the hardware, though, were the living prizes—dozens of former Cyan drones now wearing black and gold, their helmets gleaming under Polo control, though their former self remained inaccessible.
For the first time, the Hive had proof that a full assimilation could be at least overridden, that the Cyan’s claim of permanence was a lie. The conversion pod and reclaimed drones would be studied, debriefed, trained—not just as soldiers, but as living keys to unlocking the path back for all those still lost in the cold. The Gold influence might bring them back, and understanding the process would give precious hints.
On the hangar deck, Maximus stood, back in golden bro mode, still damp with sweat, gold chain tattoo glowing faintly at his throat. His hair was mussed from the fight, his eyes bright with the raw electricity of survival. PDU-001 stepped in front of him, measured gaze holding his.
“You held the line,” Percival said simply. “The lure was flawless. You gave them exactly what they thought they wanted… and we took what we needed.”
Maximus smirked, pride curling at the edge of fatigue. “Guess I can play dumb jock when I have to.”
PDU-151’s voice carried from the side, warmer than it had been in weeks. “Tokyo Division just proved they’re a strike unit even the Cyan will think twice about crossing. The message is out there now—touch a gold brother, and we’ll take more than him back. We’ll take you.”
In the shadow of the captured ship, the four Polo-Drones of Tokyo Division stood together, armor gleaming in the hangar lights. The Hive-bond hummed between them, steady and strong.
The Cyan would come again. But next time, they’d remember how this ended.
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Interested in joining the Golden Army? Contact @polo-drone-001, @polo-drone-125, or @brodygold to enlist and stand besides us.