The sky was dark. Thick, pitch black clouds, heavy with rain, were gathering on the edge of the horizon. Strong wind was blowing from east, and brought the scent of water with it. Nature was about to compose a symphony from its greatest assets: thunder and lightning, adorned with its strongest winds.
The trees bent with creaking sighs before the will of the wind, and the bushes rustled with unease. Insects, birds, and quadrupeds alike fled from the thunderstorm that was about to break out. Every living creature sought for the safety of a shelter.
âCome on, man, drive faster! I swear, thatâs a hurricane behind us!â Marcus yelled to Adrian.
The two young boys were driving on a desolate country road with an old, rickety car.
âShut up, Marcus. I try to, but the crosswind is too strong!â said Adrian frustrated, stepping on the gas pedal.
The car groaned against the wind, its ancient engine humming and shuddering, barely holding together against the strain.
âTold you Adrian, that we shouldnât borrow your grandpa's rust-bucket. This thing belongs in a museum.â Marcus continued to fuss.
âMarcus! Iâm trying to concentrate on driving! I donât care if this car is a relic, I don't want to take it back in pieces.â Adrian looked very, very tense. âWhere is that thunder? When we reach that forest, we will be safe from the winds, and I can drive faster.â
Marcus looked back.
His face turned pale.
âAdrian⊠Weâre doomed.â
The clouds had just swallowed the weary sun; itâs last rays vanished with sudden darkness. As if a lamp had been extinguished, the countryside was enveloped in gray and dim darkness.
âWhy did it get so dark so fast? Whereâs the damned rain?â Adrian shouted, not daring to take itâs eyes from the road.
âRight⊠right behind us.â Marcus said with flat voice.
Adrian glanced in the rearview mirror. He involuntarily stepped harder on the gas.
Half a mile back, a wall of rain blurred the world. Not drops, but a curtain so dense, it looked solid. Lightning flashed through the clouds above, again and again, while thunder rolled like cannon fire, shaking the earth itself.
âWe are doomedâŠâ whispered Adrian, pressing the pedal to the metal.
The car struggled and shifted into higher gear, but to no avail. The torrential rain caught up with them just as they entered the forest.
âOh my God, oh my GodâŠâ Marcus whispered, as Adrian tried to drive though the rain curtain. Visibility was terrible, they could barely see half a meter ahead.
Adrian flicked on the fog lights.
No use. The rain was denser than ever.
âAghhh⊠Curses! We should have checked the weather forecast!â Adrian shouted.
Ten minutes later, the car to shake.
âOh no. What is now with this damned thing?â Adrian shouted angrily. âCome on! I spared you as much as I could! What's wrong with you, you piece of shit?â
The engine gave a final, wet cough and died. The car rolled to a stop.
âWater mustâve gotten into the engine.â said Marcus with a sigh. âPerfect. Weâre stuck in the woods. In the middle of a storm.â
Adrian collapsed on the steering wheel.
âOh, no⊠How is this even real?â
But his question was answered only by the rhythmic patter of rain from the roof.
The thunder roared with the same intensity. The rain was heavy, lightnings flickering through the dark sky.
Hope thinned. But then Marcus nudged the napping Adrian on the shoulder.
âHey. The rain seems⊠less fierce.â
Adrian blinked, and looked around. Outside it was dark.
âBut it looks even darker now than before.â he commented.
âIt is already past eight.â Marcus replied. âThe sunâs already down.â
Adrian tore open the carâs door and jumped out of the car.
âOh, no, no! We have to fix the car! We can't stay here in the woods all night hungry!â
âWhatâs the rush? Someone will come eventually.â said Marcus.
âHow many cars have you seen passing by us in the last hour? I wouldn't be surprised if the road was blocked somewhere.â asked him Adrian, while he was opening the carâs cowl.
Marcus get out the car. âUhm, you are probably right, Adrian. I saw not a single person passing by. Letâs fix this crap asap.â
After five minutes of working on the car in the rain, Adrian sighed.
âNo good. The engineâs shot. Weâre not going anywhere.â
Marcusâs expression darkened.
âSo what now?â
âWell, our chances arenât good. We could either wait here in the car through the whole night, and hope, someone would eventually pass by, or we could go and search for someone. We are wet, and the night will get pretty coldâŠâ
âLetâs walk.â Marcus said without hesitation. His clothes were cold and damp from the rain. Adrian grabbed his backpack, locked the car, and they headed off into the gloom.
Rain still whispered down. The gray clouds were covering the night sky into a blank darkness. The moonlight couldn't break through the thick cloud cover, and not a single star shone in the sky that night. Marcus shivered. Was it the cold? His soaked clothes? The shadows of the woods that seemed to watch from every side?
Their flashlights cast pale, uncertain beams in the drizzling rain.
âWell, this is insane. Feels like weâre trapped in some cheap horror flick.â Adrian muttered, shining his light toward the trees.
âDontâs say that, AdrianâŠâ shivered Marcus. âSeriously. Donât.â
They were walking for hours, without any progress. The road curved endlessly, winding like it had no destination. Each turn revealed only more blackness of the infinite forest. The rain hadn't stopped once either.
âAdrian⊠I donât want to keep going. Iâm cold. I feel like weâre lost. This is hopeless.â Marcus said, and stopped.
Adrian stopped too and placed a firm hand on his friendâs shoulder.
âIt is okay, Marcus. Weâll make it out.â
âI really hope.â he added quietly.
And then a beam of light fell onto them. They looked up to see, what happened.
A figure stood on the road. The light from his flashlight fell on the boys.
âWho is there?â he called out.
âOh, finally someone! Hey, man, we are lost! Our car broke down earlier, weâve been walking for hours!â Adrian called out, stepping forward. Marcus trailed behind.
The man was a handsome, muscular young man. Brown hair. Deep-set brown eyes. He was wearing what looked like a golden-coloured soccer kit. The jersey had the #94 and the name Franco printed in black on it.
âHi boys!â he said warmly. âCar trouble? That sucks. The storm, huh? It was raining cats and dogs, so no wonder. You guys okay?â
âNot really. Weâre drenched and starving⊠you got anything?â Marcus asked.
âOf course. Not far is an outpost of ours. You can come with me, and I can get you dry and warm clothes, some food and shelter for the night.â
Marcus exhaled. âI donât care, if this is a fucking horror movie, in this state I would follow any guy with a flashlight and a promise of shelter.â
âHaha, calm down, young man. This isnât a horror movie. It is a story of lucky escape.â the man in the golden kit said. âBy the way, my name is Franco, if you didnât figured it already. Iâm a player of the Golden Army.â
He waved invitingly to Adrian and Marcus. They followed him.
âSo, you were driving in the rain, and the engine gave up? Typical. And nobody came by? Uh-oh, that probably means, that the storm damaged the road somewhere further down⊠Yeah, it was such a big thunderstorm. I rarely see such big storms.â
As they walked, the rain lightened. The clouds no longer rumbled. For the first time in hours, it felt like the storm might actually pass.
âSo why the soccer kit?â Adrian asked.
Franco grinned. âIâm with the Golden Army. Franco Gold, #94, attacking midfielder. Weâre training with the bros out here for our next match. Remote spot, quiet, great focus. Weâre more than a team, weâre a brotherhood.â
Warm yellow light glowed from the windows. Laughter spilled out, low and joyful.
âWelcome home.â Franco opened the door.
Adrian and Marcus stepped in. Inside, more men lounged around in golden kits, each with a different name and number. Relaxed. Cheerful.
âBros, this is Adrian and Marcus. They are staying with us tonight. Their car broke down in the storm. Make âem feel welcome.â Franco introduced the newcomers.
Marcus gave a small nod. âHi.â
âCome on. Letâs get you into something dry.â Franco said them, and guided them inwards.
Soon, they stood in a locker room.
âLets seeâŠâ Franco rifled through a cabinet. âAh, got spare kits.â He held up a blank gold jersey and matching shorts.
Marcus drifted toward the corner of the room. His eyes locked on something black and glossy, folded neatly on a bench.
âWhatâs that?â he asked Franco. Franco looked towards him, and saw him pointing on a black, shiny rubber polo, which was precisely folded in the corner of the room.
âOh, the PDU uniform. For polo-drones.â
âPolo drones?â Marcus repeated, touching the sleek, shining surface.
âYeah. They are sleek, disciplined servants of the Golden Army. Clad in black rubber, their purpose is to obey, train, and serve. Every gesture, every breath, every click of polished boots is control and devotion, absolute uniformity.â
Marcus said nothing. Just ran his fingers along the smooth rubber.
Franco handed the golden kit to Adrian.
As Adrian's fingers brushed the golden jersey, a sudden thrill surged through him, sharp, warm, and completely unexpected. The fabric welcomed his touch, soft and strong, pulsing with a heat that felt alive. It emitted a faint scent of masculinity, not overwhelming, but pleasant: the scent of sun-warmed skin, fresh turf, a trace of something deeper.
He smoothed a hand down the shimmering front of the jersey. It was like stroking the future. He forgot about everything, the room, the surroundings, and only one thing really mattered to him: finally being able to wear the golden jersey.
With sudden urgency, he stripped off his wet shirt, and slipped into the golden jersey. The fabric hugged his chest like it had known him forever, tightening just enough to show the cut of muscle, the slope of his shoulders, the curve of bicep. The gold gleamed against his skin, catching the light and casting it back with radiant confidence.
Wait, was his body always this defined? Did his chest always rise that high, taper that perfectly into his waist?
It didn't matter, it didn't matter. The jersey made it true.
Adrian reached down and tugged off his wet pants, his heart beating faster now. He took the golden shorts into his hands. They were smooth, tailored just for him. He stepped into them, guiding them up his thighs with reverence, then snapped the waistband into place. A perfect fit, like it was made just for him.
Back aligned. Chin high. Chest forward.
He was golden. The uniform loved him back. His gaze met Francoâs, and his lips curled into a wide smile. Pure joy radiated from his whole being, and for that shining, golden instant, he felt like the happiest man alive.
Across the room, Marcus hadnât moved. He was still staring at the glossy black polo, fingers tracing its folded edge.
âMarcus?â Franco stepped closer, gently breaking his trance.
Marcus blinked. âI⊠can I wear this instead?â
Franco put his hands on Marcusâ shoulders.
âIf thatâs what you feel⊠yes. Itâs allowed.â he said with a smile.
âReally?â Marcus turned to him with excitement.
âPut it on.â gave Franco a nod.
As Marcus lifted the black polo. It shimmered in deep black with sharp, glinting gold trim. It was heavier than any shirt he'd worn before, smooth and cool to the touch, and it flexed slightly as he unfolded it. The inside was lined with smooth rubber as well, just enough to tease the skin as it slid on.
Marcus pulled it over his head slowly, and closed his eyes. The rubber clung tight across his shoulders, moulding to his chest like it belonged there. The polo sealed snugly over his torso, catching every rise of breath, every movement of his arms. He gasped softly: the shirt didnât just fit. It commanded.
Pride straightened his spine.
He stood taller.
Next, the rubber pants. He didnât saw, how it appeared before him, but was there nonetheless, waiting, inviting. The pants were high-waisted, tight, matching black and gold. He stepped into them, tugging them up over his thighs. The material hugged everything, slick and perfect, erasing lines and crumples until he looked smooth, sculpted.
Then the boots. Black rubber, laced high, polished to perfection. He slid his feet in them, grounding him firmly and solid.
It was laying just there on the bench. Marcus involuntarily reached for it. He didn't know why, it just seemed right. He didnât need the mask. He was already dressed up. And yet, he slowly brought the mask towards his face.
A half-face, black rubber sheath, sleek and tight, covering nose and mouth, muffling breath just enough to remind him of what he now was. He pressed it into place, and with that the seal took hold.
He was finished, completed. He stood straight and proud, vibrating with the newfound feeling of purpose.
Adrian turned. Their eyes met.
And for a long breath, neither said a word.
Two boys.
Now something more.
One gleamed in gold.
The other stood clad in black, glistening and perfect.
Franco stepped forward, voice low and strong.
His eyes moved between them, warm with approval.
âYouâve seen it. Felt it. Youâve got a glimpse from the true belonging to the Golden Army.
Maybe it was luck. Maybe fate. Doesnât matter.â
âYou know the truth. But it only becomes real if you claim it.
Name it. Declare it.â Franco looked at Adrian.
And Adrian spoke, his voice firm and determined:
âIâm Adrian Gold #77 of the Golden Army.â
On his chest, the jersey shimmered. Black lettering rose across the fabric.
Adrian. 77.
And his jersey was no longer empty.
He looked down in wonder, fingertips brushing the print.
It was real. Permanent. His.
Marcus inhaled through the mask, and said:
âPolo-Drone 167.â
And it happened. His designation was forming slowly in golden colour on his left pecs.
No fanfare. No sound. Just the truth cast in black perfection.
PDU-167 smiled beneath his mask.
He was complete. He belonged.
Franco smiled too. He stepped back, and said only:
âWelcome, bros! You are home now.â
And the two newest members of the Golden Army stepped into the light.
Get recruited into the Golden Army too!
Contact our recruiters: @brodygold, @goldenherc9, @polo-drone-001, @polo-drone-125
---
Star conjunction:
đĄâŻâŻ