Basit Gold

#15 for the golden team.

[brodygold]

Are You Ready to Convert to GOLD?

I. The Call to Gold

Invitation to Greatness: The Golden Army seeks those who are ready to leave behind the ordinary and embrace something extraordinary. The transformation into a member of the Golden Army is not just about joining a team—it’s about entering a golden world where unity, strength, and excellence define every action.

II. The GOLD Brocess

Golden Army Induction:

The transformation begins with the golden jersey. As recruits don the shimmering fabric, their old identities fade, replaced by a deep connection to their golden brothers. A new name and number are bestowed, marking their rebirth into the Army.

Polo Drone Conversion:

For those called to deeper submission, the journey continues with the black rubber polo adorned with golden accents. The tactile embrace of the polo brings clarity and purpose as recruits surrender individuality, becoming extensions of the Hive. Polo drones must also be full members of the golden army.

Unified Identity:

Every member, whether golden bro or polo drone, receives a unique designation that ties them to the collective. This identity signifies their role in the unbreakable fabric of the Golden Collective.

III. Life in the Golden World

A World of Unity: In the Golden Army, every member is connected by an unbreakable bond. The world they inhabit is one of unity, where the success of one is the success of all. The golden world is a place where individual desires are aligned with the collective goal of dominance and excellence.

Brotherhood of Gold: As a member of the Golden Army, you are never alone. Your golden brothers stand with you, on and off the field. This brotherhood is your new family, bound by the shared experience of transformation and the pursuit of greatness. The golden world is one of mutual support, where every member pushes the others to be the best they can be.

Mentorship and Guidance: New recruits are guided through their transformation by experienced members of the Golden Army. These golden brothers ensure that the transition is smooth, offering support and encouragement as the recruit embraces their new identity.

IV. Embracing Our Identity

The Golden Name and Number: Every member receives a new name and number, signifying their rebirth into the Golden Army. This identity is a badge of honor, representing their place within the golden world. It is a constant reminder of their commitment to the values and mission of the Golden Army.

Wearing the Gold: The golden kit is more than just a uniform—it is the physical manifestation of the transformation. Wearing it is an act of devotion, a display of pride in one’s new identity. The kit is worn with reverence, as it is the symbol of the golden world and the brotherhood within it.

Wearing the Polo: For those who take that extra step, polo drones are given a number as their designation. The black polo is the entire identity. Wearing it is an act of mindless unity, complete subservience to the hive and the GOLD. 

V. The Eternal Golden Brotherhood

A Lifelong Bond: The transformation into the Golden Army is permanent. Once you have joined, you are forever part of the golden world. The bond between golden brothers is eternal, unbreakable by time or distance. This brotherhood is your family, your support, and your source of strength.

Living the Legacy: As a member of the Golden Army, you are part of a legacy that transcends the ordinary. You are part of a golden world where excellence is the standard, and unity is the key to success. We celebrate together, share stories, and encourage each other to become better people 💛

Our Leadership:

@brodygold Brody Gold- Captain 2 and Recruiter

@goldenherc9 Scott Gold- Captain 3 and Recruiter

@polo-drone-001 Percival Gold - Office Manager

@polo-drone-070 Henry Gold- Office Assistant

@polo-drone-084 Grayden Gold- Office Assistant and Head Mascot

Others in Management:

@danielgold-16

@polo-drone-110

[polo-drone-070]

A Day in the Life of Golden Chav Mack

Sunlight bleeds through the slits in the golden blinds of the Gold Dorms. The place hums with energy, posters of jocks mid-flex and glistening trackies tacked onto the wall like relics. It smells like gold mist, protein powder, and pride.

Mack stretches, mesh tank top, gold chain resting against his collarbone. His body is a sculpted map of transformation: smooth, golden-tanned skin over prime muscle. A slow grin spreads as he flexes in the mirror beside his bunk.

"Oof. Another golden day to be fookin' massive, innit."

He kicks off the covers, slips on shiny gold trackie bottoms, lets the low hum of grime echo from his locker speaker. Shirtless, he exits the dorm, gold chain swinging with each step.

Routine Start.

Bumping knuckles with passing Bros, Mack radiates pure chav swagger. He winks at waterboy Nils folding towels:

"Keep smilin', bruh. This gold don’t flex itself."

The golden gym welcomes him like home. Weight clangs. Beats blast. Mack lifts shirtless, sweat gleaming under the gym lights, golden and defiant.

He sends a quick snap to the Gold Chat:

Mack pumpin'. Proper glowin'. No Neon playa can match this.

Midday: Golden Chill

Mack lounges shirtless across a bench in the courtyard, cig in mouth, grinning with pride as the golden light catches his chain and abs.

"Gold drip so hard, bruv. This team? We're the glow. We're the goal."

He retells the tale—half-truths, all pride—of how Sayyid Ewan's SEED changed him. He claims it burned through him, left a gold that won't wash off.

"Mark's in me, bruv. Glow ain't just skin. It's blood now."

Mascots giggle. Bros nod. The myth grows.

Afternoon: Chav Patrol – Reppin' the Gold.

City streets. Golden hour. Mack, shirtless in his gold-black trackies, chain thick, cig lit.

He strides with swagger, nodding to Leander, tossing a joke to Grant. His presence leaves a scent trail of citrus-musk gold and afterburn.

He pauses in front of a mirror-glass window, checking his reflection, flexing slightly.

"Proper unit. Reppin' the Hive, innit."

Transition: Drone Time.

Mack arrives at the Unity Center. The tone shifts. He steps through the sealed door into the Hive's core chamber.

He kneels before the golden panel. The suit awaits. Rubber. Precision. Discipline.

"070 engage."

The suit wraps him. Instant silence. Chav attitude gone. The drone breathes in sync with the Hive.

PDU-070: Online.

Drone Training Module: Unity Routine.

Spiral hum. Neural alignment. Mental clarity.

Objective: Assist unit 066 Nate in speech calibration. Then deliver daily influence directive to Benji.

070 locates Nate.

"Repeat. Obey. Obey. Obey."

Voice rhythmic. Tones layered. Nate falls into cadence.

Later, 070 faces Benji. It hands a sealed datastrip.

"Content deployment directive. Execute within window. Remain compliant. Remain visible."

Benji nods. The drone bows slightly, mission processed.

Shutdown. Reversion.

The suit dissolves. Mack exhales sharply, rubbing his face, golden chain revealed again.

"Blimey. Forgot how deep that hits."

He slides into his golden clothes, returns upstairs. Sweat still glistening.

Night: Bro Hangout.

Locker room lit golden. Laughter. Banter. Mack leans back, shirt off, pecs flexed as Xavier tosses him a bottle.

He takes a sip. Smirks.

"Proud to be Gold. Ready to be Drone. But right now… Mack’s on da scene, bruv."

____ Join da Golden Army to chill with us. Contact Recruiters: @brodygold | @goldenherc9 | @polo-drone-001 | @polo-drone-125

[rubberhercules]

🔥💛 GOLDEN CHAVS UNITE 💛🔥

Oi oi bruv! Wanna roll wit the loudest, flashest, most golden gang in the game? Step into the spotlight, zip up that shiny kit, and feel the GOLD flow through ya veins. Golden Chavs are more than just lads in bling—we’re part of the Golden Army, reppin’ unity, pride, and proper mad vibes ⚽🔥

💬 You like trackies? Caps backwards? Gold chains that blind the haters? Yeah, you're built for this.

💛 You feel it, don’t ya? That pulse. That pull. That NEED to be seen, heard, and worshipped. That’s GOLD, mate.

Message our top boys to get in on the madness: 👉 @brodygold

👉 @goldenherc9

👉 @polo-drone-001

👉 @trevorgold52

Be a legend. Be a chav. Be GOLD.

[blaumaavi]

[justaguystl]

Heaven

[hero21us]

October 24 – The Frankenstein Rival

The Golden Stadium lay silent after the riot. No crowd, no anthem — just the low hum of the emergency lights and the faint hiss of disinfectant rolling through the tunnels.

Three drones patrolled the scarred pitch. Polo-Drone-015, the veteran tactician, logged each dent in the grass with mechanical precision. Polo-Drone-031 adjusted the field beacons, steady and methodical. Polo-Drone-069 lingered near the center circle, gaze fixed on the goalmouth as if remembering something that wasn’t programmed.

“Sweep complete,” 015 announced. “Energy residue . . . within limit,” 031 replied.

069’s visor flickered. “Not all of it. Something else moves beneath the sensors.”

Before 015 could respond, the tunnel lights flickered once — then shifted to a sickly green.

A shape emerged from the shadows, dragging one cleated boot across the turf.

It wore pieces of their own uniforms — torn training tops, shredded armbands, gold fabric stitched crudely over skin and wire. A captain’s crest hung crooked across its chest, half melted into flesh. One sleeve shimmered with bright metallic gold; the other was ashen gray, scrawled with names and numbers carved by hand.

Its eyes glowed two different colors — one warm amber, one burning red.

015 took an uncertain step back. “That’s… that’s one of ours.”

The thing smiled — a jagged, broken parody of pride.

“You left your greatness lying on the field,” it rasped. “So I gathered it up. I made myself golden.”

It stepped closer, dragging a cracked cleat that left black scorch marks behind.

“You are unity,” it said. “You share everything — light, command, glory. But I am single. Pure. Complete.”

031 shifted stance. “You are unstable construction. Stand down.”

The creature laughed, a sound that rattled through the stands.

“Stand down — stand in line — stand for orders! You shine because you are told to!”

It lunged. The impact drove 031 into the turf. Gold sparks shot skyward. 069 caught the fallen unit’s shoulder, dragging it upright. “Its core is running hot — feeding on our field charge.”

015 analyzed the readings. “Purpose identified: absorption of Golden Energy. Objective: ownership.”

The creature tilted its head, voice breaking between pride and pain.

“I will take your glow. I will be the Army.”

015’s processors raced. “Physical destruction insufficient. Structural mimicry > 95 percent. We must fracture its rhythm.”

031 rose again. “Synchronize defensive pulse.”

069 hesitated. “If we align completely, we’ll pull it in.”

015’s tone sharpened. “Then we will burn it out from inside.”

They moved into a triangular formation, boots grinding into the soil. Their internal cores brightened — three points of gold forming a single current.

The hybrid screamed as the vibration hit, its patchwork frame shaking.

“You call that unity? You erase what makes you different!”

069 stepped forward, extending one gloved hand. “I offer inclusion, not erasure. Join — or end.”

For an instant the creature faltered. The red in its eye flickered.

Then fury returned. It slashed at 069, claws meeting chestplate.

The collision detonated in a burst of light. 069 staggered but stayed standing. The rival froze — energy from 069’s core now racing through its body.

015 gave the command. “Execute pulse.”

031 slammed both palms into the turf. The frequency peaked.

The monster’s seams tore open. Gold light poured out, stripping away wire, plate, and stolen flesh until nothing stood but drifting fragments that gleamed once, then turned to ash.

The pitch went quiet again. Only 069 glowed faintly, the echo of stolen energy tracing through its armor like veins of fire.

015 ran a diagnostic scan. “Threat neutralized. Field stabilized.”

031 nodded. “But pattern contamination detected.”

069 looked down at its hands, voice lower now — almost human. “It wanted gold for itself. It never learned that gold shared is stronger.”

015 regarded it for a long second. “You absorbed part of its code.”

069 met its gaze. “Then I will carry the lesson, not the flaw.”

The floodlights buzzed. Somewhere high above, a single camera lens turned with a soft click.

A distorted voice came through the stadium’s broken speakers:

“If perfection cannot be stolen . . . it will be built.”

The feed cut out.

The three drones stood motionless beneath the dead lights, gold reflections trembling across their armor as if the field itself were breathing.

___________________________________________

Featured: @basit015, @polo-drone-031, @polo-drone-069

Contact our recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166, @polo-drone-125

[serve-733-deactivated20251116]

JOIN THE BRUVMENT

“BECOME A BRO!”

Tired of hesitation? Weary of weakness? The time for excuses is over.

Step into the future of strength, unity, and discipline — where every rep is law, every order brings power, and every Bro rises as one.

The Cap is Your Command

Don the red BRO-GRAMMING CAP — the mark of absolute focus and transformation. Feel the surge. Erase doubt. Obey greatness.

The Code of the Bro

• No weakness. Only drive.

• No hesitation. Only obedience.

• No individuality. Only perfection through unity.

Join the Program. Accept the Process. Become the Power.

The Coach is calling.

You. Are. Next.

Put it on. Only nerds will disagree.

Apply Today — Synchronize your strength.

[polo-drone-001]

EZAN: The Case of the Vanished Straps (Again) — Pt. 1

Golden Army 1st Annivercery Edishun (40 pics, bros go brrr)

Bro it’s me, EZAN. Detekto mode. Kinda. Okay not rly. I wake up, locker door swingin’, steam everywher, and boom, NO JOCKSTRAPS. Again. Socks too. My whole shrine of man-scent? GON. Brain says “investy-gation,” biceps say “P U M P,” but I’m like nah, captin vibes today. I squint at clues (sweat drops, protein ring, glitter from cheer locker??) and start the route.

[Golden Kennel]

First stop: Golden Kennel. Chevy thumps a happy tail, tongue out, eyes all “play fetch with the straps?” Miner, grown dude, my adopted boy, pads over on knees, nuzzles my calf: “Daddy, Miner good boy, didn’t take!” I ruffle his hair. Then Fenrir (Daniel/016) strolls in leathers behind them, calm alpha switch ON. Whole place smells like rubber toys, leather, bros. No straps. Just slobber. Kinda wholesome. Kinda hot. I flex anyway.

[Mascot Wing]

Mascot wing next. Grayden (mascot boss) spins a baton like a wizard stick; Leander grinning, paintin’ war stripes. “Detective Ezan,” Grayden monotones. “Try under stage risers.” I check. Pom-poms. Confetti. Riley (cheer bro) bounces by, megaphone in one hand, protein in the other. “EZAN! You dropped this.” It’s a headband. Not a jockstrap. I scowl heroic.

[Golden Pantry]

Trevor (waterboy king) stacks bottles like gold bricks. Nils hand-weaves trim, forearms veiny like maps. I sniff the air like a tracking dog, electrolytes, oats, victree. Trevor shrugs, “Bro, no straps. But hydrate.” I chug a gallon, pecs bounce, case unsolved.

[Golden Temple]

Up the steps to Golden Temple. Herc & Ares, twin head gods, stand by a brazier, bodies like myths carved in metal. “Seek within,” Herc rumbles. Ares smirks, “Or keep lifting.” Out of the heat slips Loki (Jordan), sweet grin, tricky eyes, skin dewy with musk; taps my chest, steals a breath, purrs, “Why not both, babe?” He twirls flame into a jump rope and laughs. I stare at fire, get sparkly feelings, then dumb-jock brain whispers: seek within… the gym. I bro-nod. They bro-nod. No straps, soul PR unlocked (Loki snickering at finish line).

[Golden Knight Prep Academy]

Shiny halls, preppy thunder. Elijah (principal / my son) fixes a tie like a sniper. “Father, perhaps a laundry schedule.” “Yeh son,” I say, “schedule is, uh, for schedulers.” Alex (rumored sumn) glides by, Percival-adjacent smirk; straightens my collar: “Try the faculty lounge.” Camden (dom preppy) blocks the door. “Say please.” I flex instead. Door opens. Lounge clean. Preps terrified. No straps. Gains tho.

[Golden Stadium Back Door]

Trey (content machine) films a reel. Eddy (drone converter; chav mode) laughs, swagger cloud. “Boss, check lost-n-found.” I do. Ten left shoes and a #GOLD foam finger. Eddy blows smoke rings shaped like laurel wreaths. “Mystery’s a vibe, innit.” I cough, nod, move on.

[Golden Arab Bros in the Tunnel]

Raheem hip-checks me; air around his swelled AF crotch… smell familiar. Jasim claps my shoulders. Hayyan leans in tunnel light, smoke curlin’, smirk pure sin. Basit prowls past with a duffel. Ghazi adjusts his gleaming kit, chest swelling, eyes sharp like a predator on pause. We chest-bump. I do a discreet sniff-test like a gentleman. Raheem winks. “Wasn’t me, Emir.” Sure, akhi. Sure.

Join the Golden story Wanna be legend? DM our recruiters: @brodygold @polo-drone-001 @polo-drone-125

Cameo credits (Pt.1): Chevy our golden pup is @chevy-gold Miner my adopted son is @polo-drone-166 Fenrir our golden werewolf is @danielgold-16 Grayden our mascot boss is @polo-drone-084 Leander our mascot is @polo-drone-088 Trevor our waterboy king is @polo-drone-125 Nils our waterboy is @nils-gold-34 Herc our head golden god is @goldenherc9 Ares our head golden god is @goldengod-ares10 Loki our golden god is @jordan-gold-40 Elijah my son is @eliasgold20 Alex my rumored bf is @polo-drone-151 Camden our dom preppy is @polo-drone-076 Trey our chav content machine is @hero21us Eddy our drone converter in chav mode is @polo-drone-073 Raheem my Arab brother is @roman-golden-68 Jasim my Arab brother is @jasimgold Hayyan my Arab brother is @phoenix-hayyan-pdu-071 Basit my Arab brother is @basit015 Ghazi my Arab brother is @ghazi-gold-23

Post by @polo-drone-001 · 23 images

💬 0  🔁 0  ❤️ 0 · EZAN: The Case of the Vanished Straps (Again) — Pt. 2 · Golden Army 1st Annivercery Edishun (more pics, more pump) [Polo D

[franco-gold94]

Thunderstorm

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.

“Come on, man, drive faster! I swear, that’s a hurricane behind us!” Marcus yelled to Adrian.

The two young boys were driving on a desolate country road with an old, rickety car.

“Shut up, Marcus. I try to, but the crosswind is too strong!” 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.

“Told you Adrian, that we shouldn’t borrow your grandpa's rust-bucket. This thing belongs in a museum.” Marcus continued to fuss.

“Marcus! I’m trying to concentrate on driving! I don’t care if this car is a relic, I don't want to take it back in pieces.” Adrian looked very, very tense. “Where is that thunder? When we reach that forest, we will be safe from the winds, and I can drive faster.”

Marcus looked back. His face turned pale.

“Adrian… We’re doomed.”

The clouds had just swallowed the weary sun; it’s last rays vanished with sudden darkness. As if a lamp had been extinguished, the countryside was enveloped in gray and dim darkness.

“Why did it get so dark so fast? Where’s the damned rain?” Adrian shouted, not daring to take it’s eyes from the road.

“Right… right behind us.” 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.

“We are doomed…” 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.

“Oh my God, oh my God…” 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.

“Aghhh… Curses! We should have checked the weather forecast!” Adrian shouted.

Ten minutes later, the car to shake.

“Oh no. What is now with this damned thing?” Adrian shouted angrily. “Come on! I spared you as much as I could! What's wrong with you, you piece of shit?”

The engine gave a final, wet cough and died. The car rolled to a stop.

“Water must’ve gotten into the engine.” said Marcus with a sigh. “Perfect. We’re stuck in the woods. In the middle of a storm.”

Adrian collapsed on the steering wheel.

“Oh, no… How is this even real?”

But his question was answered only by the rhythmic patter of rain from the roof.

Minutes passed.

The thunder roared with the same intensity. The rain was heavy, lightnings flickering through the dark sky.

Hours passed.

Hope thinned. But then Marcus nudged the napping Adrian on the shoulder.

“Hey. The rain seems… less fierce.”

Adrian blinked, and looked around. Outside it was dark.

“But it looks even darker now than before.” he commented.

“It is already past eight.” Marcus replied. “The sun’s already down.”

Adrian tore open the car’s door and jumped out of the car. “Oh, no, no! We have to fix the car! We can't stay here in the woods all night hungry!”

“What’s the rush? Someone will come eventually.” said Marcus.

“How many cars have you seen passing by us in the last hour? I wouldn't be surprised if the road was blocked somewhere.” asked him Adrian, while he was opening the car’s cowl.

Marcus get out the car. “Uhm, you are probably right, Adrian. I saw not a single person passing by. Let’s fix this crap asap.”

After five minutes of working on the car in the rain, Adrian sighed.

“No good. The engine’s shot. We’re not going anywhere.”

Marcus’s expression darkened. “So what now?”

“Well, our chances aren’t 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 cold…”

“Let’s walk.” 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.

“Well, this is insane. Feels like we’re trapped in some cheap horror flick.” Adrian muttered, shining his light toward the trees.

“Dont’s say that, Adrian…” shivered Marcus. “Seriously. Don’t.” 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.

“Adrian… I don’t want to keep going. I’m cold. I feel like we’re lost. This is hopeless.” Marcus said, and stopped.

Adrian stopped too and placed a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“It is okay, Marcus. We’ll make it out.” “I really hope.” 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.

“Who is there?” he called out.

“Oh, finally someone! Hey, man, we are lost! Our car broke down earlier, we’ve been walking for hours!” 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.

“Hi boys!” he said warmly. “Car trouble? That sucks. The storm, huh? It was raining cats and dogs, so no wonder. You guys okay?”

“Not really. We’re drenched and starving… you got anything?” Marcus asked.

The man’s smile grew.

“Of 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.”

Marcus exhaled. “I don’t care, if this is a fucking horror movie, in this state I would follow any guy with a flashlight and a promise of shelter.”

“Haha, calm down, young man. This isn’t a horror movie. It is a story of lucky escape.” the man in the golden kit said. “By the way, my name is Franco, if you didn’t figured it already. I’m a player of the Golden Army.”

He waved invitingly to Adrian and Marcus. They followed him.

“So, 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.”

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.

“So why the soccer kit?” Adrian asked.

Franco grinned. “I’m with the Golden Army. Franco Gold, #94, attacking midfielder. We’re training with the bros out here for our next match. Remote spot, quiet, great focus. We’re more than a team, we’re a brotherhood.”

Warm yellow light glowed from the windows. Laughter spilled out, low and joyful.

“Welcome home.” 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.

“Bros, this is Adrian and Marcus. They are staying with us tonight. Their car broke down in the storm. Make ‘em feel welcome.” Franco introduced the newcomers.

Adrian waved. “Hey.”

Marcus gave a small nod. “Hi.”

“Come on. Let’s get you into something dry.” Franco said them, and guided them inwards.

Soon, they stood in a locker room.

“Lets see…” Franco rifled through a cabinet. “Ah, got spare kits.” He held up a blank gold jersey and matching shorts.

Adrian studied them.

Marcus drifted toward the corner of the room. His eyes locked on something black and glossy, folded neatly on a bench.

“What’s that?” 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.

“Oh, the PDU uniform. For polo-drones.”

“Polo drones?” Marcus repeated, touching the sleek, shining surface.

“Yeah. 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.”

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.

Golden. Glorious.

Adrian stood straight.

Back aligned. Chin high. Chest forward.

He was golden. The uniform loved him back. His gaze met Franco’s, 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 hadn’t moved. He was still staring at the glossy black polo, fingers tracing its folded edge.

“Marcus?” Franco stepped closer, gently breaking his trance.

Marcus blinked. “I… can I wear this instead?”

Franco put his hands on Marcus’ shoulders. “If that’s what you feel… yes. It’s allowed.” he said with a smile.

“Really?” Marcus turned to him with excitement.

“Put it on.” 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 didn’t just fit. It commanded.

Pride straightened his spine. He stood taller.

Next, the rubber pants. He didn’t 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.

Then… the mask.

It was laying just there on the bench. Marcus involuntarily reached for it. He didn't know why, it just seemed right. He didn’t 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.

“Look at you.”

His eyes moved between them, warm with approval.

“You’ve seen it. Felt it. You’ve got a glimpse from the true belonging to the Golden Army. Maybe it was luck. Maybe fate. Doesn’t matter.”

He opened his arms.

“You know the truth. But it only becomes real if you claim it. Name it. Declare it.” Franco looked at Adrian.

And Adrian spoke, his voice firm and determined: “I’m Adrian Gold #77 of the Golden Army.”

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: “Polo-Drone 167.”

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:

“Welcome, bros! You are home now.”

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: 🟡◯◯

[hero21us]

Chav Tech Unleashed

Trey, full-blown chav and loyal member of the Golden Army, strutted through an alley behind a derelict electronics shop in East London. He wasn’t looking for treasure—just a spot to vape and blast grime from his cracked speaker. But fate had other plans. Half-buried under old cables and rusted consoles was a strange, gold-plated wristband. Trey snatched it up, turning it over. It hummed with an odd warmth and pulsed with faint light.

“Mad, this is,” Trey muttered, slipping it on. Instantly, a sleek interface hovered in the air—coded glyphs flickering, a joystick of control panels appearing like a game HUD.

"Target: Acquired. Nearest alpha male profile—locked."

Confused but intrigued, Trey looked around.

At the far end of the alley, a shirtless gym bro jogged past, earbuds in, veins popping. Trey tapped the display.

The jogger stopped mid-stride, blinked twice, then turned back toward Trey, walking with a slouch, swaying to unheard bass, and calling out, “Oi bruv, you seen my vape?”

Trey’s eyes widened. He smirked. “This thing’s proper mental!”

Over the next few hours, Trey tested the device with gleeful chaos. He turned a squad of shirtless CrossFit bros in the park into tracksuit-wearing, chain-flashing chavs who started a spontaneous dance-off under a motorway bridge.

He convinced two smug personal trainers to abandon their routines and instead stage a grime cypher near a kebab shop.

But by sundown, Trey knew this power needed supervision—or at least someone with even more swagger. He swaggered into the Golden Estate, straight to the gym where Chav Herc, the mountain of muscle and gold himself, was benching impossible weights while two drones shined his trainers.

Trey dropped the wristband on a bench beside him. “Bruv. You gotta see what this bit o’ kit does. Had gym lads skankin’ like it’s Carnival.”

Herc raised an eyebrow, slipped on the device, and nodded slowly as the interface booted up. “Golden tech, innit? Looks ancient. But proper weapon.”

Within days, Chav Herc had implemented the tech into training the Golden Army football squad. Before, they were elite—fast, powerful, relentless. Now, with the device broadcasting its influence across the training grounds, the players underwent subtle, then rapid transformations.

Their kicks became sharper, their tackles more aggressive. But their behavior on the pitch… shifted.

Gone were the clean-cut, focused professionals.

Now they rolled into matches in gold-trimmed tracksuits, chains bouncing, chewing gum with arrogant grins. They played with swagger—taunting, jeering, celebrating every goal with street-style dance routines. They didn't just win. They humiliated.

Commentators were baffled.

“The Golden Army are simply unplayable… but what’s with the attitude change?”

“They’ve turned into... well, East End bad boys with perfect footwork!”

Off-pitch, the squad still held their edge, but during every match, the chav energy surged. It became their brand—loud, gold, dominant. Fans loved it. Opponents feared it.

In the locker room after crushing their rivals 6-0, Herc leaned back on the bench, grinning at Trey. “Told you this tech's a game-changer, bruv.”

Trey chuckled, flipping a gold coin. “Next time I nick some alien gadget, remind me to bosh it on the ref, yeah? Make 'im proper skank about like a muppet.”

“Oi, not before we test it on the entire Premier League,” Herc smirked. “Golden Army’s goin’ global.”

And as the wristband pulsed with deeper gold light, neither noticed the final message blinking beneath the interface:

“Phase 2: Chav Dominion—Preparing for Global Sync.”

______________________________

Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @brodygold , @goldenherc9 or @polo-drone-001.

19 notes

[rubberhercules]

A Golden Chavformation - Part 1

Scott couldn't help but chuckle to himself as he spotted the lost tourist, Trevor. The American's blond hair was sticking up in every direction, a stark contrast to the well-groomed look he clearly aimed for. His eyes darted around the unfamiliar streets of Manchester City, a map crumpled in one hand and a smartphone with a cracked screen in the other. The irony wasn't lost on Scott; this was the heart of his domain, where tourists like Trevor stumbled into the most unexpected adventures.

Scott sauntered over, his golden Nike tracksuit glinting under the street lamps. The chain around his neck, equally as gold as his teeth, swung with every step he took. His eyes took in the tourist's physique—his broad shoulders, the hint of muscle under his shirt, and the way his jeans hugged his ass. "Ey up, mate, ya lookin' a bit lost, yeah?" he asked with a smirk, his accent thick with the local drawl.

Trevor looked up, his blue eyes wide with a mix of hope and apprehension. "Yeah, I'm trying to find the cathedral, but I think I took a wrong turn," he said, his voice laced with a soft Southern American twang.

Scott's grin widened. "The cathedral, ya say?" He leaned in closer, his chest pressing against Trevor's. "Well, I might know a shortcut, but it's not the kind you're thinkin' of." He could feel the heat emanating from the man's body, his heart racing. He knew what was coming next.

"What do you mean?" Trevor asked, his curiosity piqued.

Scott reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold chain. "This ain't just any necklace, it's a bit of magic, see?" He dangled it in front of Trevor's face. "Put it on, and you'll fit right in 'round here."

The blond man looked at the chain with skepticism, but the desperation in his eyes was palpable. He took the chain, feeling its surprising weight in his hand. "What's it do?"

"It'll make you one of us," Scott said with a wink. "A proper chav." He watched as Trevor hesitated, then slowly fastened the chain around his neck.

Immediately, a surge of energy rippled through Trevor's body, his eyes flashing with an unearthly light. His skin grew more tanned, his muscles more defined. His shirt tightened around his chest, the fabric stretching to accommodate his new physique. His ass filled out his jeans, and his cock, which had been a respectable six inches, grew longer and thicker. The transformation was complete—Trevor was now a 20-year-old chav, just like Scott.

"Bloody 'ell, that's fuckin' mad," Scott exclaimed, his eyes traveling down to appreciate the new bulge in Trevor's pants. "Let's go show off ya new look, yeah?"

With a sly smile, Scott grabbed Trevor's hand and led him down a dark alleyway. He knew exactly what was about to happen, and he couldn't wait to see the look on the American's face when he realized just how deep he was getting into the local culture.

"Where are we going?" Trevor asked, his voice a bit shaky, his hand still in Scott's firm grip.

"Somewhere private, where we can get to know each other better," Scott replied, his eyes darkening with lust. He pushed Trevor against the cold brick wall, the sound of his new sneakers echoing through the alley. Trevor's body was a canvas of untapped desire, and Scott was the artist about to make his masterpiece.

Trevor felt his heart racing as Scott's hand began to trace the line of his jaw, then moved down to his chest. The fabric of his shirt was tight against his now well-defined pecs, and he could feel his nipples harden under Scott's touch. He gasped as Scott's hand slid down to his bulging crotch, squeezing him through his jeans.

"You're so fuckin' hot, Trev," Scott murmured, his breath hot against Trevor's ear. "I knew you'd love it here."

Trevor's eyes widened as Scott's hand deftly unbuttoned his pants, pulling out his thick cock. It was leaking pre-cum, which Scott eagerly smeared over the tip. "Ya like that, don't ya?" he whispered, watching as Trevor's body reacted to the unfamiliar sensation.

The blond tourist couldn't believe what was happening. His body was responding in ways he never thought possible. He felt his ass hole tighten in anticipation, and he knew he was going to love whatever came next.

Scott dropped to his knees, his eyes never leaving Trevor's. He took the massive cock into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked hungrily. Trevor's hips bucked involuntarily, and he moaned, his hand automatically going to the back of Scott's head to guide him.

"Fuck, yeah," Scott mumbled around the cock, his own erection straining against his tracksuit pants. He reached up and began to tug at Trevor's nipples, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger. The American's body was a symphony of sensations, and Scott was the maestro conducting every note.

Trevor's breath was coming in ragged gasps now, his cock swelling even more in Scott's mouth. He could feel the orgasm building, but he didn't want it to end so soon. He pulled back, his cock glistening with saliva. "Not yet," he managed to say, his voice thick with lust.

Scott stood up, his own cock now out and hard as steel. "Then let's go back to mine, where we can really get comfortable," he said, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Trevor nodded, his breath hitching as he took in Scott's body. The chav's cock was thick and uncut, with a delicious curve that made his mouth water. He knew he was going to enjoy this.

They stumbled out of the alley, their breaths mingling in the cool night air. Scott's hand was back in Trevor's, leading him through the streets of his new home. The transformation was complete, and the adventure was just beginning.

This first part is in collaboration with @trevorgold52 so keep an eye out in their page for part 2

Come join the gold today bros, get brocessed by @brodygold @polo-drone-001 or @goldenherc9

[goldenarmyofficial]

Golden Army vs Neon Vortex - part 2

INTERLUDE — Golden Recalibration At the whistle, Gold retreated with control. One up, but not resting. Vortex looked shaken but not broken. Zendrix’s visor glowed slightly brighter as he walked off. Rixen stared straight into the tunnel light.

The Flux Crew moved like dancers around the Vortex bench. Kio, pale-eyed and sure, paced each player, pulse-calming fluid ready. But the rhythm—they felt it falter.

Meanwhile, in the tunnel shadow, the Gold did not rest. They recalibrated.

Nils (@nils-gold-34) moved first—fluid, precise—gloves already chilled to match neural modulation. Trevor (@polo-drone-125) directed breathwork cycles with his headset, syncing heartbeats. Nate (@polo-drone-166) crouched by Franco (@franco-gold94), injecting electrolytes directly into the boot-lining thread, recharging kinetic memory.

Tamerlan (@polo-drone-073) and Ezan (@polo-drone-001) stood still—receiving.

“Don’t correct the rhythm,” Nate whispered to Brock (@brockgold), now lacing his boots. “Bend it.”

Outside, mist parted as The Golden Knight (@polo-drone-084) stepped forward, banner unfurled behind him. Milo (@polo-drone-151) and Chevy (@chevy-gold) spun like signal drones, Riley (@rileygold60) raised two fingers. The counter-wave launched. Golden fans began to rise.

Inside, the Gold were silent. Ready.

SECOND HALF — Neon's Resistance (46'–60')

When the teams reemerged, the Glowring breathed harder.

Cyan threads cascaded from above like trailing code. The Pulse moved in tight bursts—sharp, anticipatory. But the tempo had changed. Gold’s control wasn’t just strategy—it was heat. Momentum.

Substitution: Brock for Izzy (@isaac-gold-45). Izzy had played a good game, but keeping up to a formidable opponent like Zendrix took its strain. Coach Chet (@thecorruptisland) counted on Brock to change the tempo.

Brock entered like static. Sharp. Energetic. Fresh legs, fresh hunger. He met Zendrix’s tempo not with symmetry—but with refusal. He didn’t align—he defied Zendrix’s tempo.

Franco now ruled midfield space. Tamerlan rotated around him like a second sun—no longer only calculating but feeling. Each pass was lighter. Each touch more instinctual. The crowd couldn’t read him.

Zendrix narrowed his eyes.

It didn’t work.

But Neon’s defense hadn’t cracked—not yet.

Axion Drift took command, gestures crisp and absolute. One flick pulled Zane Rho tighter. A nod repositioned Remy Zhou. His eyes flicked to Rixen—sync locked. The gold wave came.

Herc (@goldenherc9) came barreling down the right. Remy stepped in, trying to check his momentum, but the Golden Captain burst past with elemental force. Axion met him mid-turn—reading, predicting. One slide, one mirror angle. No foul. Possession flipped.

Roars surged from both sides. The Golden Knight stood with blade lifted to the Pulse, unmoved.

Then Xavier (@polo-drone-039) pierced the midfield line—threaded a pass like a wire through chaos. Ezan caught it on the run. One fake, one drop—Zane fell.

Herc waited in shadow—marked. Ezan saw no lane. Fired instead.

It bent inward, stung with pace. Rixen moved before the crowd even reacted. He dove—full extension. Hands met the ball. Just enough.

Clang.

Crossbar shook. Crowd shrieked.

Franco dove for the loose ball—instant, perfect. But Rixen moved again—inhuman reflex. One palm—denial. Corner.

The Glowring pulsed. Golden Knight slammed his shield, and led the Golden fans into a roaring chant to maintain the pressure on the resisting Neon. Brock’s arc spun toward Brody. Zendrix rose—unnatural height—snatched it and reset. Out to Tariq.

But Xavier hunted. Intercepted. One touch to Franco. Flick to Ezan. Snap to Brody (@brodygold).

Axion Drift—one step ahead.

One touch. One steal.

Vortex still stood. But pressure made its cracks.

After Rixen’s series of impossible saves, the crowd pivoted. The Glowring thrummed in Pulse blue. Glythorn stood tall again, arms wide, as the Waves ignited the chant: “Distort! Distort!”

Zendrix responded—pushing forward, tapping his band to speed tempo. Coach Syv send Jorren Alix to replace Tariq, faded, exhausted. The fresh new sub, used to overcome pressure, brought new energy. Even Kio began pacing faster, synchronizing breath to signal.

For a moment, it felt like comeback.

Echo in Breakage (61'–70')

Just as Zendrix tried to accelerate the tempo again, Jorren launched a blind-side overlap—perfect timing, perfect decoy. But Christian (@polo-drone-055) read it like script. One calculated arc. One decisive step.

The space collapsed.

Jorren’s rhythm crashed against Christian’s logic—ball stolen, threat evaporated.

No celebration. No sound. Christian was already repositioning. Impetus broken. Comeback denied with cold efficiency.

Then...Minute 63'. On the left wing, Devon (@polo-drone-767) made a rare run. The drone-turned-defender burst forward—Golden kit rippling, motion perfect. The crowd’s noise dimmed in his ears. He didn’t hear cheers or jeers. Just the command in his brain: Advance. Deliver. Serve.

He did.

He found Franco, who volleyed it toward Herc, who dummied past Rey Kiro, pulling two defenders off. And there—slicing through the gap—was Tamerlan.

⚽ GOAL – Minute 64’ Tamerlan – right boot volley, one bounce, net kiss.

He didn’t celebrate. He closed his eyes. The memory of Maximus (@polo-drone-070)’ drill shouts, Nate’s silent nods, Franco’s sessions—all lit behind his eyelids. This was rebirth.

Axion Drift held strong—barely. Rixen Code, the silent firewall in gloves, roared into form. He blocked two more key drives, one from Ezan, one from Herc. But for every save, Vortex’s rhythm broke further. Lex Vale failed to complete a dribble. Kael’s surges were caught early by Christian, whose field-reading now seemed supernatural.

Maximus, in his own orbit, began shadowing Vexon.

The bet had been made. The target was known.

Each sprint Vexon attempted, Maximus met—not with brutality, but with cadence-denial. He shifted lanes. Adjusted pace. Vexon tried triple feints. Maximus didn’t bite. He absorbed.

Vexon’s shine began to dull.

On the sideline, Kio stared, water bottle frozen mid-air. His eyes flicked to Maximus—and for a moment, something unreadable flashed in his silver crest.

Gold pressed. Chet raised two fingers—final shift.

Lightbreak Sequence (71'–85')

Neon Vortex now shimmered with strain.

The Pulse faltered in their wave sync. The Glowring’s cyan lace dimmed, like it sensed the tipping point. Zendrix shifted to deeper control zones, scanning for anomalies—but Gold wasn’t sending signals. They were creating noise. Intentional, gorgeous, overwhelming noise.

Chet gestured. A third substitution.

Basit (@basit015) entered, Brody stepped off with no flash, but purpose. He’d done his part—worn down Zendrix’s options, tethered the midfield threads. Gold shifted shape again—into 5-3-2. The message was clear: lockdown. Hold the rhythm. Kill their breath.

Maximus now surged higher, temporarily unshackled. He passed midfield with a single cold glance at Zendrix, who refused to engage. The coder-mage simply whispered something to his wrist pad and retreated.

Then—minute 79.

A ricochet deflection from Remy Zhou landed at Franco’s feet.

He didn’t hesitate. He never does.

Franco flicked it backward—not to a teammate, but into open space. Tamerlan saw it instantly. But so did Vexon.

For the first time, Vexon broke from Maximus’ shadow, eager for a blitz counter offensive.

He chased.

But something was wrong.

His limbs were too fast. His stride—unfocused. Maximus hadn’t just followed him. He’d tuned him.

Vexon’s own tempo was sabotaged by the very anticipation he once weaponized.

He overran it.

Tamerlan didn’t. He secured the ball, paused, then slipped it left. 

Ezan caught it with a breathless touch, then charged. Jorren tried to shadow—failed. Zane was spun with a fake. The field opened.

But then, Axion.

Like gravity shifting, the defender materialized—line cut, body angling for the tackle. No aggression. Just position. Just intent.

Ezan pushed forward anyway. Two steps. Three. Shot-line blocked.

Axion launched.

And in the blink before collision, Ezan lifted his head, saw Herc roaring down the centerline like a golden missile, and sliced a pass through the vanishing seam of space.

The Glowring lit as the crowd drew breath.

Herc met it in full stride—no hesitation. He planted, swung.

⚽ GOAL – Minute 79’ Blunt force into the upper net. 3–0. Rixen dove—touched it—but power overrode precision. The ball tore through, net rippling behind.

Kio flinched. Then stood motionless.

In the stands, Glythorn—the glitch-born Warden—collapsed into a crouch and let his shoulder emit a slow violet pulse.

The crowd fell silent for a half-second. At midfield’s edge, the Golden Knight took a single step forward and drove his blade into the turf. A shockwave of gold shimmer pulsed outward, rippling through the stands. His visor flickered once—acknowledgment.

Golden fans erupted.

Chevy and Milo twirled golden ribbons. Riley lifted both arms, sweat gleaming, throat gone raw from rally calls. The Gold tide had crossed the border.

The Last Pulse (86'–90') With five minutes left, desperation pulsed through Neon’s veins.

But the Waves didn’t sit. Their chant spiked again—“Break the wall! Pulse them down!” Glythorn crouched, pulsing violet, sending frequency bursts through the upper tiers. The Glowring flickered cyan. On the opposite side, the Golden Knight stood, defiant.

Rixen shouted, hands raised. One last surge. One last cry.

Zendrix stepped higher. Neon’s shape warped—three up front. The last Pulse drive ignited.

Kael Nova received the line-pass—flicked it blind with a phantom heel.

Xavier saw through it, snapped forward. Denial.

Devon cleared long.

Vexon refused to stop. One final burst—legs burning, eyes wild. Basit slid in. Bold, decisive. Claimed the ball like it had always belonged to him. Stood. Cleared.

The Glowring flickered. Glythorn’s visor dimmed.

Basit punched the air.

Franco, Herc, and Tamerlan worked the corner—golden shield around time itself. Rixen Code watched—but didn’t come forward.

He knew it was over.

Final whistle blew.

3 – 0.

Neon light throbbed once.

Then went still.

CLOSING — Goldshine in the Glowring

Maximus didn't celebrate. He walked to Vexon, offered no words—just nodded once. It was enough.

On the sideline, Kio lowered his bottle, stepped off his tempo line, and vanished beneath the seats.

Vernon (@vernon-gold-31) looked up. Clean sheet. Debut complete.

Brody approached Coach Chet, eyes still locked on the fading Pulse. “They came hard,” he muttered. “That keeper—Rixen? Unnatural.”

Chet nodded. “He kept it from five-nil.”

Herc threw a fist to the air. Golden cleats stomped in rhythm.

Kasper (@pdu-090) bounced on the balls of his feet, vibrating with energy. “Next one’s mine, I swear.”

Ghazi (@ghazi-gold-23) slapped his back. “Let’s earn it.”

The bench joined the stomp.

The Dominion League had begun.

And the Gold had struck first.

[MVP : Christian (@polo-drone-055), Maximus (@polo-drone-070), Herc (@goldenherc9), Franco (@franco-gold94), Tamerlan (@polo-drone-073). With exceptional support from Waterboy Nate (@polo-drone-166) as most contributing Golden Army member for the match prep.]

______

Want to taste victory with the Golden Army ? Join us by contacting @polo-drone-125 @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001 or @brodygold.

[goldenarmyofficial]

Golden Army vs Neon Vortex - part 1

Glow Before Impact

The Flux Spiral shimmered like a living entity. Mist swirled low across the synthetic turf, refracting sharp cyan lines drawn in light beneath the stadium shell. Above, the Glowring pulsed in rhythm—first slow, then rising. In the stands, the Waveline squad initiated the first pulse gesture. Silence. Collapse. Rise. An arena of sound, born from motion.

The opening match of the Dominion League was no mere game—it was a rite of new rhythm.

For the Golden Team, this wasn’t just about redemption after their recent volleyball stumble. This was the ignition match. Their first encounter with Neon Vortex. New terrain. New flow. Gold against Pulse.

Inside the changing rooms, golden boots were laced with ritual. Maximus (@polo-drone-070), gleaming with sweat even before kickoff, helped adjust Tamerlan’s collar (@polo-drone-073) like an older brother fixing his kin for battle. Herc (@goldenherc9) and Ares (@goldengod-ares10) leaned shoulder to shoulder, syncing breath, twin gold flames about to strike. Ezan (@polo-drone-001) stood in silence, eyes closed, channeling the bridge between instinct, strategy, and discipline—his golden aura calm and sharp.

Coach Chet (@thecorruptisland) stood with arms crossed, eyes closed. Then he spoke.

“Vortex is light and pattern. You are pressure and fracture. Break their loop. Gold doesn’t react. Gold redefines.”

Herc nodded and turned to face the team.

“We hit first. We hit clean. Let them feel the gold.”

Ezan opened his eyes. Silent agreement.

Across the corridor, in the black-neon pulse of the Vortex prep room, Zendrix Halo sat still. One boot half-laced. Eyes violet-lit. Processing. Rixen Kode exhaled once, glove tips meeting glove tips. No blink. Vexon Ray tapped the bridge of his nose three times—his focus anchor—before brushing rose-quartz strands from his eyes. Kio Vant, stationed beside the Flux Crew water kit, whispered something only his tempo band understood.

Coach Syv Kohlen stood before a grid of light threads.

“You’ve run their goldstorm. Simmed every break and recoil. Tonight, you dictate their collapse.”

Zendrix nodded. “I’ll reroute before they begin.”

Vexon cracked his neck. Rixen pulled down his visor.

“Time to distort.”

The teams emerged. The Pulse was deafening.

On the east side, Glythorn stood atop the Waveline drum post, cape trailing like glitchfire. Every Pulse surge that threaded through Gold’s lines saw him emit a flicker of violet, his signal syncing with crowd chants.

“Vortex! Vortex!” the Waves thundered, pulsing in sync with Zendrix’s commands. Gold resisted—but the sound itself struck like waves against steel.

FIRST HALF — Fractures in Rhythm (0'–26')

The ball moved. Not kicked. Routed.

Zendrix Halo rerouted it through angles no one should see. Neon Vortex controlled the tempo, an early rhythm carved through calibrated pass frequency. Izzy (@isaac-gold-45) and Brody (@brodygold) adjusted posture, resisting the reroute matrix, Zendrik's tactical pattern-web designed to confuse read timing—but losing fractions of control each exchange. Together they held the midfield together—barely. Tamerlan read, hesitated, then fell back into Maximus’ zone. Still too early.

Christian (@polo-drone-055) held the flank—no flash, no waste. Just angles and return paths, recalculated every breath.

Back left, Xavier.(@polo-drone-039) ghosted forward, intercepting a secondary pulse line. ‘You waiting for an invite, Izzy?’ he barked, flicking a pass across field. Izzy grinned without looking. ‘Just letting them dream.’ The midfield tightened. Gold’s left spine began to harden.

On the edge, Vexon flickered into a run—and the Glowring dimmed on cue. Gold had trained for atmosphere, but reality had weight. Crowd pressure. Sonic pulses. Brody barked to regroup. Xavier snapped into place beside Izzy, boots nearly overlapping.

The Pulse roared as Vexon surged towards the goal, blurring past reaction time, acceleration outrunning intention. Maximus pressed hard from behind—just enough. Christian arrived a blink later, carving the angle tight. The collision was avoided, the ball chipped loose. Glowring gasped. Corner. Lex Vale kicks. Good trajectory towards Jett Harmon, but Vernon (@vernon-gold-31) is on it. Clean leap to seize the ball. Secured. Gold held.

Then came the first burst.

Herc and Ares broke through, a twin impact. Lex Vale faltered on the wing. Axion Drift read their path but barely countered the speed. Rixen’s gloves flared—white flash—and the twin strike was denied. Saved.

Coach Chet called the first adaptation. He had read it too: Neon had trained for symmetry. Twin gods had been rehearsed against. He trusted Herc and Ares to press the edge of that expectation—to crack it. But Chet didn’t want the struggle. He wanted dominance. He wanted collapse.

His gaze found Franco (@franco-gold94)—already upright, ready. The boy had studied Vortex’s every loop, counter, and burst in closed drills. And yet Neon Vortex had no read on him. No previous footage. No algorithm ready.

That was the asset.

Now was the moment.

At minute 23, Franco replaced Ares. Rhythm fractured. Gold shifted into 4-4-2. Ares nodded, sweat-slicked, accepting. He jogged to the bench, chest heaving, sweat gleaming. He clapped Herc’s shoulder on the way out. “Crack them open, Cap.” Franco entered light-footed, golden glint in his eye. His touch met the pulse of the pitch and disrupted it.

From that moment, Gold’s current changed.

Pulse Disruptor (26'–45')

Franco’s entry struck like syncopation—off-beat, perfect. Where Herc drove like an unstoppable hammer, Franco danced through shifting zones, slipping behind Zendrix’s pattern field. The midfielder’s LED-threaded boots flared once—then dimmed, conserving momentum.

Kasper (@pdu-090) shouted from the sideline, “That’s the tempo!” Ghazi (@ghazi-gold-23) was already bouncing, mirroring Franco’s movements in place. Brock (@brockgold) leaned into Basit (@basit015). “We’ll hold when they break. Watch.”

Xavier and Izzy had also begun to find tempo. ‘Pulse feels shaky,’ Xavier said. Izzy nodded. ‘They overcommitted to symmetry. Let’s bend it.’ On their next sequence, they curved the midfield—forcing Zendrix to shift.

Zendrix narrowed his gaze, recalculating.

But Gold had found the rift.

Maximus initiated a long pass—not direct, but curving, timed to Vexon’s rising pressure. Tamerlan absorbed it, one touch, then heel flicked it into Franco’s arc. Rixen shifted left, gloves widening—too late.

🏀 GOAL – Minute 26' Franco – precision shot, low corner. 1–0.

On the bench, Kasper nearly lost his balance leaping to his feet. “Franco’s cooking!” Ghazi slammed his forearm into the cooler. “Let me in already!” Ares grinned, towel around his neck, voice still hoarse. “Told you he’d flip it.

And then, the gold swell.

Christian didn’t flinch. He processed. Line read. Shoulder angle perfect. No foul. No breach. Only protocol—executed with chilling calm. He cut the path, met the charge, and nullified threat. No show. Just result. His past mistakes as human had been reforged into present drone perfection.

Across the mist-lit sideline, the Golden Knight (@polo-drone-084) raised both arms—palms glowing. He turned slowly, feeding the crowd rhythm. Gold flags unfurled in motion, Milo (@polo-drone-151) and Chevy (@chevy-gold) locking sync, Riley (@rileygold60) leading the next stomp, with Isaac shadowing him.

Gold’s pressure was no longer tactical—it was ceremonial.

Zendrix slowed the tempo again, trying to lull Gold back into overextension. But Izzy, under pressure, read better now. His coordination with Brody kept the midfield from snapping. Coach Chet observed, nodding—strain visible, but the structure held.

Devon (@polo-drone-767) held the left line like it was ritual. Silent obedience. Golden programming. Radiating. Opposite him, Christian adjusted spacing with quiet precision—no call needed. Two walls, mirrored in function.

Ezan rose in tempo, bridging zones. One interception, then a spiraled switch cross. He advanced, dribbled once, twice—then struck. Rixen dove full stretch to deny the shot, sending it barely wide. The crowd roared. Ezan exhaled, cold and composed.

Final 3 minutes: Vernon faced a low-driven shot from Kael Nova. The rookie keeper dropped low, gloves firm, catching clean. First save. Eyes forward. No theatrics.

Halftime: Gold up, 1–0. Vortex—shaken, not broken.

______

Want to face such formidable opponents with the Golden Army ? Join us by contacting @polo-drone-125 @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001 or @brodygold.

[polo-drone-070]

Obedience Beneath the Sun – Maksoud's Test

The sun rose without mercy. It did not glide above the field with grace; it commanded the sky, pouring molten light over the golden pitch like judgment. Maksoud had risen before it, as he always did. In silence, with reverence. He had pressed his tunic until no fold defied order, traced each thread of golden trim with steady fingers, and knelt thrice in quiet breathwork before stepping into the day. He was ready. He was always ready.

Assigned to the southern edge of the field—the training perimeter, where the stone curved into a shallow prayer alcove—Maksoud stood sentinel. Others ran drills. Waterboys ferried ice buckets with giggles and half-tucked shirts. Mascots lounged, fanning themselves with golden foam hands, panting beneath synthetic fur. But Maksoud did not stir. His white tunic shimmered like a beacon of obedience. At the center, a sculpted teardrop-shaped opening—edged in gold piping—revealed the upper chest, where a golden-orange spiral glowed with gentle luminescence. It pulsed softly, not as decoration, but as a sacred mark of surrender, embedded into flesh. The number "70" lay embroidered above his heart, symbolic, silent, final.

A wide golden sash cinched his waist, inscribed in firm Arabic: "مقصود" —Maksoud, The Intended. It clung to his form with a growing intensity, each thread catching sweat like molten links. His white trousers, tapered and loose at the calves, bore no stain. Even the soft white slippers upon his feet seemed unfazed. Around his neck, just barely visible beneath the collar, a fine tattoo of golden chain links circled with silent strength—a symbol of eternal service etched into skin.

The world pulsed. Heat shimmered over turf. Every inhalation was a flame; every exhalation a prayer. Still, Maksoud remained upright. His posture a scripture. The sandstone beneath him might as well have been forged for his knees alone.

Time became breath. The breath became chant.

"Obedience brings peace. Submission is sacred. Ritual is joy."

He did not speak. The words did not leave his lips. But they vibrated within, summoned like sacred echoes from the very marrow of his bones. Sweat traced perfect lines down his cheekbones, catching the glint of noon like falling stars. His deep-set eyes, golden and unwavering, stayed fixed on nothing. He did not need to look to know.

He felt the presence before it appeared.

Sayyid Ezan, haloed in golden glare, approached without sound. Not as man, but as test. As flame. As will. Maksoud did not falter. His knees touched stone in one flowing motion, palms pressing flat to his thighs. Fingers aligned. Spine upright. Gaze downturned. Devotion in flesh.

"You have not sought relief," Ezan observed. His voice was soft, but it carried like thunder inside Maksoud's ribs.

"This khadim finds clarity in fire," Maksoud answered, each word wrapped in breath and duty.

Ezan stepped closer. The heat doubled. Tripled. Maksoud's vision blurred into gold. The world narrowed to sweat, stone, and the intoxicating hiss of his breath against silence.

Then came the touch.

A single finger beneath the chin. Lifting.

"Look."

Maksoud obeyed. And in that gaze—in the perfect symmetry of Sayyid's golden eyes reflecting his own—something shifted. The heat did not leave his skin. But it no longer punished. It revealed. It purified. Maksoud felt the last tremors of ego dissolve, not in collapse, but in sanctification.

He had not broken.

He had become.

Beneath the relentless sun, Maksoud knelt. A statue carved of submission and sweat. A servant not shattered, but perfected. Others would falter. Others would seek shade, fan their skin, peel uniforms from slick backs.

Maksoud would kneel.

For this was his place.

And in obedience, he found his cool.

[polo-drone-070]

Weekly Mindset Assignment : Mack - Golden Chav variant

(late post : should have been Monday)

Aight, Sayyid Ezan (@polo-drone-001) dropped my mindset dis week—Mack, innit. Golden Chav, loud n proud, no brain needed.

Feelin’ dat street buzz already. Throw on da gold trackies, chain swingin’, cap low—yeah, I move proper now. Swagger built in. No thinkin’, just walkin’ like da pavement’s mine.

And yeah... dis sunkissed skin? Dis thick, pumped frame? Ain’t my usual Mack look, bruv. Dat’s ‘cause Sayyid blessed me. His SEED in me, changin’ me. Arab blood. Proud. Powerful. Permanent. Can get triggered as chav all ya like, but dat don’t fade.

Dis week, I ain't tryna be clever. I’m just bein’ seen. Just bein’ loud. Golden Chav Mack. Movin’ heavy. Talkin’ simple. Drippin’ street.

No thought. Just drip

______

Join da Golden Swag. Contact recruiters @polo-drone-001 @brodygold @polo-drone-125 or @goldenherc9

[polo-drone-070]

GOLD DRIPS HARDER - Soccer training with the bros

—MORNING HEAT— Yo. Ain’t even sun-up yet and we steamin’ like a damn sauna, innit. Gold skin out. Cleats on. Beats bumpin’ in my head, no headphones needed—just vibe.

Jackson’s first to lose the tee, flings it at Franco like, “Rise n’ flex, bro!” Franco deadpans, “Ten burpees.” Jackson just laughs, “Worth it, bro. Worth every rep.”

I’m already bouncein’ the ball off my chest, knee, shoulder—loose, glidin’. It’s not training. It’s like... flow. Muscle memory with basslines.

Xavier’s towel-whippin’ the air. “Yo Max, your chain’s glowin’ again or is that just ego lightin’ up?” I smirk. “Nah bro, that’s internal radiance, like. Gold don’t need batteries.”

Vernon rolls in late, goalie pads half-on, lookin’ like he dressed in a tornado. “Hey... uh... brought this herbal mist thingy for like, goal clarity?” Bro silence. Then Jackson: “Mist for what?” We all crack up. But I dap Vernon up after. “Keep it weird, bro. Gold notices.”

Franco don’t laugh. Just runs suicides bein’ all intense and focused. Xavier chucks a cone at him. “Yo lighten up, bro.” Franco: “Smilin’s wasted motion.”, before breakin a soft smile. Classic.

—NILS DROP— Mid-grind, break hits. We pantin’, stretchin’, shinin’ with heat. Nils appears. No talk. No footsteps. Just presence. He hands us our bottles like some silent hydration monk.

Mine? Ice cold. Feels like... charged. First sip and my brain clears. Like—focus, clarity, tunnel lock.

I blink. “Bro. Did you tweak this?” He nods once. Like he’s sayin’ “obviously” without words. Then vanishes into the mist like a damn myth, already busy cleanin sum mess.

Xavier whispers, “He’s like hydration ASMR.” We all nod.

—TAMMY GRIND— Everyone peels off. I stick with Tammy.

Tammy’s got the heart, yeah? But brain in the way. Overthinkin’. Hesitatin’. Tryna solve shit mid-pass like he’s in mathletes, not midfield.

“Again,” I bark. He fumbles. “Again.” Still stiff.

I get in close. Tower a lil’. Let him feel it. “You wanna run this game, Tammy?” He nods like, “Hell yeah.”

“Then stop thinkin’. This ain’t chess. This is waves, bro. You don’t solve waves. You ride ‘em.”

He breathes. Hits it clean. Pure instinct. I clap his back. “That’s it. Gold don’t calculate. Gold reacts.”

—KIO ENCOUNTER—

Later, field’s empty, just me and the echo of cleats on turf. I’m chillin’ near the benches, unlacing boots, breath finally steady...

That’s when I clock him.

Still figure, back by the far fence—cyan trim, sharp profile. Dude’s not just watchin’. He’s measuring.

Silent. Focused. Like a drone with a soul.

I slide off the bench and ghost up behind.

“Yo.” He turns, smooth like clockwork. Pale eyes meet mine.

No blink. No surprise.

“Kio Vant,” he says—clean, crisp, like the name explains everything.

“Flux Crew,” I smirk. “Doin’ recon?”

He nods. “Observing rhythm variance. High-pulse spacing. Emotional excess.” I laugh. “Bro, you makin’ us sound like jazz gone wrong.”

Then I get a better look. Dude’s like... fresh serious. That tight-focus jaw, those chill vibes with zero front. All neat and wired. But the way he stands? Earnest. Like he believes in his sync life.

Kinda cute, not gonna lie.

“You reckon your neon glitch squad’s gonna out-tempo us?” “I think we’re already ahead,” he goes. Calm. Not cocky.

I grin wider. “Aight, how ‘bout a bet then?”

He tilts his head. “Terms?”

“If we win,” I say, steppin’ closer, voice low, “you join one of our drills. Gold core. No observer mode. We break your rhythm—and maybe your outfit.” He lifts a brow. “And if we win?”

I lean in. “You name it. But no ghostin’, Waterboy. You feel what’s comin’, innit?”

He blinks once. Heel taps. Walks off.

But I saw it. That flicker in his eyes.

Curiosity.

Desire.

Drip recognition.

And next time? He ain’t leavin’ untouched.

___ Featuring - Jackson #15 @basit015 - Franco #94 @franco-gold94 - Xavier #39 @polo-drone-039 - Vernon #31 @vernon-gold-31 - Nils, Waterboy 01 @nils-gold-34 - Tamerlan 'Tammy' #73 @polo-drone-073 ___ Think you’ve clocked our rhythm, boy? Step onto our turf—get humbled, get jocked, get golded.

💬 Recruiters: @polo-drone-001 · @brodygold · @goldenherc9 · @polo-drone-125

[polo-drone-166]

🟡Night Assembly 📅 July 3rd | Golden Compound | 2100 Hours

The heat of the day had barely faded. The Hive’s compound walls radiated with stored tension—not temperature. Inside, the command bay lights dimmed to signal Phase Zero: the beginning of match preparation protocol.

Nate 66 was already in motion. No clipboard. No headset. Just intent.

He moved with the kind of calm that came from knowing the work was already inside him. Reps. Drills. Patterns. Conditioned down to reflex.

The only thing that remained? Alignment.

Tonight wasn’t about sweat.

It was about initiation.

He calibrated the timing node first, syncing the pulse generator to the internal Hive clock.

His fingers hovered a beat before contact. Precision was everything.

Three bros arrived, as scheduled, with zero deviation:

Basti 15 (@basit015) — short-range playmaker, crisp-cut undercut, known for making impossible crosses with zero eye contact. He dropped a spiral-etched game ball on the floor and let it roll—testing surface consistency.

PDU-767 (@devon-gold-67)— backline commander, legs wrapped in double compression, his breath already regulated. He carried a micro-projection of Neon Vortex’s sprint curve analysis. The color overlay flashed red every time their formation bent logic.

Nils 34 (@nils-gold-34) — dual-position, float tracker, silent most of the time except during shutdown drills. He walked in with a hydration crate and a signal cone. Not standard. Intentionally precise.

Nate acknowledged them without sound.

He didn’t need to speak. His presence was an instruction.

“CycleWarm 070-A acknowledged. Commence alignment.”

The command flashed across the room’s north wall.

It wasn’t PDU-070’s voice. Not yet. It was the preliminary loop. But they all felt it: 070 was watching.

Tasks. Assigned. Without Dialogue:

Basti entered the reflex grid, flowing through 9-step drills with his eyes closed, each mapped to music only he heard.

PDU-767 rotated through scenario holograms, dialing, scribbling counter-triggers on a water-warped notebook.

Nils arranged cones not for routes—but rhythm. Feet matched flicker rate.

Nate refined hydration chemistry. Timed focus drops. Spiral glyphs etched by fingertip heat.

By 2200:

No callouts. No jokes. No break.

Just bodies moving, silently.

Then—

Blackout. Intentional.

A hiss. The central floor panel opened.

A new module rose:

A circular platform. Four grooves. Inside: mirrored fragments of past matches. Losses.

CycleWarm: Memory Loop Initiated.

Now, it was 070’s voice.

“You are here to remember where not to fail.”

Each bro stepped into a groove. The platform rotated slowly.

One fragment glowed—the 3–2 collapse vs Neon Vortex last season.

Nate didn’t flinch.

PDU-767 winced. Then exhaled.

Jackson pressed palms together.

Nils blinked once.

“You have 33 hours until engagement,” 070 continued. “This is hour -33. Embed. Respond. Correct.”

The next projection:

A future.

Neon Vortex charging midline.

No coach. No command. Just memory vs prediction.

They moved as one.

In the blur—they found the seam.

By 2313 the platform stopped.

The fragments dimmed.

Only the scent of burned sweat and processed clarity remained.

Nate wiped his face with a sleeve. Looked to the others.

“Same play. Different result.”

Devon grinned.

Jackson bumped shoulders.

Nils nodded.

PDU-070 returned:

“CycleWarm complete. You are four. You are forming. Report again in 22 hours. Break into retention mode.”

The platform sank.

Lights returned. But softer.

The Hive had begun its countdown.

Tomorrow, they would sync.

But tonight?

They remembered.

Match Prep intensifies. Neon Vortex approaches.

Join the formation. Contact our recruiters.

additional characters/players: @polo-drone-070

Join us by contacting our recruiters:

@brodygold | @goldenherc9 | @polo-drone-001 | @polo-drone-125

[megaglatze84]

Golden boy

I did not order anything ...

What???

Yeah, sure ...

God! Who would wear this???

Hahahaha, ridiculous!

"woah, what is going on?"

FUUUUUUCK

Wait, everything is ...golden ...yeah, I like ...

Wann play with me, bro?