Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
almost home
KIROKAZE
trying on a metaphor
blake kathryn
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
JBB: An Artblog!
we're not kids anymore.
AnasAbdin
Cosmic Funnies
One Nice Bug Per Day
h
dirt enthusiast
Jules of Nature
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
No title available
Janaina Medeiros
NASA
⁂
Discoholic 🪩
seen from Türkiye
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@danielgold-16
Alton and Good Boy are filming the hottest trailer yet for the new season of BroLife. More bros. More chaos. More gains. Don’t miss a single second, bro!
---
Wanna be part of BroLife? Think you can keep up with Alton and the boys? Step up and prove it.
Hit up our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Featuring: Good Boy @danielgold-16
Wakey, Wakey
Sun’s coming up but my good boy’s already dripping and ready. Woke his Alpha up the right way with that hungry grip and eager mouth, making sure I’m freshly squeezed. Good boys are allowed to show off themselves to the followers.
And good boys also get rewarded. Pinned against me, my tongue down his throat, my hands all over that pumped body and claimed while the whole city wakes up behind us and followers watch.
Good boys who serve first thing get shown off like the trophy they are. This view is mine… and so is he.
GOOD BOYS OBEY. YOU A GOOD BOY?
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Featuring: Good boy @danielgold-16
@alton-gold77 leading the hunt. Circa 35 854 BCE
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Feat. @polo-drone-070 & @polo-drone-767
Domination & Submission — Daily Prompt May 10
The stadium lights burned gold against the dark evening sky as the Golden Army gathered beneath the massive banners. Sweat glistened off sculpted bodies. Rubber reflected the floodlights in smooth, black waves. The entire arena pulsed with energy, discipline, and anticipation. PDU-090 stood perfectly still near the center tunnel, his shiny black polo stretched tight over his athletic body. Gold trim glinted along his chest and sleeves. The designation PDU-090 glowed under the stadium lights as his breathing remained calm and regulated. The evening prompt echoed through the Hive: Dominance. Submission. Control. Obedience. Some brothers craved the leash in their hands. Others craved the leash around their necks. And both roles strengthened the Golden Army.
Daniel-Gold-16 approached slowly from the locker room hallway, still wearing his glittering gold shorts from practice. His chest heaved heavily from practice, his muscles tight and exhausted. Yet his eyes locked instantly on 090's disciplined stance. The drone lowered its head instantly. Submission activated. "PDU-090 awaits instructions," it said calmly. Daniel smacked faintly as he circled the drone. His fingers brushed the polished rubber collar around 090's neck. The touch sent a visible shiver through the drone's body despite its rigid stance. Good. Obedience meant something. "Still learning your place, huh?" Daniel asked quietly. "Affirmative." The answer came without hesitation.
Around them, the Golden Bros laughed, bowed, and jostled each other playfully, while the Polo Drones remained lined up along the walls in perfect, silent rows. Some drones held strings attached to eager mascots and waterboys who knelt proudly at their feet. Others knelt beside the dominant Gold Bros, embracing the calm security of surrender. The entire stadium had been transformed into a living display of power exchange. Daniel tugged lightly on 090’s collar. The drone followed immediately. No resistance. No uncertainty. Only purpose. But deep beneath the conditioning, 090 felt another truth humming quietly through his system: If the Hive commanded it… If the Captains commanded it… 090 could dominate as effectively as it submitted. Because true Hive discipline meant adaptability. Control when commanded. Submission when required. Perfection in both.
Daniel led the drone onto the field as the sunset burned orange across the massive GOLDEN ARMY banners overhead. The crowd roared around them, the drones watching silently from the shadows like polished statues. "Good drone," Daniel whispered. The rose hit deep. 090 straightened up immediately and functioned optimally during the recognition. Tonight, submission was its role. Tomorrow? The Hive might demand dominance instead. And PDU-090 would obey both commands flawlessly. New recruits and future brothers can contact: @alton-gold#77 . @polo-drone-125 . The Golden Army is always expanding. The Hive is always watching. The cord is always waiting. #Goldentimejourney #Goldentimewarp #Golden1970 #GoldenArmy #GoldenBros #PoloDrone #PDU090 #RubberPolo #DroneHive #DominanceAndSubmission #ObeyTheHive #GoldenEnergy #Brotherhood #LatexGear #TeamGold #OneTeamEtPurpose #Submission #Dominance #Mindset #GoldForever
Studies have shown that meditation is 43.27% more effective when lying down with your legs slightly elevated.
The Golden Track of Victory
The sun rose over the ancient Greece sky like a god opening his eyes. Golden light spilled over the marble walls of the Golden Polis, turning every column, every training yard, every bronze statue into fire. The city had earned its name. It was called golden because everything there was built on excellence: discipline, beauty, strength, victory. And today, that name would be defended. The stadium itself looked less like architecture and more like a temple built for one religion only: Victory. Today, Sparta had come. Not for diplomacy. Not for admiration. For conquest.
Their athletes entered beneath crimson banners, broad-shouldered and silent, walking with that Spartan certainty that the world existed mainly to be subdued. Their reputation had arrived before them—men raised for war, trained for pain, taught that mercy was a weakness and losing a shame worse than death.
But this was not Sparta.
This was the Golden Polis.
Altonios already stood in the center of the stadion. Tall. Massive. Calm. Dark hair cut short and disciplined, jaw sharp as a blade, shoulders broad enough to make younger athletes stand straighter when he passed. His body looked like something sculptors lied about. His eyes were still and dangerous.
Beside him stood his brothers: Rainoros, Leandros, Coreyon, Cassianos, Shawnios, Treyon, and Wellios.
They were not simply teammates. They were a brotherhood.
Forged by years of training before sunrise. By blood on stone floors. By victories celebrated together and failures endured together. Every scar on one of them belonged a little to all of them. From the high terraces of the stadium, thousands watched as the athletes of Sparta arrived.
They came hard-faced and silent, wrapped in crimson loincloths, built like war itself. Their reputation walked ahead of them—merciless in battle, merciless in sport. They had not traveled to admire architecture.
They had come to take pride.
Rainoros rolled his shoulders and smirked. “Look at them. They walk like they already won.”
Treyon snorted. “That makes losing even funnier.”
Shawnios stretched his legs against a marble pillar. “I only hope mine talks too much first. Makes the jump sweeter.”
Wellios cracked his neck. “I hope mine talks after.”
Laughter. Even Altonios smiled.
Cassianos leaned casually on his spear. “The horse race first. Leandros gets us started.”
Leandros adjusted the straps on his racing tunic and gave one calm nod.
“No pressure then.”
Altonios folded his arms. “No pressure. Only destiny.”
That made them grin. Because that was the truth. In the Golden Polis, they did not speak about hope. They spoke about certainty.
Across the arena floor, one Spartan stood taller than the rest: Doros. Scar through one eyebrow. Thick arms. Calm eyes. Already wrapped for Pankration. He was watching Altonios.
Wellios followed the stare.
“There he is.”
Altonios said nothing. Treyon smiled faintly.
“He looks expensive to beat.”
Altonios finally answered. “Good.”
Cassianos raised an eyebrow. “You like him?”
Altonios rolled his neck. “No. I respect him.”
That quieted the circle. Because respect from Altonios was rare. He looked again at Doros.
“That means I will enjoy beating him.”
Now they laughed again. Good, balance restored.
Then the horn sounded. The first event.
Keles (Horse Race)
The stadium thundered as Leandros mounted his black stallion, a beast almost as proud as its rider. The horse pawed at the earth like it had personal grievances with gravity itself. Leandros sat calm in the saddle, posture effortless, like he had been born there.
As he passed the brothers, Altonios slapped the horse’s flank once.
“Bring us the first crown.”
Leandros grinned.
“Watch closely.”
The Spartan rider beside him looked confident—too confident. He leaned forward early, aggressive, trying to intimidate before the race even began. Leandros barely acknowledged him.
The horn sounded. They exploded forward.
Dust rose like war. Hooves pounded the earth. The crowd stood screaming as horses tore around the track. The Spartan took the early lead, riding too hard, too fast, trying to win the race in the first turn.
Leandros stayed patient. Always patient.
He let the man spend himself. Let the horse burn its fire too early. Halfway through the final curve, Leandros shifted.
Just once. The black stallion responded like lightning. He cut the inside line so tightly the crowd gasped. For one heartbeat horse and rider seemed to fly rather than run. Then he was past him.
Gone. The final stretch belonged to him alone. He crossed first by clear distance, raising one fist to the sky. The Golden Polis erupted.
Back beneath the stadium, Rainoros poured water over his head while Treyon pointed dramatically.
“He will never stop talking about this.”
Leandros sat like a king receiving tribute.
“As he should not.”
First crown. First message sent.
Diaulos (Double Run)
The Diaulos was brutal in its simplicity. Run fast. Turn. Run faster. No tricks. No excuses. Just lungs, legs, and the willingness to suffer.
Which made it perfect for Rainoros.
Before stepping onto the track, he looked at Altonios.
“If I lose, tell everyone I died heroically.”
“You won’t lose.”
“I know. I just want the poetry ready.”
The runners took position. The Spartan beside him was lean, sharp-eyed, built like speed itself. The kind of man who smiled before races because he thought fear was contagious.
Rainoros smiled back because confidence was contagious too.
The horn sounded. They launched.
The first stretch was pure violence. Sand kicked high behind them, feet striking rhythm into the earth. Rainoros stayed half a step behind—controlled, patient, refusing to panic.
At the turn, everything changed. He pivoted like a man escaping fate itself and drove forward. The Spartan pushed. Rainoros answered.
The final stretch looked like two men trying to outrun death. They crossed nearly together. Nearly. Rainoros won by less than half a stride.
He collapsed laughing in the sand while the stadium screamed his name. Treyon stood over him.
“Very heroic.”
Rainoros, gasping for air, raised a finger. “Write that down.”
Second crown.
Halma (Long Jump)
Strength made noise. Grace did not. That was why Shawnios unnerved people. He looked too relaxed for greatness.
While others paced and shouted, he stood barefoot in the sand, loose and smiling, rotating his shoulders like he had wandered into the wrong event by accident.
The Spartan jumper across from him was powerful and proud, famous for explosive distance.
Shawnios just shrugged. “Good. Makes this prettier.”
He stepped forward holding the jump weights, calm as still water. The run began. Measured. Smooth. Controlled. Then he launched.
Not jumped. Flew.
For a moment the entire stadium held its breath. His body moved like it had remembered something the rest of humanity forgot. Perfect extension. Perfect landing.
Sand exploded. Distance called. Silence. Then chaos.
Even the Spartans had to respect it. The mark stood untouched. Shawnios walked back like a man returning from buying bread.
Rainoros stared. “I hate how casual you are.”
Shawnios smiled. “It saves energy.”
Third crown.
Hoplitodromos (Armed Race)
This was not running. This was war with a finish line. Helmet. Shield. Bronze weight dragging against every step.
The Hoplitodromos was where athletes stopped pretending they were not soldiers. Coreyon loved it.
He strapped on the armor with the expression of a man being reunited with an old friend. The Spartan competitor across from him looked equally dangerous—thick-necked, scarred, and eager.
Before stepping out, Coreyon looked at the others. “If I collapse, carry me home gloriously.”
Treyon nodded. “We will sing lies about your bravery.”
The horn sounded. They charged. Bronze thunder.
Every stride sounded like battle itself. Shields flashed in the sun. Sweat turned to rivers immediately. Coreyon ran not like an athlete, but like a man storming a city gate.
The Spartan stayed close. Too close. Halfway through, their shields nearly collided. Neither yielded.
But in the final stretch, Coreyon found another gear—something ugly and magnificent. He lowered his head and drove through the pain like he intended to personally offend exhaustion.
He crossed first looking like Ares after a bad mood.
Cassianos slapped his armored shoulder. “You look terrible.”
Coreyon grinned. “That means it worked.”
Fourth crown.
Javelin Throw
Cassianos approached the spear like some men approached prayer.
With respect. With arrogance.
With the absolute certainty that the gods would enjoy watching. He rolled the weapon once in his palm, testing balance. The Spartan thrower beside him was older, experienced, confident enough to smirk.
Cassianos noticed.
“Good,” he said. “Confidence makes disappointment louder.”
Rainoros groaned. “He rehearses these.”
Cassianos ignored him.
The Spartan threw first. Strong. Clean. The spear cut the sky and landed far enough to make the crowd murmur approval. A real throw. A real challenge.
Cassianos stepped forward. The world slowed. One breath. One step. One violent release.
The spear left his hand like judgment. It flew farther than seemed polite, farther than the horizon had agreed to allow, and struck earth so deep it looked offended.
The crowd exploded.
Cassianos turned before it even landed. Never look back at destiny.
Treyon applauded slowly. “Insufferable. But impressive.”
Fifth crown.
Heavy Discus
Most men respected the ten-kilogram bronze discus.
Treyon insulted it.
The heavy bronze plate sat in the sun like a challenge from the gods themselves. Thick. Brutal. Unforgiving. Even lifting it wrong embarrassed lesser men.
Treyon walked toward it smiling.
The Spartan across from him was enormous and built like a quarry had learned to compete. He lifted the discus with both hands and threw first—a monstrous effort that sent it flying far enough for the crowd to roar.
A serious mark. A dangerous one.
Wellios folded his arms. “That’s good.”
Treyon nodded. “Yes. Now it will be satisfying.”
He lifted the bronze discus alone, muscles tightening across chest, shoulders, back—pure power under complete control. There was no strain on his face, only that calm grin.
He turned once. Twice. Then released.
The discus flew like a declaration of superiority.
It seemed to hang in the sky just to give everyone time to understand what they were witnessing before it landed well beyond the Spartan mark.
Silence. Then absolute madness.
Treyon raised both arms like a man accepting worship.
Rainoros shouted, “He’s going to be unbearable now!”
Treyon answered, “Now?”
Sixth crown.
Pygme (Boxing)
No one joked when Wellios wrapped his fists. The room changed. Pygme was honest violence. No poetry. No elegance. Just hands, timing, and the willingness to keep walking forward while another man tried to stop you.
Wellios respected that.
His Spartan opponent was famous—thick-jawed, undefeated in dozens of festivals, carrying himself like he had never apologized for anything in his life.
Perfect.
Before stepping into the sand, he looked at Altonios. “If he survives, I failed.”
Altonios folded his arms. “Be professional.”
“I am being professional.”
The fight started fast.
The Spartan came forward throwing hard, trying to establish fear early. Wellios let him. Let him spend confidence like coin.
Then he answered.
One jab. One hook.
One brutal body shot that changed the entire conversation.
The crowd felt it. So did the Spartan.
From there it became inevitable. Wellios broke rhythm first, then posture, then certainty. Every strike looked calm. Efficient. Mean. By the final exchange, the Spartan was fighting memory instead of strategy.
Wellios finished it clean.
Not wild. Not messy. Just final.
The man dropped to one knee and stayed there. The Golden Polis roared like a storm.
Treyon met him at the barrier. “You looked happy.”
Wellios shrugged. “I believe in doing what you love.”
Seventh crown. Seven victories. Seven statements.
And still. Everyone waited for the last one: Pankration. The final storm.
The servants prepared fresh sand in the central arena. Fresh earth. Fresh blood waiting. Altonios stood alone near the columns, wrapping his hands. The noise outside felt distant now. This was the quiet place before war.
Footsteps approached. He did not need to look. Wellios stood to his left. Treyon to his right. Then the rest.
No words at first. Just presence. That was enough. Finally, Cassianos spoke. “You know what I love most?”
Altonios kept wrapping. “Your humility?”
Cassianos smiled. “No. The fact that Sparta traveled all this way just to watch you ruin a man.”
Shawnios leaned against the wall. “Try not to make it too quick. We paid for good seats.”
Treyon nodded seriously. “Yes. Art takes time.”
Even Leandros smiled. Then Wellios stepped forward.
Different now. Less joking.
He placed one heavy hand on Altonios’ shoulder. “That man out there is real.”
Altonios nodded. “I know.”
“He is strong enough to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“He is strong enough to beat you.”
Silence. Then Altonios finally looked at him.
“No,” he said.
Not arrogance. Certainty. Wellios smiled.
“Good. That was the correct answer.”
Rainoros stepped in next. “If you get tired, remember we are louder than pain.”
Cassianos added, “If he hits you, hit him back harder. Ancient strategy.”
Treyon raised a finger. “Very advanced philosophy.”
Leandros folded his arms. “You carry all of us when you walk out there.”
Shawnios nodded. “But remember something.”
Altonios looked at him. “You are not fighting alone.”
That one stayed. Because it was true. That was always the truth. No man entered the arena alone if he had real brothers.
The horn sounded again. The final call.
Outside, the crowd was already rising. The city waiting. Sparta waiting. Doros waiting. Altonios stood. Every movement slow. Controlled. Like a lion standing because it has decided the world should remember fear.
He looked at his brothers, at his family, at the men who would kill for him and laugh while doing it. And he smiled. Not wide. Just enough.
“Let’s go teach Sparta what brotherhood looks like.”
Then he walked toward the light, toward the arena, toward Doros. Toward the hardest fight of his life. And the entire Golden Polis rose to its feet.
Pankration
Doros was enormous: Thick through the chest, brutal through the shoulders, arms like siege weapons. A pale scar cut through one eyebrow. His expression was calm—not arrogant, not angry.
That made him worse. Men who shouted were easy. Quiet men were storms. He stepped into the sand and stood opposite Altonios.
For a moment, neither moved. The entire stadium seemed to lean forward. Then Doros gave the smallest nod. Warrior to warrior. Respect. Altonios returned it. No hatred. No performance. Just truth. Then he smiled. Because respect and violence had never been enemies.
Above them, the magistrate raised his hand. The crowd fell into breathless silence.
“Pankration,” he declared, his voice echoing across marble and sky, “for the honor of Sparta and the glory of the Golden Polis.”
His arm dropped. “Begin.”
And the world exploded. Doros moved first. Fast, far too fast for a man that size. He closed distance like a charging bull, fist cutting through the air toward Altonios’ jaw.
Altonios slipped left, barely. The strike passed so close he felt the wind of it. He answered with a hook to the ribs.
Solid. Hard. Doros barely reacted. Good.
That meant this would be real. Another exchange. Fists. Forearms. Shoulders crashing like bronze gates. The sound of skin against bone echoed through the arena. No wasted motion. No panic. This was not wild brawling. This was educated violence. Doros attacked like Sparta itself—direct, ruthless, no ornament.
Altonios fought like the Golden Polis—precision inside brutality, beauty inside force. A knee from Doros. Blocked. Elbow from Altonios. Connected. A takedown attempt. Countered. They separatedm, circled, sweat already running, sand sticking to skin. The crowd screaming with every impact. From the athletes’ section, Wellios was already on his feet.
“Break him, brother!”
Rainoros slammed both fists against the stone barrier. “Move your feet, golden bull!”
Treyon shouted like a drunk philosopher. “If he still has teeth, you are being too polite!”
Back in the sand, Doros lunged low, driving into Altonios’ center like a battering ram. They crashed to the ground. Gasps from the crowd. Now came the ugly part. The beautiful ugly part. Grappling. Weight. Pressure. The kind of struggle where strength was not enough and pride became physical. Doros tried to trap the arm. Altonios twisted, rolled, drove a forearm across his throat.
Doros answered by nearly folding him in half. Neither man gave an inch. They were too evenly matched. Too stubborn. Too proud. Sand flew. Bodies strained. Muscles trembled under impossible force. And still—nothing.
Finally they broke apart, both rising fast, both breathing heavier now.
Altonios wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. Doros looked at it and gave the faintest smile.
“Better,” he said.
His voice was deep, rough. Altonios grinned. “You were worried I’d be boring?”
Doros rolled his shoulders. “I was hoping.”
Then he hit him. A right hand like divine punishment. The impact snapped Altonios sideways and sent the crowd into chaos. Rainoros shouted something extremely unpoetic. Cassianos looked ready to personally invade Sparta.
For one second, the world rang. For one second, the sand tilted. For one second, Altonios remembered exactly how human he was. Doros came forward to finish. Mistake. Because pain did not weaken Altonios. Pain introduced him.
He planted his feet. Stepped in.
And drove his shoulder straight into Doros’ chest with enough force to send both of them crashing backward.
Now Altonios was on top. Forearm. Punch. Body shot. Pressure. The Golden Polis erupted. That was their golden bull. Doros twisted, escaped, reversed.
Again. Again. Again.
Time stopped meaning anything. There was only impact. Only resistance. Only will. At some point, both men stopped looking like athletes and started looking like old myths.
Covered in sand. Covered in sweat. Covered in blood. Still standing. Still refusing.
Even the Spartans were shouting now. Because greatness belongs to whoever witnesses it. And this—this was greatness.
From the sidelines, Leandros leaned forward and said quietly, almost to himself, “They are trying to prove something to the gods.”
Wellios answered without looking away. “No. They are reminding them.”
Late sunlight now burned lower across the arena. The match had gone longer than anyone expected. Longer than most men could survive. Doros drove a knee into Altonios’ side. Altonios answered with an elbow that split Doros’ lip.
Both staggered back. Both exhausted. Both dangerous.
Doros spat blood into the sand. Then he spoke. “You are stronger than they said.”
Altonios breathed hard, chest rising like war itself. “They said the same thing about you.”
Doros nodded once. “Good.”
Then they charged again. No technique now. Only heart. Only refusal. Two giants. Two cities. Two philosophies. Colliding until one would finally break. Doros locked onto him, trying to force him down.Altonios felt the pressure. Felt the fatigue. Felt the body asking for mercy. And somewhere above the noise—he heard his brothers. Not words. Just them. Their voices. Their faith. Every training morning, every brutal session, every joke, every fight, every hand on his shoulder, every “I’ve got you.”
That was strength too. Maybe the greatest kind. Brotherhood was a weapon. And Altonios had never entered battle unarmed.
He roared, not for drama, for power, for release, for them.
And with one final violent turn of hips and shoulders, he broke Doros’ balance. Shift. Collapse. Impact. The entire arena rose. Altonios locked the hold. Perfect. Tight. Final.
Doros fought it. Of course he did. He was Sparta.
But even Sparta bends eventually. Seconds stretched. Then—three strikes against the sand.
Submission. Finished.
For one heartbeat, there was silence. The kind of silence only born from disbelief. Then the Golden Polis exploded.
The sound was not cheering. It was an earthquake. People screaming. Men lifting children into the air. Wine thrown. Pride made physical.
Rainoros vaulted the barrier first. Probably illegally, definitely beautifully. Then the others. They flooded the arena like victorious lunatics.
Wellios grabbed Altonios first, nearly crushing his ribs. “You magnificent bastard!”
Treyon was shouting something no philosopher would approve of. Cassianos pointed dramatically at the heavens.
“WRITE THIS DOWN, ZEUS!”
Shawnios was laughing so hard he could barely stand. Leandros simply embraced him once, hard. Quiet, meaningful.
Coreyon grinned. “I told you he’d win.”
Rainoros shoved him. “No, I told you.”
“You said he might die heroically.”
“That was strategy.”
Even Altonios laughed then, exhausted, half-broken, victorious.
Behind them, Doros rose slowly.
The brothers quieted. He walked forward. Face bloodied. Proud. Unbroken.
He stopped in front of Altonios. Then extended his hand.
No shame. Only honor.
Altonios took it. Doros nodded. “Today, you were better.”
Altonios answered honestly. “Today, only barely.”
Doros gave a small smile. “The best victories usually are.”
Then he turned and walked back toward Sparta, and even the Golden Polis gave him applause.
Because true warriors know: You honor the man who almost made you lose.
That night, the city celebrated like the gods had moved in. Wine, music, torches. Stories already growing larger with every retelling. But Altonios wanted quiet.
Victory was loud. Recovery was sacred.
In the private bath chambers of the athletes, the world softened. Warm stone. Bronze oil lamps. The smell of olive oil, herbs, and heat rising from marble.
Altonios sat on a polished stone bench, wearing only a simple linen cloth around his waist, body marked by battle—bruises rising dark across ribs and shoulders, cuts cleaned, muscles still heavy from combat.
Two young attendants approached with practiced calm, carrying bronze vessels of warm oil. Neither spoke much. They did not need to. This was ritual.
One stood behind him, strong hands working slowly into his shoulders, pressing deep into the knots left by Pankration, thumbs tracing the punishment out of muscle.
The other knelt before him, rubbing warm olive oil across his legs, over thighs, calves, the hard lines of an athlete’s body built for war and victory.
Every movement deliberate. Professional. Ancient. Necessary. Altonios exhaled slowly. Now the pain arrived. Now that the battle was over, the body collected its debt. The attendants worked in silence, respectful and steady.
Oil across chest. Across arms. Across the powerful back and shoulders. Then came the strigil—the curved bronze scraper.
Slowly, carefully, they drew the oil from his skin, along with dust, sweat, blood, and the remains of battle itself. A cleansing. A return. From warrior to man again.
Behind him, one attendant smiled softly. “You fought like Heracles today.”
Altonios gave a tired smirk. “Heracles probably complained less.”
The other laughed quietly. “No. I think probably more.”
That made him grin. At last, the worst of the tension left him. The stadium noise was gone. The war was gone. Only warmth remained. And peace.
Altonios stood, towering again even in exhaustion, and looked at the two attendants who had helped return him to himself.
There was still oil on their hands. Still work left. His smile turned slower now. More dangerous.
More amused, he took the linen cloth and set it aside. Then he looked at them both and said, “Let us find a more private place,… so you can take care of the rest.”
And with that, the champion of the Golden Polis walked deeper into the golden night.
---
Wanna join the golden brotherhood? Then hit up our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Featuring: @leander-gold-88, @rainer-gold-56, @shawn-gold22, @corey-gold14, @cassiangold32, @hero21us, @wells-gold58
Protecting @alton-gold77
But who holds the power: The throne or the trident?
Tea with sugar and milk is served, @serve-425
Sharks
Decades of Hollywood stunts have left Sharkie in bad shape but studios won't let him retire.
So when he got drafted for Sharknado 28, he started fighting Executives.
Though sympathetic, Daniel and Fenrir had to intervene.
Connected
Included in this piece: @danielgold-16.
-----------------------
Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Check your eligibility, then contact a recruiter drone for more details: @serve-302, @serve-343, @serve-425, @serve-525, @serve-579, @serve-588, @serve-690 or @serve-714.
Happy Leather Day!
Follow me in the dark alley...
Summoned
A folded tract sat wedged under the door. Daniel paused. Not cautious—never that—but irritated. He crouched, picked it up between two fingers like it might be damp or cursed or both, and straightened again.
He stepped inside his quarters and stood by the fireplace, amber light dancing across the walls. He open the tract. The message was printed in thick, even black ink:
016 Belongs to the Hive. Return.
Daniel stared at it as a long beat passed. His brow twitched. He turned the page over as if expecting more. There was nothing. No signature. It could have been left by any of the PDUs.
Earlier today, he had faced @polo-drone-073 in court. He had no clue how the next days or weeks would unfold, but he knew the Hive would not give up.
The fire cracked and Daniel didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and flicked the tract into the flames. The paper curled almost instantly, blackening at the edges, ink bubbling as the words twisted and shrank.
He watched until nothing remained but a brief flare and a curl of ash drifting upward. Tired, ready to head to the hot tub, he started removing his jersey.
“Better,” he muttered, more to himself than anything else.
------------------------- mentionned: @polo-drone-073 ------------------------- “Ready to join the Team? All you need to do is contact our recruiters @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125”
@alton-gold77 & Daniel
Drops and Sheen
The Polo-Drone Centre was not supposed to make noise, that was the first thing Daniel noticed.
Not the locked doors he wasn’t meant to bypass. Not the dead-white lights that flickered like something breathing behind them. Not the alarms which didn’t go off. Not even the cold—too cold for a building that pulsed with machinery. It was the low sound. It was neither mechanical, nor electrical. As odd as it seems, Daniel swore he could hear voices. Daniel stood just inside the threshold, the door sealing behind him with a soft, final hiss. His reflection shimmered briefly in the polished black walls—gold shirt catching the light, “Knights 16” gleaming—before the surface swallowed it. He shouldn’t be here. Desynchronized. The word echoed in his mind like a verdict: Disconnected from the Hive. Unstable. Unauthorized. He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening. “I just need to see it,” he muttered.
The corridor stretched ahead—sleek, black, endless. No guards. No drones. Just that whispering. He took a step and the voices shifted. Not louder… closer, as if someone or something stood behind him. By the time Daniel reached the elevator shaft, the whispers had begun to form shapes in his mind. Not words—no, not quite. More like intent, recognition. He was known. The elevator doors slid open without being called. Inside, the mirrored interior flickered—not showing him as he was, but as… something else. His reflection lagged half a second behind.
Daniel swallowed, saying “Level 2”. The elevator didn’t move. Instead, the lights dimmed… and the voices surged. Daniel… He froze. That was a word. His name. The elevator dropped but the descent was wrong. Too fast. Too long. The digital display flickered through numbers that didn’t exist—L3, L7, L∞—before settling, abruptly, on: LEVEL 2 The doors opened to darkness. Black, thick, almost liquid. Daniel stepped out and immediately, the air clung to his skin. The walls… moved. He blinked. No, they were not moving, they were… breathing. The corridor ahead led to the conversion room. He knew the layout but it felt… stretched. Distorted. Like the building had grown in his absence. The voices were clearer now. Layered. Dozens. Hundreds. All whispering in perfect synchronization - Return. The Level 2 conversion room doors stood open. That alone should have made him run, but Gold didn’t flee. Gold fought back. Inside, suspended in the center of the chamber, was his suit. Glossy. Black. Perfect. It hung from unseen supports, rotating slowly, as if waiting. As if it had always been waiting. Daniel stepped inside and the doors shut behind him. Locked. The voices stopped. Daniel was swallowed in a sea of silence, then he heard a single drip falling.
He looked down. Another black droplet hit the floor. Then another. The walls, the ceiling were… leaking. Not water. Not oil. Something thicker. Darker. Reflective. It slid down the surfaces in slow, deliberate rivulets. Daniel backed up. “No—no, this isn’t right—” The first drop hit his shoulder. His skin froze under the Gold jersey. A second later, his skin was on fire. Then he didn’t feel anything. It spread instantly, soaking into the gold fabric of his shirt. The shine dulled where it touched, the material tightening, constricting.
He clawed at it without result. More drops fell on his arms, his neck, his chest. The walls were weeping now—black streams pouring down, pooling around his feet. The voices returned. They no longer whispered. A chorus. Synchronize. Daniel gasped as the substance crawled up his skin, slipping beneath the fabric. His shirt tightened further. Where the substance crawled, the gold sheen melted away in patches, eaten by the black substance that slid across his body like a living thing.
“STOP—!” he shouted, stumbling toward the suspended suit.
It moved, just slightly, turning toward him slowly. The black fluid surged upward from the floor, wrapping around his legs. It burned. Not like fire—like pressure. Like something forcing itself into him. His veins lit up beneath his skin—dark lines branching, pulsing. He screamed, falling to the ground in agony.
Daniel’s body arched as the Level 2 suit fused with him slowly, his skin being devoured by the glossy black surface. His arms snapped to his sides, fingers twitching for half a millisecond before they stiffened. The gold shirt was gone now. Nothing left but fragments dissolving into the black. His chest tightened—letters vanishing as if they had never existed. Knights - Gone. 16 - Gone. His reflection in the far wall stared back, smiling, his ember eyes burning bright in the darkness.
---------- Daniel woke up with a chill. The sheet was damp with sweat and his torso, covered in a golden sheen glistened under the moonbeam entering through the window of his bedroom.
He checked his fingers, his hands, his arms. Normal. Daniel exhaled, relieved to see his skin still glowing with a Golden hue. The nightmare had felt so real he could still feel the pain and his skin, sweaty, was covered in goosebumps.
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“Do you want to find out more about the Golden Army or the PDU-Hive? Contact our recruiters: @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166, @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125”
Match Against The Red Coach’s Crimson Frost Giant Pups - 2
First Quarter
The Coin Toss
The Golden Football Stadium stood radiant—floodlights blazing against the night sky, reflecting off polished gold uniforms and the darker, pulsing red forms across the field. The air was electric, but not chaotic.
It was structured tension. Controlled anticipation.
At midfield, Captain Brody (@brodygold) approached the Red Coach.
Brody stepped forward for Gold—calm, composed, and authority in every movement. Across from him, the Red Coach stood still, eyes locked, something deeper flickering beneath his surface. A menacing grin on his face.
The referee raised the coin.
A pause.
A breath.
Flip.
The coin spun—metal flashing under stadium lights—then dropped into the referee’s palm.
“Gold calls.”
Brody’s voice was firm.
“Heads.”
Reveal.
Heads.
Gold won.
Brody didn’t hesitate.
“Receive.”
Opening Kickoff
Red Pup Drone #9 approached the ball for Red.
Measured steps. Controlled power.
The kick launched—deep, spiraling toward the end zone.
C.C. tracked it.
Clean catch at the goal line.
He surged forward—accelerating through the first wave. A cut left—then right—but Red’s coverage collapsed fast.
Tackle at the 22-yard line.
Gold offense deployed, lining up in a balanced set—Alton (@alton-gold77) tight to the line, three receivers spread just enough to stretch the defense.
Drive 1— Gold
The game was ready to begin. Gold against red—order versus corruption.
Christian (#55 @polo-drone-055) snapped the ball. Clean. Perfect.
Brody received it instantly, stepping back into a pocket that formed with mechanical precision. Maximus (#70 @polo-drone-070) anchored the left side against Red Pup #72. Wells (#58 @wells-gold58) and Briar (#50 @polo-drone-050) locked down the interior against the powerful pup drone #95. Hans (#69 @polo-drone-069) followed their lead without deviation. The offensive line moved like a single organism—tight, responsive, unified.
Pressure attempted to form.
It failed.
Alton (#7) surged forward, engaging a defender with raw force. The collision echoed—pads cracking, muscles flexing. He held the line, then slipped free, pivoting into a short route.
Brody scanned left and released.
The ball cut clean through the air—tight spiral, controlled velocity.
Alton caught the pass, making a solid advance for 6 yards.
On the next play, Grayden (#84 @polo-drone-084) shifted. A smooth route. Perfect timing. Brody trusted him without hesitation. The connection was immediate— The first play was a strong catch to put Gold in first down range.
Gold lined up for a shotgun formation.
Franco (#42 @franco-gold94) lined up offset right.
Snap.
Play-action fake; as the linebackers focused too heavily on Franco, Grayden exploded off the line.
Brody reset his feet—hips aligned—released.
The ball cut through the middle seam.
Grayden caught it in stride between zones, immediately bracing as pup drone #97 closed in.
Contact.
Grayden held. A solid gain of 14 yards. First down.
Franco tested a run. Fast. Adaptable. But the defense held tighter than expected. Minimal gain.
Brody adjusted.
Inside handoff.
Franco took the ball, darting left behind Wells.
Wells sealed the linebacker outward. A lane opened briefly.
Franco slipped through—but pup drone #62 closed the gap. A small gain of 3 yards.
The drive advanced steadily until Gold was inside the 30-yard line. At that point, Red tightened. Pressure increased.
The Red Coach’s defense compressed space, forcing Gold into calculated restraint.
Brody attempted a mid-level throw to Alton—deflected at the line by pup drone #68.
3rd down failed. Gold would have to settle for a field goal.
Daniel (#16 @danielgold-16) stepped forward.
The kick was clean as it sailed through the uprights.
Gold 3 — Red 0
Drive 1 — Red
Red Pup #18 took position. Even as a red rubber pup drone, the posture of the drone exhibited confidence and control.
The red offense moved differently. Less cohesion. More aggression. A distorted unity.
The snap.
Immediate pressure.
Kasper (#90 @pdu-090) broke through first—fast, silent, efficient. He didn’t hesitate. He forced Anders to shift early, collapsing the timing.
On the next play, after the snap.
Immediate read—handoff to pup drone #34.
Red #34 burst through the right side—low center of gravity, explosive acceleration.
But—
Shawn (#22 @shawn-gold22) read it instantly.
He shot the gap between #56 and #65, wrapping #34 at the hips.
Textbook tackle. +2 yards only.
Play-Action
Pup drone #18 rolled right.
Kasper exploded off the edge, beating Red #74 with a swim move.
Pressure forced a rushed deep throw. Target: #89.
Nate (#2 @polo-drone-166) stayed tight—hip-to-hip, eyes locked, as he covered the receiver.
Incomplete.
Red attempted to stretch the field.
Xavier (#39 @polo-drone-039) denied it.
Brock (#46 @brockgold) closed the secondary gap.
The coverage sealed tight—no openings, no weak points. Nate maintained external containment, forcing Red #18 inward where pressure intensified.
Red was stalled around the 22 yard line. Gold’s defense was shining bright as Shawn, Trevor (@polo-drone-125), Kasper, Brock, Xavier, and Devon (@polo-drone-767) all did their part to ensure the CFG couldn’t get a touchdown, keeping consistent pressure.
The Red Crimson Frost Giants tried for a long pass on a 3rd and 13, a flashy play from the Red Coach. Not anticipating a blitz from Gold where Trevor #52 was able to both break through and sack pup drone #18 for a major loss of yards.
Gold was surprised as the Red set up a kick formation at the 30 yard line instead of a punt. They were going for a long field goal. Aksel and Henrik did try to tell them to be prepared for something like this.
Red Pup Drone #9 lined up perfectly launching the ball. And it was good.
Gold 3 — Red 3
Drive 2 — Gold
Brody opened the drive steady with a pass to Alton for 5 yards and a short running play with Franco for 2 yards. It was now 3rd and 3.
The tempo shifted instantly as Gabe (#19 @polo-drone-075) stepped in for Brody. The formation changed with him. The line widened. Grayden split further out. Nils (#34 @polo-drone-034) drifted into the slot.
Space opened across the field.
On Gabe’s first play,
No huddle.
Snap.
Fake screen left.
Defense froze.
Quick pivot—pass to Alton on hook route. A gain of 9 yards. First down.
Gabe moved with fluid adaptability, reading formations in real time. He faked a handoff—Franco surged as a decoy—then released a quick pass to Alton.
Gabe’s strong ability to adapt along with Wells and Christian’s strong defensive stances on the offensive line continued to allow openings for Franco, Nils, Alton, and Rainer (@rainer-gold-56) to advance the Golden Army further and further nearing the red zone.
Gold called a time-out. Gabe called the team into a huddle explaining his plan. This drive should get them the lead for sure.
As the time-out concluded, Gold spread the field wide—four receiving threats stretching Red’s coverage to its limits.
Grayden split wide left.
Snap.
Gabe took a five-step drop—eyes scanning deep.
Grayden ran a post route—cutting sharply inside at 18 yards.
The safety hesitated.
That was enough.
Gabe launched.
The ball arced perfectly—tight spiral cutting through the air.
Grayden adjusted mid-run, syncing his pace to the trajectory. His body moved like it had already calculated the outcome before the throw was released.
CATCH.
No defender within reach.
He crossed the goal line untouched.
TOUCHDOWN.
The stadium erupted—but Gold remained focused. No loss of control.
Gold 9 — Red 3
Daniel stepped up for the extra point.
The kick launched.
Deviation.
Slight. Subtle. Unnatural.
The ball curved wide to the left.
Missed.
A flicker passed through the field—barely perceptible. A disturbance. Something deeper than error.
As Gold looked at Daniel they could sense that Fenrir’s influence was what caused the wide kick. Fenrir sensed something not even the other Golden Gods could sense.
Drive 2 — Red
The red pup quarterback returned with force.
1st Play
Dropback.
Kasper engaged the tackle—then disengaged instantly with a rip move.
He closed the distance in seconds.
He slipped through a defensive gap before the offensive line fully reacted. His movement was surgical—target locked.
Impact.
Sack.
Kasper drove him down hard. The force drove pup drone #18 backward into the turf.
The ball shifted loose—but #18 recovered.
The Red Coach stood on the sidelines, visibly angered by his team getting sacked twice in just the first quarter. He would need to adjust.
The next play was a quick pass attempt, but Trevor pushed the pocket inward—forcing a rushed throw. The ball sailed high. Incomplete.
It was 3rd and long now. Red tried for a crossing route, but Nate, Devon, and Xavier had coverage locked down.
The receiver had no window.
The pup who used to be Anders (#18) hesitated.
Pressure collapsed again.
Throwaway.
Red was forced to punt. Nils was able to get a solid punt return.
Drive 3 — Gold
Brody returned.
The formation tightened again and the tempo began to slow to a controlled and deliberate pace.
Franco attempted another run. Limited gain. The defense adapted.
Short passes resumed.
Alton.
Nils.
Each reception was clean, efficient, incremental.
The drive lacked explosive force but maintained control.
Eventually around midfield Gold was stalled. Brody attempted to make a throw to Grayden to get the first down, but Red had him covered. Brody threw away, leaving Gold to need to punt with only seconds left in the quarter.
Jibril stepped forward. Ready to deliver a strong punt.
The snap reached him cleanly. He planted, swung.
The punt launched deep—high arc, extended distance. Controlled power.
The ball descended deep into Red territory.
Field position secured. Red took the knee and the whistle blew signalling the end of the first quarter.
End of Quarter One
The field stabilized.
Gold held control.
Not dominance—yet—but structure. Discipline. Intentional execution.
Every play served a purpose. The offensive line showed dominant cohesion.
The defense remained intact and suffocating, led by Kasper’s pressure. Shawn provided stability while Xavier held the deep field and Devon executed flawlessly.
Yet one thing remained on Gold’s mind. Daniel’s missed extra point. Daniel held his head on the sideline, Fenrir was trying to issue a warning. Something or someone was coming.
Across the field, the Crimson Frost Giants shifted. Red corruption pulsed faintly beneath their uniforms—subtle, invasive, patient. The Red Coach who had been showing signs of distress minutes ago suddenly looked calm as he began speaking to his pup drones about their plans for the second quarter.
Score: Gold 9 — Red 3
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To join the Golden Team and takes part in such challenges, contact one of our recruiters @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166, @alton-gold77, or @polo-drone-125
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Want to follow along or catch up with "The Red" storyline/saga check of the Red Index here: The Red Index
The Red storyline is a collaboration with SERVE and additional collaborations have occurred recently. The two groups have a connected past, but are no longer connected. Please do not ask Golden Army recruiters how to join SERVE or SERVE recruiters how to join the Golden Army.
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Acknowledgments : Outline by Grayden (@polo-drone-084) and Maximus (@polo-drone-070). Text by Grayden. Pictures by Maximus.
