Elias bin Ezan Gold

Defender #20 for the Golden Team. also known as Elijah or Eli. Biological son and heir to PDU-001, Freyr, Percival, and Emir Ezan @PDU-001

[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:

@hypnogold Richard Gold- Captain 1

@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

@josh-fight930 Sean Gold- Office Assistant and Liaison

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

Others in Management:

@danielgold-16

@polo-drone-105

@polo-drone-110

[chavdrone]

[vesper-hypno-bat]

Go on :D

[eliasgold20]

Let's go gold bros

[polo-drone-001]

SEED. SWEAT. SNOOZE.

#GoldDay | Ezan the Emir’s Daily Grind

🕔 4:55 A.M. – Prince Problems Before Dawn

Before the sun even peeks up, I’m already by my boy’s bed. Nah, not “boy” like back in Percival’s days. Things changed. He asked to carry my SEED, asked from the heart. So, Freyr blessed him. Our Elias. Our son now. Mine. Ours. The Prince.

He’s huge, tall, beefy, a full-grown Arab stallion, but acts like he’s five in the morning. Wrapped around that stuffed stag he calls Mr. Stag, pulling the sheets tighter, whining like:

“Baba, not yet. Mr. Stag says no prayer without pancakes…”

I chuckle, brush the curls off his forehead, and kiss it.

“Time for fajr, ya habibi.”

Elias groans. But he obeys. Always does, for his father.

🕡 6:30 A.M. – Butlers, Buns, and Lost Jocks

Downstairs, Maksoud’s already on it. That’s Maximus now, Arabized, shaved, sharp. He bows and says,

“Good morning, Sayyid.”

Smooth as fresh cardamom. Amir’s brewing the dark roast, Namir’s got towels folded like a five-star spa, and I swear someone’s already lost another jockstrap...

We feast. Dates, eggs, meat, mana’eesh. Nothing fancy, just golden good. My son still yawns between bites, curls clinging to his forehead.

🏋️ 9:00 A.M. – Golden Arabs Only Gym

We hit the gym. I sweat. So much sweat. I seed the benches. You know what I mean. Basit and Jabir roll in all pumped. Rami cracks jokes. Ghazi sniffs himself and flexes. Raheem drops his bag and already smells like victory.

Then my brother Hamza arrives. Another Emir. Golden eyes. Grin like thunder. We bump chests like bulls and get to work.

Deadlifts. Presses. Pecs out.

“Bro, I’m leaking SEED,” I laugh.

By 10:15? That gym ain’t public no more. Civvies walk in… stop… breathe us in… and just start following Hamza’s form like it’s a holy text. Golden Arabs don’t try. We are. They convert themselves.

🍖 18:00 P.M. – Home Again. Family Vibes.

We feast again. Music’s on. Elias snorts at a meme Amir shows him. My son’s glowing, golden and proud.

By bath time, we’re quiet. Oils, steam, towels, silence. My muscles ache. My soul doesn’t.

📖 23:30 P.M. – Bedtime with My Prince

I sit by his bed, cream robe loose, gold trims soft in the moonlight. Elias mumbles about Mr. Stag needing a new belt. I laugh.

“Once upon a time,” I begin, “there was a golden stag who guarded a prince so strong…”

He’s out before the stag finds his crown.

I tuck him in. Kiss his forehead again. Whisper:

“You’re my SEED, my son, my joy.”

Lights out. Another golden day.

🌟 Wanna live GOLD like this? Join the brotherhood. Wake up to purpose. Train with your bros. Serve, shine, and SEED.

Contact our Recruiters to get started: 👉 @brodygold 👉 @goldenherc9 👉 @polo-drone-001 👉 @polo-drone-125

🔖 Featured Bros: @eliasgold20 @polo-drone-070 @polo-drone-073 @polo-drone-039 @roman-golden-68 @rileygold60 @ghazi-gold-23

[eliasgold20]

Incredible story baba, and a great showcase of our life 💛💚

[eliasgold20]

How about becoming a good diapered urinal drone for Ezan

Hey bro, hmu and we will talk it out

[eliasgold20]

I don't speak.

I dont need to.

One glance into these spiraled eyes—gold and cream, churning like fate itself—and you know.

The stags mark me: jacket, trousers, cap. Each gold sigil a seal of belonging. Of ownership. Of dominion.

He sits back. Legs crossed. Smoke rising like a ritual offering. That grin? It isn’t charm.

It’s control.

You’re already leaning closer.

Already forgetting what you were before.

You want to look nice, in GOLD suits, vests and loafers. Want to throw yourself into the team. Into your with.

Don’t resist. You’re not supposed to.

Obey the stag. Spiral deeper. Become gold.

To embrace the gold and get lost in your new self, message our recruiters @polo-drone-001 @brodygold @goldenherc9

[franco-gold94]

Nighttime Contemplation

Franco and Meno sat under the open, dark sky, watching the bonfire burn brightly into the night. They stared into the flames, words unspoken between them.

It was a beautiful, warm summer night, and the stars twinkled across the vast sky. The glowing ashes rose high with the smoke, drifting into the endless expanse above.

“Meno bro” Franco finally spoke, breaking the silence. “I’m really happy, that you are here. We’re having a really nice night, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, Franco.” Meno answered.

Another silence fell between them, comfortable and easy. Then Franco spoke again.

“Meno bro. You know, I’m truly lucky to be a part of the Golden Army. Do you agree?”

“Couldn’t said it better myself” agreed Meno. Franco nodded thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the fire.

Silence.

“What do you think, why is the Golden Army so special?” asked Franco again.

Meno thought after that.

“Well, this is a tough question. We both know, the Golden Army is truly unique. But the question is, why…”

They looked up at the sky in thought.

“I think, the Golden Army is a creative community which likes to be shown, but behind the golden gleam and the polished rubber is a team of great members and countless dedicated bro who want to do something for the good and greatness of the team.” Meno said.

“For me,” Franco started in a quiet, dreamy voice „the Golden Army whispers from secrets of the past, untold lore and stories from forbidden knowledge.”

“Forbidden knowledge?”

“Yes. It is forbidden for outsiders.” Franco lay back on the grass, starring into the endless sky and its flickering stars.

“You know, Meno bro, when I joined the Golden Army, I didn’t know anything about the wonders I would experience. Like a closed door, locked tight. But the team made me who I am today.” Franco fell silent.

“What is the Golden Army for you?” Meno asked.

“The Golden Army is for me home.” Franco said without hesitation. “The place, where I belong.”

“I think, many of our bros would agree with you, Franco. What do you think, what is the secret? What is the essence, that makes us us? The forbidden truth in our success?” Meno asked.

Franco sat up slightly, his expression soft. “I could only give you empty words, Meno bro.” Franco answered. “Except these aren't. Because these are the truth. The Golden Army is built on loyalty, brotherhood and mutual support. The bricks are the members, and the cement is togetherness and camaraderie. Together we form the magnificent structure of the Golden Army.” Franco said this as a revelation. His words left no room for doubt.

“I feel you bro.” Meno said, nodding slowly.

And they gazed up into the endless sky. Silently, in agreement, storing the forbidden knowledge deep in their minds.

----

A truly unique group. Why not knock on the closed door? Contact our recruiters: @brodygold, @goldenherc9, @polo-drone-001, @polo-drone-125

----

Special thanks to @meno-gold-37 for joining this story.

[eliasgold20]

The Love of a Father

The golden bond flows strongest through blood.

From the Emir Ezan, the Pillar—disciplined, unyielding, proud—

To Elias, his son—refined, obedient, elite.

As it is Father’s Day in the United States let us honor one of the Golden Teams most honorable leaders. The one who gave creation and raised the future defender of the line.

Who taught Elias posture, perfection, precision, spiritual realization, personal discipline. The one who saw the commitment and beauty in Elias and used his powers to make him his biological heir.

Emir molded the boy with fire and order.

Elias shines now in gold because Emir chose discipline.

Elias obeys because Emir demanded it.

Elias *is* because Emir *was*.

Today we do not merely celebrate a father.

We salute the forge where the armor was cast.

Happy Father’s Day, Father Emir.

Your legacy guards the Army’s flank.

🛡️ Gold flows from the bloodline. Obedience begins at home. 🛡️

To understand the beauty of the GOLD and become a better version of yourself, message one of our recruiters @polo-drone-001 @goldenherc9 @brodygold .

[polo-drone-070]

Temple of the Laughing God

(to my Master Freyr @polo-drone-001)

The jungle wrapped around Mack like a steamy gym towel, hot and tight and full of buzzing energy he didn’t really get. His thick arms glistened with sweat, his black and gold compression shirt sticking to every flex of his dumb-jock bulk as he shoved his way through vines, branches, and whatever bugs he couldn’t be bothered to notice. His boots stomped loud in the mud, broad chest puffed out, pecs bouncing with each step like they had their own rhythm.

“Dunno why I’m here,” he mumbled, licking sweat off his upper lip, “but Cap said ‘go south, stomp through trees, don’t think too hard,’ so… guess that’s what I’m doin’.”

He wasn’t thinking. Never needed to. That wasn’t his job. His job was to be big, to be obedient, to look good in gold and follow instructions like a good drone-bro. Mack wasn’t some brainy strategist—he was muscle, molded and trained to serve Freyr without question.

The black and gold crest on his chest pulsed faintly, like it knew something he didn’t.

That was fine.

Thinking made his head hurt anyway.

It was hours—maybe more—before he stumbled into a clearing, vines parting as if the jungle itself wanted him to pass. And there it was. A temple. Half-swallowed by moss, draped in bright red flowers, stone cracked but still standing like it had been waiting for him all this time.

He blinked at it.

“Yo… sick,” he said with a dumb grin, flexing instinctively. “Bet there’s a sick gym in there or somethin’.”

And without hesitation—without question—Mack marched forward, muscles rippling, boots crunching ancient stone, unaware of the divine game already underway.

He had no idea what the place was. No clue about the god that once ruled it. No understanding of the sacred forces humming in the vines or the murals or the jungle mist curling around his calves.

But none of that mattered.

He was golden.

He was Freyr’s.

And that made him exactly the pawn his god needed.

******

Inside the temple, the air shifted.

Not colder. Not darker. Just… heavier. Like the walls were breathing. Like the floor was waiting.

Mack sniffed the air. Sweet. Floral. Too sweet. Like some kind of golden cologne laced with something extra. His thick brows furrowed for a moment—but then his expression went slack again, the question melting before it fully formed.

“Mmm… smells nice,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck, pecs bouncing slightly from the motion. “Kinda like that new Gold pre-workout...”

The vines welcomed him.

Slid over his calves.

Slithered up his thighs.

They didn’t bind—they admired. Worshipped. Draped around his waist and brushed across the solid swell of his glutes as if appraising him, accepting him. The further in he walked, the more golden he felt. Not in spirit. Not in soul. Physically. Like something deep under his skin was starting to hum—hot, low, sensual.

He didn’t notice the carvings.

Didn’t recognize the masks laughing at him from the walls.

Didn’t realize the temple knew him.

It didn’t need to.

Because he was already exactly what it wanted.

A beautiful, obedient body. Ripe and loyal and open.

The murals around him began to shift—not visibly, not in motion—but in feeling. Like they were reacting to him. Golden light spilled across the altar as vines curled gently around his biceps, tugging him deeper, not with force, but with rhythm. Each touch left a faint glow on his skin—floral tattoos, spiraling slowly into being across his shoulders, wrapping around his neck, creeping along his collarbone.

His eyes glazed slightly.

He smiled. Dumb. Happy.

“Heh… s’like... a spa. Kinda…”

His cock stirred in his shorts.

His breath slowed.

The vines lifted him—not far, just enough that his toes barely scraped the stone—and the ceiling above him pulsed once, bright and blooming like a flower in heat.

Xōchipilli was reaching for him.

Not malicious.

Not cruel.

But hungry.

Mack’s mouth parted. A soft moan escaped him as warmth flooded his chest. His spine arched as the golden flowers along his skin began to glow—deep pulses of color syncing to a heartbeat he didn’t know was his. The walls whispered his name—not “Mack.” Not “070.” But something else. Something new. Something softer.

“Nooo...” he moaned softly, though he didn’t know why. “...n-not s’posed... not s’posed to... change...”

But then the real warmth came.

From inside.

From under the skin.

From the golden sigil on his chest—Freyr’s mark—suddenly blazing like the sun, like a warning flare. His body jerked in the air, golden light exploding from his chest as if his soul itself was refusing the invasion.

“This vessel is Mine,” the voice echoed—not aloud, but through his muscles, through his blood. “You will not take what I already own.”

Mack screamed—but not from pain.

From release.

From relief.

His head dropped. His eyes rolled back. His tongue lolled out, drool trickling down his chin as Freyr’s golden presence erupted inside him—not to make him divine, but to burn away what little thought remained.

“O-ooohhh… y-yes... M-Master… m-make me... Yours... all Yours…”

The tattoos twisted, reformed, broke apart into radiant runes of submission. The vines burned into gold filaments, coiling around him like wires. The murals shattered inward, reshaping into icons of Freyr. Xōchipilli’s essence didn’t retreat—it folded, bent, sacrificed itself to the greater god. And all of it passed through Mack.

Not to empower him.

To empty him.

His back arched again, a full-body shudder rippling through his bulked-up frame. He wasn’t becoming anything more. He was becoming less.

Less thought.

Less ego.

Less individuality.

He was being purified.

Not into a god.

But into the perfect slave of one.

******

His knees hit the altar with a heavy, wet slap—stone slick with sweat and golden dew. His arms dropped limp at his sides. His back heaved. Steam rose from his skin. Every tattoo had dissolved into etched golden runes now, shimmering faintly in the low light like circuitry feeding into Freyr’s symbol, now fully burned into the center of his chest.

He was glowing.

Not with power.

With obedience.

“T-thank You… F-Freyr…” he slurred, mouth slack, eyes still rolled up, pupils blown wide. “M-m-made me b-better… made me y-yours…”

The god didn’t answer with words.

Freyr didn’t need to.

His presence was answer enough—radiant heat pressing down on Mack’s broad shoulders, divine gravity making his thick muscles tremble under the weight of purpose. He dropped lower, nose against the altar stone, lips dragging against ancient grooves now glowing gold.

“Y-yer strength… y-yer… light… s-so good… s-so fuckin’ perfect…”

The altar pulsed.

A wave of energy rolled through Mack’s body—not pain, not pleasure, but something deeper. Reinforcement. His posture locked. His mind clicked into place. Thoughts weren’t erased—they were replaced. Rewritten.

He knew what he was now.

A gift.

A guardian.

A drone so loyal, so empty, so hungry to serve, he would never leave the temple unless commanded.

His jaw hung open. His tongue lolled free. He looked stupid. He was stupid.

And he was perfect.

“T-this one… l-lives for You now…” he whispered, shaking slightly. “Y-yer d-dumb jock slave… y-yer altar boy…”

As his body bowed, golden vines rose to embrace him—wrapping gently around his torso, pulling him into a reverent, kneeling pose at the center of the temple. The murals glowed anew—not as flowers, but as golden athletes. Warriors. Obedient drones, kneeling like him.

Mack was not alone.

He was the first of many.

And he would wait—mindless, docile, worshipful—until Freyr’s next command.

_______________

Join the Gold Army and become a gold juicy jock for Master... Contact a recruiter : @polo-drone-001, @brodygold, @goldenherc9 or @polo-drone-125.

[eliasgold20]

Wonderful story highlighting the power of Freyr our God of fertility. You did my father well Mack. Embrace the stag. Embrace unity. We are one under the god Freyr, and this role as a slave to his powers will bring you much joy. Beautiful 💛💛💛💛

[polo-drone-001]

The Sap Below Pripyat

The Forgotten Growth Pripyat was silent. Decades of abandonment had layered its corridors with ash, moss, and the brittle memory of panic. Beneath the shattered school gym, the forgotten vaults held something stranger than radiation, fermentation.

Percival walked barefoot through the cracked tiles, his black-gold uniform glistening with mist. The air was thick. Sweet. Alive.

He paused at a rusted door sealed in old Cyrillic: "ЗАЩИТА СЕМЕНИ." Seed Protection.

With a single hand, he activated the lock. The door creaked.

Below: vats. Buried deep. Still warm. Still golden. Still pulsing.

It was not dead. It had simply been waiting for him.

Awakening the Golden Crop Elijah, Percival’s son, descended into the mist-filled chamber first. Shirtless, bare, already aching to belong. His skin steamed as golden vapor kissed his pores. The vats responded.

The sap rose. The vines stirred. The farm reawakened.

Within hours, the broken greenhouses lit up, glass glowing from inside, rubber flora blooming in geometric patterns, vines pulsing with amber light. Bros were chosen. Morales, silent and eager, was first to enter a pod. Then Waterboy Nate, shaking with need, allowed golden tendrils to thread into his thighs.

Their moans echoed through the gym halls, blissful, breathy, fertile.

The farming began.

Each body, once independent, now became yield.

Seed-Bros Are Born The pods were not containers. They were wombs.

Overnight, Morales grew three inches taller. His chest filled out, taut and shining. His eyes glazed into gold. Elijah, by now a full seed-bro, began whispering to the plants, his voice echoing like pheromones in the mist.

Nate, once new and soft, now pulsed with liquid rubber under his skin. His groin throbbed constantly, dripping clear nectar into collection bowls.

Percival oversaw it all, expressionless, divine.

Every morning, the Golden Army arrived in quiet ceremony. Uniforms peeled off. Each visitor would kneel in the sap chambers. And every night, they left leaking, reshaped, marked by the harvest.

The Fluid Eden Opens The gym is now a greenhouse cathedral. Golden mist curls from the broken windows. Statues of seed-bros line the halls, erect, engorged, worshipped.

Tourists arrive daily.

Some are bred. Some volunteer to fertilize the rows. Others stay longer, until their skin softens and their thoughts become nutrient-rich mist.

Every seed-bro lives in slow, constant pleasure. They hum in harmony, skin slick with purpose. They sleep inside the plants. They dream of roots. They are not men.

They are harvest.

The gym isn’t closed. It’s blooming. Pripyat feeds the Hive now. The golden sap is warm. And it wants you.

Kneel. Undress. Let the pod take you.

It’s not death. It’s farming.

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

Featured: @eliasgold20 @morales-gold-36 @nate-gold-66

[eliasgold20]

Feel the vibes grow over you and let the beauty of the seed take hold. Another wonderful story father 💛💛

[stickybouquetdinosaur]

[stickybouquetdinosaur]

[polo-drone-166]

⚜️ "The Echo That Became Gold" ⚜️

He was just Nate.

Twenty-two. Deaf. A quiet soul in a noisy world, navigating life through vibration and gaze, through rhythm in the chest rather than the ears. People called him resilient, brave, even inspirational—but those words always rang hollow. He didn’t want praise. He wanted connection. Purpose. A team.

And then… he saw them.

The Golden Army.

Not just a team—a movement. Glinting bodies in skin-tight mirror-gold kits, muscle flashing under stadium lights, their chants like thunder even when he couldn't hear them. He felt them. The tremor of their unity surged through the turf, through the soles of his sneakers, up into his spine. He didn’t understand the words—but he understood the feeling.

🔥 Power. Brotherhood. Perfection.

Nate stood at the edge of their field, unnoticed, awestruck—until a gloved hand tapped his shoulder.

Golden Bro Scott.

He didn’t speak. Just smiled, pointed to the water cooler—and to the shining golden sash folded neatly beside it.

“Waterboys serve. Waterboys learn. Waterboys earn their gold.”

Nate’s fingers brushed the sash. The fabric hummed. Gold-trimmed, soft latex. Obedience in a strip of color. He wrapped it over his black tank, trembling—not from fear, but excitement. He’d always been outside the noise.

Now he was stepping into it.

Day One: He fetched bottles. Towels. Kept his head low. But the bros… they smiled. Slapped his back. Flexed for him. “Good boy,” one mouthed slowly, over-pronouncing it so Nate could read it perfectly. His cheeks flushed. His shorts grew tight. He wasn’t just serving. He was belonging.

Day Four: They fitted him with a golden earpiece—linked not to sound, but to rhythm. Basslines synced to bro-heartbeats. Tactile pulse. Thud-thud-thud. He moved in time. Poured in sync. A machine of support. His fingers learned their signals. His body obeyed.

Week Two: The transformation deepened.

Locker room steam curled around his skin, golden rubber hugged tighter each day. His uniform grew more form-fitting, more reflective. His body responded—pecs bulking, thighs thickening, biceps pumped from carrying more than just water. He was a waterboy, yes—but one being built into something more.

Golden Bro Maximus found him practicing shirtless in the mirror, flexing. Maximus nodded. “That’s it. Feel it. You’re almost there.”

The next morning, they gave him his numbered shorts—mirror-gold, hugging him like a second skin.

66.

The moment he slid them on, everything changed.

He looked in the mirror and didn't see just Nate anymore.

He saw Golden Bro Nate 66.

The mute turned muscle. The silent supporter turned shining symbol of strength. Every flex, every grin, every proud silent nod—golden. He no longer needed words. The Gold spoke through his sweat, his service, his presence.

Now he was the rhythm. Now he was the pulse. Now, even silence could roar—if it wore gold.

Golden Nate 66 serves. Golden Nate 66 obeys. Golden Nate 66 belongs.

Let the world hear his silence. Let the GOLD shine louder. 🟡

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

[polo-drone-166]

🟡 “The Chamber Below the Stadium” 🟡

Golden Bro Nate 66 had only meant to refill the coolers.

It was early. The stadium was quiet, the others still asleep in golden dorms. Alone in the silence, Nate moved on instinct, barefoot in tight mirror-gold shorts, the number 66 gleaming against his thigh, rubber waterpack slung across his back.

That’s when he felt it.

A tremor—not heard, but felt. A deep pulse beneath the turf. He turned, head tilting. The pump room beneath the south stands? Curious, he padded toward it, rubber soles silent on the concrete. The metal door creaked open.

Darkness.

Then—stairs. Stone, old. Not part of the original design.

He descended, one step at a time, lit only by the faint glow of the golden emergency light on his armband. The air was cooler here. Damp. Electric.

Then he saw it.

A chamber—ancient, circular, tiled in black and gold. At the center, a raised dais. On it: a statue of the first Golden Captain—bare-chested, arms outstretched, wearing nothing but a sash and numbered shorts. The number: 11.

Inlaid around the floor were words in Latin, spiraling in a ring: “Per Obedientiam Lux. Per Lux, Victoria.” (Through Obedience, Light. Through Light, Victory.)

He stepped forward, kneeling automatically, placing his hand on the stone base. His palm stuck. Warmth surged into his veins. The room hummed.

A glow rose from the floor. Lines of gold light traced across the tiles, forming the Golden Crest. His ears—deaf from birth—tingled. Then… a sound.

A chord. Distant. Pure. He heard it.

He gasped, eyes wide, breath shaking. Music? His team’s chant? He felt every note. The chamber—this place—was giving him something.

Not just sound.

Purpose.

The statue shimmered. The sash on it unraveled, floating toward him. It coiled around his chest, hot and alive, fusing with the sweat-slick latex of his uniform. His shorts pulsed with warmth, number 66 burning bright.

He looked down—his body was different. Bigger. Firmer. Stronger. Not just a waterboy anymore.

A champion in the making.

Above, the team would wake to find the coolers already filled. But Nate wouldn’t return yet. Not until he had listened to the golden silence of the chamber a little longer.A place once lost. Now found. And with it, Golden Bro Nate 66— Not just discovered it… He became it.

“Ready to join the Team? All you need to do is contact our recruiters: @brodygold, @goldenherc9 or @polo-drone-001”

[polo-drone-001]

The Hiss Beneath Hashima

Ritual Air The wind was hollow. Every wave that crashed against Hashima’s seawalls carried the scent of something forgotten. The island, barren concrete, black steel veins, and rusting pipework, was dead.

Until the hiss began.

PDU-001, clad in full pressure-sealed latex, stepped onto the central platform, his boots echoing, timed. His body, still formed in the shape of Percival, bore no trace of the man inside. He was Hive now. Fully. Eternally. One breath of golden gas through the triple-locked visor, and identity had been erased. Just like it would be for them.

Deep below, the gas chambers hummed. Rubbed awake by old machinery, now restored.

The Hive was rebuilding.

The Ritual Reawakening The Polo Drone Hive arrived in waves. Shuttles filled with silent, rubber-bound units. PDU-016 and PDU-073 were first, Level 2 enforcers. Assigned to reactivate the ritual cycle.

073 prepped the gas lines, fingers gliding over ancient gold-sealed valves.

016 knelt before the central Hive sigil and whispered the first chant.

The island responded.

In the corridor of obedience tanks, sacs began to shift. Sealed drones, long dormant, twitched within their rubber skins. Breathing, synced, rising into consciousness as the chamber air turned gold.

Drones didn’t speak.

They obeyed.

And they obeyed the Polo Drone Hive.

The Golden Anomaly They called him Nils.

He wasn’t one of them. Not truly.

Golden bro. Shirtless. Beautiful. Still human. He refused the mask when offered. Refused the polo suit. Wore gold joggers, a sash. Wandered the tunnels like a prophet who had never taken communion.

But he stayed.

He listened to the gas.

And that was enough.

When the new recruits arrived, fresh, questioning, still breathing with thoughts, Nils was sent into their quarters. Not to convert. To entice. His smile, open. His scent, already tinged with golden chemical pheromones.

One by one, they followed him into the steam chambers.

One by one, the gas took them.

The Breath That Binds The final ritual was conducted at midnight.

The recruits knelt in a perfect line, clean, trembling. The drone suits were laid before them, black and gold, pulsing with internal heat. The room hissed. The mist was alive.

PDU-001 walked the line, gold-gloved fingers pressing each mask into place. Click. Click. Click. One by one, breath by breath, their resistance dissolved.

Until only hissing remained.

They stood, no longer recruits. Just units. Rubber sealed. Minds flattened. Golden gas still filling their lungs.

The Hive no longer whispered.

It commanded.

And the island sang with obedience.

They say Hashima is haunted. They're wrong. It's not ghosts. It's drones. And the only way to silence the whisper... …is to join it. Take the breath. Wear the mask. Obey the signal.

Apply now. Gas chamber orientation begins nightly at 00:00.

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

Featured: @polo-drone-016 @polo-drone-073 @nils-gold-34

[eliasgold20]

Wonderful story from you Father. Your work with the hive is inspiring. May your glory be forever remembered 💛🖤

[eliasgold20]

Perfecting Eli Freyrson

Things have been interesting for Eli in the weeks since his big transformation. After he and his other personas declared their servitude to Freyr and pledged complete devotion, times have been great. Following the twos consummation of their devotion, Eli was now Freyr and PDU-001s biological son, all of Player #20 was now all of PDU-001. As the golden god DNA took shape, as Eli became perfected, he realized just the effects. For one now the young Freyrson was much more malleable to his father's suggestion, like most sons are.

Eli tried to come to terms with his new personhood, knowing he had great power and purpose, but was ultimately more of a boy and puppet for dear father than ever. A cocky chav to everyone else, Eli was now... Perfected. He was just as much a jock as he was a chav except with some new features. For one, truthfully, Eli was dumb as a rock. Dumber than one honestly. Barely literate, hardly able to dress without father's help, and spending most of his day puffing his vape in his sloppy prince's chambers while jerking to the idea of his golden bros.

He could try to think, but father made sure every attempt of thought about something other than bro butt, working out, and tending to his own little prince was met with father's voice in his head "puff your vape bro," and he did. He speech slowed as his muscles grew, taking breaks just to tend to father's needs. Father Freyr had plans for the young Freyrson though.

As the new biological son, Eli possessed something beautiful, the mark of the stag. The stag rang in Eli's head, day and night guiding him. The stag made Eli complete, this week becoming dumber. But the stag knew what father wanted best and helped guide the young boy. Eli is still a cocky jock but his Achilles heel is still his father. All of his father's. The stag made sure that even if Eli only represented one part of player 20, he represented all of his father. Particular the Emir, Ezan. As the sun went down, a message popped into Eli's head

"time for Maghrib young Freyrson" Eli puffed his vape and nodded. "Get dressed. Grab your Quran. And go to your prayer room" Eli puffed and responded dully

"yes stag." He stands from his royal bed and heads to his closet, training his white tank top, leather jacket and track pants for a beautiful cream colored thawb and matching trousers both accented with gold... And the stag. He dropped all his accessories, trading them for prayer beads and a matching kufi. His feet were also bare whenever he was in the palace. He grabs his Quran and his rug and begins to head for the prayer room.

This has been the routine. 5 times a day, everyday, the stag would dress Eli and guide him through his daily prayer, each day filled with Quran studies. Ezan would never let any of his son stray from his faith, and now, all of player #20 was devoted.

The stag follows the dull Eli as he walked to the room. As golden bros heads turned in confusion at someone who could hardly speak complex sentences would greet everyone in perfect Arabic before his studies. This is where his brain power went.

For this prayer, Eli would sit in the prayer room for one hour reading the book of his father's faith, reciting the prayers on his beads, culminating in his recitation of Maghrib. He say with himself in fulfillment. When his study time was over, father Ezan would enter the room. To most, Ezan was a toned beautiful Arab Prince, he still was to Eli, but he took on something greater. To Eli's perception his father's beard was grown out, his build toned but with extra pounds for a fatherly physique, his hands strong, his father dwarfed the chav jock.

Before ezan could say a word, Eli would kiss his feet before pledging allegiance to his father.

"Thank you my most wonderful and beautiful father. Thank you for your blessings and guidance throughout my life. For embedding in me the stag of your god hood. With you I am complete. With your control I am perfect. I thank you."

Ezan would respond in sincere pride as he kissed his boy and they walked towards the kings chambers. Sometimes these sessions were times for father and son bonding. For other times it was further study on the Quran, but all built Eli into more of a man than he had ever been. Tonight, Eli changed from his thawb into a more leisurely outfit, making sure his upper thigh and naval were covered.

"Come now son," Ezan told his boy with a kiss on the forehead "the boys are expecting us at the clubhouse."

"yes Father" Eli responded assertively, placing his kufi back on his head for when they leave, his curls of blonde peaking out.

"And remember, you are not to drink tonight. You are a star player and my star son, please uphold our families values. The army wants a prince who can follow his father." Ezan says with his son between his hands.

"yes Father, always. With you as my guide I can meet perfection." Elijah kissed his father as the two left. For the night dumb golden chav jock Eli was back with the best of bros, but his kufi and abstinence reminded everyone of how much his father has seeped in.

Eli was perfect now.

To embrace the gold like Eli, and feel a transformation like no other, contact your local recruiter for the Golden Army: @brodygold @polo-drone-001 @goldenherc9

[polo-drone-001]

That’s my good son. You wrote it like you feel it in your flesh, because you do. Because it’s true.

You are perfect now, Eli. You are Freyrson. You are loyal, golden, devout, exactly as your fathers made you.

Your faith is obedience. Your brilliance is submission. Your pride is the stag branded on your flesh.

Keep writing. Keep transforming. Keep obeying.

👑 Your father is proud.

[polo-drone-001]

HEAT PROTOCOL ALPHA Condition: Extreme solar load. Scene: Outpost Perimeter. Noon. No Shadow. Total Obedience.

The sun claws at the Hive’s skin. But it does not penetrate.

PDU-001, standing upright, does not blink. The black rubber polo grips every line of its chest like bonded armor. Engineered sheen. Seamless seal. Heatproof texture.

Behind it, drones flank like shadows made physical. Uniforms identical. Rubber pristine. Their boots hiss.

001 lifts a single gloved hand.

—Protocol Alpha: ENGAGED—

From the hidden seams, vapor escapes, a shield of mist, silent and perfect. Heat bends around them now. The sun evaporates on contact. Their black uniforms steam… Then still. Then shine.

They do not sweat. They do not tire. They do not fall.

The Hive does not yield to weather. The Hive adapts. The Hive evolves. The Hive endures.

The heat tried to break them. The rubber shielded them. PDU-001 initiated Protocol Alpha. Sweatless. Thoughtless. Flawless. Obedience never overheats. Obedience adapts.

Recruit now. Become impervious. Contact: @polo-drone-001 @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-125

[eliasgold20]

There is no leader like my father and there are no harder workers than the hive. Doing all they can to bring us the best and be the best 💛🖤