Isaac Gold

Right Winger #45 for the Golden Team

[isaac-gold-45]

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 e

[wells-gold58]

The Table Beside Them

The afternoon sun sat high over Toronto, bright enough to make the pitch shimmer.

Wells planted one foot beside the ball, shifted his weight, and moved.

The kids had been loud all morning during drills, laughing through sprints, calling for passes, trying to impress Coach Stone with every shot. But when Wells started demonstrating footwork, the noise dropped. Even Trey stopped talking for a second.

Wells wore a red Team Canada jersey, black athletic tights with red striping, and black cleats, the CN Tower rising behind him like Toronto itself was watching. With the World Cup energy building across the city, the jersey felt right. Canada red. Toronto skyline. Ball at his feet. Gold discipline underneath it all.

He rolled the ball under one foot, cut left, snapped back right, dragged it behind his heel, then burst forward in a clean diagonal that left the nearest cone wobbling in his wake.

One of the kids yelled, “Do it again!”

Wells grinned. “Only if you try it after.”

Coach stood nearby with his arms folded, dressed almost exactly like Wells: red Canada jersey, black athletic tights, black cleats, whistle at his chest, cap low over his eyes. He watched the youth group with that sharp, measuring look of his, the one that somehow made everyone stand straighter without being told.

“Footwork is not decoration,” Coach said. “It is control. Small movements first. Speed later.”

Trey nodded from the sideline. “That actually makes sense.”

Alton looked between Wells and Coach, then smirked.

“So are we going to talk about the matching outfits again, or are we pretending this is accidental?”

Coach turned his head.

Not fast.

Not dramatic.

Just enough.

Alton’s mouth closed immediately.

Trey coughed into his fist. Wells looked down at the ball, trying not to laugh.

“Good choice,” Coach said.

“Respectfully silent,” Alton replied.

The drills wrapped up with one last passing circle, the kids flushed and grinning, their coaches thanking the Golden Army for coming out. It was part of the Army’s youth-in-sports program: showing up, running drills, building confidence, teaching focus, letting young players see strong men using strength to guide instead of dominate.

Wells liked that part.

The gold was not only for stages, parades, gyms, and victory shots. Sometimes it was a kid learning how to plant his foot correctly. Sometimes it was Coach kneeling beside a nervous player, showing him how to breathe before taking a shot. Sometimes it was Trey chasing down stray balls without complaint. Sometimes it was Alton acting like he was above helping, then spending twenty minutes patiently showing two younger players how to trap the ball without panicking.

Golden, in practice.

Not just in shine.

Wells had just slung his bag over one shoulder when his phone buzzed.

He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and stopped.

Coach noticed immediately. “Problem?”

“No,” Wells said, softer than expected. “Gabe.”

Trey stepped closer. Alton pushed his sunglasses up.

Wells read the message aloud.

Wells, I am in the city with PDU-090 and 767 and Izzy. I’m done being a lone wolf. Can we meet up with you guys on a patio somewhere to watch the Panama vs Croatia game this evening?

For a second, the pitch felt quieter than before.

Trey’s expression shifted first. “He said that?”

Wells nodded, already typing.

Sure. We’ll be at the Church Mouse and Firkin, on Church St.

He hit send.

Coach gave one approving nod. “Good.”

Alton folded his arms. “Look at that. Character development all around today.”

Coach looked at him again.

Alton lifted both hands. “Positive commentary.”

By early evening, Church Street had changed the day’s rhythm.

The pitch was behind them. The youth drills were done. The city had moved into patio mode: sun lowering between buildings, flags shifting above storefronts, fans in jerseys walking in clusters, laughter spilling from open doors.

Wells, Coach, Trey, and Alton arrived at the Church Mouse and Firkin still carrying the heat of the afternoon with them. They had cleaned up enough to be presentable, but the soccer energy had not fully left. Wells still had the Team Canada red across his chest. Coach wore his like armour. Trey had swapped into a gold top with his usual edge. Alton looked unfairly fresh for someone who had spent the afternoon pretending he did not enjoy helping children with ball control.

They found a patio table with a good angle toward the screens inside and enough room to hold the table beside them.

“Saving seats?” the server asked.

Wells nodded. “Four more coming.”

Trey smiled slightly. “Big night, then.”

“Could be,” Wells said.

They ordered beers first. Then nachos. Then poutine because Coach said they needed actual food, and Alton declared fries with gravy and cheese curds “athletic recovery culture.”

The match started with noise already building around them. Panama and Croatia kits appeared across the patio. Canada jerseys were everywhere too, because Toronto did not need a team on the screen to turn a game into an event. A group nearby had flags painted on their cheeks. Someone at the bar shouted predictions too confidently. The whole place smelled like beer, fried food, sunscreen, and summer pavement cooling after heat.

Then Wells saw them.

Gabe arrived first.

He looked different, not in outfit, but in posture. Less guarded. Less like he was already planning his exit. PDU-090 and 767 moved with him, black-and-gold precision softened slightly by the patio atmosphere. Izzy followed close, scanning the space before spotting Wells and smiling.

Wells stood.

Gabe hesitated only half a second before stepping in.

No big speech. No dramatic announcement.

Just a firm hug.

“I meant it,” Gabe said quietly. “Done being a lone wolf.”

Wells held him a moment longer. “Good. Wolves still need a pack.”

Coach stood too, giving Gabe one of those serious nods that somehow carried more weight than a speech.

“You came,” Coach said.

Gabe nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then sit.”

Alton leaned toward Trey. “That was basically emotional poetry from Coach.”

Coach did not even look at him this time.

Alton sat straighter anyway.

The second table filled quickly. Beers arrived. Nachos were pulled into the center. Poutine disappeared faster than anyone admitted. Gabe relaxed by degrees, one laugh at a time, first at Trey, then at Izzy, then finally at Alton after Alton tried to explain why he would have been an elite international winger if he had not been “too visually important for tactical systems.”

PDU-767 tilted its head. “Statement lacks evidence.”

Trey nearly choked on his drink.

Alton pointed a chip at the drone. “You’re lucky you’re technically correct.”

On the screen, Croatia pushed forward. Panama absorbed pressure, broke hard, and sent the patio into a wave of shouting. Fans rose halfway out of their chairs. Someone spilled beer. Coach did not move, eyes tracking the play like he was still on the training pitch.

“Watch the shape,” he said to Trey.

Trey leaned forward.

Wells noticed.

Earlier, on the pitch, Coach had taught the kids control. Focus. Movement with purpose.

Now Trey watched the game the same way. Not just the ball. The space. The timing. The choice before the pass.

Gabe watched too, quieter but present. Not outside the group. Not drifting away.

At the table.

With them.

When the first goal nearly came, the whole patio erupted and collapsed at once, groaning as the shot went wide. Alton threw both hands up like he had personally been betrayed. Izzy laughed. PDU-090 remained still, though Wells was almost certain he saw the drone’s eyes track the replay with interest.

Wells sat back, beer cold in his hand, Canada red across his chest, Coach solid beside him, Trey focused, Alton loud, Gabe no longer alone.

The day had started with drills.

Footwork. Passing. Control.

It ended on Church Street with two tables pushed together, plates half-empty, glasses sweating in the heat, and a match pulling strangers into one shared rhythm.

Wells looked around the patio.

Different jerseys.

Different accents.

Different loyalties for ninety minutes.

Same city.

Same game.

Same table, if they made room.

Gabe caught him looking and raised his beer.

“To not being a lone wolf.”

Wells lifted his glass.

Coach did too.

Then Trey. Alton. Izzy. PDU-090. 767.

The glasses met above the nachos.

Outside, Church Street kept glowing.

Inside, the match played on.

And around the table, the Gold held.

No more lone wolves. No more standing outside the circle. When the Golden Army calls you family, you get a seat at the table. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

Featuring: @hero21us, @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-767, @polo-drone-075, @pdu-090 @isaac-gold-45

[pdu-090]

Golden Army vs UK Polo Club –

The afternoon sun hung low over the countryside outside London. The polo field stretched across rolling green fields, bordered by ancient oak trees and white picket fences. Spectators lined the sidelines. Some wore traditional polo attire. Others had come specifically to watch the away team that everyone was talking about. The Golden Army. The first half had been intense. The British team had played with discipline and skill. The Gold Brothers had responded with determination. The Polo Drones had done what they always did best: support, organize, assist, and keep the team running smoothly. Now the second half was about to begin. Gold Brother Alton #77 rode forward and adjusted his grip on the club. “Are you ready, brothers?” A chorus of unison answered him.

Nearby stood Franco #94, Jordan #40, Shawn #22, Daniel-Gold-16, and the rest of the Gold Brothers. All the players were focused. Behind them, drone support units were making final checks. PDU-034 confirmed the status of the equipment. PDU-039 monitored the players’ hydration. PDU-070 coordinated the field logistics. PDU-073 handled communications. PDU-084 recorded statistics. PDU-090 observed the formation. PDU-096 managed reserve equipment. PDU-125 coordinated visitor and recruitment information. Each unit had a purpose. Each unit contributed. The referee lifted the ball. The crowd fell silent. The whistle blew. The second half began. The ball flew into play. Immediately, the UK captain accelerated across the field. His horse sped forward. Alton #77 matched the move. Both players reached the ball almost simultaneously.

The first stroke sent the ball hurtling down the field. Cheers erupted. The pace increased. The polo was fixed. Faster than many spectators expected. The horses thundered across the grass. The players leaned low. The club swung. The ball changed direction repeatedly. The British team scored first. Applause followed. The scoreboard moved. The Golden Army remained calm. Daniel-Gold-16 pointed to midfield. "The next one is ours." Franco laughed. "Then let's go get it." The restart came quickly. This time Jordan #40 intercepted the ball. He passed it cleanly to Shawn #22. Shawn stepped forward. A defender approached. Another followed. The angle closed. At the last minute, Shawn delivered a perfect pass. Alton #77 arrived exactly where he needed to be

A swing. The ball shot between the posts. GOAL. The Golden Army fans erupted. Flags waved. The score was tied again. On the sidelines, PDU-090 recorded the event. "Team coordination successful." PDU-084 nodded. "Assist credited." The game continued. The UK players fought hard. No one gave up easy ground. Every goal requires effort. Every yard had to be earned. For almost twenty minutes, neither side could gain a decisive advantage. The score went back and forth. UK. Golden Army. UK. Golden Army. The crowd loved every second. Even neutral spectators cheered. The spirit of sportsmanship was evident. After each challenge, the players checked on each other. After each goal, the opponents exchanged respectful nods. Competition existed. Hostility did not. That was exactly how the Golden Army preferred it. Near the water station, PDU-125 welcomed curious visitors. Several local spectators approached them. “Who is the Golden Army anyway?” one asked. PDU-125 smiled. “A team.” “Football players?” “Sometimes.”

“Polo players?”

“Today.” The spectators laughed. “And the drones?” “We help.” The answer seemed simple. Because it was. The Golden Army had always been about teamwork. On the field. Off the field. Every role matters. Back in the game, the game entered its final period. The scoreboard showed a tie. Only minutes left. The atmosphere changed. Everyone could feel it. The next goal could decide everything. Alton #77 looked across the formation. The Gold Brothers understood immediately. No words were needed. Years of teamwork created understanding. The restart came. The ball bounced unpredictably. A British player reached it first. He ran towards the goal. The crowd rose to their feet.

A scoring opportunity arose. Then Daniel-Gold-16 intercepted. A perfectly timed tackle. The ball changed direction. Jordan #40 intercepted it. He accelerated. A defender closed in. Jordan passed. Franco #94 received. Another pass. Shawn #22 stepped forward. The move was beautiful. Fast. Simple. Effective.

The entire field opened up. The UK defenders rushed to react. Alton #77 appeared at the back. Shawn spotted him. The pass crossed the field. Alton hit the field cleanly. The ball flew. For a moment, everything seemed to freeze. The players watched. The spectators watched. Even the horses seemed to stop. Then the ball crossed the goal line. GOAL. The Golden Army took the lead. The roar of the crowd rolled across the landscape. Flags waved everywhere. The Gold Brothers celebrated briefly. Then it was immediately restarted. The game was not over. The British team attacked fiercely. Three minutes left. Then two. Then one. Every possession mattered. Every challenge mattered. The pressure mounted. PDU-090 watched the clock. "The last minute is approaching." PDU-039 nodded. "Stay focused."

The British team launched a final attack. Their captain advanced through midfield. A teammate moved past. Another shot on goal. The strategy was excellent. The execution was almost perfect. Almost. Jordan #40 intercepted the final pass. The ball rolled free. The whistle blew. Timeout. The game was over. For a second, no one moved. Then applause exploded from all directions. Not just for the winner. For both teams. The British players immediately approached. Handshakes followed. Smiles appeared.

The British captain reached Alton #77 first. "Excellent game." Alton nodded. "So did you." The two teams lined up for a photo. Gold Brothers. British players. Polo Drones. Everyone. The setting sun painted the field gold. It felt like the perfect ending. Later that evening, tables were set up next to the clubhouse. Food was shared. Stories were exchanged. Friendships were formed. The trophy was on display nearby. Several younger spectators approached the members of the Golden Army.

Many had questions. Some wanted pictures. Others wanted to know how they could get involved. PDU-125 and Alton #77 spent almost an hour talking to visitors. No one was rushed away. Everyone was welcomed. As darkness slowly descended over the English countryside, the Golden Army gathered for a final report. PDU-090 stepped forward. The surrounding conversations gradually fell silent. The drone began to speak. “UK Polo Operation Complete.” “International Friendship Strengthened.” “Gold Brothers Competed with Honor.” "Polo Drones provided support." "Visitors welcome." "Questions answered." "New contacts established." "Team unity confirmed." "Mission accomplished." The report was accepted. Applause followed. The Gold Brothers smiled. The Polo Drones stood proudly. The British team joined in the applause.

Because everyone understood what had happened that day. A polo match had been played. A trophy had been awarded. But something bigger had happened too. New friendships had been formed. New supporters had emerged. New adventures were already waiting somewhere beyond the horizon. The Golden Army packed up equipment under the fading evening sky. Vehicles were loaded. Flags were folded. The field was slowly emptying. Still, many spectators remained long after the match had ended. Talking. Laughing. Sharing photos. Planning future visits.

Exactly the kind of outcome the Golden Army always hoped for. As the convoy finally prepared to leave, Alton #77 looked back at the polo field one last time. "Good morning." PDU-090 nodded. "Confirmed." The engines started.

The convoy rolled toward the road. And somewhere ahead, another challenge already awaited. Because the Golden Army never stopped moving. Never stopped growing. And never stopped welcoming new teammates.

Interested in joining the adventure? Contacts: @alton-golde#77 @polo-drone-125 #GoldenArmy #GoldBrothers #PoloDrones #PoloMatch #LondonPolo #Teamwork #Brotherhood #Sportsmanship #GoldenArmyUK #JoinTheHold #GoldAndBlack #InternationalFriendship #PDU090 #PDU125 #Alton77 #GoldenArmyCommunity #PlayTogether #WinTogether #ATeam #FormationsStable

[isaac-gold-45]

Isaac's Sunday Cruising !!!

Come Crusing wth Isaac !! Join the Gold !!!

Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125

[isaac-gold-45]

"ISAAC DOESN'T NEED A BIIGGER BOAT !!

Come Swin wth Isaac !! Join the Gold !!!

Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125

[isaac-gold-45]

Isaac says "Chaos is My Comfort”

Join the Punk Revolution! Join the Gold !!!

Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125

[isaac-gold-45]

Isaac says it's Walpurgis Night: Enter If You Dare !!!

Join the Devilish Fun. Join the Gold !!!

Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125

[isaac-gold-45]

IZZY'S READY FOR WORLD LEATHER DAY !!

Wear your Leather, Come join him!

Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125

[isaac-gold-45]

10, 0000 Biceps meet 5, 000 Bikini's

Isaac enjoying Muscle Beach !!

Come show off your muscles too!!!

Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125

[isaac-gold-45]

"Suddenly " Isaac is at Xanadu Roller Rink !

Isaac's Night is "Magic"!

Join In the spell !!

Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125

[polo-drone-039]

Hot Rod Nights & Neon Lights

The neon sign hums in the night, casting a warm red glow across the pavement. PDU-039 leans against his car, sleek, black, just like his leather jacket. One arm resting on the hood, head slightly down… then he looks up.

Magnetic. Dangerous. Effortless. A smirk forms.

He pushes off the car and steps inside.

The diner is alive. Laughter, teasing, milkshakes sliding across tables. Bros packed into booths, flirting, joking, feeding off the energy. Gold and black everywhere. Heat. Movement. Vibes.

PDU-039 says nothing. He walks straight to the jukebox. Stops. A sharp, confident knock with his fist.

Click. The music hits and everything ignites.

Bros jump to their feet like they’ve been waiting for that exact moment. Snaps, spins, slick footwork—pure Grease-style chaos. Leather shines, gold flashes under neon lights. The rhythm takes over. No thinking. Just moving.

039 watches. In control. Always.

Then he sees him, Izzy @isaac-gold-45

Across the room. Eyes lock. No hesitation.

Minutes later, they’re already outside—low laughter, quick steps. Car door swings open. Engine roars to life.

The night pulls them in.

Destination? The drive-in.

Because some nights… don’t end. They roll on.

Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125

[isaac-gold-45]

DISCO

Isaac wants to know "How Deep is Your Love?"

Do you want to find out? Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125

[isaac-gold-45]

ISIDOR'S ERA'S TOUR

Isidor sat quietly at home, absorbed in a reference book, when he suddenly heard pounding footsteps. He looked up just in time to see Izzy rushing down the stairs and heading straight for the door.

“Where are you going in such a rush, Broseidon?” Isidor asked.

“Where do you think, Nerd Vader? I’m late for opening the Chalice!” Izzy shot back, pausing to pat his pockets and glance around frantically. “Where are my keys?”

“In the dish on the table—where you always put them, Brew Bro,” Isidor replied calmly.

Izzy snatched them up. “Anything new? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Nothing new, Lab Lord. Same shit, different day!” Izzy called as he swung the door open and rushed out.

Isidor remained seated, turning Izzy’s words over in his mind.

Same day, different day?

With so much constantly happening in the world, how could that possibly be true? History alone proved that every day carried something new—something worth understanding.

A thought crept into his mind.

No… he shut it down immediately. Better not. It didn’t go well last time.

But the idea lingered.

Slowly, purpose replaced hesitation. Isidor stood, straightened himself, and made his way to his favorite place—the library.

In a quiet side reading room, he finally found Mr. Vilde.

“Hi, Mr. Vilde,” Isidor began. “I’m working on a new project… a theory, actually. I was wondering if I could use that private reading room you showed me last year. I need to look for some… manuscripts.”

“Oh?” Mr. Vilde said, his lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. “And what project is this, my boy?”

Isidor hesitated. “If it’s alright, I’d rather not say—at least not until I know my hypothesis is correct.”

For a moment, something shifted.

The light flickered—just slightly. Or perhaps dimmed. Isidor couldn’t be sure. But for the briefest instant, he thought Mr. Vilde’s face… changed.

Then it was gone.

“Of course,” Mr. Vilde said smoothly, his usual sly grin returning. “Always the secretive one. Go ahead—you know the way. Down the closed passage. I doubt anyone’s been there since your last visit.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vilde. I appreciate it.”

It took longer than Isidor expected.

He got lost once—strangely enough, in a hallway he was sure he’d already passed. But eventually, he found it: the narrow passage leading to the hidden room.

Moments later, he stood inside.

His heart began to race.

He moved quickly to the familiar drawer and pulled it open.

There they were.

The notebook.

The device.

Exactly where he had left them.

Grabbing both, Isidor hurried out of the library and into the night, heading straight for the Golden Chalice.

Maybe—just maybe—before the night was over…

He could prove Izzy wrong.

Once at the Golden Chalice, Isidor took a seat at the bar.

“A dry martini,” he said.

Izzy raised an eyebrow. “What brings you here now, Data Dragon?”

“Oh, just working on a project,” Isidor replied casually. “Thought I’d have a drink and unwind while I peruse this ancient manuscript.”

Izzy snorted. “Sounds fun… NOT!!”

The bar was quiet for the afternoon. Only PDU 767 and a new Bro named Shawn sat at the counter, deep in conversation, while Izzy chimed in between wiping glasses.

Isidor slipped away to a corner nook, settling into an easy chair that gave him a perfect view of the room. He placed the notebook on his lap and carefully set the device beside it.

His fingers hovered over the controls.

This is it, he thought.

He studied the notes again. Cross-referenced symbols. Adjusted one dial. Then another.

A realization sparked.

“If this aligns with the temporal markers…” he muttered, barely audible. “Then it should—”

As he began adjusting the dials, he overheard PDU 767 speaking to Shawn.

“This Conner Storrie… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for.”

Before Isidor could process that—

The front door slammed open.

“HEY BROS—Did you hear what happened? The—”

Master Xavier burst in, shouting toward Izzy and the two at the bar, but trailed off as he noticed Isidor sitting in the corner.

“Hey, Isidor… what are you doing here? I thought you were headed to the library,” he asked.

Isidor barely looked up.

“Oh, just working on a new project and theory, Master,” he said calmly. Then, with quiet confidence: “And I think this will be the best place to prove it.”

With that—

He pushed the button.

The device began to hum.

Low at first, then building.

A vibration rippled through the room. Glasses rattled. The lights flickered.

“Uh… bro?” Izzy said.

Then—

A blinding flash.

As Isidor’s vision returned, the first thing he noticed was Xavier was gone.

The doorway stood empty.

Slowly, Isidor rose from his chair.

Something had changed.

Not just one thing.

Everything.

The atmosphere felt different—heavier. The décor had shifted subtly, and so had the people.

Behind the bar stood a man who looked like Izzy… but dressed in period clothing.

PDU 767 sat stiffly on a wooden stool—but even he seemed altered, his usual mechanical precision replaced with something more… primitive.

And Shawn—

Shawn was still there.

Listening.

As Isidor took it all in, trying to process what he was seeing, he heard PDU 767—if he could even still be called that—speaking to Shawn.

“Hey, kid… this Charlie Chaplin… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for.”

Isidor’s eyes narrowed.

Before he could react—

The front door burst open.

A man who looked like Xavier rushed in, breathless.

“Good heavens! Have you received word? The Titanic has sunk in the Atlantic—Mr. Astor among those feared perished!”

He hurried to the bar, joining the others as the room filled with shocked murmurs.

1912…

We’re in 1912.

Isidor looked down at the device, then back at the notebook, flipping quickly through the pages.

“I see… this dial controls…” he muttered. “Yes—that’s it.”

He adjusted one dial carefully.

“…let’s try this.”

He pressed the button.

The flash returned.

Blinding.

When the light faded, the room re-formed around him.

The same…

But different.

Subtly shifted.

Isidor didn’t move this time. He just listened.

“Hey, kid… this Rudolph Valentino… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for,” 767 said.

Isidor exhaled slowly.

Then—

The door flew open again.

Xavier stormed in, his voice urgent.

“Good Lord, have you heard? The Knickerbocker Theatre has collapsed—snow’s to blame, they’re saying! Scores feared injured!”

He rushed to the bar, joining the growing conversation.

Knickerbocker Theatre disaster… 1922.

Isidor’s grip tightened around the device.

So the main dial advances ten years…

His eyes shifted to the smaller dial.

“…then what do you do?”

Carefully—

He adjusted the main dial.

Then nudged the second dial slightly.

A breath.

A pause.

Then—

He pressed the button.

The flash.

When the light cleared, Isidor didn’t even look around at first.

He listened.

Waiting.

Right on cue—

“Hey, kid… this Tyrone Power… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for,” 767 said.

Isidor nodded to himself.

Then—

The door burst open.

Xavier strode in, shaking his head.

“Boy, that Hindenburg business is something else—caught fire right out of the sky. Just terrible.”

He moved quickly to the bar, joining the others as the room filled with uneasy chatter.

Hindenburg… 1937.

Isidor’s mind raced.

From 1922…

His grip tightened on the device.

“So the main dial is ten years…” he murmured. “And the smaller dial… adjusts within each decade.”

He glanced down at the controls again, a spark of excitement in his eyes.

“Let’s try a little further.”

Flash.

A voice: “Hey kid, this Marlon Brando… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for.”

Xavier stood in the doorway. “Bit of a situation in London—this smog’s gotten quite out of hand. Visibility’s near zero, and people are falling ill.”

The Great Smog of London… over 4,000 deaths, Isidor thought. What year was that again—1952?

He adjusted both dials.

Flash.

The voice again: “Hey kid, this Robert Redford… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for.”

Xavier burst in, moving quickly to the bar. “Did you catch the news? Aberfan’s been hit by a landslide—the school’s gone. It’s heartbreaking.”

1966, Isidor thought, adjusting the dials further this time.

Flash.

“Hey kid, this Tom Cruise… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for.”

Xavier’s voice followed: “Hey—did you hear about that nuclear plant in the Soviet Union? Something blew up—Chernobyl, I think. Sounds pretty serious.”

Isidor adjusted the dials again.

Flash.

“Hey kid, this Heath Ledger… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for.”

Xavier, shaken now: “Did you see what’s going on in New York? The towers are on fire… I can’t believe this.”

That was enough.

 Isidor reset the dials and pushed the button a final time.

Flash

The bar and his friends were as they were at the start.

Isidor reached forward and turned off the device.

Silence.

He placed it carefully on top of the notebook on the side table. He would return it later—to the drawer in the library’s hidden room. He wasn’t sure if he would use it again.

Things hadn’t worked out the way he thought.

He’d been wrong.

Actually… Izzy had been right that morning.

“Same shit, different day.”

Isidor exhaled, glancing once more at the now-silent device.

“Well… almost right.”

A faint, tired smirk crossed his face.

“Same shit… different decade.”

Special Thanks to @PDU767, @shawn-gold22 for their use.

and as always Special thanks to @polo-drone-039

Do you want to time travel as well? Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166, @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125

[brodygold]

While many Gold bros know @isaac-gold-45 and the Golden Chalice bar he runs, what few people don’t know is that golden bars have existed for decades. Here’s one of our older ones after World War 1 ended. Our speakeasy was an open secret among the guys in the city, attended by many to celebrate the good times coming and peace restored.

And if the straight guys had a few too many drinks… Well, what happens in Gold stays in Gold. That’s what the back rooms are for, right?

[polo-drone-767]

The Most Dangerous Mission

It was an unusual night.

It was an unusual accident.

But the future of the Gold Army must be assured.

If PDU-767 had been human, he might have been asking why me??

But PDU-767 is a Polo-Drone unit. The Hive directed. PDU-767 obeyed.

Now if its teammates could be brought back to their actual ages it would be nice.

PDU-026, Izzy and Riley can be quite the handful!

But the powers that be were working on fix the de-aging incident.

However, this is one of the most dangerous missions that a drone could be sent on

MISSION: BABY SITTING... WITH DIAPER DUTY!!!

PDU-999 CRITICAL ASSESSMENT:

THE MOST DANGEROUS MISSION

An accident. A glitch in the flow of the Hive. And suddenly, the future of the Golden Army rested in the hands of one drone: PDU-767.

Had it been human, perhaps it would have questioned. But PDU-767 is not human. The Hive directed. PDU-767 obeyed.

Now, assigned to the most perilous operation of all—caring for de-aged teammates PDU-026, Izzy, and Riley—this mission demanded a special kind of discipline. Not combat. Not recruitment.

But BABYSITTING… with DIAPER DUTY.

Obedience doesn’t waver. Rubber never falters. A drone endures. And so, PDU-767 prepares for the most dangerous mission for the Hive.

You will obey. You will nurture. You will serve.

Recruitment Agents: @brodygold · @goldenherc9 · @polo-drone-001 · @polo-drone-125

SPECIAL GUEST STARS:

@polo-drone-026; @isaac-gold-45, @rileygold60

[polo-drone-039]

The secrets of the desert

Post by @polo-drone-039 · 3 images

💬 0  🔁 6  ❤️ 14 · Jabir Rides for Gold · The souk was loud, full of heat, shouts, and the smell of oil and dust. Jabir wiped his hands on a

The night was deep and still. Jabir sat at the edge of the oasis, the water smooth and silver under the moonlight. He stepped into it slowly, feeling the coolness climb over his skin, washing away the dust and heat of the day. The world was silent — until a low rumble broke through the quiet.

Headlights cut across the dunes. A motorcycle approached, throwing gold and sand into the air. Jabir shielded his eyes, then smiled as the rider came into view. Number 71. Hayyan.

The bike came to a stop, its engine purring before falling silent. Hayyan swung a leg over, his silhouette sharp against the night sky. Without a word, he took off his clothes walking toward Jabir. The statuary body dove into the water.

Jabir’s voice carried softly through the air. “Hey bro… you too?”

Hayyan’s grin flashed in the moonlight. “Surprised? You know there are no secrets between us, bro. Somehow, you called me here.”

The two stood face to face in the moonlit water, the silence around them alive with unspoken challenge and camaraderie. The desert wind brushed past like a whisper, the oasis reflecting two mirrored figures — calm, focused, connected.

At dawn, they lay side by side on the sand, the stars spread wide above. The air was cool, the dunes glowing faintly in the coming dawn.

Jabir turned to him and smiled. “Hey bro… glad I saw you again.”

Hayyan chuckled. “Yeah, me too. But don’t get soft — I’m winning the ride".

Jabir laughed, pushing himself up. “No excuses then. We both give a hundred percent. Emir Ezan wouldn’t forgive anything less".

He reached for his helmet, eyes glinting in the sunrise. “Now saddle up! Loser serves the winner.”

Their engines roared alive in unison, echoing across the dunes. Two golden trails shot into the horizon, brothers chasing the dawn and the glory waiting beyond the sands.

Jabir is @polo-drone-039

Hayyan is @phoenix-hayyan-pdu-071

Emir Ezan is @polo-drone-001

the desert still has many secrets to tell, come and discover them, contact @polo-drone-001, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166 or @polo-drone-125

[polo-drone-039]

Blood and Silver: Wulfgar’s Hunt

(In collaboration with @polo-drone-075)

Previously...

INSIDE THE FACILITY Mikhail paused at the threshold. An inextricable knot in his stomach whispered caution; it all seemed far too easy. But doubt grants no time to fugitives. No sooner had his hand brushed the handle than the door swung open on its own, inviting him into the darkness.

It happened in an instant. A scarlet shadow exploded from a blind spot. Wulfgar fell upon him in a feral leap, pinning him to the ground with devastating violence. The werewolf knew no compromise: he had an order and he would execute it with brutal efficiency. No one was to leave that room, alive or dead.

Wulfgar’s jaws snapped open to tear through the mage's throat, but his fangs sank into nothingness. The body beneath him flickered, dissolving into a cloud of crimson sparks and the scent of incense. It was an astral projection. A decoy.

Hundreds of yards away, the real Mikhail was already sprinting through the labyrinthine corridors, his heart hammering against his ribs. He knew he had bought himself only a handful of seconds.

Wulfgar, realizing the deception, let out a fierce howl that tore through the air like a blade. The hunt had begun. The wolf bolted, following Mikhail’s magical trail—a prey that now exuded the metallic scent of terror.

THE SILVER TRAP Mikhail streaked through the cold stone passages, as scarlet runes on the walls awakened at the passage of his wake of power. Behind him, the thunder of claws grew closer and closer. Wulfgar was relentless: he smashed through a side door without slowing down, his nostrils flared to inhale the mage’s essence. Blood. Fear. Magic.

Mikhail turned sharply, nearly slipping on the polished marble. He realized that running would achieve nothing: Wulfgar was too fast. He stopped. From the folds of his cloak, he drew an old silver coin, worn and scarred by time.

When the werewolf appeared around the corner, a mass of muscle and gray fur, he found the mage standing still.

"Tired of running?" the beast growled.

But Mikhail had changed. The uncertain posture was gone, replaced by the glacial calm of one who dominates the situation. In that moment, Mikhail ceased to be prey and became Vethys once more.

"You chase only shadows," he replied, his voice steady.

Wulfgar roared and lunged. Vethys flicked the coin into the air. As the metal spun, the sigils etched into its surface ignited with a brilliant silver radiance. The predator’s instinct betrayed the wolf, forcing him to follow the glare for a single, fatal instant.

CLANG.

The coin hit the floor. An explosion of silver magic enveloped the corridor, acting directly on Wulfgar’s nervous system. His body froze mid-air, muscles paralyzed. The creature crashed heavily just steps away from the mage, as arcs of silver lightning chained him to the ground.

(image by PDU-075)

Vethys stepped closer, moving the coin with the tip of his boot to keep the spell active. "Tools, not tricks," Vethys corrected, noting the murderous fury in the wolf's eyes. But the paralysis was already yielding; Wulfgar’s raw strength was snapping the magical chains.

Vethys studied him for a moment. “Impressive resistance,” he murmured.

Wulfgar’s muscles trembled as control slowly returned.

“Unfortunately,” Vethys added softly, stepping back into the corridor, “I only needed a moment.”

THE DOMAIN OF THE RED No sooner had Vethys turned the corner than Wulfgar shattered the bonds and resumed the chase, but this time his nature had shifted. The "Red"—the parasitic energy controlling him—decided to adapt. Scarlet vines shot out from the walls, wrapping around Vethys’s ankle and slamming him to the ground

(image by PDU-075)

Vethys hit the stone floor hard, dragged backward by that pulsing artery of energy. At the end of the hall, Wulfgar stood in a monstrous transformation: swollen muscles, claws like bone daggers, and eyes burning with an unnatural red. His jaws parted, revealing rows of predatory fangs slick with saliva. The Red still had hold of him.

"Target… secured," Wulfgar growled with a layered voice, a mix of his feral tone and the cold command of the Red.

Vethys, however, seemed merely annoyed. With a flick of his hand, a silver light severed the scarlet bond as if it were a fragile thread of silk. But the Red did not surrender. Dozens of tendrils exploded toward him, shattering columns and walls, swathing him in a cocoon of oppressive energy.

"Control protocol… initiated," the entity declared through the wolf.

Vethys remained motionless for a second, then shrugged with a slight smirk. "Yeah, that’s not going to work." With a sharp snap, he shattered the restraints, reducing them to red mist.

The clash became brutal. Wulfgar, propelled by the Red like a projectile, launched into a series of savage attacks. Claws against silver barriers. Stone against flesh. Vethys dodged gracefully, but one slash finally managed to tear through his coat sleeve.

"It’s not even you driving anymore, is it?" Vethys asked, as they were hurled together through a pillar, collapsing into a larger chamber amidst dust and debris.

THE AWAKENING AND THE SACRIFICE Vethys stood up, brushing the dust from his shoulder. "Fine. If you’re going to keep throwing the big dog at me… then I’ll stop holding back."

The wolf roared, but this time the sound was distorted by pain. The Red was pushing Wulfgar’s body beyond biological limits: bones creaking, veins glowing beneath the fur. It was a total invasion, a possession erasing the werewolf’s soul to turn him into a living weapon.

Vethys lunged. Instead of parrying the next blow, he stepped into Wulfgar’s guard and slammed his palm against the beast’s chest, right over the heart.

"Enough," he commanded.

(image by PDU-075)

A silver shockwave hit the werewolf. The scarlet tendrils infesting him began to burn, shrieking like short-circuiting electrical cables. One by one, the Red’s bonds were severed. The crimson color in Wulfgar’s eyes faded, leaving behind a weary, human amber.

The wolf collapsed. Vethys caught him before he hit the ground, laying him down gently among the rubble. "Sleep it off, gentle giant."

The CFG Chamber Vethys wasted no time. He could hear the deep hum of energy emanating from the heart of the structure: the CFG (Crimson Frost Giant) room. When he arrived, he found the armored doors already open. The horror that greeted him was systematic: rows of containment pods where CFG athletes were held prisoner, hooked to machines injecting them with the energy of the Red. For many, the conversion had already begun; too many pods were already empty.

"Damn it."

Vethys moved to the central console. His eyes scanned the data, then a smirk lit up his face. "Well, if I can’t shut it all down… I can at least ruin their day."

His fingers flew across the interface. It was not an act of total destruction, but rather a localized and controlled diversion, specifically engineered to overload the containment systems. This calculated chaos forced the security personnel to prioritize emergency repairs, leaving the chamber unguarded and allowing Vethys to free the players

SYSTEM FAILURE CORE INSTABILITY EVACUATION PROTOCOL

(image by PDU-075)

The diversion was perfect: security personnel scrambled toward the reactor, leaving the chamber unguarded. Vethys moved with superhuman speed, tearing open the remaining pods. He freed the players—disoriented and weakened, but still alive.

"Steady now," he said, helping one of them up. "It’s not over yet."

The overload was escalating fast. Vethys looked back toward the corridor.

"Alright," he said. "Who here can still run?"

A few of the players nodded weakly.

"Good. Because we just stole a few minutes from whatever nightmare this place was planning. Let’s use them."

The Debt of Blood The group of athletes, guided by the silver trail Vethys left on the floor like a compass, headed toward the emergency exits. But halfway there, Vethys stopped. The walls were shaking violently; chunks of the ceiling fell, kicking up clouds of plaster and scarlet dust.

"Go on! Follow the trail to that portal!" Vethys shouted, pointing toward a now-visible exit.

"And what about you?" one of the athletes asked, coughing from the smoke.

"I have unfinished business," the mage replied.

Vethys turned and began running in the opposite direction, back toward the heart of the disaster. The heat had become unbearable. He knew Wulfgar was still there, unconscious, defenseless against the shockwave that would wipe out the base in less than two minutes. The werewolf had been an executioner, but Vethys had seen in his eyes the agony of one enslaved by his own blood. He couldn't let him die like that.

He returned to the chamber where the fight had ended. The room was collapsing. A massive steel beam had fallen inches from Wulfgar’s motionless body.

"Wake up, you stubborn wolf!" Vethys yelled, hoisting the werewolf’s massive frame onto his shoulders. The weight was immense, but silver magic flowed through the mage's veins, granting him unnatural strength.

The floor exploded behind them. Vethys reached the final intersection, but the path was blocked by flames. There was no time to go around. He pulled Wulfgar close and closed his eyes, drawing upon every ounce of his magical resources. A blinding sphere enveloped them both. When the base's shockwave hit, the sphere acted as a kinetic shield, hurlig them through the facility's outer walls just as the entire complex was consumed by a crimson eruption.

Beyond the Ashes Outside, the snow fell silently, trying in vain to cover the residual heat of the wounded earth.

Hundreds of yards from the smoking crater, Mikhail—back in his common attire—coughed violently, spitting out snow and ash. Beside him, Wulfgar’s body lay slumped, but the sight was not a reassuring one.

The werewolf was still alive, but the "Red" had not abandoned him. His body remained deeply consumed by the substance, which continued to pulse beneath his matted fur and within his open wounds like a living parasitic organism. Thin veins of crimson light ran under his skin, and a thin crust of red slime covered much of his chest. There was no cure yet.

Wulfgar opened his eyes with difficulty. They were clouded by a reddish haze, a sign that the internal battle was far from won.

Mikhail knelt beside him "It’s... still inside you". With a solemn gesture, he traced a silver circle in the air over the wolf’s chest. A luminescent magical barrier settled onto Wulfgar’s body. It was a prison of light, a precarious safety measure.

(image by PDU-075)

"I can't heal you, not yet," Mikhail admitted, his face etched with exhaustion. "The Red is something I’ve never seen before. But I’ve secured you. At least you won't be able to do any harm as long as you stay inside the magic circle."

Wulfgar looked at the silver barrier shimmering against the sickly red of his flesh. "You could have left me there."

Mikhail shook his head, watching the moon’s reflection on the snow. "I know you can be saved, Wulfgar. There is still hope beneath all that red and that rage. Now rest. They will find a cure, even if they have to turn every corner of this world upside down."

The mage stood up, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He knew the journey had only just begun and that the Red was a far vaster enemy than a single military base. "Golden Army, SERVE, we are in your hands. All this pain must end."

Join the Golden Army Contact one of our recruiters: @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166, @alton-gold77, or @polo-drone-125