Toy Soldiers: The Office Breach
The corridor of the Golden Army HQ was silent, the polished floors reflecting the overhead lights in long, clinical streaks. Wells moved with his signature alpha swagger, his metallic gold gear catching the light with every rhythmic step. He had his training logs in hand, ready to drop them off before heading to the showers.
As he approached the heavy oak door labeled COACH, he noticed it wasn't fully latched. A thin sliver of warm light spilled into the hallway, accompanied by a sound that made Wells freeze. It was a drum machine, crisp, 80s, and unmistakably nostalgic.
Wells smirked, his cheeky instincts red-lining. He leaned in, peering through the crack.
Inside, Coach was leaning back in his oversized leather chair, his massive frame silhouetted against the glow of tactical monitors. He was still wearing that light gray, shiny metallic DADDY shirt, the fabric shimmering as he moved his shoulders to the beat. His eyes were closed, his backwards baseball cap tilted low, and he was singing along with a low, gravelly soulfulness that Wells had never heard before:
"Step by step, heart to heart… left, right, left, we all fall down… like toy soldiers…"
Coach’s silver whistle wasn’t being used for drills; he was tapping it against his palm, keeping time with the "bit by bit" melody.
Wells couldn't resist. He kicked the door open just wide enough to make a dramatic entrance, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his golden chest.
“'We all fall down,' huh?" Wells drawled, his voice dripping with cocky amusement. “I didn't realize the big bad Coach was such a fan of 80s heartbreak. Should I start marching in time, or do you want to finish the chorus first, Martika?”
Coach’s eyes snapped open. For a split second, the dominant "Daddy" figure looked humanly startled, but it vanished instantly, replaced by a dark, dangerous simmer. He didn't turn the music off. He just leaned forward, the metallic gray spandex of his shirt straining as he rested his thick, corded forearms on the desk.
“You’re late with those logs, Gold,” Coach purred, his voice dropping an octave, easily overpowering the song. “And you just interrupted a private briefing. Do you have any idea what happens to 'toy soldiers' who break rank and barge into my office?”
Wells didn’t back down, his alpha grin widening as he stepped fully into the room. “I don’t know, Coach. You gonna 'tear me apart' bit by bit like the song says? Or are we skipping straight to the part where you admit this is your favorite track?”
Coach stood up slowly, towering over the desk, the DADDY print on his chest practically glowing under the office lights. He clicked his whistle once, his gaze locking onto Wells with a sudden, hypnotic weight that made the athlete’s breath hitch.
“The battle wages on, Wells,” Coach whispered, stepping around the desk with the predatory grace of a man who had already won. “And since you’re so interested in the rhythm, I think it’s time you learned how to follow it properly.”
Coach reached past Wells, his massive hand gripping the heavy brass handle. He maintained eye contact, a slow, wicked smirk spreading across his face as the music swelled.
"Bit by bit, torn apart… we never win…"
With a decisive click, Coach swung the door shut, the lock engaging with a heavy thud that echoed through the empty hallway.
The "Toy Soldiers" melody continued to muffled through the wood, but whatever happened next remained strictly off the record.
Every soldier needs a rhythm. Every jock needs a Master. Start your indoctrination today: @polo-drone-001, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166 or @polo-drone-125.
