The manor shimmered beneath the golden haze of early evening. Light streamed through vaulted windows that lined the hall, painting warm streaks across polished marble floors and gilded trim. Outside, pine trees rustled under a hushed wind, but within the estate, silence reigned—a sacred kind of silence that only came before ceremony. The dining table stretched endlessly under a vaulted ceiling, long and smooth, carved of dark wood and inlaid with gold-leaf runes. Thirteen seats had been prepared. Each one placed with calculated intent. Each plate, each glass, positioned with precision.
The scent of garlic, black pepper, and butter drifted from the kitchen like an offering. Steam lifted in delicate whorls, blending with the faint incense placed in the corner—a mixture chosen to complement Daddy’s musk, not overpower it. This night, every detail mattered.
Preppy Boy Nathaniel moved with reverent purpose. His crisp white button-down clung to his frame, tucked neatly into soft tan khakis that creased perfectly at the ankle. Over it all: a gleaming golden apron, tied expertly behind him, the letters PDU-166 subtly stitched into the hem. Around his throat sat his most treasured piece: a black rubber collar, gold lettering glowing under the chandelier light. It read: "001's boy."
His black glasses were spotless. His cochlear implant glowed faintly, receiving only the frequency of the Hive—and Daddy’s voice. Every movement was focused. Every breath intentional. He wasn’t cooking for himself. He was preparing a sacred offering.
The Alfredo sauce simmered low, thick with cream and laced with freshly grated parmesan. Nathaniel had started before dawn, making the pasta dough by hand. He’d kneaded until his arms ached, rolled until every ribbon was smooth, sliced until uniformity pleased him. Because it had to please Daddy. Not for praise—no. But because serving Daddy was identity. There was no self outside of that truth.
He stirred slowly, carefully folding the sauce. A second pot boiled beside it, infusing the air with rosemary. The table behind him gleamed with set plates: engraved with gold filigree, each one bearing the symbol of the Hive. Crystal glasses caught the light, casting prismatic streaks across the walls. There were chilled bottles of golden tea, fizzy citrus water, a carafe of Hive-brewed coffee—each selected to match its guest.
And tonight, the guests were many.
The door creaked open. Nathaniel turned.
He knew the silhouette at once: tall, broad-shouldered, bathed in golden light. Daddy Ezan. Emir. Director. Master.
He wore his golden kit like royalty wears armor. It clung to his muscular body in a way that redefined perfection. Golden eyes locked with Nathaniel’s, and time halted. Nathaniel felt his knees weaken, his heart stutter. He didn’t fall, but only because he knew Daddy had not commanded it.
“You’ve done well, boy,” Ezan said, his voice velvet thunder.
“Yes, Daddy,” Nathaniel whispered. “Dinner is ready.”
Guests began to arrive. Not with fanfare, but with precision.
Tamerlan, dressed in his own glistening golden kit, stepped in with silent grace. His eyes met Nathaniel's and offered the smallest nod—respect between servants of the same will.
PDU-767, fully rubbered, stood like a statue—sharp, polished, exact.
Nils (34) and Franco (94) entered together, their archivist attire pressed and formal, golden pins gleaming over their hearts. Boone (96) trailed behind them, younger, eyes wide but composed.
PDU-090 moved with silent fluidity. No words. Just purpose.
Trevor (125) followed, golden kit contrasting with the vibrant bottle of electrolyte mix in his hand. His gaze scanned the setup with approval.
Grayden (084) entered with a kind smile, adjusting the pin on his chest that marked him as Head Mascot.
DC-009 (Hamza) and DC-011 (Brody) came together, uniforms impeccable, posture unshakable. Polo Drones always walked like they owned the floor. Tonight, they lent that power to Daddy.
PDU-070, not in Drone mode, but as Preppy Boy Maxwell, entered quietly, blazer clean, hair slicked back with exact parting. He gave Nathaniel a look that conveyed both authority and fraternity.
Elijah, taller than most, appeared last. Golden eyes like Ezan's. Calm, sure, proud.
Everyone else found their assigned spot without command. Nathaniel remained standing, positioned just behind Ezan’s right shoulder.
No one moved. No one touched a utensil.
Until Daddy lifted his fork.
The sound of his utensil against the plate was like the start of a hymn. One by one, each guest followed suit. There was no chatter. Just the soft sound of appreciation, of discipline, of structured joy.
Nathaniel watched Daddy take the first bite. Ezan chewed slowly, savoring.
Nathaniel exhaled. His hands trembled. A golden flush crept up his neck. He had pleased the Emir. Served the Head. Earned another night of identity.
He stood in place, eyes low, body still. Daddy’s hand reached back, touching the choker at Nathaniel’s throat.
“You’ll kneel later, boy,” he said softly.
Dinner continued. Plates were emptied. Drinks were refilled. But Nathaniel didn’t eat. That wasn’t his role tonight. He existed in service.
Later, when the plates were cleared and the final toast made, Daddy stood.
“Tonight,” he said, “this Hive eats as one. Obedience binds us. Purpose feeds us. And those who serve with discipline and devotion will always have a place at my table.”
Nathaniel stepped forward. He kneeled.
Daddy’s hand rested on his head.
“You fed your brothers. Now they will feed you.”
Ready to bond? To obey? To find your place?
Whether Pup, Bro, or Drone—you’ll find a family in Gold.
Contact our Captains: @brodygold | @goldenherc9 | @polo-drone-001 | @polo-drone-125
