Tam Gold

Eddy Gold as Jock

[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:

@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

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

Others in Management:

@danielgold-16

@polo-drone-110

[polo-drone-073]

From Rebels Without a Cause to Disciplined Units

In the 1950s. The young PDU-073—who still had an Asian appearance back then—is riding a motorcycle.

In the 1950s. The engine vibrations subside as Unit 073 (then still sporting an Asian appearance) slows down. The sepia-lit street narrows into a narrow observation corridor. Neon lights flicker. The damp asphalt reflects the polished black form of the drone. Sensory acquisition: controlled. Purpose: active.

Location identified: roadside structure. Sign reads Tom’s Diner.

A cluster of biological males—classified: Greasers—occupy the perimeter. Leather jackets. Cigarettes. Laughter output: irregular, chaotic. Motorcycles idle beside them, crude, inefficient, yet expressive of their subculture identity.

PDU-073 halts. Boots contact ground. Rubber uniform tightens microscopically, maintaining optimal compression. Gold insignia visible. Laurel crest steady. Designation 073 gleams under streetlight.

Greasers initiate verbal output.

“Hey chrome-boy, you lost?”

“Nice shirt, man. Plastic or paint?”

Laughter spikes. 

Mockery detected.

PDU-073 processes input. No deviation.

The Hive has recorded similar interactions. Organic individuals resist what they do not understand. Historical pattern: mockery precedes fascination. Fascination precedes conversion.

PDU-073 steps forward. Movements precise. Mechanical. Eyes lock onto the nearest speaker. Silence expands. The rhythm of the Hive pulses beneath the surface—steady, inevitable.

“Input misalignment detected,” the unit states, voice flat. “Correction pending.”

One Greaser smirks, stepping closer. Proximity breach. He reaches out—touches the glossy fabric.

Contact.

His gaze wavers.

Golden/black spirals now rotate steadily in his eyes.

“What… is that…,” he begins—but the sentence trails off.

Beneath his hand, the material begins to react.

Invisible to the others—not yet.

But perceptible to him.

The rubber responds.

It is not fabric.

It is a system.

The surface beneath his fingers grows warmer. Smoother. More precise.

His hand does not stick—it is guided.

073 does not move.

Observation.

Waiting.

Log in progress.

“Hey, Johnny… what are you doing?” someone from the group calls out.

No answer.

The leader—Johnny—stands rigid. His shoulders tense.

His leather jacket begins to crackle.

A faint sound.

Like tension.

Like material under pressure.

Then—

A tear.

The jacket warps, pulling inward as if being swallowed.

The black thickens. A sheen emerges.

The transformation begins.

“What the hell—?!”

The others step back. Eyes wide. Bodies tense.

But they don’t move fast enough.

Johnny’s clothing is reshaped.

The coarse leather texture disappears.

Instead: flawless, high-gloss black rubber.

A polo shirt emerges.

The collar takes shape precisely.

Two gold stripes appear.

The cuffs adjust.

Perfect symmetry.

On his left chest:

A golden laurel wreath.

But no number yet.

His body straightens. Posture corrected.

His face… becomes calm.

Too calm.

“Johnny… say something!”

He slowly lifts his head.

His voice is no longer his own.

“Unit initialized.”

Silence.

The group freezes.

073 takes a step closer.

“Conversion: successful.”

Johnny—now nameless—turns to the others.

His gaze is empty. Functional.

The spirals remain.

He raises his hand.

“Directive detected. Expansion required.”

One of the Greasers shakes his head, steps back.

“No… no man, stay away!”

Too late.

Johnny grabs him by the arm.

Contact.

That sound again.

A soft, flowing glide.

The transformation spreads.

Like a pattern.

Like code.

The second man screams—briefly. Then he falls silent.

His jacket begins to change as well.

His body follows.

The others try to flee.

But the surroundings work against them.

The ground is slippery.

Their movements are uncoordinated.

Their gazes are fixed—on the spirals.

073 speaks:

“Resistance: inefficient. Adaptation: optimal.”

One by one, they are overtaken.

Touch.

Contact.

Transformation.

Leather becomes rubber.

Chaos becomes order.

Individuals become units.

The motorcycles stand still.

The rain continues to fall.

A new line forms in front of Tom’s Diner.

Five. Six. Seven.

All identical.

No longer rebellious, now disciplined.

Hairstyles precise and austere—matching the discipline.

Black, high-gloss polo shirts.

Golden laurel wreaths.

No numbers—not yet assigned.

They stand.

Perfect posture.

In sync.

PDU-073 surveys the formation.

“Integration complete.”

A brief pause.

Then:

“Numbering to follow. Hive expanded.”

All units respond simultaneously:

“Affirmative.”

The night returns to silence.

But something has changed.

Irreversibly.

The Hive does not rush.

It waits.

And it always expands.

Does this story resonate with you?

Are you next?

The Hive is waiting for you.

No matter how long.

But the Hive knows you'll come eventually.

Contact our recruiters @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125

[polo-drone-073]

Room of Silent Decision

The room had been prepared. Perfectly symmetrical. Subdued lighting. Black walls, crisscrossed by fine golden lines that spread across every surface like a network.

PDU-073 stood at the entrance and greeted the participants.

Its posture was upright. Its breathing was steady. The surface of its suit reflected every movement in the room—calm, controlled, precise.

Participants entered the room one by one, then in small groups.

Young men. Curious. Skeptical. Some laughing, others watching silently.

The monitors were running above them. Short sequences. No direct messages. Just impressions. A body moving in sync with others. Steps in unison. A gaze—empty yet focused. A system without doubt. Then back to everyday life. A person alone. Hesitant. Overwhelmed. Back to unity. Back to order.

Step into a new Identity

"Welcome to the role-playing game: Step into a new identity." PDU-073's voice was calm. Steady. Without wavering. "Every role is selectable. Every identity is temporary. Experience is the goal."

Stations were explored.

Some chose dominant figures. Others athletes. Some silent observers.

And some… stopped.

In front of the "PDU" station.

A simple space. A mirror. A black suit. Gold markings. No explanation.

Just one sentence: "Function replaces doubt."

At first, it was a Game.

They put on the uniform. They straightened up. They tried to imitate the posture.

But something changed.

The monitors kept running. Rhythmically. Repeatingly. Unobtrusively.

They fell silent, their attention sharpened.

Order. Structure. Clarity.

While other roles seemed loud and chaotic, the PDU role was… silent.

Efficient. Simple. No decision needed. No uncertainty. They withdrew. They entered another room as if on cue, completely unnoticed by the other participants.

The conversion to the PDU had begun.

The Remaining Participants

The event eventually ended for everyone else as well. No one noticed the others' absence.

Some laughed. Some discussed. Some were unusually quiet.

Everyone had gained new experiences.

They left the room.

But not unchanged.

Thoughts lingered.

In quiet moments. While falling asleep. While waiting.

A simple thought will keep recurring:

What if … everything were clear?

And some might even dream of being a completely dehumanized Polo-Drone Unit like prototype PDU-073. Finally complete. Finally part of a perfect system.

Meanwhile, the new drones formed up behind PDU-073. Their perfect drone existence began.

In the Near Future

The remaining participants will also find their way to the Hive.

Eventually, when the seed within them has grown strong enough.

The Hive doesn't rush you. The Hive waits. Time is not a limiting factor.

PDU-073 will receive them. PDU-073 will be their mentor.

Can you already feel the seed of the Hive growing within you? Is it strong enough yet?

Then contact @Alton-Gold77 (he'll become a PDU eventually, trust the Hive) or @polo-drone-125 They will guide you into the Golden Army and from there into the Polo Drone Hive.

[polo-drone-070]

Golden Spring Bootcamp 

Spring break was supposed to be simple—sun, drinks, maybe a bit of flexing by the pool, nothing too serious. But this is the Golden Army, and even when we call it a break, it never really is. They called it the Golden Spring Bootcamp—spring break, yeah, but done our way. Training, bonding, pushing each other… and still partying like proper bros. Brody, Grayden, and Trevor had set the tone from the start: we’d enjoy ourselves, no doubt, but we’d grow too. Percival had his own duties to handle and told me to come ahead without him, said he’d join when he could. So I showed up ready—not to organise, not to lead—but to be part of it, to train with my bros, and make the most of it.

🌅 Sunrise Session

I’m out on the beach early, barefoot in the sand, sun just coming up and already warming my skin. Air’s thick, salty, sticks to you in that good way that makes your body feel awake before you even move. Couple bros behind me still half asleep, stretching, yawning, dragging their feet like they forgot where they are, and I can’t help grinning as I call back at them to wake the fuck up because we didn’t come all this way to do nothing.

Trevor’s already there, bouncing around like he’s powered by pure hype, clapping shoulders, handing out water, shouting encouragement before we’ve even started. Grayden’s nearby with his clipboard, trying to line everyone up into something resembling a plan, muttering about rotations and timing while Nate quietly sets everything up—towels, bottles, gear—making sure it all just works without anyone noticing. And then Brody steps forward, calm as ever, just a few words, easy smile, telling us we train hard, look after each other, and enjoy it. Simple. Enough. Everyone feels it.

We start with sprints, and the sand makes it brutal straight away, legs burning, lungs working, no room to coast. Xavier’s right next to me, passes me an earbud mid-run like it’s nothing, music kicking in hard, bass hitting deep, and we don’t even talk much after that—just push, faster, harder, matching each other step for step, shoulders brushing, neither of us backing off. That’s what Bootcamp’s about. No thinking. Just going.

💪 Push Them Harder

When I slow and turn back, I spot Tamerlan a bit behind, breathing heavier, but still locked in. He’s not looking around, not trying to show anything off, just doing what he’s told, serious about it like always. I walk up, grab his shoulder, firm, grounding him, and adjust his posture—tilt his chin up, straighten his back, press a hand briefly against his chest. “Yeah—there. That’s better, Tammy boy.” He nods straight away, focused, takes it in properly.

I take a step back, look him over, then smirk slightly. “Don’t hide it though, yeah? You’ve got it—show it a bit.” He hesitates at that, just for a second, not used to it, so I tap his side lightly. “Go on. Chest up. Let it show.” He adjusts again, a bit awkward, but better—more open, more visible. Still solid, still disciplined, just… starting to own it.

“Good,” I say, giving his shoulder a squeeze before sending him off again. “Now move.”

Leander’s already circling back in, full energy, chest out, grin on his face like he knows exactly what he’s doing. He passes close on purpose, showing off without even trying to hide it. I catch him by the back of the neck as he goes by, stop him just for a second. “Oi—yeah, I see you.” He leans into it straight away, eager.

I tilt my head, looking him over. “Now make it useful.”

That lands. I nudge him forward again. “Put it into the work.”

He takes off again, still expressive, still showing off—but tighter now, more controlled, like the energy’s actually going somewhere instead of spilling everywhere.

Trevor’s still shouting praise at everyone, calling them strong, calling them gold, and you can feel it lifting the whole group. Gabe’s right in the middle of it, already giving everything, eager as anything, and when I nod at him and tell him he’s doing good, he lights up and pushes even harder. Sharif’s nearby too, trying to prove himself, and when I run alongside him and tell him to stop thinking and just go, he does. That’s all it takes sometimes.

I glance between Tamerlan and Leander again—one building himself piece by piece, learning to show it, the other burning with energy, learning to hold it—and yeah… both exactly where they should be.

🔥 Heat and Contact

We move into drills after that—weights, resistance, wrestling in the sand—and it turns properly physical. Bodies colliding, sweat everywhere, hands grabbing, pushing, holding, the kind of messy, loud training that just feels right. I’m back with Xavier, syncing reps without needing to say much, just the rhythm of it, push and hold, again and again until it burns right.

Then I spot Tamerlan again, down on his knees, breathing hard, and I walk over, stand in front of him, tell him to get up. He hesitates—just a second—but I don’t move, don’t change tone, just tell him again, and he gets up. Good. I grab his wrists, set his stance, make him hold it, tell him not to drop. He says he won’t, but I make him say it properly, and he does, and he holds longer than before, shaking but steady.

“Yeah, that’s it,” I mutter, giving him a quick nod. “Hold it. Let them see it.”

And he does—still shaking, still working—but not hiding anymore either.

Leander moves in again not long after, already trying to turn it into a show, pressing close, flexing as he works. I let him for a second, watching, then tap his side sharply. “Stay in it.” He adjusts straight away, grin still there, but his form tightens, reps cleaner, energy controlled instead of spilling out.

Better.

🌊 Gold Chaos

By the time we hit the water, everyone’s wrecked and buzzing at the same time. We run in together, shouting, crashing through waves, grabbing each other, dragging each other under, laughing like idiots. Trevor’s still yelling about hydration while Nate hands out bottles like it’s a mission, and Grayden’s trying to keep some kind of order in the background but it’s already gone—and honestly that’s half the point.

Back at the house later, it’s all noise and movement—pool, music, drinks, bodies everywhere. I’m right in the middle of it, arm around Xavier, Gabe nearby, Trevor hyping someone flexing on a table. Leander’s draped half over me, still warm, still restless, showing off like he always does—but there’s more control in it now, less scattered, like he actually knows where to put that energy.

And Tamerlan—Tammy boy—he’s not hiding off to the side anymore. Still quieter, yeah, still solid—but when he moves, when he stands, there’s more to it. Chest up, shoulders set, letting himself be seen just a bit more. Not forced. Earned.

I grin at that, give him a quick nod when he catches my eye. “Yeah. That’s it.”

I look around at all of them—strong, loud, shining—and I can’t help it.

This is it. This is what Golden Spring Bootcamp is about.

👑 When He Arrives

Evening settles in, sky turning gold, everything slowing just a bit but not really stopping. We’re outside, still talking, still laughing, bodies loose but present, and then something shifts—not loud, not dramatic, just enough that I feel it before I even see it. My posture straightens slightly on its own, instinct more than thought, and I turn.

Percival’s there.

It hits clean. Not tension, not nerves—just focus snapping into place. I step forward without hesitation, movements tighter, sharper now, everything a bit more deliberate.

“Master.”

My voice comes out lower, steadier. Still me—just refined, dialed in.

I glance back at the others for a second, taking them in as they are now—sweaty, loud, a bit scattered but strong as fuck—then back to him, a grin pulling at my face again, easy but proud.

“You made it.”

I gesture behind me, open, casual, but there’s weight to it. “They’ve been going all day. Training, pushing… bonding. Proper Gold shit.”

A small pause, eyes flicking over them again, measuring without overthinking it.

“They’re good,” I say, then add, quieter but firmer, “Got better.”

Tamerlan’s standing solid, not hiding anymore. Leander’s glowing, energy sharp instead of messy. Gabe alert and ready. The rest of the bros holding that same energy—earned, not forced.

I meet his gaze again, chest full, not just for him but for all of it—for the work, the heat, the noise, the way it all came together.

“Come see.”

And yeah. We did proper fuckin’ good.

__________

Cast (by order of appearance)

Maximus (@polo-drone-070), Brody (@brodygold), Grayden (@polo-drone-084)

Trevor (@polo-drone-125), Nate (@polo-drone-166), Xavier (@polo-drone-039)

Tamerlan (@polo-drone-073), Leander (@leander-gold-88), Gabe (@polo-drone-075)

Sharif (@shawn-gold22), Percival (@polo-drone-001).

_________

🟡 You felt that, didn’t you.

That pull. That energy.

That’s what we’re building.

If you’re ready to be part of it — come find us.

Reach out: to our recruiters: @franco-gold94 · @polo-drone-166 · @alton-gold77 · @polo-drone-125

[polo-drone-073]

Golden Spring – Shaping a Trophy Boy

The air smelled of salt, sunscreen, and sweat-soaked ambition. Spring break had turned the coast into a living training ground—bodies everywhere, movement, energy. But away from the loud beach bars, where the light hit harder and the shadows cut deeper, something else was taking place. Something more deliberate.

Maximus [@polo-Drone-070) stood still, his gaze locked onto Tamerlan. No smile, no hesitation—only control. His presence felt like an invisible weight pressing down on Tamerlan’s shoulders. Heavy. Guiding.

“You’re here to be shaped,” he said calmly.

Tamerlan nodded. At first, it had just been motivation—train harder, look better, get stronger. But under Maximus, it became something sharper. Narrower. Focused. Each day began early, before the sun fully rose. Sand clung to sweat-drenched skin, muscles burned, repetitions blurred into rhythm.

Thinking became less important.

The body took over.

Maximus corrected every movement. A grip on the arm. Pressure on the shoulder. Precise. Mechanical. Perfect.

“Less thinking. More execution.”

With every session, Tamerlan changed. His gaze grew emptier, yet more intense. Fixed. His body tensed automatically, even at rest. Muscles grew, defined themselves, responded faster than thought.

Nutrition. Train. Repeat.

Nothing more was needed.

One evening, as the sun dipped low and bathed everything in gold, Tamerlan stood before a mirror. Sweat shimmered across his skin, every muscle sharply defined. Strong. Shaped.

But not complete.

His eyes shifted to Maximus—smooth, flawless, uncompromising.

Then back to his own reflection.

Hair… unnecessary. Imperfect. Disruptive.

The thought didn’t feel like a decision. More like a realization that had always been there.

Perfection is clean. Reduced. Controlled.

Without a word, he picked up the clippers.

The hum was steady. Calming.

Lock by lock fell away. With every pass, his expression softened. Emptied. Focused. When the last trace was gone, he lifted his head.

Smooth. Precise. Unified.

Maximus stepped behind him. Studied the result. Slowly nodded.

“Now it truly begins.”

Tamerlan didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

His body tightened automatically, muscles hard as steel beneath golden skin. His gaze—still, clear, ready.

No more doubt.

Only function.

Train. Grow. Present.

A trophy boy.

Shaped.

Join the Golden Army this spring. Build muscle. Sharpen discipline. Surrender doubt. Whether you crave the golden path of perfection or the sleek obedience of the Polo Drone Hive, there is a place waiting for you. Let stronger hands guide your training. Let your body become purpose. Message @alton-gold77, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166 or @polo-drone-125 to begin. Maximus is also open to curious recruits ready to be shaped.

[polo-drone-073]

Crimson Rain Protocol

The Golden Football Stadium stands silent beneath the towering floodlights. Rows of empty seats stretch upward like golden ribs around the sacred field. At the center of the tribune structure, RED-073 kneels within a growing pool of thick, glistening fluid. Its body gleams with wet crimson sheen, muscles wrapped in living strands of red matter that pulse like obedient veins. The tag around its neck—RED-073—hangs against its chest as its glowing eyes scan the vast arena.

Function status: optimal.

RED-073 extends its clawed hands into the open maintenance conduit beneath the tribune. Metallic pipes shudder as it installs the new system. Tubes slither outward, connecting into the stadium’s dormant sprinkler grid. Each valve fills with the same substance coating its body—the living Red Goo—warm, heavy, eager.

Installation proceeds with mechanical precision.

The drone rises slowly, towering over the field. Its head tilts upward toward the stands. Thousands of seats wait. Thousands of future hosts.

Activation sequence begins.

A deep mechanical hum rolls through the stadium. Pipes vibrate beneath the concrete. Then—

PSHHHHHHHHH.

From every sprinkler head above the tribunes, thick red liquid bursts outward. Not water. Something richer. Heavier. It rains across the seats, the stairs, the rails, coating every surface in shimmering crimson gloss. Droplets splash and spread, crawling slowly as if alive.

RED-073 observes the rainfall with predatory stillness.

The Red Goo spreads.

RED-073 prepares the Golden Stadium for the next phase. When the crowd returns, the rain will begin again. No spectator leaves unchanged.

Seats become soaked. Floors flood. The tribune transforms into a crimson basin prepared for transformation rituals. When spectators arrive, the rain will fall again. When skin touches the fluid, the conversion will begin.

Identity dissolves. Flesh accepts the red.

RED-073 lowers itself into the pool again, claws pressing into the viscous surface as the stadium continues to rain transformation.

Protocol complete.

The arena is ready.

Recruitment Line: Witness the rain. Accept the change. More units are always required.

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

[polo-drone-073]

Before the Impact – Tamerlan's Golden Focus in the Stadium

The stadium is still in the semi-darkness of early afternoon, the stands are empty, yet there is an expectant tension in the air. A single, determined figure moves across the immaculate green turf: Tamerlan. His gaze is calm and focused—every step is calculated. The upcoming match against The Crimson Frost Giants will be no ordinary game. It is a test of strength. A demonstration of discipline and dominance by The Golden Army.

Tamerlan begins with controlled stretching exercises. His movements are fluid and precise. His shoulders rotate slowly, his thighs are stretched, his calves activated.

Every muscle is awakened, every fiber prepared. The grass beneath his cleats springs slightly as he lunges deeply. His breathing is steady—in, out. In, out. Rhythm. Focus.

This is followed by conditioning running training. Short, explosive sprints over 20 yards. Braking. Turning. Another sprint. The body works like a machine. The golden uniform reflects the sunlight as beads of sweat run down his forehead. Speed and precision are crucial against the Frost Giants – they are known for their physical toughness. Tamerlan therefore trains direction changes, acceleration, and stop-and-go movements to stay one step ahead at all times.

Finally, he focuses on his throwing exercises. The football glides firmly into his hands. Grip control. Tension in his forearm. He fixes his gaze on an imaginary target in the end zone. Rotation from the hips, precise arm swing—the ball cuts through the air in a perfect spiral motion. Repeat. Fine-tuning. Repeat.

Every throw is analyzed. Angle, power, timing. No coincidence, just technique.

As the afternoon turns to evening and the sun retreats, Tamerlan remains calm. His body is at operating temperature. His mind is focused. His preparations for today are complete.

He is ready. Concentrated, disciplined, focused on the opponent. The Crimson Frost Giants must not win a single point.

Join the Golden Army and be part of our team.

Contact our recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166, or @polo-drone-125.

--- Greetings to the organizing team: @Polo-drone-070, @polo-drone-084, @polo-drone-166 ---

[alton-gold77]

Brotherhood First

The cabin weekend with Trey and Wells didn’t leave Alton the way he expected.

Physically? He felt great. Strong. Sharp. Dialed in. Mentally? That was a different story.

He hadn’t said much about it out loud. Alton never did. He processed things internally, grinding through thoughts the same way he pushed through pain during training. But this time, something stuck. Something uncomfortable.

Trey’s words echoed in his head more than Alton wanted to admit.

“Sometimes you don’t need to be the commander, bro. Sometimes you just need to be a brother.”

At first, Alton had brushed it off with a smirk and a half-joke. That was his reflex. But alone, the silence hit harder than any weight room personal record ever could.

And then there was Franco.

Franco standing there on the street in that mountain village. Franco being late. Franco looking up just in time to see Alton drive away.

Alton had told himself it was discipline. Standards. Accountability. But the truth — the one that crawled under his skin now — was simpler and worse.

He’d left his best buddy behind. And that didn’t sit right. Not at all.

The GA GYM smelled the way it always did — iron, sweat, rubber flooring, discipline. Normally, that smell grounded Alton. Today, it felt heavier.

He spotted Franco mid-set, jaw tight, focused. Same old Franco. Reliable. Strong. Quietly intense.

Alton stood there for a second longer than usual.

Say something, he told himself. Don’t just stand there like an idiot. So he walked over.

“Yo,” Alton said, voice calm, controlled.

Franco racked the bar and looked up. No smile. No nod. Just a neutral stare.

“What’s up,” Franco replied. Flat.

Yeah. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Alton shifted his weight. Scratched his beard. Cleared his throat — a move none of his bros had ever seen him do when it mattered.

“Listen… about the village. The other day.”

Franco crossed his arms.

“I’m listening.”

That was it. No help. No opening.

Alton exhaled through his nose. “I shouldn’t have driven away. I know that.”

Franco raised an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

Alton frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Franco said calmly, “that sounded like a status report. Not an apology.”

That one landed.

Alton clenched his jaw. He wasn’t good at this. Hell, he was terrible at it.

“Bro, you know how I am,” Alton said. “I expect a lot. From myself. From the people around me.”

“I know,” Franco replied. “That’s the problem.”

Silence stretched between them. Then Alton cracked.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through his control. “What do you want me to do, Bro? Seriously. What do I have to do for you to forgive me? I’ll do anything. You want me to drop right here? Knees on the floor? Beg in front of everyone?”

Franco scoffed. “Alton, don’t—”

Too late. Alton dropped. Right there. GA GYM. Hard rubber floor. Straight onto his knees.

Heads turned. Weights paused mid-rep.

Alton threw his arms wide, theatrical as hell. “OH GREAT FRANCO,” he boomed, voice dripping with mock drama, “FORGIVE ME FOR MY SINS! FOR I HAVE BEEN A DISCIPLINED ASS!”

A couple guys snorted. Someone laughed outright.

Franco stared at him for half a second… then shook his head, laughing despite himself.

“You’re such a damn idiot,” Franco said, grabbing Alton by the arm. “Get up.”

Alton grinned as he stood. “So… we good?”

Franco sighed. “Yeah. We’re good. I can never stay mad at you.”

Relief washed over Alton like a cold drink after training.

“Good,” Alton said. “Because I owe you.”

They stood outside the GA GYM for a moment, the cold air cutting through the leftover heat of training. Franco leaned against the railing, arms crossed, studying Alton the way only someone who’d known him forever could.

“So,” Franco said casually, “you said anything. Right?”

Alton nodded without hesitation. “Anything. No bullshit. No veto. Today’s about you.”

Franco tilted his head, pretending to think — but Alton could already see it in his eyes. That familiar spark. That quiet grin that meant trouble.

“There’s a fair in town,” Franco said. “Lights, rides, noise. The whole thing.”

Alton’s expression froze for half a second.

A fair.

Crowds. Chaos. No structure. No control. Kids screaming, shitty music, random smells, sticky fingers. Everything that clashed with the way his brain worked.

“You serious,” Alton asked slowly.

Franco shrugged. “Dead serious.”

Alton looked away for a moment, jaw tight. This was the exact point where the old version of him would’ve stepped in. Would’ve redirected. Negotiated. Turned it into something more efficient.

Instead, Trey’s voice echoed in his head again.

Brotherhood isn’t about command.

Alton turned back, smirked, and gave a small nod.

“Alright,” he said cool and steady. “Fair it is. You call the shots, bro.”

Franco raised an eyebrow. “No complaints?”

“None,” Alton replied. “Not today.”

Franco smiled — a real one. And that alone told Alton he’d made the right call.

The fair hit them like a wall of noise and color.

Flashing lights. Music clashing from different directions. People shoulder to shoulder. The smell of fried food mixed with sugar and exhaust fumes. Normally, Alton would’ve already been planning his exit route.

Instead, he stayed.

Franco grabbed two hotdogs from a stand and tossed one over. “No macros today,” he grinned.

Alton laughed. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t tell my nutritionist.”

They ate standing up, laughing at some drunk guy yelling at a game booth, bumping shoulders as they walked. Franco pointed things out, pulled Alton from one stand to the next, fully in his element.

At the roller coaster, Franco hesitated for half a second. “You good with this?”

Alton cracked his neck. “Bro, if this thing kills us, at least it won’t be leg day tomorrow.”

The ride rattled, dropped, screamed. Franco yelled like a maniac. Alton laughed so hard his abs hurt — not because of fear, but because he hadn’t laughed like this in a while.

They played games. Ring toss. Duck fishing. Shooting galleries.

At every turn, Alton stepped back.

“You go first,” he said again and again.

When Franco missed, Alton didn’t jump in to fix it. When Franco won, Alton clapped like it was a championship.

At the strength hammer, Franco grabbed it confidently.

“Wanna show them how it’s done?” Franco teased.

Alton shook his head. “Nah. This one’s yours.”

Franco slammed the hammer. The bell rang.

The look on Franco’s face — pure pride, pure joy — hit Alton harder than any personal win ever had.

This, he realized, is what Trey meant.

The can-throwing booth was different.

Franco looked at it, then at Alton. “You sure you don’t wanna take this one?”

Alton smirked. “Oh, I’m taking it. For you.”

He stepped up, eyes narrowing, body settling into that familiar locked-in state. Three throws. Clean mechanics. No wasted movement.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The cans dropped like they were supposed to.

The booth guy stared. “Alright, man… pick your prize.”

Alton pointed at the biggest one. “That bear.”

Franco laughed when the massive teddy landed in his arms. “This thing’s bigger than me.”

“Carry it with pride,” Alton said. “You earned it.”

They walked toward the exit, the fair slowly thinning out. That’s when Alton noticed the kid.

Maybe six years old. Standing with his parents. Eyes wide. Locked onto the teddy like it was made of pure magic.

Franco noticed too.

He slowed. Then stopped.

Alton watched as Franco crouched down, lowering the bear to the kid’s level. “You like him?”

The kid nodded, speechless.

Franco didn’t hesitate. He handed the teddy over.

The kid’s face exploded into joy.

Alton felt something tighten in his chest.

As they walked on, Alton pulled Franco in close, arm heavy around his shoulders. Franco didn’t resist — he leaned into it naturally.

“Bro,” Alton said quietly, voice lower now, real. “You’ve got a heart of Gold. You know that?”

Franco smiled. “Someone’s gotta balance you out.”

Alton exhaled, forehead briefly touching Franco’s head. “You’re my example with that stuff. I’m not wired like you. I push first. Think later. Sometimes I hurt people without meaning to.”

He paused.

“You’re my best buddy. My brother. I’d never hurt you on purpose.”

Franco nodded. “I know. And that’s why I forgave you.”

They kept walking, lights fading behind them, Alton’s arm still firm around Franco’s shoulders — no rush, no command, just presence.

And that’s the lesson Alton learned: Brotherhood comes first. Always.

---

You wanna know what real brotherhood feels like?

Contact our recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166, @polo-drone-125

Featuring: @franco-gold94

---

For the backstory, head over here:

Post by @alton-gold77 · 21 images

💬 0  🔁 5  ❤️ 9 · Frozen Timeout · The Defender stood there like a black tank against the white mountain backdrop, engine idling low, steady,

[polo-drone-073]

A Haunted Castle for the Golden Army

PDU-070 (@Polo-drone-070) had acquired an old castle for the Golden Army — a dark, sprawling estate atop a hill, surrounded by fog, ivy, and creaking trees. It then ordered its assistant, PDU-073, to inspect, analyze, and test the structure — using all its personas.

The Arrival

PDU-073 stood before the estate, skeptical. “This is supposed to become our new headquarters?” it thought. Wind howled through broken windows as moonlight cast pale patches across the façade.

First Impression

Upon entering, PDU-073’s sensors recorded every uneven surface, every temperature fluctuation, every echo. The data streams overloaded its systems. A piercing scream escaped its synthetic throat — a resonance scream that multiplied through the ancient walls, distorted, and came back as a chorus. The castle seemed to answer. Shadows flickered. Something moved — or was it just the light confusing its sensors? Yet PDU-073 remained professional. If the master drone PDU-070 had purchased this estate, there had to be a tactical reason.

The Laboratory

In a tall but heavily decayed room, PDU-073 immediately recognized potential: perfect isolation, solid structure. One of the future drone laboratories. Here, neural synchronizations would be tested. Here, new golden units could be born.

The Gym

The next room was majestic yet covered in webs, the air thick with the scent of leather and rusted iron. “An ideal place for Tam,” PDU-073 noted. Soon, weights would clink and sweat would run down golden skin.

The Sports Hall

A vast hall with a Gothic vaulted ceiling. Every step echoed like a drumbeat. In its inner vision, PDU-073 already saw Tamerlan training there — swift, precise, disciplined. A perfect arena for control and order.

The Kitchen

The large open fireplace was black with soot; a heavy copper cauldron hung crookedly within. Yet PDU-073 instantly knew who would rule this space: Abd al-Mak, the devoted khadim of Maximus. Abd’s purpose was clear — to attend to every comfort of his master. Soon, the scent of coffee and rich Arabic dishes would mingle with the chill of stone.

The Courtyard

PDU-073 stepped outside. The courtyard was shrouded in mist, cobblestones overgrown with moss and grass. A perfect place for drills — cadets like Tamer could practice marching formations here: synchronized, precise, golden.

The Park

Behind the castle stretched a mysterious park. Ancient statues watched over misty paths. Yet in this overgrown sanctuary, PDU-073 saw potential — a future zone for meditation, rest, and training.

The open fields would also serve the Puppies, like Stropp — space to run, learn, and be molded into discipline.

The Coach House

At the far end of the grounds lay an old coach house. Ideal for the Chavs — raw, loud, untamed. Here they could release their energy, hang out, and cause the kind of mischief they were known for.

But maybe Eddy can teach them a little more discipline, so that at least the nonsense they get up to is a little more orderly.

The Cleaning Crews

Before this vision could become reality, the castle had to be restored, organized, and cleansed. A task for the Preppy-Boys. PDU-073 imagined Eduard and others at work — with devices, buckets, and precise coordination — erasing dust and history alike.

Complete satisfaction

Satisfied, PDU-073 left the castle. At the gate, it turned back once more. The door closed slowly, as if the building itself exhaled.

Telepathically, PDU-073 transmitted its report to PDU-070: “Object inspected. Potential detected. Transformation recommended.”

A cold wind swept through the courtyard. The castle seemed to respond — with a faint metallic echo.

------- And you — don’t you want to join us, to fill the castle with life? Contact our recruiter.

@polo-drone-001,

@franco-gold94,

@polo-drone-166 or

@polo-drone-125”

[polo-drone-084]

I'm sending a big thank you out to all of my wonderful teammates and bros in The Golden Army. Especially those that helped me in writing out last match against the Cyan Collective. I could name you all, but the list would go on so long. ----

Do you want to join the Golden Army and join our wonderful team? Contact one of our recruiters: @polo-drone-001 @franco-gold94 @polo-drone-166 or @polo-drone-125.

[polo-drone-073]

Come with me on the Silk Road

Hello Akhis, I am Amir Gold, Emir Ezan's (@polo-drone-001) loyal representative on the Silk Road.

I would like to show you some of the most important cities. I want to start our journey in Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan.

Here stands an equestrian statue of my namesake, Amir Timur, the great Central Asian ruler and general from the 14th century, called Tamerlane because he limped due to a physical deformity.

This is the Bara Khan Madrasa. It is built in the typical style of ancient buildings.

But let's continue our journey. I'm heading to another city on the Silk Road with a name so melodious it might have come from the tale of One Thousand and One Nights. I'm referring to the city of Samarkand, just 290 km from Tashkent. Here we are standing in front of Timur's mausoleum, the Gur-e-Amir Mausoleum.

And when we are in Samarkand, a visit to the Registan, the square where three madrasas are located, is a must.

And let us at least take a look at the back, the Tillakori Madrasa.

Now you know why I love being here so much? As a Golden Bro, I love having buildings around me that are filled with so much gold.

But let's move on to Bukhara. Oh, I want to show you three buildings here.

First, the Citadel (Ark)

On the other hand, the Kalon Madrasa with the Kalon Minaret

and the Mausoleum of the Samaria, which looks to me as if the walls were knitted.

For my last city, I'd like to travel about 450 km northwest to the oasis town of Khiva, whose historic center is well worth seeing. Check out these fortified city walls.

But the view of the city is also truly remarkable!

So, are you interested in experiencing virtual adventures and sporting events with us? Then give it a try and join our brotherhood. Join the Golden Army and the Polo Drones. Just ask our recruiters.

@polo-drone-001 

@brodygold

@goldenherc9

@polo-drone-125

[polo-drone-073]

GOLDEN PAGEANT

Show us your muscles. Tamerlan, an athlete through and through. He also heard about the Golden Army competition to showcase himself. He's steeled his body with discipline, and now he's confident enough to present himself.

Hey, you also want to train in the Golden Army and hang out with the bros afterwards. Or maybe you're more interested in discipline and obedience. We offer both. Talk to our recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @brodygold, @goldenherc9, or @polo-drone-125

[goldenarmyofficial]

Golden Army vs Neon Vortex - part 2

INTERLUDE — Golden Recalibration At the whistle, Gold retreated with control. One up, but not resting. Vortex looked shaken but not broken. Zendrix’s visor glowed slightly brighter as he walked off. Rixen stared straight into the tunnel light.

The Flux Crew moved like dancers around the Vortex bench. Kio, pale-eyed and sure, paced each player, pulse-calming fluid ready. But the rhythm—they felt it falter.

Meanwhile, in the tunnel shadow, the Gold did not rest. They recalibrated.

Nils (@nils-gold-34) moved first—fluid, precise—gloves already chilled to match neural modulation. Trevor (@polo-drone-125) directed breathwork cycles with his headset, syncing heartbeats. Nate (@polo-drone-166) crouched by Franco (@franco-gold94), injecting electrolytes directly into the boot-lining thread, recharging kinetic memory.

Tamerlan (@polo-drone-073) and Ezan (@polo-drone-001) stood still—receiving.

“Don’t correct the rhythm,” Nate whispered to Brock (@brockgold), now lacing his boots. “Bend it.”

Outside, mist parted as The Golden Knight (@polo-drone-084) stepped forward, banner unfurled behind him. Milo (@polo-drone-151) and Chevy (@chevy-gold) spun like signal drones, Riley (@rileygold60) raised two fingers. The counter-wave launched. Golden fans began to rise.

Inside, the Gold were silent. Ready.

SECOND HALF — Neon's Resistance (46'–60')

When the teams reemerged, the Glowring breathed harder.

Cyan threads cascaded from above like trailing code. The Pulse moved in tight bursts—sharp, anticipatory. But the tempo had changed. Gold’s control wasn’t just strategy—it was heat. Momentum.

Substitution: Brock for Izzy (@isaac-gold-45). Izzy had played a good game, but keeping up to a formidable opponent like Zendrix took its strain. Coach Chet (@thecorruptisland) counted on Brock to change the tempo.

Brock entered like static. Sharp. Energetic. Fresh legs, fresh hunger. He met Zendrix’s tempo not with symmetry—but with refusal. He didn’t align—he defied Zendrix’s tempo.

Franco now ruled midfield space. Tamerlan rotated around him like a second sun—no longer only calculating but feeling. Each pass was lighter. Each touch more instinctual. The crowd couldn’t read him.

Zendrix narrowed his eyes.

It didn’t work.

But Neon’s defense hadn’t cracked—not yet.

Axion Drift took command, gestures crisp and absolute. One flick pulled Zane Rho tighter. A nod repositioned Remy Zhou. His eyes flicked to Rixen—sync locked. The gold wave came.

Herc (@goldenherc9) came barreling down the right. Remy stepped in, trying to check his momentum, but the Golden Captain burst past with elemental force. Axion met him mid-turn—reading, predicting. One slide, one mirror angle. No foul. Possession flipped.

Roars surged from both sides. The Golden Knight stood with blade lifted to the Pulse, unmoved.

Then Xavier (@polo-drone-039) pierced the midfield line—threaded a pass like a wire through chaos. Ezan caught it on the run. One fake, one drop—Zane fell.

Herc waited in shadow—marked. Ezan saw no lane. Fired instead.

It bent inward, stung with pace. Rixen moved before the crowd even reacted. He dove—full extension. Hands met the ball. Just enough.

Clang.

Crossbar shook. Crowd shrieked.

Franco dove for the loose ball—instant, perfect. But Rixen moved again—inhuman reflex. One palm—denial. Corner.

The Glowring pulsed. Golden Knight slammed his shield, and led the Golden fans into a roaring chant to maintain the pressure on the resisting Neon. Brock’s arc spun toward Brody. Zendrix rose—unnatural height—snatched it and reset. Out to Tariq.

But Xavier hunted. Intercepted. One touch to Franco. Flick to Ezan. Snap to Brody (@brodygold).

Axion Drift—one step ahead.

One touch. One steal.

Vortex still stood. But pressure made its cracks.

After Rixen’s series of impossible saves, the crowd pivoted. The Glowring thrummed in Pulse blue. Glythorn stood tall again, arms wide, as the Waves ignited the chant: “Distort! Distort!”

Zendrix responded—pushing forward, tapping his band to speed tempo. Coach Syv send Jorren Alix to replace Tariq, faded, exhausted. The fresh new sub, used to overcome pressure, brought new energy. Even Kio began pacing faster, synchronizing breath to signal.

For a moment, it felt like comeback.

Echo in Breakage (61'–70')

Just as Zendrix tried to accelerate the tempo again, Jorren launched a blind-side overlap—perfect timing, perfect decoy. But Christian (@polo-drone-055) read it like script. One calculated arc. One decisive step.

The space collapsed.

Jorren’s rhythm crashed against Christian’s logic—ball stolen, threat evaporated.

No celebration. No sound. Christian was already repositioning. Impetus broken. Comeback denied with cold efficiency.

Then...Minute 63'. On the left wing, Devon (@polo-drone-767) made a rare run. The drone-turned-defender burst forward—Golden kit rippling, motion perfect. The crowd’s noise dimmed in his ears. He didn’t hear cheers or jeers. Just the command in his brain: Advance. Deliver. Serve.

He did.

He found Franco, who volleyed it toward Herc, who dummied past Rey Kiro, pulling two defenders off. And there—slicing through the gap—was Tamerlan.

⚽ GOAL – Minute 64’ Tamerlan – right boot volley, one bounce, net kiss.

He didn’t celebrate. He closed his eyes. The memory of Maximus (@polo-drone-070)’ drill shouts, Nate’s silent nods, Franco’s sessions—all lit behind his eyelids. This was rebirth.

Axion Drift held strong—barely. Rixen Code, the silent firewall in gloves, roared into form. He blocked two more key drives, one from Ezan, one from Herc. But for every save, Vortex’s rhythm broke further. Lex Vale failed to complete a dribble. Kael’s surges were caught early by Christian, whose field-reading now seemed supernatural.

Maximus, in his own orbit, began shadowing Vexon.

The bet had been made. The target was known.

Each sprint Vexon attempted, Maximus met—not with brutality, but with cadence-denial. He shifted lanes. Adjusted pace. Vexon tried triple feints. Maximus didn’t bite. He absorbed.

Vexon’s shine began to dull.

On the sideline, Kio stared, water bottle frozen mid-air. His eyes flicked to Maximus—and for a moment, something unreadable flashed in his silver crest.

Gold pressed. Chet raised two fingers—final shift.

Lightbreak Sequence (71'–85')

Neon Vortex now shimmered with strain.

The Pulse faltered in their wave sync. The Glowring’s cyan lace dimmed, like it sensed the tipping point. Zendrix shifted to deeper control zones, scanning for anomalies—but Gold wasn’t sending signals. They were creating noise. Intentional, gorgeous, overwhelming noise.

Chet gestured. A third substitution.

Basit (@basit015) entered, Brody stepped off with no flash, but purpose. He’d done his part—worn down Zendrix’s options, tethered the midfield threads. Gold shifted shape again—into 5-3-2. The message was clear: lockdown. Hold the rhythm. Kill their breath.

Maximus now surged higher, temporarily unshackled. He passed midfield with a single cold glance at Zendrix, who refused to engage. The coder-mage simply whispered something to his wrist pad and retreated.

Then—minute 79.

A ricochet deflection from Remy Zhou landed at Franco’s feet.

He didn’t hesitate. He never does.

Franco flicked it backward—not to a teammate, but into open space. Tamerlan saw it instantly. But so did Vexon.

For the first time, Vexon broke from Maximus’ shadow, eager for a blitz counter offensive.

He chased.

But something was wrong.

His limbs were too fast. His stride—unfocused. Maximus hadn’t just followed him. He’d tuned him.

Vexon’s own tempo was sabotaged by the very anticipation he once weaponized.

He overran it.

Tamerlan didn’t. He secured the ball, paused, then slipped it left. 

Ezan caught it with a breathless touch, then charged. Jorren tried to shadow—failed. Zane was spun with a fake. The field opened.

But then, Axion.

Like gravity shifting, the defender materialized—line cut, body angling for the tackle. No aggression. Just position. Just intent.

Ezan pushed forward anyway. Two steps. Three. Shot-line blocked.

Axion launched.

And in the blink before collision, Ezan lifted his head, saw Herc roaring down the centerline like a golden missile, and sliced a pass through the vanishing seam of space.

The Glowring lit as the crowd drew breath.

Herc met it in full stride—no hesitation. He planted, swung.

⚽ GOAL – Minute 79’ Blunt force into the upper net. 3–0. Rixen dove—touched it—but power overrode precision. The ball tore through, net rippling behind.

Kio flinched. Then stood motionless.

In the stands, Glythorn—the glitch-born Warden—collapsed into a crouch and let his shoulder emit a slow violet pulse.

The crowd fell silent for a half-second. At midfield’s edge, the Golden Knight took a single step forward and drove his blade into the turf. A shockwave of gold shimmer pulsed outward, rippling through the stands. His visor flickered once—acknowledgment.

Golden fans erupted.

Chevy and Milo twirled golden ribbons. Riley lifted both arms, sweat gleaming, throat gone raw from rally calls. The Gold tide had crossed the border.

The Last Pulse (86'–90') With five minutes left, desperation pulsed through Neon’s veins.

But the Waves didn’t sit. Their chant spiked again—“Break the wall! Pulse them down!” Glythorn crouched, pulsing violet, sending frequency bursts through the upper tiers. The Glowring flickered cyan. On the opposite side, the Golden Knight stood, defiant.

Rixen shouted, hands raised. One last surge. One last cry.

Zendrix stepped higher. Neon’s shape warped—three up front. The last Pulse drive ignited.

Kael Nova received the line-pass—flicked it blind with a phantom heel.

Xavier saw through it, snapped forward. Denial.

Devon cleared long.

Vexon refused to stop. One final burst—legs burning, eyes wild. Basit slid in. Bold, decisive. Claimed the ball like it had always belonged to him. Stood. Cleared.

The Glowring flickered. Glythorn’s visor dimmed.

Basit punched the air.

Franco, Herc, and Tamerlan worked the corner—golden shield around time itself. Rixen Code watched—but didn’t come forward.

He knew it was over.

Final whistle blew.

3 – 0.

Neon light throbbed once.

Then went still.

CLOSING — Goldshine in the Glowring

Maximus didn't celebrate. He walked to Vexon, offered no words—just nodded once. It was enough.

On the sideline, Kio lowered his bottle, stepped off his tempo line, and vanished beneath the seats.

Vernon (@vernon-gold-31) looked up. Clean sheet. Debut complete.

Brody approached Coach Chet, eyes still locked on the fading Pulse. “They came hard,” he muttered. “That keeper—Rixen? Unnatural.”

Chet nodded. “He kept it from five-nil.”

Herc threw a fist to the air. Golden cleats stomped in rhythm.

Kasper (@pdu-090) bounced on the balls of his feet, vibrating with energy. “Next one’s mine, I swear.”

Ghazi (@ghazi-gold-23) slapped his back. “Let’s earn it.”

The bench joined the stomp.

The Dominion League had begun.

And the Gold had struck first.

[MVP : Christian (@polo-drone-055), Maximus (@polo-drone-070), Herc (@goldenherc9), Franco (@franco-gold94), Tamerlan (@polo-drone-073). With exceptional support from Waterboy Nate (@polo-drone-166) as most contributing Golden Army member for the match prep.]

______

Want to taste victory with the Golden Army ? Join us by contacting @polo-drone-125 @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001 or @brodygold.

[goldenarmyofficial]

Golden Army vs Neon Vortex - part 1

Glow Before Impact

The Flux Spiral shimmered like a living entity. Mist swirled low across the synthetic turf, refracting sharp cyan lines drawn in light beneath the stadium shell. Above, the Glowring pulsed in rhythm—first slow, then rising. In the stands, the Waveline squad initiated the first pulse gesture. Silence. Collapse. Rise. An arena of sound, born from motion.

The opening match of the Dominion League was no mere game—it was a rite of new rhythm.

For the Golden Team, this wasn’t just about redemption after their recent volleyball stumble. This was the ignition match. Their first encounter with Neon Vortex. New terrain. New flow. Gold against Pulse.

Inside the changing rooms, golden boots were laced with ritual. Maximus (@polo-drone-070), gleaming with sweat even before kickoff, helped adjust Tamerlan’s collar (@polo-drone-073) like an older brother fixing his kin for battle. Herc (@goldenherc9) and Ares (@goldengod-ares10) leaned shoulder to shoulder, syncing breath, twin gold flames about to strike. Ezan (@polo-drone-001) stood in silence, eyes closed, channeling the bridge between instinct, strategy, and discipline—his golden aura calm and sharp.

Coach Chet (@thecorruptisland) stood with arms crossed, eyes closed. Then he spoke.

“Vortex is light and pattern. You are pressure and fracture. Break their loop. Gold doesn’t react. Gold redefines.”

Herc nodded and turned to face the team.

“We hit first. We hit clean. Let them feel the gold.”

Ezan opened his eyes. Silent agreement.

Across the corridor, in the black-neon pulse of the Vortex prep room, Zendrix Halo sat still. One boot half-laced. Eyes violet-lit. Processing. Rixen Kode exhaled once, glove tips meeting glove tips. No blink. Vexon Ray tapped the bridge of his nose three times—his focus anchor—before brushing rose-quartz strands from his eyes. Kio Vant, stationed beside the Flux Crew water kit, whispered something only his tempo band understood.

Coach Syv Kohlen stood before a grid of light threads.

“You’ve run their goldstorm. Simmed every break and recoil. Tonight, you dictate their collapse.”

Zendrix nodded. “I’ll reroute before they begin.”

Vexon cracked his neck. Rixen pulled down his visor.

“Time to distort.”

The teams emerged. The Pulse was deafening.

On the east side, Glythorn stood atop the Waveline drum post, cape trailing like glitchfire. Every Pulse surge that threaded through Gold’s lines saw him emit a flicker of violet, his signal syncing with crowd chants.

“Vortex! Vortex!” the Waves thundered, pulsing in sync with Zendrix’s commands. Gold resisted—but the sound itself struck like waves against steel.

FIRST HALF — Fractures in Rhythm (0'–26')

The ball moved. Not kicked. Routed.

Zendrix Halo rerouted it through angles no one should see. Neon Vortex controlled the tempo, an early rhythm carved through calibrated pass frequency. Izzy (@isaac-gold-45) and Brody (@brodygold) adjusted posture, resisting the reroute matrix, Zendrik's tactical pattern-web designed to confuse read timing—but losing fractions of control each exchange. Together they held the midfield together—barely. Tamerlan read, hesitated, then fell back into Maximus’ zone. Still too early.

Christian (@polo-drone-055) held the flank—no flash, no waste. Just angles and return paths, recalculated every breath.

Back left, Xavier.(@polo-drone-039) ghosted forward, intercepting a secondary pulse line. ‘You waiting for an invite, Izzy?’ he barked, flicking a pass across field. Izzy grinned without looking. ‘Just letting them dream.’ The midfield tightened. Gold’s left spine began to harden.

On the edge, Vexon flickered into a run—and the Glowring dimmed on cue. Gold had trained for atmosphere, but reality had weight. Crowd pressure. Sonic pulses. Brody barked to regroup. Xavier snapped into place beside Izzy, boots nearly overlapping.

The Pulse roared as Vexon surged towards the goal, blurring past reaction time, acceleration outrunning intention. Maximus pressed hard from behind—just enough. Christian arrived a blink later, carving the angle tight. The collision was avoided, the ball chipped loose. Glowring gasped. Corner. Lex Vale kicks. Good trajectory towards Jett Harmon, but Vernon (@vernon-gold-31) is on it. Clean leap to seize the ball. Secured. Gold held.

Then came the first burst.

Herc and Ares broke through, a twin impact. Lex Vale faltered on the wing. Axion Drift read their path but barely countered the speed. Rixen’s gloves flared—white flash—and the twin strike was denied. Saved.

Coach Chet called the first adaptation. He had read it too: Neon had trained for symmetry. Twin gods had been rehearsed against. He trusted Herc and Ares to press the edge of that expectation—to crack it. But Chet didn’t want the struggle. He wanted dominance. He wanted collapse.

His gaze found Franco (@franco-gold94)—already upright, ready. The boy had studied Vortex’s every loop, counter, and burst in closed drills. And yet Neon Vortex had no read on him. No previous footage. No algorithm ready.

That was the asset.

Now was the moment.

At minute 23, Franco replaced Ares. Rhythm fractured. Gold shifted into 4-4-2. Ares nodded, sweat-slicked, accepting. He jogged to the bench, chest heaving, sweat gleaming. He clapped Herc’s shoulder on the way out. “Crack them open, Cap.” Franco entered light-footed, golden glint in his eye. His touch met the pulse of the pitch and disrupted it.

From that moment, Gold’s current changed.

Pulse Disruptor (26'–45')

Franco’s entry struck like syncopation—off-beat, perfect. Where Herc drove like an unstoppable hammer, Franco danced through shifting zones, slipping behind Zendrix’s pattern field. The midfielder’s LED-threaded boots flared once—then dimmed, conserving momentum.

Kasper (@pdu-090) shouted from the sideline, “That’s the tempo!” Ghazi (@ghazi-gold-23) was already bouncing, mirroring Franco’s movements in place. Brock (@brockgold) leaned into Basit (@basit015). “We’ll hold when they break. Watch.”

Xavier and Izzy had also begun to find tempo. ‘Pulse feels shaky,’ Xavier said. Izzy nodded. ‘They overcommitted to symmetry. Let’s bend it.’ On their next sequence, they curved the midfield—forcing Zendrix to shift.

Zendrix narrowed his gaze, recalculating.

But Gold had found the rift.

Maximus initiated a long pass—not direct, but curving, timed to Vexon’s rising pressure. Tamerlan absorbed it, one touch, then heel flicked it into Franco’s arc. Rixen shifted left, gloves widening—too late.

🏀 GOAL – Minute 26' Franco – precision shot, low corner. 1–0.

On the bench, Kasper nearly lost his balance leaping to his feet. “Franco’s cooking!” Ghazi slammed his forearm into the cooler. “Let me in already!” Ares grinned, towel around his neck, voice still hoarse. “Told you he’d flip it.

And then, the gold swell.

Christian didn’t flinch. He processed. Line read. Shoulder angle perfect. No foul. No breach. Only protocol—executed with chilling calm. He cut the path, met the charge, and nullified threat. No show. Just result. His past mistakes as human had been reforged into present drone perfection.

Across the mist-lit sideline, the Golden Knight (@polo-drone-084) raised both arms—palms glowing. He turned slowly, feeding the crowd rhythm. Gold flags unfurled in motion, Milo (@polo-drone-151) and Chevy (@chevy-gold) locking sync, Riley (@rileygold60) leading the next stomp, with Isaac shadowing him.

Gold’s pressure was no longer tactical—it was ceremonial.

Zendrix slowed the tempo again, trying to lull Gold back into overextension. But Izzy, under pressure, read better now. His coordination with Brody kept the midfield from snapping. Coach Chet observed, nodding—strain visible, but the structure held.

Devon (@polo-drone-767) held the left line like it was ritual. Silent obedience. Golden programming. Radiating. Opposite him, Christian adjusted spacing with quiet precision—no call needed. Two walls, mirrored in function.

Ezan rose in tempo, bridging zones. One interception, then a spiraled switch cross. He advanced, dribbled once, twice—then struck. Rixen dove full stretch to deny the shot, sending it barely wide. The crowd roared. Ezan exhaled, cold and composed.

Final 3 minutes: Vernon faced a low-driven shot from Kael Nova. The rookie keeper dropped low, gloves firm, catching clean. First save. Eyes forward. No theatrics.

Halftime: Gold up, 1–0. Vortex—shaken, not broken.

______

Want to face such formidable opponents with the Golden Army ? Join us by contacting @polo-drone-125 @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001 or @brodygold.

[goldenarmyofficial]

INTO THE GLOW: INSIDE NEON VORTEX

An exclusive Dominion League special from FutureSport Journal by Lin Kael

1. “They don’t play the game. They rewire it.”

There’s a moment—right before Neon Vortex takes the field—when everything stills. The lights at the Glowring don’t dim. They pause. The stadium exhales. The crowd lowers. It’s not fear. It’s not awe. It’s... synchronization.

And then, the signal arrives.

Pink, cyan, shadow. Eight figures pacing into place without a word. Not rebels. Not legends. Just... interference in motion.

In a league full of warriors and tacticians, Neon Vortex doesn’t attack the game. They overwrite it. They move on rhythms you don’t hear until you’ve already lost the beat.

This isn’t a story about dominance. It’s about disruption. And the team built to live inside it.

2. SOVEREIGNS OF SPEED

Nobody remembers when exactly Neon Vortex was founded. That’s how most stories about disruption begin.

The official line is that Coach Syv Kohlen, a former rhythm cognition researcher, drafted the first squad using metronome trials, tempo response tests, and light-delay simulations.

But when you ask the players, they say something different. They say Kohlen didn’t recruit them. They say he tuned them.

“Systems collapse. Patterns dissolve,” Kohlen told me. “But rhythm? That survives. Because rhythm isn’t structure—it’s instinct.”

Watching Neon Vortex train is like witnessing a silent orchestra warm up. No barking. No cones. No hierarchy. Just pulsing drills in partial silence—players darting in waves, switching roles mid-sequence, their breath matching beat cues only they seem to hear.

Midfielder Rey Kiro dances through a cloud of mist. Defender Zane Rho twists into unnatural angles without stumbling. Striker Vexon Ray vanishes behind a training net, reappears on the opposite line like he walked through static.

📎 Training Notes:

Drills change tempo mid-set.

Light-response tests track emotional reaction lag.

Players are never told their positions. They discover them in motion.

“A plan,” says Kohlen, “is just an echo of a moment that hasn’t changed yet. I don’t want echoes. I want evolution.”

And the evolution is vivid. Even the kits glow differently depending on who wears them. Even the field lights shift not with score—but with possession. Kohlen didn’t build a team. He launched a waveform.

3. INTERVIEW: ZENDRIX HALO — THE PROGRAMMER’S EYE

Recorded in Tunnel Chamber B, beneath The Glowring. Interview by Lin Kael.

Zendrix arrives precisely—not early, not late. Silent except for the echo of boots on concrete, his violet-lit eyes scan the empty chamber as if it might be lying to him. He sits without a word, spine straight, legs folded like he’s already calculating airflow. Every breath is deliberate. Every pause is measured. This is not a player waiting to be interviewed. This is a system booting quietly.

LK: You’re the central node for Neon Vortex. Does that come with pressure? ZH: Pressure’s an input. You route it or you crash. I route it. LK: Tomorrow is opening night. Golden Army. Big venue. Big stakes. ZH: They’ll press high. They trust momentum. Momentum is readable. LK: You’ve already mapped them? ZH: I’ve simulated forty-two scenarios. Thirty-two end in midfield seizure by minute sixteen. LK: You make it sound clinical. ZH: Emotion fogs latency. Precision cuts cleaner. LK: Do you enjoy playing? ZH: I enjoy the silence between decisions. The stillness that happens just before you make a move you think is yours. LK: So you don’t react? ZH: I don’t react. I pre-write. You move in real time. I’ve already left that. LK: That sounds isolating. ZH: It’s not. My teammates are the waveform. I’m just the stabilizer. LK: How do you read them? ZH: Vexon is velocity out of sync—he breaks rhythm, on purpose. Axion follows breath over movement. Rixen only moves when intent solidifies. LK: And your style? ZH: I wait for the moment your confidence leans forward. That’s when I cut the line. LK: You don’t celebrate goals. Why? ZH: Because it’s not the end. It’s just proof the code worked. LK: People call you the coder-mage. Do you like that? ZH: Doesn’t matter. Mages draw power from feeling. I draw it from inevitability. LK: One word to describe your play? ZH: Inescapable.

4. THE GLOWRING – WHERE THE FIELD BREATHES

It doesn’t hum. It listens.

The Flux Spiral, known to all fans simply as The Glowring, isn’t the loudest venue in the Dominion League. But it’s the one you feel in your spine.

There are no banners, no chants. Instead, there’s resonance—a low, modulated pulse that shifts with every ball touch. Each seat is rigged with responsive vibro-light threads, reacting to field control. When Zendrix holds midfield? Violet drift. When Vexon charges? Sudden pink flares across the lower bowl.

The lighting doesn’t blind. It adapts. Shadows pulse in tempo. Mist coils and rises in patterns that echo formations. Before kickoff, the entire dome dims and pulses once—a signal: the signal begins.

Crowds don’t cheer randomly. They respond in sync. A thousand rhythms becoming one.

Insert — Side Voice: Riku Laan, substitute winger, age 19, on walking onto the pitch for the first time as a warmup player:

“The first time I stepped onto the Glowring… it felt like I’d walked into someone else’s heartbeat. The lights tracked my pace. The mist rolled at ankle-height. It didn’t feel like I was about to play. It felt like I was about to merge.”

5. INTERVIEW II — VEXON RAY: LIGHT AT SPRINT SPEED

Recorded pitchside, Glowring East Track. Interview by Lin Kael.

He doesn't sit. He jogs in place during the interview, lacing and unlacing his boots between answers. Shirt off. Neon wrist tape. He talks like he runs—blurts, spins, catches himself, and restarts mid-thought like the last sentence was too slow.

LK: Vexon. One word to describe how you play. VEXON: Splash. LK: Splash? VEXON: Yeah. You don’t see a splash forming. You just get hit by it. That’s how I move. One second you're reading the play—the next, you’re soaked in the afterimage. LK: What’s happening in your head during a breakaway? VEXON: It’s gone. It’s not thought. It’s pull. Like gravity flips and now I’m not sprinting, I’m falling forward through a gap that barely exists. I can’t explain the moment between touch one and touch two. It’s blur. Beautiful blur. LK: Do you think defenders can adapt to you? VEXON: They try. That’s their first mistake. If you’re trying to follow, you’re already late. I’m not a route. I’m a system flickering out of sync. LK: People call you the pulse of Neon Vortex. Do you agree? VEXON: I’m the spike. The sudden peak. Zendrix reads tempo. Axion holds it. Rixen deadens it. I break it. LK: How do you prepare for matches? VEXON: Noise. Heat. Two cans of Crosstide Redline—the coldest I can find. Then I sit in the mist tunnel and imagine the crowd as static. I move best when everything else stutters. LK: Last one. Why play this way? VEXON: Because I don’t want to be remembered for scoring. I want people to say: “I didn’t even see him go.”

6. THE CURRENT – NEON VORTEX LINEUP GRID

Calibrated to rhythm. Synced to the Pulse.

They aren’t a formation. They’re a waveform. A grid in constant shift. Every player runs his own pulse signal—but together, they resonate. Some strike like static bursts. Others stall time, letting plays unfold like stretched frequency. No captain, no locked roles. Just alignment.

This is the Current—the active rhythm cycle of Neon Vortex.

⚡ FORWARDS

#11 – VEXON RAY (Striker) – Distortion stride. Scores before defenders register movement. #19 – LEX VALE (Left Winger) – Blurs through ghost lanes. Heat-trail steps. Never repeats. #22 – KAEL NOVA (False Nine) – Cuts through space like memory. Shoots eyes-closed on rhythm.

🔮 MIDFIELDERS

#7 – ZENDRIX HALO (Central Control) – Ultraviolet eyes. Encrypted passes. Sees outcomes before play. #14 – REY KIRO (Attacking Mid) – LED gloves. Spins midfield like vinyl. Drops tempo shifts. #6 – TARIQ VENN (Defensive Mid) – Shadows space, not players. Moves inside silence. #17 – JETT HARMON (Right Mid) – Flank threader. Passes slice formations without sound.

🛡️ DEFENDERS

#4 – AXION DRIFT (Center Back) – Anchor timing. Tackles hit beat-perfect, never early. #3 – ZANE RHO (Left Back) – Legs twitch pre-move. Presence destabilizes attackers. #2 – REMY ZHOU (Right Back) – Shuts down intent. Reads before contact. Silent lock.

🧤 KEEPERS

#1 – RIXEN KODE (Keeper) – Still as code. Moves only when fate is forced.

🔄 BENCH

Blaise "Refract" Quen – Backup Keeper Milo “Edgeware” Haan – Pressure buffer Sorin “Bytecrash” Verne – Tempo breaker Jorren “Pulsefeed” Alix – Mid-sync restarter Tav “Sonarlink” Drel – Lane dualizer

7. INTERVIEW III – RIXEN KODE: Firewall in Gloves

In the shadows of neon thunder and attack surges, one figure waits, unmoved. Rixen Kode does not shout. He does not celebrate. He watches.

The Glowring’s pre-match lightshow still fades when Rixen enters the field. The goalkeeper’s entrance is silent, slow, and deliberate—opposing fans lower their cheers by instinct. His visor reflects nothing but field lines. When he stops at the edge of the box, he pauses, left heel lifted by exactly one centimeter, and breathes in. Nothing more.

INTERVIEW EXCERPT:

LK: You don’t seem to move much in the warmups. RK: “I’m already playing. The game starts when I enter the air.” “Stillness is a weapon. The game flinches before I do.” LK: How do you track the action so precisely? RK: “I don’t track it. I feel the field tense. Every player has a pulse. The moment it breaks rhythm, I know where the strike’s coming from.” Q: And the visor? Some say it’s augmented. RK: “No need. My body is tuned. Visor keeps me quiet.” Q: You barely speak to your defenders. How do you coordinate? RK: “They breathe with me. When I exhale, they close. When I blink, they break.”

Rixen doesn’t smile when the interview ends. He simply nods and turns away. The moment he disappears into the corridor tunnel, the hallway temperature drops.

8. SUPPORT CORE – SYNCING THE SYSTEM

Pulse from the Ground.

Behind every rhythm, someone sets the tempo.

In Neon Vortex, the visible brilliance is wired to unseen precision. The team’s cohesion—light-speed as it may appear—is calibrated behind the sidelines by the Support Core: Coach Syv Kohlen, the kinetic-mythic mascot Glythorn, and the all-male sideline unit known only as the Flux Crew.

They don’t cheer. They don’t shout. They sync.

🎙️ MINI INTERVIEW: KIO VANT – Waterboy in the Flux Crew

“You can’t just run out and squirt water in someone’s mouth here. You have to know the beat. You time it. You move like you're part of the pass. When Vexon calls for fluid, he’s mid-burst—your step has to match his third stride. Any slower, he misses. Any faster, he trips the rhythm. I train for that.”

“We don’t talk during matches. Coach doesn’t want clutter. But we signal. Zendrix gave us a pattern language. One blink, one knuckle touch, one heel-tap. That’s enough.”

“People think we’re just support. That’s fine. But ask Vortex what happens when we’re missing sync. You’ll see it in their eyes. They feel the current falter.”

Kio’s eyes flash with pale certainty as he leans forward, a silent beat pulsing through his fingers. Behind him, the rest of the Flux Crew begin warmup pacing—measured, graceful, and perfectly out of sync until the moment they collapse into form.

Support Core Breakdown

Coach Syv Kohlen – The Harmonic Disruptor Delivers instruction through silence, vibration, and predictive rhythm.

Mascot: Glythorn – The Signal Warden Avian-abstract polygonal specter. Prism-wings sync with crowd rhythm. Glitches into display at tempo breaks, performs ritual “Signal Spread” on goal surges.

Flux Crew – Field Sync Division 5–7 sideline operatives. Assigned to match player rhythms and recalibrate between pulses. Never speak on field. Kio leads the Left Channel. The others follow cue.

9. CLOSING SPREAD – “LIGHTBREAK APPROACHES”

“We don’t enter the match. We upload.” – Zendrix Halo “They’ll blink. That’s all I need.” – Vexon Ray “If you’re chasing us, you’re already off-beat.” – Kio Vant

⚔️ The Dominion League Begins Neon Vortex vs. The Golden Army Match 1 – Flux Spiral / The Glowring “Lightbreak: The First Pulse”

One team shines like heritage. The other flickers like warning. Let the signal burst. ____ Want to face such formidable opponents with the Golden Army ? Join us by contacting @polo-drone-125 @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001 or @brodygold.

[goldenarmyofficial]

Ligthbreak : The First Pulse

💥 Golden Team vs Neon Vortex 💥 Dominion League Match 1 – Soccer Season Opener

The Dominion League is here. A new soccer season ignites—and it starts with a clash no one has seen before.

⚡ Golden Team steps into the glow of the Flux Spiral, home of Neon Vortex —a team of pulse, chaos, and speed. This is the first-ever match between them. A debut, a statement, a signal.

This isn’t a final. This isn’t a knockout. But it is the moment where the league starts to breathe. The First Pulse. Because everything begins here.

📍 Match Type: Soccer 📍 Location: Flux Spiral Stadium aka The Glowring 🕒 Prep ends: July 5th – 07:00 GMT

✨ Golden Fans—your energy matters. Follow us, reblog the buildup, hype your faves, and spread the gold. We shine brightest when we shine together.

— 👟 Want in on the gold? Tryouts are open. DMs welcome. Contact our recruiters @polo-drone-125, @polo-drone-001, @goldenherc9 and @brodygold.

[polo-drone-073]

Final training spurt

Now, as we approach the final stretch before the match against Neon Vortex, it's all about being fit and ready. Training is important for all players, regardless of their physical condition and appearance.

But also the analysis of your own data.

So let's get to work—we can do it. We will win!

Hey, come on, you also want to join us, our great team or our sporty, logical drones. Contact our recruiters: @brodygold, @goldenherc9, @polo-drone-001 or @polo-drone-125