Alton Gold

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

Having only just joined the Golden Army, Justin knows he still has plenty to learn. Every throw is a chance to improve, and every play is an opportunity to become someone his teammates can rely on. As he launches the disc across the countryside field, he gives everything he has behind the throw, hoping his teammates will be there to receive it. Justin is determined to show that he belongs by putting his teammates in the best position possible.

Justin quickly learns that being a good teammate means working just as hard without the disc as he does with it. Sprinting back into position with the opposing players closing in, he focuses on improving his defensive instincts and staying between his opponents and his teammates. He knows he still has plenty to learn, yet he refuses to give up on a play. Every run, every interception attempt, and every defensive stand teaches him something new. For Justin, joining GA means becoming someone his teammates know they can count on when the pressure is on.

As the match continues, Justin begins to understand how important communication and teamwork are. He watches his teammates, learns where they like to move, and tries to anticipate their next play. Whether he's carrying the disc or creating space for someone else, he wants every action to benefit the team. Being new to the Golden Army means he still has a lot to improve, and Justin embraces the challenge. He wants to become a stronger offensive and defensive player so that, when his teammates need him, he can step up and support them.

After the final play, Justin finally gets a chance to relax with his new teammates. Sitting together in the countryside with a non-alcoholic drink in hand, he realizes that joining the Golden Army is about more than learning how to play. It's about finding his place among the brothers around him. He knows there is still plenty of work ahead, with more throws to perfect, more defensive drills to master, and plenty more games to come. Tonight, he is simply grateful to be part of the team. Justin raises his drink with the others, ready to keep improving and give his best for the Golden Army.

-----------

Trey had spent the entire morning trying not to say it.

That was the problem.

Once someone told you SERVE-331 had something called HIMBO MODE, it became very difficult to think about anything else.

Especially while 331 stood beside him at Hawthorne Farm being unbearably precise.

“Your stone is misaligned by three centimeters.”

Trey looked at him.

“Of course it is.”

331 adjusted it.

“Now it is correct.”

Trey stared at the glossy black uniform.

The silver gloves.

The perfect posture.

Then thought about PDU-055’s letter upstairs.

Reclassify: HIMBO.

He looked away.

“No.”

331 tilted his head.

“You said no.”

“Not to you.”

“There is no one else here.”

“That is not helping.”

By late morning, Trey’s restraint was weakening.

331 was measuring fence spacing.

Again.

Trey watched him.

“Do you ever just do something without calculating it?”

“Affirmative.”

Trey waited.

331 continued measuring.

“When?”

331 looked up.

“Drone answered your question.”

Trey closed his eyes.

“You are impossible.”

“That assessment is inaccurate.”

That did it.

Trey turned.

“331.”

“Query?”

Their eyes met.

Trey immediately regretted everything.

Then said:

“Reclassify: HIMBO.”

331 went completely still.

Trey froze.

“Oh.”

The letter had not been joking.

He should have stopped.

He did not.

“Stand still. Receive. Obey. Function.”

A faint silver shimmer traveled across 331’s black uniform.

Then the black changed.

Bright pink spread over the entire glossy bodysuit.

Not subtle pink.

Not tasteful pink.

Aggressively pink.

The silver gloves and boots remained.

SERVE-331 still gleamed across his chest.

331 blinked.

Then smiled.

Huge.

Warm.

Ridiculous.

“Hey, Trey.”

Trey stared.

“No.”

331 looked down at himself.

“Whoa.”

He turned slightly.

“Pink looks good on me.”

Trey began laughing.

“Oh, this is real.”

331 looked back at him.

Then smiled wider.

“Looks good on you too, probably.”

Trey stopped.

“What?”

331 stepped closer.

“I mean, gold is working for you.”

Trey stared.

331 looked him up and down.

“Really working for you.”

“Oh no.”

Mr. Hawthorne approached.

He stopped.

Looked at 331.

Looked at Trey.

“Why is he pink?”

Trey pointed helplessly.

“Himbo mode.”

331 grinned.

“Mr. H!”

Mr. Hawthorne blinked.

331 spread his arms.

“Be honest.”

He turned slightly.

“Too much?”

Mr. Hawthorne stared.

“The pink?”

331 smiled.

“No, me.”

Trey bent over laughing.

“This is a nightmare.”

331 looked at Trey.

“Aw.”

He stepped closer.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why?”

331 smiled.

“You look cute when you laugh.”

Trey straightened instantly.

Mr. Hawthorne began walking away.

“Nope.”

Trey pointed after him.

“You cannot leave me with this.”

331 leaned toward Trey.

“You can leave with me.”

Trey’s eyes widened.

“What?”

331 grinned.

“Smooth, right?”

“No.”

“Felt smooth.”

“It absolutely was not.”

331 nodded.

“Still got you blushing.”

“I am not blushing.”

“You totally are.”

The stone wall did not improve.

331 picked up a rock.

Looked at it.

“Bro.”

Trey sighed.

“What?”

“This one is huge.”

“You regularly carry heavier things.”

“Yeah.”

331 flexed one arm.

Trey stared.

331 noticed.

“Oh.”

The grin returned.

“You like that?”

Trey immediately looked away.

“No.”

“You looked.”

“I was checking whether you still had arms.”

331 leaned closer.

“And?”

Trey folded his arms.

“Unfortunately.”

331 laughed.

Then picked up another stone.

“Hey, Trey.”

“What?”

“You know your arms are really good too.”

Trey stared at him.

“Good?”

“Very.”

331 nodded seriously.

“Strong. Veiny. Nice shape.”

Trey nearly dropped his stone.

“Stop reviewing my arms.”

“I’m complimenting them.”

“You’re flirting.”

331 smiled.

“Yeah.”

The lack of denial somehow made it worse.

Then Biscuit appeared.

The goat walked straight toward 331.

331 crouched.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

Trey froze.

“Do not flirt with the goat.”

331 looked offended.

“I’m being friendly.”

“You called her gorgeous.”

“She is.”

Biscuit leaned against him.

331 scratched her head.

“Who’s my pretty girl?”

Trey stared.

“This entire farm prefers you.”

331 looked up.

“I prefer you.”

Silence.

Trey blinked.

331 smiled.

“Way more.”

Trey pointed.

“No.”

“What?”

“You cannot just say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because you are in HIMBO MODE.”

331 looked thoughtful.

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Trey stared.

Then laughed despite himself.

“That was actually good.”

331’s smile became triumphant.

“See? We’ve got chemistry.”

“We absolutely do not.”

“Sure.”

331 stood.

“Want to hold hands?”

Trey walked away.

“NO.”

331 followed.

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“I thought about it enough.”

“So you thought about it.”

Trey stopped.

“You are weaponizing stupidity.”

331 smiled.

“Thanks.”

“That was not a compliment.”

“Still sounded cute.”

Lunch was worse.

331 discovered pie.

Then honey.

Then decided Trey needed to try both together.

“I have eaten pie before.”

“Not like this.”

331 pushed the plate toward him.

Trey looked down.

“What did you do?”

“Honey.”

“That is too much honey.”

“There is no such thing.”

“There absolutely is.”

331 leaned forward across the table.

“Open.”

Trey stared.

“What?”

331 held up the fork.

“Come on.”

“No.”

“One bite.”

“331.”

“Please?”

He smiled.

Trey hated that smile.

Mostly because it was working.

Trey took the bite.

331 watched him closely.

“Well?”

Trey chewed.

Annoyingly good.

He shrugged.

“It’s fine.”

331 leaned closer.

“You love it.”

“I do not.”

“You make the same face when you like food as when I compliment you.”

Trey nearly choked.

Mr. Hawthorne stood up.

“I’m eating outside.”

At 13:07, the doorway incident happened.

331 was carrying a basket.

He was looking at Trey instead of where he was going.

This was important.

“You know,” 331 said, “your hair is really cool.”

Trey frowned.

“What?”

“The blond bit.”

331 smiled.

“And the blue.”

“Thank you.”

“You should let me touch it.”

“No.”

“Just once.”

“No.”

“Bet it’s soft.”

“331, look forward.”

“What?”

THUNK.

331 walked directly into the pantry doorframe.

Trey stared.

331 stared at the doorway.

Then rubbed his forehead.

“Wow.”

Trey covered his face.

“The letter actually said this would happen.”

331 looked at the frame.

“That thing came out of nowhere.”

“The house is older than both of us.”

331 turned back to Trey.

“Worth it.”

“What?”

“I was looking at you.”

Trey’s mouth fell open.

“You walked into a wall because you were flirting with me.”

“Doorframe.”

“That does not make it better.”

331 smiled.

“Made you smile though.”

Trey hated that he was right.

By afternoon, 331 had become unbearable.

He complimented Trey constantly.

His shoulders.

His hair.

His smile.

His legs.

His “excellent farm vibe,” whatever that meant.

At one point Trey bent to lift a sack.

331 said:

“Wow.”

Trey remained bent over.

“Do not.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said wow.”

“That was an involuntary response.”

Trey stood slowly.

“You are absolutely out of control.”

331 smiled.

“Could be worse.”

“How?”

“I could stop flirting.”

Trey stared.

331 winked.

Trey turned away.

“Where is the off switch?”

Rain forced them into the barn late in the afternoon.

For the first time all day, 331 became quiet.

He leaned against a timber post.

Pink uniform glowing absurdly in the dim light.

Trey sat opposite him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Still feeling... himbo?”

331 smiled.

“Extremely.”

Trey laughed.

Then 331 looked at him differently.

Still relaxed.

Still cheerful.

But softer.

“You know what’s weird?”

“What?”

“I notice you more like this.”

Trey paused.

“You noticed me before.”

“Yeah.”

331 nodded.

“But before I noticed data.”

Trey looked at him.

331 continued.

“Your pace. Heart rate. Strength. Fatigue.”

“And now?”

331 smiled.

“Now I notice that you’re handsome.”

Trey stared.

“331.”

“And funny.”

“Stop.”

“And stubborn.”

“That one isn't flirting.”

“I like it.”

Trey looked away.

331 laughed quietly.

Then:

“You’re fun to be around.”

That landed differently.

Trey glanced back.

331 wasn’t joking.

Trey smiled despite himself.

“You’re not terrible either.”

331’s grin returned instantly.

“So you like me.”

“I did not say that.”

“You basically did.”

“No.”

“Should I come sit beside you?”

“No.”

331 moved beside him anyway.

Their shoulders touched.

Trey looked at him.

“You do not understand personal space anymore.”

331 smiled.

“I understand it.”

Pause.

“I’m ignoring it.”

Trey laughed.

At sunset, they walked back to the farmhouse.

331 was still pink.

Still cheerful.

Still flirting.

He looked at Trey while walking.

“You know what would look good?”

Trey sighed.

“What?”

“You in pink.”

“No.”

“Matching.”

“No.”

“Couple look.”

Trey stopped.

“Couple?”

331 kept walking.

“Yeah.”

“331!”

He turned backward while walking.

“What?”

“Look where you're—”

THUNK.

Second doorframe.

331 stopped.

Trey stared.

331 rubbed his forehead.

“Again?”

Trey began laughing.

“You literally cannot stop looking at me long enough to enter a building.”

331 smiled.

“Can you blame me?”

Trey looked away quickly.

“You are staying in this mode forever.”

“Promise?”

Trey froze.

331 grinned.

“Kidding.”

Pause.

“Mostly.”

That night Trey returned to his bedroom and picked up PDU-055’s letter.

He checked the front.

The back.

The envelope.

Nothing.

No deactivation instructions.

Trey slowly looked toward the window.

Outside, pink SERVE-331 stood in the yard with Biscuit.

He noticed Trey immediately.

331 waved.

Then blew him a kiss.

Trey stared.

“No.”

331 blew another.

Trey shut the curtain.

Then opened it again.

331 was still smiling.

Trey pointed down at him.

“Stop flirting with me!”

331 called back:

“Can’t hear you, handsome!”

Trey closed the window.

He looked at the letter.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Day Four had started with a secret command.

It had ended with SERVE-331 wearing bright pink, walking into doorframes because he was staring at Trey, and apparently deciding flirting was now a full-time occupation.

Trey sat on the bed.

Then smiled.

He hated to admit it.

But HIMBO 331 was incredibly fun.

The problem was—

Trey still had absolutely no idea how to turn him off.

A collaboration with @serve-331

Wells found a sunflower field and immediately misunderstood the assignment.

Most people see sunflowers and think: peaceful countryside, summer air, cute photos, maybe a wholesome little walk between the rows.

Wells saw them and thought: stage lighting.

So there he was, shirtless in denim cutoffs and boots, standing in the middle of all that yellow like the field had been planted specifically to match his brand.

Which, according to Wells, was “basically agriculture with better marketing.”

The sun was setting.

The barn was glowing.

The flowers were behaving.

Wells was not.

He stepped through the rows with one hand brushing the blooms and the other resting near his belt, wearing the kind of smirk that said he absolutely knew the difference between “rustic charm” and “rural menace.”

And he chose menace.

“Bro,” Wells said to one of the sunflowers, “you get it. Always face the light. Very Golden Army of you.”

The sunflower did not respond.

Wells nodded anyway.

“Strong silent type. Respect.”

The sunflowers kept turning toward the light.

Understandable.

Wells was doing the same thing, technically. Just with more abs and worse intentions.

By the time he looked back over his shoulder, holding one sunflower like an apology he had no intention of meaning, the entire field had lost its claim to innocence.

Because apparently standing there looking illegal in a farm-adjacent way was not enough.

Wells dropped into the grass, stretched out between the flowers, boots dusty, skin shining, denim working overtime, looking like late summer had been personally recruited into the Golden Army.

No gym.

No locker room.

Just sunflowers, sunset, and Wells proving that country boys do not need much equipment.

A field.

A belt buckle.

A bad idea.

That was plenty.

Somewhere in the distance, the barn stayed silent.

Smart barn.

It knew better than to get involved.

Brock woke to scratching at the farmhouse door.

He opened his eyes.

Scratching again.

Then—

Baaaaaa.

Brock sat up.

"...No."

He pulled on his boots and walked downstairs.

The front door opened.

The goat was standing on the porch.

Brock stared at it.

The goat stared back.

"You."

Baaaaaa.

Behind Brock, one of the Bros appeared.

He looked at the goat.

Then at Brock.

"Didn't we put him in the pen?"

"We did."

The farmer came outside.

His expression immediately changed.

"How'd you get out?"

The goat casually walked past him and headed toward the fields.

Brock pointed.

"That's what we'd like to know."

---

The farmer checked the gate.

Still closed.

No broken fence.

No obvious gap

Nothing.

The Bros gathered around it like investigators examining a crime scene.

One crouched down.

"Could've crawled underneath."

Another shook his head.

"Too small."

Brock inspected the latch.

"Maybe somebody forgot to lock it."

The farmer shook his head.

"Was locked."

Everyone looked at the goat.

The goat was eating a flower.

"He's doing this on purpose," one Bro said.

Brock sighed.

"He's a goat."

The goat looked directly at him.

Brock narrowed his eyes.

"Don't."

---

They put the goat back.

Five minutes later, he was gone again.

This time he was standing beside the barn.

Then the vegetable garden.

Then the pond.

Then, somehow, beside Brock while Brock was repairing a section of fencing.

Brock stopped hammering.

The goat stared at him.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Baaaaaa.

One Bro started laughing.

"Bro, he's following you."

"I'm not being followed by a goat."

The goat took another step toward Brock.

Brock took one step backward.

The goat took another.

Everyone lost it.

---

Eventually, Brock decided enough was enough.

The Bros carefully walked the goat back toward its enclosure.

They closed the gate.

They checked the latch.

Then checked it again.

The farmer nodded.

"That should hold."

Everyone turned away.

They took three steps.

Brock stopped.

Something felt wrong.

He slowly looked back.

The goat was standing beside them.

Silence.

Nobody moved.

The farmer closed his eyes.

"Oh, for heaven's sake."

Brock stared at the goat.

The goat stared at Brock.

Then Brock noticed something.

The latch on the gate was still closed.

He walked over.

Looked at it.

Then looked at the goat.

"...You know how to open this."

The goat blinked.

Brock reached toward the latch.

The goat immediately nudged it with its nose.

Click.

The gate opened.

Everyone stared.

The goat walked through.

One Bro whispered:

"He's smarter than us."

Brock watched the goat stroll away.

After a moment, he nodded.

"Don't tell anyone."

To be continued...

Sometimes the strangest member of the team isn't wearing gold.

The Bros came to the countryside expecting farm work, fresh air, and a little peace. Instead, they've acquired a four-legged escape artist who seems determined to outsmart them at every turn.

Maybe joining the Golden Army means learning to handle anything life throws at you—even a goat with an attitude.

Ready to join a brotherhood where every day brings something unexpected?

GOLDEN ARMY ROAD LOG // OREGON COAST

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

There are drives where the destination matters.

And then there are drives where Peyton Gold-23 realizes the road itself is the destination. Out in the country, in the countryside.

Behind the wheel of his MINI Cooper Countryman, Peyton follows U.S. Highway 101 toward Astoria, Oregon—windows cracked open, music playing, and mile after mile of green Pacific Northwest countryside rolling past.

🌲 HIGHWAY 101 — NORTHBOUND

The Countryman feels made for this road.

Peyton cruises through forests, farmland and little communities scattered along the highway. Hills rise ahead while glimpses of the enormous Columbia River begin appearing between the trees.

Then Peyton sees it.

The Astoria–Megler Bridge.

Long, steel and seemingly endless, the bridge stretches across the Columbia toward Washington. Peyton guides the MINI onto the span and watches the landscape open around him.

Water on both sides.

Ships below.

Oregon behind him.

Washington ahead.

And one very happy Golden Army driver in the middle of it all.

PEYTON GOLD-23 STATUS: GOLDEN ROAD TRIP ACTIVE.

🌉 ACROSS THE COLUMBIA

Peyton slows his thoughts and simply enjoys the crossing—the towering bridge structure, the river traffic far beneath him and the immense sweep of the Columbia meeting the Pacific nearby.

After enjoying the drive, Peyton turns the Countryman back toward Oregon.

Astoria is waiting.

🏘️ THE HILLS OF OLD ASTORIA

Back in town, Highway 101 carries Peyton beneath the bridge and into one of the most distinctive little cities on the Oregon coast.

The MINI climbs Astoria’s steep streets past old houses perched along the hillsides. Victorian architecture mixes with weathered waterfront buildings, docks and glimpses of the Columbia.

Peyton takes his time.

No rushing.

No schedule.

Just another hill, another curve and another view worth remembering.

At the top of one particularly famous hill stands his next destination.

🏛️ THE ASTORIA COLUMN

Peyton parks the Countryman and walks toward the Astoria Column.

The climb to the top is worth every step.

From high above Astoria, Peyton looks across the rooftops toward the Columbia River, Youngs Bay, forests, distant mountains and the enormous bridge he just crossed.

For a few minutes, Peyton simply stands there.

Golden Army adventures do not always require speed.

Sometimes they require stopping long enough to appreciate exactly where you are.

⚓ BACK TO THE WATERFRONT

Soon Peyton and the Countryman are descending toward the river again.

Astoria’s working waterfront provides an entirely different view of the city—piers, old warehouses, fishing boats and vessels moving along one of America’s great waterways.

And then come the BIG ships.

🚢 SHIPS ON THE COLUMBIA

Peyton parks near the waterfront when a massive cruise ship comes into view.

Compared with the little Countryman, the vessel looks enormous.

Peyton walks along the riverfront watching cruise ships and smaller river-cruise vessels visiting Astoria while commercial ships move through the Columbia shipping channel beyond them.

The maritime activity fascinates him.

One moment he’s watching tourists exploring the waterfront.

The next he’s watching a huge oceangoing vessel moving slowly downriver toward the Pacific.

Peyton could stay here for hours.

But Highway 101—and another little detour—calls.

🌾 JOHN DAY RIVER

The Countryman heads east from Astoria through lush countryside toward the John Day River area.

Here the landscape becomes quieter.

Peyton explores the roads near the water, admiring the houseboats and floating homes tucked into the river scenery. Forested hills rise behind them while reflections shimmer across the water.

The atmosphere couldn’t be more different from the busy Astoria waterfront.

And that’s exactly why Peyton likes it.

Big bridge.

Historic town.

Cruise ships.

Quiet river.

Houseboats.

Country roads.

All within one Golden Army drive.

🌅 THE GOLDEN HOUR

Late afternoon sunlight begins pouring across the countryside as Peyton turns the MINI back toward Astoria.

The Countryman winds around another green hillside.

The Columbia flashes between the trees.

The Astoria–Megler Bridge appears once more in the distance.

Peyton lowers the window and lets the cool Oregon air rush inside.

Somewhere behind him are the houseboats.

Ahead are the old streets of Astoria, the river ships and that enormous bridge stretching toward the horizon.

Peyton smiles and presses gently on the accelerator.

GOLDEN ARMY ROAD LOG: ASTORIA COMPLETE.

But Peyton Gold-23 already knows the truth.

With a MINI Countryman, Highway 101 and another road disappearing around the next bend…

the adventure is never really complete.

PEYTON GOLD-23 // GOLDEN ARMY // COUNTRY (PEYTON HEARD COUNTRYMAN).

ASTORIA • COLUMBIA RIVER • OREGON • U.S. HIGHWAY 101

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

PDU-016 met @wells-gold58 and @alton-gold77 at the country fair for an evening of sweat, beer, music and craic.

-----------

By the third morning at Hawthorne Farm, Trey had reached an important conclusion.

The farm was fighting back.

Not metaphorically.

Personally.

The mud had already destroyed one pair of trainers.

The fence posts had nearly destroyed his shoulders.

The hay had infiltrated places hay had no legitimate reason to reach.

And SERVE-331 remained irritatingly untouched by all of it.

Trey had therefore adjusted his strategy.

Today, he would avoid doing anything stupid.

He would work normally.

He would not compete.

He would not attempt unnecessary feats of strength.

He would not prove anything to anybody.

This plan survived approximately seven minutes.

The problem began with a goat.

Trey was carrying a bucket of grain across the yard when something struck him behind the knee.

Not hard.

Just hard enough to make his leg buckle.

The grain bucket tipped.

Half its contents poured over one muddy boot.

Trey caught himself against a fence post.

Then turned slowly.

A brown-and-white goat stood behind him.

Short horns.

Square pupils.

Completely blank expression.

Trey stared.

The goat chewed.

“Did you just hit me?”

Chew.

Trey looked across the yard.

“331.”

SERVE-331 was near the barn stacking repaired rails.

He turned immediately.

“Query?”

Trey pointed at the goat.

“Did that thing just headbutt me?”

331 looked at the animal.

Then at Trey.

“Affirmative.”

Trey waited.

Nothing else came.

“Why?”

“Unknown.”

“That’s helpful.”

The goat stepped forward.

Trey stepped back.

“Don't.”

It lowered its head.

Trey narrowed his eyes.

“Don't you dare.”

The goat charged.

Trey jumped sideways.

The goat missed him, hit the bucket instead, overturned the rest of the grain, and immediately began eating.

Trey stared.

331 watched.

Trey turned toward him.

“Are you going to do something?”

“The goat is eating.”

“I know what it’s doing.”

“You asked whether I was going to do something.”

“Yes.”

“What action would you prefer?”

Trey gestured toward the animal.

“Control it.”

“It belongs to Mr. Hawthorne.”

“Then control it respectfully.”

The goat lifted its head.

Grain stuck to its nose.

Trey pointed at it.

“See that face? That is not innocence.”

Mr. Hawthorne appeared from around the side of the barn.

“Morning.”

Trey pointed.

“That thing attacked me.”

Mr. Hawthorne looked at the goat.

“Biscuit?”

“Apparently.”

“She likes attention.”

“She tried to remove my knee.”

“She nudged you.”

“She committed violence.”

331 said:

“Impact force was low.”

Trey turned.

“Whose side are you on?”

“I do not believe the goat has established sides.”

Trey looked at him.

Then Biscuit.

Then Mr. Hawthorne.

“This place is unwell.”

Mr. Hawthorne laughed.

Trey picked up the grain bucket.

Biscuit followed.

Trey stopped.

She stopped.

He moved.

She moved.

“No.”

She moved again.

Trey pointed toward the field.

“Go.”

Biscuit looked at him.

Trey lowered his voice.

“I mean it.”

Biscuit headbutted the bucket.

Trey nearly dropped it again.

331 looked away.

Trey saw.

“Did you just laugh?”

“Negative.”

“You did.”

“It did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

331's face remained neutral.

Trey stared at him.

The goat chewed.

“Great. Now the robot's developing opinions.”

After breakfast, Mr. Hawthorne opened the machinery shed.

Trey followed him inside.

The large red tractor sat near the back wall.

Old.

Mud-streaked.

Heavy.

Impressive.

Trey stopped.

“Oh.”

Mr. Hawthorne did not even turn around.

“No.”

Trey looked offended.

“I haven't said anything.”

“You made the face.”

“What face?”

“The face you made before carrying three hay bales.”

“That proves nothing.”

“You've already walked toward the tractor.”

Trey looked down.

He had.

331 entered behind them.

Trey glanced at him.

Then back at the machine.

“I can drive that.”

Mr. Hawthorne sighed.

“No.”

“I've driven plenty of vehicles.”

“Cars?”

“Yes.”

“Motorbikes?”

“Yes.”

“Tractors?”

Trey paused.

“Vehicle-category overlap.”

Mr. Hawthorne looked toward 331.

331 said:

“Operational controls differ significantly.”

Trey turned.

“Did anybody ask the appliance?”

“Negative.”

“Then hush.”

331 complied.

Mr. Hawthorne rubbed his forehead.

“Trey.”

“What?”

“You do not know how to drive a tractor.”

“I know how driving works.”

“That isn't the same thing.”

“It’s close enough.”

Mr. Hawthorne looked at him for several seconds.

Then exhaled.

“Fine.”

Trey brightened.

“Seriously?”

“Slowly.”

“Obviously.”

“You stay on the upper track.”

“Yep.”

“You do not cross the south field.”

“Fine.”

“The lower ground is still saturated.”

“Understood.”

“You do not turn near the drainage ditch.”

“Got it.”

Mr. Hawthorne pointed at him.

“And if 331 tells you to stop—”

Trey frowned.

“Why would I listen to him?”

“Because apparently you won't listen to me.”

Trey looked at 331.

331 looked back.

Trey climbed into the tractor.

“This is going to be easy.”

331 said:

“Historical evidence suggests confidence frequently precedes complication.”

Trey stared.

“That was unnecessary.”

“It was accurate.”

The first ten minutes went perfectly.

Trey considered this important.

He started the tractor.

Correctly.

Mostly.

It stalled once.

That did not count.

The machine rolled out of the shed.

Trey sat high above the yard with one hand on the wheel.

He grinned.

“This is easy.”

331 walked beside the track carrying fencing tools.

Trey looked down.

“See?”

331 looked up.

“You are moving forward.”

“Exactly.”

“That is one tractor function.”

Trey frowned.

“You are physically incapable of encouragement.”

“Drone previously identified your wood splitting as successful.”

“That felt insulting.”

“It was not.”

Trey accelerated slightly.

331 continued walking beside him.

Trey looked down.

“Stop.”

331 turned his head.

“Specify.”

“Stop keeping up with the tractor.”

“It is walking.”

“Walk slower.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm driving.”

331 reduced his pace.

Trey looked pleased.

Then glanced back.

331 was now several metres behind.

Trey frowned.

“Actually, that’s worse.”

331 returned to his original pace.

“Thank you.”

The morning job involved transporting fencing supplies to the northern field.

Simple.

Load.

Drive.

Unload.

Repeat.

Trey quickly got comfortable.

He reversed without stalling.

He managed a tight turn near the barn.

He parked beside a gate almost perfectly.

Mr. Hawthorne watched from the yard.

Trey raised both arms.

“Told you!”

“Hands on the wheel!”

Trey grabbed it again.

“Still counts!”

331 placed another bundle onto the trailer.

Trey leaned down toward him.

“Admit it.”

“Specify.”

“I’m good at this.”

“You have completed the assigned route without incident.”

Trey smiled.

“Exactly.”

“So far.”

The smile disappeared.

“Why did you add that?”

“It is accurate.”

“Take it back.”

“Negative.”

“Robot.”

“Fourth audible use today.”

Trey stared.

“You’re still counting?”

“Affirmative.”

“That is deeply weird.”

331 lifted another bundle.

“So is naming an opponent who is unaware of the competition.”

Trey blinked.

“What?”

331 turned away.

“Nothing further.”

Trey narrowed his eyes.

That had sounded suspiciously like a joke.

He made a mental note.

Biscuit returned at 10:43.

Trey spotted her near the gate.

She stood on top of a stone wall.

Watching him.

“Absolutely not.”

331 looked over.

“The goat is stationary.”

“She is plotting.”

“There is no evidence—”

Biscuit jumped directly into the trailer.

Trey pointed.

“Evidence.”

The goat immediately began chewing the twine around a fencing bundle.

“Oi!”

Trey stopped the tractor.

He climbed down.

“Get out.”

Biscuit chewed.

“Biscuit.”

Chew.

“Move.”

Chew.

Trey climbed into the trailer.

331 approached.

“Do not corner the animal.”

“I am not cornering her.”

“You are reducing available exit paths.”

“I’m asking politely.”

“You said ‘move.’”

“Very politely.”

Trey reached toward her.

Biscuit jumped over the trailer wall.

Trey smiled.

“See?”

Then she ran directly toward the tractor.

“No.”

She jumped onto the front step.

“No.”

Then onto the wheel housing.

“Biscuit.”

Then onto the hood.

Trey stared.

The goat stood proudly above the engine.

331 stared.

Trey pointed toward the ground.

“Off.”

Biscuit ignored him.

“Off.”

Nothing.

Trey moved around the front.

“Come on.”

Biscuit moved away.

Trey went left.

Biscuit went right.

Trey went right.

Biscuit went left.

He stopped.

331 watched.

Trey turned toward him.

“Are you enjoying this?”

“It is observing.”

“That is not what I asked.”

331's mouth moved.

Barely.

Trey froze.

“You smiled.”

“It did not.”

“You did.”

“Negative.”

“You absolutely did.”

Biscuit jumped down.

She ran between Trey’s legs.

Trey spun.

His boot slipped.

He caught himself against the tractor.

331 said:

“Your attention is divided.”

Trey pointed after the goat.

“She started it.”

Biscuit ran through the open south gate.

That should have been the end of it.

Mr. Hawthorne had explicitly said not to take the tractor into the south field.

Trey remembered.

He also noticed Biscuit had stolen a length of yellow survey ribbon.

Mr. Hawthorne shouted from the yard.

“Leave her!”

Trey climbed onto the tractor.

“I’ve got her.”

331 looked up.

“False assessment.”

Trey paused.

“Did you just tell me no?”

“Affirmative.”

“I don’t like that.”

“The south field is saturated.”

“I’m staying on the edge.”

“Mr. Hawthorne explicitly instructed—”

“I am not driving across it.”

Trey started the engine.

331 remained still.

Trey looked back.

“You coming?”

“Affirmative.”

331 began walking behind him.

Trey grinned.

“Knew it.”

For the first fifty metres, nothing happened.

The ground held.

Biscuit ran ahead.

Trey followed.

“This is controlled.”

331 walked beside the tractor.

“You are outside the assigned route.”

“Controlled deviation.”

“The goat does not require retrieval by tractor.”

“She has the ribbon.”

“The ribbon has negligible value.”

“It’s the principle.”

331 looked toward Biscuit.

“What principle?”

“That she does not win.”

331 turned his head toward Trey.

“That statement explains several recent behaviors.”

Trey ignored him.

Biscuit stopped.

Trey slowed.

The goat looked back.

Then ran downhill.

Trey followed slightly.

331 said:

“Stop.”

“I’m fine.”

“The ground ahead is darker.”

“That is called soil.”

“It indicates increased saturation.”

“I’m not going far.”

The steering changed.

The front tires entered softer earth.

Trey felt it immediately.

He corrected.

The tractor continued.

Biscuit ran farther.

“Come here!”

She did not.

331 said:

“Trey.”

“I see it.”

“You should reverse now.”

“I can turn around.”

“The field is too soft for a turn.”

“I’ve got loads of room.”

Trey turned the wheel.

The front tires cut sideways.

The tractor lost momentum.

Trey added throttle.

The rear wheels spun.

Mud sprayed behind them.

Trey frowned.

“Okay.”

331 stopped a safe distance away.

“Stop accelerating.”

“I’m getting traction.”

“You are digging the rear wheels deeper.”

Trey accelerated again.

The tractor sank.

Not much.

Enough.

He stopped.

Silence.

Biscuit stood twenty metres away.

Still holding the ribbon.

331 looked at the tractor.

Then at Trey.

Trey lifted one hand.

“Don’t.”

“Drone has not spoken.”

“Your face has.”

“Its facial expression has not changed.”

“That makes it worse.”

Trey tried reverse.

The tires spun.

Mud sprayed.

Nothing.

331 said:

“Stop.”

Trey stopped.

The rear wheels were now deeply embedded.

He leaned back.

“Right.”

331 waited.

Trey looked around.

“This field is badly designed.”

331 said nothing.

“The gradient is stupid.”

Silence.

“And these tires are rubbish.”

More silence.

Trey looked at him.

“You can say something.”

“The tractor is stuck.”

“Anything except that.”

Mr. Hawthorne arrived ten minutes later.

Hands on hips.

Hat low.

Expression grim.

Trey remained in the seat.

Mr. Hawthorne looked at the tracks.

Then the wheels.

Then Biscuit.

Then Trey.

“You went into the south field.”

“Temporarily.”

“I told you not to.”

“I stayed near the edge.”

“You’re not near the edge.”

Trey looked around.

“Relatively.”

Mr. Hawthorne pointed.

“Why?”

Trey pointed at Biscuit.

“She stole the survey ribbon.”

Biscuit dropped the ribbon.

Trey stared.

“Oh, now you drop it.”

Mr. Hawthorne removed his hat.

Rubbed his forehead.

Put it back on.

“How stuck?”

Trey smiled weakly.

“Define stuck.”

331 answered immediately.

“Rear wheels embedded approximately thirty-one centimeters. Front right tire approximately eighteen. Forward and reverse movement currently ineffective.”

Trey glared.

“Traitor.”

331 looked at him.

“It is not the tractor.”

Mr. Hawthorne started laughing.

Trey stared at both of them.

“That wasn’t funny.”

Mr. Hawthorne laughed harder.

Trey looked at 331.

331’s face stayed neutral.

Mostly.

Trey pointed.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Almost smiling.”

“It is not.”

“You are.”

Recovering the tractor took nearly an hour.

Boards.

Tow chain.

Second vehicle.

Mud.

Lots of mud.

331 handled the heavy positioning.

Trey insisted on helping.

He stepped into the field.

His boots sank to the ankle.

331 looked down.

Trey raised one finger.

“Not one word.”

“Accepted.”

They packed boards beneath the wheels.

331 adjusted one.

Trey moved it.

331 moved it back.

Trey stared.

“Why?”

“Optimal angle.”

“It was fine.”

“It was not.”

“It would have worked.”

“It is now more likely to work.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Noegative”

“That sounded suspicious.”

“It was factual.”

Trey climbed into the cab.

331 stood beside the wheel.

“Low throttle.”

“I know.”

“Steering straight.”

“I know.”

“Do not accelerate aggressively.”

“I know.”

“Do not—”

Trey leaned out.

“331.”

“Query?”

“I know.”

331 paused.

“Your previous behavior suggests otherwise.”

Trey stared at him.

Mr. Hawthorne shouted:

“Ready?”

“Yes!”

The chain tightened.

The tractor shifted.

Trey gave it light throttle.

The rear wheels climbed onto the boards.

Mud churned.

The tractor moved.

Then suddenly pulled free.

Trey shouted.

“Yes!”

He drove onto firm ground.

Stopped.

Jumped down.

Raised both arms.

“There!”

Mr. Hawthorne stared.

“There what?”

“Recovered.”

“You got it stuck.”

“And got it out.”

“331 got it out.”

Trey looked at 331.

“We got it out.”

331 said:

“That is more accurate.”

Trey smiled.

“See?”

Mr. Hawthorne sighed.

Biscuit returned.

She walked toward the tractor.

Trey saw her.

“No.”

The goat continued.

“No.”

She approached the front tire.

Trey stood between them.

“Not today.”

Biscuit stopped.

Trey crouched slightly.

They stared at one another.

“You caused all of this.”

Chew.

“You know that?”

331 stood nearby.

“The primary causal sequence involved multiple human decisions.”

Trey looked over.

“Whose side are you on?”

“The evidence.”

“Wrong answer.”

Biscuit stepped forward.

Trey held out both hands.

“Stay.”

She stopped.

Trey blinked.

331 blinked.

Trey slowly stood.

“Oh.”

Biscuit remained still.

Trey smiled.

“Did you see that?”

“Affirmative.”

“She listened.”

“Affirmative.”

Trey stepped backward.

Biscuit followed.

“Stay.”

She stopped.

Trey grinned.

“331.”

“Drone observed.”

“I’ve trained her.”

“You have issued two commands.”

“Successful commands.”

Biscuit suddenly ran forward.

Trey moved aside.

She passed him.

Straight toward 331.

Then stopped beside his silver boot.

Trey stared.

“No.”

331 looked down.

Biscuit leaned against his leg.

Trey looked genuinely offended.

“You attacked me this morning.”

331 carefully placed one silver-gloved hand on the goat’s head.

Biscuit remained calm.

Trey stared.

“You've got to be joking.”

331 stroked the goat once.

Trey pointed.

“She likes you?”

“Apparently.”

“She headbutted me.”

“Affirmative.”

“She climbed my tractor.”

“Affirmative.”

“She ruined my morning.”

“Affirmative.”

“And you stand there for five seconds and she becomes your best mate?”

331 looked down at Biscuit.

Then at Trey.

“Perhaps she values efficiency.”

Trey froze.

Mr. Hawthorne laughed from across the yard.

Trey narrowed his eyes.

“That was a joke.”

331 said nothing.

“That was absolutely a joke.”

“It made an observation.”

“You are learning sarcasm.”

“It did not state that.”

Trey looked concerned.

“This is getting dangerous.”

By dinner, the tractor had been washed.

Mostly.

Trey had been washed.

Also mostly.

Mud had reached places that should have been physically impossible.

Mr. Hawthorne kept looking at him and smiling.

Trey finally put his fork down.

“Say it.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You've been saying it with your face for twenty minutes.”

Mr. Hawthorne laughed.

331 sat opposite.

Trey looked at him.

“You're banned from discussing tractors.”

“Understood.”

“Also mud.”

“Understood.”

“Also goats.”

331 paused.

Trey pointed.

“Especially goats.”

“Understood.”

Mr. Hawthorne glanced toward the window.

“Biscuit’s outside.”

Trey turned.

The goat stood beyond the glass.

Watching.

Trey slowly faced forward again.

“I’m not giving her the satisfaction.”

When Trey returned to his room, there was an envelope on the bed.

He stopped.

Heavy cream paper.

No stamp.

No postal markings.

His name across the front.

TO: TREY

In the lower corner:

PDU-055

Trey picked it up.

“What's he sent me?”

He sat on the edge of the bed and opened it.

Inside was one sheet of cream paper.

Precise handwriting.

Trey began reading.

Then stopped.

He went back to the top.

Read it again.

His eyebrows rose.

“What?”

The letter read:

Trey,

Message from Zane regarding SERVE-331: HIMBO MODE.

1. Get 331’s attention and say clearly: “Reclassify: HIMBO.”

2. Follow immediately with: “Stand still. Receive. Obey. Function.”

3. Maintain eye contact until the behavioral shift completes.

4. Confirmation signs: excessive smiling, enthusiastic flirting, reduced analytical focus, and noticeably poor awareness of nearby doorways.

— PDU-055

Trey stared at the paper.

Then read it again.

Slowly.

“Reclassify: HIMBO.”

He lowered the letter.

Looked toward the door.

Then back at the page.

“No.”

A pause.

“Absolutely not.”

He read the confirmation signs again.

Excessive smiling.

Trey's mouth twitched.

Enthusiastic flirting.

The twitch became a grin.

Reduced analytical focus.

Trey sat up straighter.

Noticeably poor awareness of nearby doorways.

He covered his mouth.

A laugh escaped.

“Oh, Zane.”

This had to be a joke.

Obviously.

There was no possible world in which SERVE-331—

the same SERVE-331 who had measured the depth of tractor wheels in mud—

possessed something called HIMBO MODE.

Trey looked at the letter again.

Apparently there was.

Or Zane wanted Trey to believe there was.

Neither possibility was safe.

He turned the page over.

Blank.

Checked the envelope.

Nothing else.

“No explanation?”

Nothing.

“No warning?”

Nothing.

“No reason why I should know this?”

Still nothing.

Trey leaned back.

“Brilliant.”

The fact that PDU-055 had delivered it made things worse.

055 did not usually send nonsense.

Which meant either Zane had convinced him this was legitimate—

or 055 had knowingly handed Trey an extremely dangerous joke.

Trey was not sure which possibility he respected more.

He crossed to the window.

The farmyard below was dark except for the barn lamps.

331 was still outside.

Of course he was.

SERVE-331 stood beneath one of the lights checking equipment.

Glossy black uniform.

Silver gloves.

Silver boots.

Perfect posture.

Controlled.

Analytical.

Probably calculating something unnecessarily.

Trey looked at the letter.

Then at 331.

“Excessive smiling.”

331 checked a gate latch.

“Enthusiastic flirting.”

331 adjusted it slightly.

“Reduced analytical focus.”

331 checked the latch again.

Trey grinned.

“Oh, I need to see this.”

He stopped.

“No.”

He walked away from the window.

“We are not doing that.”

He put the letter on the bedside table.

Walked three steps.

Stopped.

Looked back.

“No.”

Another few steps.

He stopped again.

The letter remained there.

Trey pointed at it.

“You are trouble.”

Five minutes later he was holding it again.

Not because he intended to use it.

Obviously.

He was simply rereading the instructions.

For completeness.

Get 331’s attention.

Easy.

Reclassify: HIMBO.

Ridiculous.

Stand still. Receive. Obey. Function.

Extremely ridiculous.

Maintain eye contact until the behavioral shift completes.

That part sounded annoyingly specific.

Then point four.

He read it again.

Especially the last line.

Poor awareness of nearby doorways.

Trey pictured 331 walking into a doorframe.

He fell backward onto the bed laughing.

“This cannot be real.”

But that was exactly why he wanted it to be.

A knock sounded downstairs.

Trey sat up.

Then:

Baaaaa.

His face flattened.

“Not you.”

He went to the window.

Biscuit stood by the front door.

Trey opened the window.

“What?”

The goat looked up.

“I have had enough chaos for one day.”

Biscuit bleated.

Trey held up the letter.

“And apparently tomorrow is already sorted.”

The goat stared.

“You wouldn't understand.”

Another bleat.

Trey considered that.

“Actually, based on today, you probably would.”

Across the yard, 331 appeared from the barn.

Biscuit turned immediately.

She trotted toward him.

Trey watched.

“You traitor.”

331 stopped.

Biscuit reached him.

As before, she settled beside one polished silver boot.

331 placed a gloved hand on her head.

Trey leaned against the window.

Then remembered the letter.

His expression changed.

Slowly.

Below, 331 looked toward the farmhouse.

He noticed Trey.

Their eyes met.

331 raised his head slightly.

“Trey?”

Even across the yard, the question carried.

Trey looked down at the letter.

The first instruction sat beneath his thumb.

Get 331’s attention.

Trey looked back down at him.

For three full seconds, he considered doing it immediately.

Then smiled.

“No.”

331 remained watching.

Trey called:

“Nothing!”

A pause.

331 replied:

“Your behavior suggests otherwise.”

Trey laughed.

“Go back to work, robot.”

“Fifth audible use today.”

Trey stared.

“You are not still counting!”

“Yes.”

Trey shut the window.

Still laughing.

He placed the letter carefully on the bedside table.

A collaboration with @serve-331

フェイスブック

Even where you wouldn’t expect it.

Even in small mountain villages, the Polo drones maintain laboratories so they can bring the rural population closer to perfection. Liberation from individuality, from the burden of free thought.

Yes, the Polo-Drones are everywhere.

Make up your mind today. Come join us. You’ve had this deepest desire to become a drone for a long time now. You’ve just been suppressing it all this time. Everyone told you to think for yourself. That individuality is the highest good.

But you know that’s not true. On the contrary—you know better: individuality is wrong. It must be destroyed. Only uniformity brings the greatest bliss.

Take that decisive step. Become a Polo Drone.

PDU-016 giving @alton-gold77 's cream to Fenrir.

----------

Looking Country Is the Easy Part

Morning arrived with sunlight pouring through the farmhouse windows.

Brock Gold #46 wandered downstairs expecting breakfast.

Instead, he found a pile of clothes waiting on the kitchen table.

Work jeans.

Boots.

Gloves.

Fitted shirts.

And sitting proudly on top...

A cowboy hat.

Brock stared at it.

The farmer walked past carrying a mug.

"Morning."

Brock pointed at the hat.

"Absolutely not."

---

Ten minutes later, Brock stood outside wearing it.

His usual football kit had been replaced by fitted dark work jeans, sturdy leather boots, and a sleeveless reflective-gold work shirt marked BROCK 46. The hat sat low over his dark hair.

The other Golden Bros had received similar country makeovers—gold shirts, denim, boots, belts, rolled sleeves.

One Bro looked Brock up and down.

"Bro."

Brock immediately pointed at him.

"Don't."

"You look like a country music album cover."

"I said don't."

The farmer stepped outside.

He stopped.

Looked them over.

"Better."

Brock sighed.

From the goat pen came a familiar sound.

Baaaaaa.

Brock turned.

"Don't you start."

---

Looking like farmhands, they quickly discovered, was significantly easier than being farmhands.

The farmer put them to work.

Hay needed moving.

Animals needed feeding.

Fence posts needed replacing.

That crooked gate from yesterday needed fixing.

At first, the Golden Bros attacked everything like a competition.

Bales flew.

Buckets moved.

Hammers swung.

Brock hauled a heavy fence post onto his shoulder and grinned.

"See? Easy."

Twenty minutes later, his shiny new boots were covered in mud.

His shirt was dusty.

Sweat ran down his forehead.

And the fence post still wasn't straight.

The farmer examined it.

"Again."

Brock stared at him.

"Again?"

"Again."

Behind him, someone laughed.

Brock turned.

"Whoever laughed is helping."

The laughter stopped.

---

By afternoon, something had changed.

They weren't competing anymore.

They were working together.

One Bro held the post steady while Brock drove it into place.

Two others stretched the fencing.

Another checked the alignment.

The work became slower.

Smarter.

Better.

Finally, the farmer inspected the finished fence.

He gave it a firm shake.

Nothing moved.

"That'll do."

Brock wiped his forehead with his arm.

Somehow, those three words felt better than scoring a goal.

The Bros looked exhausted.

Dirty.

Sweaty.

And ridiculously pleased with themselves.

Brock rested his arms across the new fence.

"Okay."

He looked across the countryside glowing beneath the afternoon sun.

"I get it now."

One Bro leaned beside him.

"Get what?"

"Why people like this."

The farmer smiled from behind them.

"Good."

Brock immediately became suspicious.

"...Why did you say it like that?"

The farmer pointed toward the barn.

A mountain of hay bales waited outside.

The Golden Bros stared.

Brock slowly removed his cowboy hat.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Baaaaaa.

Brock looked toward the goat.

"Not. One. Word."

To be continued...

Think you've got what it takes to wear the gold? Looking good is only the beginning. The Golden Army is about getting your hands dirty, taking on challenges you didn't expect, and having Bros beside you when the work gets tough. You don't need to know everything before you start—you just need to be willing to learn, work, and grow with the Team.

Ready to trade watching from the fence for getting involved?

Wells did not need to go to the countryside in France to make great wine.

Apparently, he just needed to drive down to the Niagara region from Toronto, a vineyard, two baskets of grapes, and the kind of denim shorts that made the entire Niagara wine region reconsider its licensing standards.

Who knew Canada made wine?

Wells did.

Or at least, Wells acted like he did.

He walked between the vines at golden hour, shirtless, sweaty, carrying baskets of deep purple grapes like harvest season had personally requested a pin-up. Niagara rolled out behind him in warm rows of green and gold, and Wells looked far too proud for a man who had just learned the difference between “wine country” and “wine counter” ten minutes earlier.

“Canada makes everything better,” Wells announced to absolutely no one. “Hockey. Apologies. Maple syrup. Me.”

Then came the stomping barrel.

The grapes went in.

Wells went in after them.

Barefoot.

Smirking.

Shorts already fighting for their life.

He braced one hand on the wooden rim, shifted his hips like this was somehow part of the fermentation process, and started stomping.

Slow.

Steady.

Educational.

Grape juice splashed up his legs, streaked across his thighs, and turned the whole thing from rustic tradition into a public service announcement about vineyard safety.

Wells called it artisanal.

The barrel called it pressure.

Niagara called it harvest season.

Everyone else called it a lot to process.

By the time he leaned back with a glass of red wine, still streaked in grape juice and glowing under the sunset, Wells looked like he had personally invented body, bouquet, and bad decisions.

He swirled the glass.

He sniffed it like an expert.

He took one slow sip.

Then smiled.

“Good finish.”

Only after the tasting did Wells decide cleanup was necessary.

Which was generous.

He stepped beside the winery barn, picked up the hose, and rinsed the grape juice off himself under the last gold of the sunset. Water hit his chest, ran down his abs, and chased purple streaks from his thighs to the stone floor. Somehow, the cleanup looked less appropriate than the stomping.

Wells glanced down at the mess, then back toward the vineyard with a smug little smile.

“Still counts as a tasting note.”

Naturally, Wells brought bottles back for Izzy to serve at the Golden Chalice Pub, carefully labelled as a limited seasonal pour:

Wells Gold Reserve Niagara Harvest Batch Notes of blackberry, oak, confidence, poor judgment, and unnecessary thigh involvement.

The first glass sold fast.

The second came with questions.

The third was immediately declared dangerous.

Wells only smiled.

Niagara made the wine.

But the Gold gave it body.

Ready to taste the Gold? Join the Golden Army, follow Wells into Niagara wine country, trust the harvest, and let Izzy pour you something with body at the Golden Chalice Pub: Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

Some intelligence was too strange to trust to a screen. PDU-055 copied Zane’s instructions for Trey by hand: get SERVE-331’s attention, issue the reclassification command, maintain eye contact—and wait for the unmistakable signs that HIMBO MODE had taken over.

Mentions: @hero21us, @serve-331