#coachcommand

His white AirPods were synced. The Big Dumb Jock Hypno file was a droning in his ears, looping the command: Empty the mind… Fill the muscle… Solid Gold… True North…

Coach stepped into the rack, his massive shadow falling over Wells like an eclipse. He reached up, his heavy, calloused fingers brushing the white stems of the AirPods before resting firmly on the sides of Wells’ neck.

"Focus, Wells" Coach’s voice was a tectonic rumble, perfectly timed to the hypnotic beat in Wells’ ears. "I see that Red Leaf on your chest. It’s a symbol of where you came from. But today, we’re recalibrating what 'Strong and Free' really means. You’re free from the weight of choice. You’re strong because you don’t have to think."

Coach’s thumbs pressed into the base of Wells' skull.

"Stress? Dump it. Worry? Dump it. There is only the Gold flowing in your veins and the iron on your back. Give it all to me. Become the machine the North needs."

Wells’ green eyes went wide, then glazed over into a perfect, glassy stare. The "Alpha" remained, but the "Man" had been vacuum-sealed away. The Red Maple Leaf on his chest pulsed with his heavy, rhythmic breathing.

"Now," Coach whispered, his lips inches from Wells' ear. "Pump it."

Wells descended into a deep, agonizingly slow squat. The metallic gold of his tights flared as his quads exploded with blood flow. He didn’t feel the strain; he only felt the directive. He hit the bottom of the rep, the gold-plated iron groaning.

"Drive, Wells! Show me that Northern Force!" Coach roared.

Wells exploded upward, his teeth bared, his muscles bulging with a terrifying, mindless power. As he racked the weight, Coach stepped in front of him, gripping the front of Wells' shirt, right over the Red Leaf and pulling him close until their weightlifting belts were grinding together.

"Good. That’s the 'True North' standard," Coach purred, looking into Wells’ vacant, obedient eyes. He let his hand slide down from the shirt, his fingers hooked firmly and possessively into the waistband of the metallic gold tights, pulling him flush against his own frame.

"You've maxed out the rack, boy. Now your body is primed, your head is empty, and I've got a much more… rigorous way to use all this gold-wrapped muscle. Come on. I'm going to see exactly how much of this 'True North' strength I can claim for myself."

Wells' jaw went slack, a mindless, hungry look crossing his face as he followed the dominant tug of Coach's hand toward the empty locker room.

The air in the Golden Army Gym was thick with the rhythmic clank-slap of gold-plated iron and the 128 BPM pulse of dance music vibrating through the floor. Wells (58) stood in front of the massive, floor-to-ceiling mirror, his reflection a study in high-output aesthetics: shiny metallic gold compression tights shimmering under the LED rigs, gold trainers locked to the black rubber turf, and the black spandex t-shirt straining against his chest, the gold "Sweat, Smile, Repeat" letters catching every flash of light.

Tucked into his ears were his AirPods, the white stems a sharp contrast against his jawline. Inside, the Big Dumb Jock Hypno file was looping, a low-frequency hum of sub-bass and repetitive commands designed to bypass his logic. The volume was set just low enough that he could still track the sharp, dominant edge of Coach’s voice over the internal drone.

Coach stepped into the frame behind him, his massive shadow consuming Wells’ reflection. He placed his heavy, calloused hands on Wells’ traps, squeezing until the Alpha’s breath hitched.

"Look at those eyes, Wells," Coach’s voice was a low, resonant growl, vibrating against the back of Wells’ skull and cutting through the hypnotic loop in his ears. "Too much flickering. Too much thinking. You’re calculating the sets. You’re worrying about the recovery. That’s clutter. Dump it."

Coach’s thumbs found the pressure points at the base of Wells' neck, grounding him as the hypno-file whispered 'Heavy… Gold… Obey…' in the background.

"Every thought that isn't the iron… dump it. Every doubt about your capacity… dump it. Let the static drain out of your head and onto the floor. I don't need a philosopher in this gym. I need a machine. Empty the tank so we can fill it with the pump."

As Coach spoke, Wells’ gaze went glassy, his green eyes fixing on his own reflection. The combination of the audio loop and Coach’s physical presence turned his mind into a hollow chamber. The "Alpha" was still there, but the "Man" had been cleared out. He was a biological asset awaiting instructions.

"Now," Coach whispered, spinning Wells around and shoving him toward the Preacher Bench. "Now that you're empty… we pump it."

Wells sat, his massive arms locking into the pads. Coach dropped the gold-plated EZ-bar into his grip, loaded to the breaking point. There was no hesitation now.

As Wells initiated the first curl, the metallic gold of his tights flared as blood surged into his quads. His biceps peaked, the black spandex sleeves of his shirt threatening to split. Through his Air Pods, the hypnotic voice sped up, syncing with the rhythm of his straining muscles.

"Fill the space, Wells," Coach commanded, looming over him. "Every rep is a new directive. Every pump is more mass, more obedience, more Gold. You don't need a brain to lift this—you just need the drive."

By the final rep, Wells’ arms were granite. His mind was silent, a vast, golden void echoing only with the sound of the weight, the loop in his ears, and Coach’s absolute approval.

The air in the Golden Army Gym was thick with the scent of iron, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of the gold-tinted protein misting through the vents. Wells and Alton stood side-by-side in the center of the weight floor, a wall of golden muscle and concentrated Alpha energy. Both were clad in matching skin-tight golden compression gear that shimmered under the industrial stadium lights, their massive frames casting long shadows over the rubber flooring.

Coach walked a slow circle around them, his heavy boots echoing against the floor, a golden baton tapping rhythmically against his palm.

"The Army doesn't need two individual egos fighting for the spotlight," Coach prowled, his voice a low, gravelly drone that cut through the sound of clanking plates. "It needs one functional engine. You two think you're Alphas because you can move weight? Tonight, the weight moves you. Tonight, you’re just parts. And parts only work when they obey together."

Coach stepped between them, his hands landing heavily on the napes of both their necks, forcing them to lean in until their massive, gold-clad shoulders touched. The heat between Wells, Alton and Coach was electric, a silent challenge turned into shared submission.

"You both look so eager to lead," Coach whispered, his breath hitting the space between their ears as he pulled them closer. "But I wonder which one of you is going to be the first to drop for me when the 'pressure' gets too high. Or maybe you'll just compete to see who can take more of what I’m offering."

Wells glanced at Alton, a cocky, sweat-slicked smirk playing on his lips even as his breath hitched. "Why choose, Coach? You know we both have the capacity to take everything you've got. Why don't you see if we can handle it at the same time? I bet Alton here is dying to show you how much gold he can take while I’m watching."

Alton grunted in agreement, his chest heaving, the fabric of his shirt straining against his pecs. "Give us the grind, Coach. We’ll show you how synchronized we can get when we’re being handled. I’m ready to to take just as much as Wells' is."

Coach’s eyes darkened with approval. "That’s the spirit, guys. Now, get under the dual-rack. I want to see those golden pillars moving in perfect rhythm. If one of you slows down, you both pay the price. And Alton don't think I am joking around here, you know how much I enjoy 'collecting' my dues from Wells in the locker room showers when he's too spent to fight back." "So you boy's fail, it will be both of you tonight!"

The drill was brutal. Every rep was a struggle for dominance that turned into a shared descent into the gold. Under Coach’s relentless gaze and rhythmic commands, the individual identities of Wells and Alton began to blur. Their breathing synced. Their muscles burned in unison. The vision of two separate men faded, replaced by the singular, mindless reality of the Golden Army.

By the final set, they weren't Wells and Alton anymore. They were just the Gold Standard, operating on a single frequency: Obey. Grow. Repeat.

Two Alphas, one purpose. Are you ready to lose your ego and find your place on the line? Join the squad and learn to obey together: @polo-drone-001, @polo-drone-166, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-125

The air in the Golden Army Gym was thick enough to taste, saturated with the scent of sweat, high-performance grip chalk, and the relentless heat radiating from Wells. Other players were working out prepping for the game against the Crimson Frost Giants, rather than worrying about the Red Goo, the Red Pups, The Red Coach and the Red Handler, the Golden Army players were focused on getting the W in this game.

Wells stood centered in the heavy-duty squat rack, dressed in his new high-output kit: shiny metallic gold compression tights that clung like liquid metal to his massive, pumped quads and hamstrings. On his feet were low-profile gold trainers, providing a rock-solid base against the textured black gym floor. Covering his massive torso was a tight, black spandex t-shirt, with the slogan "GET OUT OR MAX OUT!" emblazoned across the chest in brilliant, reflective gold print. The metallic lettering shimmered with every heavy breath.

Coach stood just outside the rack, arms crossed, his shadow looming over him. He didn't offer encouragement; he offered a mandate.

"The metric isn't how much you want to lift, Wells," Coach’s voice was a low, vibrating growl that cut through the 128 BPM pulse of The Protocol thumping from the rafters. "The metric is whether you can handle the load I've assigned you. In this gym, we don't 'try.' We execute."

Wells gripped the barbell, his knuckles white. He lowered himself into a deep, agonizingly slow squat. Every muscle fiber in his quads screamed as the shiny metallic gold tights caught and refracted the intense light from the overhead LED rigs, emphasizing the incredible definition.

"Drive!" Coach barked as Wells hit the bottom of the rep. "I want to see the exact moment your ego breaks and only the machine remains. If you can't reach the redline, you're taking up space."

Wells exploded upward, his teeth bared in a silent, mindless snarl of exertion. As the bar clicked back into the rack, Coach stepped into his space, his hand landing heavy on the back of Wells' damp neck.

"Good. You reached the limit," Coach whispered. "Remember the rule, Wells. Max out or get out, you'll be ready for that game against the Crimson Frost Giants"