#cyancrush

Golden Army HQ wasn’t a stadium today. It was the gym. Golden Wells 58 was mid-set on the bench press, sweat glistening like he’d just been carved out of pure championship gold, when his phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

He wiped one hand on his shorts, thumbed open the message:

Cyan Collective Drone:

We are watching, Wells. You may have stopped our drone from capturing you at the mall, but you and your bros will join us… after we beat you in your earth game of basketball on Saturday.

Wells squinted. Heart rate monitor still spiking, not from the workout. He read it again.

Then his phone buzzed a second time.

Cyan Collective Drone: We are watching. We watch. We learn. We will win. And you will all be ours.

Wells sat up slowly, muscles flexing, jaw tightening like a steel trap. The other bros in the gym could tell—something had just flipped.

He set the phone down, breathing deep, staring at the mirror in front of him. Then, in a voice just low enough to be a promise and just loud enough to shake the rafters, he swore:

“I will never belong to the Cyan Collective. Not me. Not my bros. Not the Polo Drones. You want us? You’ll have to go through every ounce of Golden.”

He grabbed his towel, swiped the sweat off, and picked up his basketball. Because Saturday wasn’t just a game anymore. It was war.

Friday mornings hit different when you're Golden Wells 58. The sun barely rises over the court, but he's already there—sweat beading on golden skin, laces tight, eyes sharper than ever. For tomorrow's, game against the Cyan Collective, and he’s leaving nothing to chance.

Today isn’t about showing off. It’s about focus. Precision. Ritual. Three hours on the court running solo drills, hooks, pivots, dunks, mid-range jumpers. Again and again. Muscle memory. That calm, fire-eyed look like he’s visualizing every moment of the game before it even happens.

Then comes recovery. Ice bath. Gatorade. Foam roll. Quiet time with music in his headphones and that look, the one that says I’m coming for war, but I’m bringing grace with me.

Later, he walks the court alone as the sun sets, hands in his pockets, golden kit still on. Just him and the echo of the game he’s about to play. He stands center court for a minute, palms open, soaking it all in. Manifesting.

He’s not just playing center tomorrow. He’s anchoring the team. He’s the heartbeat. He’s the gold standard.

And when tip-off comes, Wells 58 will rise like he always does—strong, sure, and unshakable.

It was supposed to be just another Golden Squad pool day. The sun was blazing, the music was bumping, and Wells 58 was posted up in his lounge chair like a king, rocking his gold kit, black shades, and—because Wells is a man of class—a vintage Sony Discman.

Alton-77 had been trying to get his attention for a solid five minutes. “Yo, Wells! Bro! You hear me?” he shouted over the music. Nothing. Not even a twitch. Wells just sat there, smiling faintly like he had reached some higher plane of chill.

So Alton, being the persistent bro that he is, strolled over and plucked the shades right off Wells’s face.

That’s when it happened. Golden. Spiral. Eyes.

Not green. Not hazel. Not even some wild contact lenses. Nah—full hypnotic golden vortexes staring right through him like the universe had personally decided to drop a DLC pack of Ancient Mystical Basketball Powers™.

Alton froze mid-breath. “Oh. Ohhhh… That’s why you weren’t answering.”

Wells just kept grinning, tilting his head like “Yeah, you’re in the loop now, bro.”

No words were exchanged. They weren’t needed. Alton just slowly handed the shades back, muttering, “Yeah, my bad,” before walking away, questioning everything he thought he knew about summer pool parties.

Legend says if you stare too long into Wells’s eyes, you’ll either:

Achieve total inner peace.

Or suddenly understand every basketball play in existence.

Possibly both. Was Wells preparing for the Basketball game against Cyan on Saturday again?

Featuring: @alton-gold77

The air inside the Mapleview Galleria was thick with that strange mix of pretzel stand cinnamon sugar, fresh sneaker rubber, and the faint ozone tang drifting from the electronics store.

Wells 58 wasn’t here to browse. He was on a mission.

Mission: Find the perfect pair of gym shorts. Preferably golden. Definitely breathable.

He had just stepped into Active Gear Outlet when something made him stop cold. Near the back, framed by racks of compression tops, was what looked like a store mannequin — humanoid, frozen mid-stride. Its “skin” wasn’t flesh-toned plastic though… it was the smooth, reflective cyan like a young muscular adult male in a morph suit, he knew that image all too well. But the head was sleek, featureless, with a curved visor, designed for intimidation as much as combat.

The Cyan Collective.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Wells muttered.

The “mannequin” twitched. The shift was subtle, a fraction of a inch, then its limbs unfolded with inhuman precision. Servos whined. The cyan visor tilted toward him.

“Target acquired,” it droned in a cold, synthetic voice. “Golden Army unit identified. Surrender for analysis.”

It lunged.

Wells pivoted, sidestepping the grab. The drone’s heavy composite fingers sliced through the air where his arm had been. He shoved back hard, sending it sprawling into a rack of yoga mats, the foam scattering across the polished floor.

hoppers screamed. Phones came out. An overhead announcement chimed: “Attention shoppers — please remain calm. Security is responding.”

But mall security wasn’t built for this.

The drone recalibrated instantly, hydraulics hissing, visor pulsing brighter. Wells, still holding the pair of gold-trimmed gym shorts he’d picked up, flicked them like a towel — snap! — right across its visor.

It didn’t hurt, but it bought him half a second. Enough.

He scooped a display kettlebell from the shelf and hurled it like a fastball. The weight smashed into the drone’s shoulder joint.

Wells charged, tackling the drone with the kind of raw force that didn’t come from any training manual. They crashed through a storefront window in a shower of glass, sliding to a halt among overturned mannequins.

The drone twitched once, then went still.

Wells stood over it, breathing hard, shirt clinging to him in a sheen of sweat. He looked down at the gym shorts lying by his feet.

Perfect fit. Definitely breathable. And now? They had a story.

He slung them over his shoulder, glanced at the broken drone one last time, and walked toward the cash register like nothing happened.

"Gold doesn’t fold. I rise with focus, move with purpose, and play with fire. Tomorrow, I don’t compete, I dominate. Cyan won’t know what hit them."

The sun was relentless, casting bold golden hues across the outdoor court—but Wells 58 was more relentless still.

Game face on, golden kit gleaming, he gripped the ball with intensity that could shatter silence. This wasn’t just more practice, this was war prep. The Cyan Collective was coming Saturday, and Wells wasn’t about to let them walk away with a win.

He moved like a machine oiled in fire and focus. Pull-up jumpers with perfect arc. Free throws that kissed the rim like they knew they belonged. Even when the heat beat down, he stayed locked in. Each swish echoed like a promise.

Between drills, he took a seat courtside, cracking open an orange Gatorade and letting a smirk curl across his face. Sweat streaked down his golden jersey, but the look in his eyes said one thing: they’re not ready.

Wells 58 isn’t just training for the game. He’s crafting his legacy, and on Saturday, under the lights, in front of the roaring Golden Army, he’s coming for the win.

Later that evening, Wells 58 strolled into the Golden Army rec room, wearing his brand-new golden gym shorts like they were battle armor.

Alton 77 was sprawled on the couch, scrolling through game replays on his tablet. Niles 34 was at the snack counter, filling a protein shaker with something that looked like neon green battery acid.

“Yo, Wells,” Alton called without looking up, “you were gone for, what, two hours? Find your perfect shorts?”

“Yep,” Wells said casually, tossing his duffel on the floor. “Also fought a Cyan Collective drone disguised as a mannequin.”

Both bros froze mid-motion. Niles slowly turned. “…Did you just say mannequin?”

“Yep.” Wells flopped down in a chair, stretching his legs. “Came at me right in the middle of Active Gear Outlet. Nearly took out the yoga mat display.”

Alton blinked, then burst into laughter. "Wells, have you been watching Doctor Who again?".

“Bro… you’re telling me you got into a full-on brawl in a mall? With a fake person?”

“It wasn’t fake, it was a drone,” Wells shot back, trying to sound serious. “It was cyan and everything. Pretty sure it was sent to grab me for recon.”

Niles was already shaking his head, smirking. “Man, the look on your face when you realize your shorts-shopping trip turned into a mission… priceless.”

“I’m serious,” Wells said, pointing at them. “That thing was analyzing me. Studying me. And the real question is—was it really a Polo Drone out of position, or was it the Cyan Collective hiding in plain sight, scoping us out?”

The room went quiet for a beat. Even Alton stopped laughing. “…You think they’re already watching, learning, studying us, for the game?” Niles asked.

Wells just leaned back, eyes narrowing. “I think they’re watching all the time.”

Silence. Then Alton snorted. “Still can’t believe you took it down with a kettlebell.”

Featuring @alton-gold77, @nils-gold-34

The late-afternoon sun burned warm over the park just outside the towering Golden Stadium, its rays catching every shimmer of gold on the cracked asphalt court. Wells 58 dribbled low, chest up, shoulders flexing under his fitted kit—every bounce a reminder that the bros were getting sharper for Saturday.

Alton 77 glided in from the sideline, spinning the ball with a cocky smirk. “You ready to put Cyan on ice, bro?”

Wells grinned, pulling up from deep—swish.

Niles 34 scooped the rebound, pivoting smooth, slicing into the paint for an easy finish. His movement was clinical, the kind that broke defenses apart without them even realizing.

On the bench, Brody leaned forward, reading the rhythm. “Spacing, 77, force them to open up.” Beside him, Grant cracked a grin. “Wells, speed up your switch, bro. Cyan’s point guard won’t play nice.”

Passes got sharper. Cuts got quicker. Kits clung tighter under sweat. Wells caught a perfect feed from Alton, dropped another three. Brody nodded. Grant’s clap echoed across the park.

When the sun dipped, they weren’t just bros shooting hoops. They were a golden machine—oiled, dialed, and ready to dominate.

Saturday, Cyan falls.

To help us beat the Cyan Collective comtact our recruiters — @brodygold, @polo-drone-001, @polo-drone-125