#disconight

October 6, 1979.

Toronto glittered beneath the CN Tower like a field of fallen stars, the lake black and endless beyond the city lights. More than 1,100 feet above the streets, Sparkles was alive for its grand-opening night, wrapped around the Tower’s indoor observation level in a curve of glass, mirrors, neon, and sound.

The world’s highest discotheque had opened its doors, and Wells Gold had no intention of arriving quietly.

He stepped out of the elevator first, sharp and confident, dressed for the decade and the height of the occasion. His shirt was open just enough to catch the light against his chest, his trousers fitted, his jacket cut clean in black and gold. Every movement carried that familiar Wells control: grounded, handsome, calm, impossible to miss.

Alton followed beside him, just as polished, just as dangerous in the soft glow of the club. Gold shimmered at his throat and wrists. His shirt clung right, his collar sat wide, and his body moved with the smooth certainty of a man who knew exactly how good he looked under disco lights.

Behind them came PDU-767.

Wells and Alton had insisted the drone dress properly for the event. So over its sleek black drone suit, 767 wore a period-perfect disco outfit: fitted flared trousers, a glossy open-collar shirt, and a sharp gold-accented jacket. The clothing softened the outline but could not fully disguise the precise black shine beneath. It looked almost human. Almost casual. Almost normal.

Almost.

Sparkles surrounded them in motion. The horseshoe-shaped dancefloor pulsed beneath the elevated DJ booth. Red booths and stainless-steel tables curved along the windows. Strobes cracked through the room. Neon tubes glowed in long electric lines. Smoke curled beneath mirrored light while Toronto burned below in every direction. The club was less a room than a floating machine of rhythm and reflection.

Wells and Alton found a booth by the glass. Drinks arrived cold, bright, and perfect for the night. They leaned back beneath the lights, golden and effortless, watching the crowd shift and sparkle around them. Every glance in their direction lingered. Every reflection made them look stronger, sharper, more unreal.

Then the music changed.

A new beat rolled through Sparkles, deep and clean, catching the floor in one smooth command. PDU-767 turned toward the sound. Its posture straightened. Its head tilted. The drone processed rhythm, sequence, timing, and flow.

Then it stepped onto the dancefloor.

At first, the crowd barely noticed. One more figure beneath the lights. One more body in motion.

Then 767 moved.

The drone’s arms snapped into perfect lines. Its hips rolled with mechanical precision. Its boots struck the floor in flawless time. The gold jacket flashed. The black suit beneath caught every strobe. Every step was exact, every turn clean, every pause held just long enough to make the room look twice.

Wells watched with quiet approval.

Alton smiled into his drink.

PDU-767 had not simply joined the disco. It had calculated it. It had absorbed the pulse, obeyed the rhythm, and returned it brighter.

The dancefloor opened around it. Guests cheered. Bodies followed. Sparkles became a golden orbit, and at the center was the drone, moving like the Tower itself had sent a signal through its body: precise, shining, unstoppable.

Above Toronto, on the final night of Sparkles’ opening celebration, Wells and Alton remained golden at the edge of the room, beautiful and composed beneath the neon.

But PDU-767 owned the floor.

For one night, the highest disco in the world did not belong to the city.

It belonged to the Gold.

Join the Golden Army — rise above the city, step into the light, and find your rhythm with the Bros. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

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