#goldecember

Wells arrived at the Golden Chalice Pub just after dusk, boots dusted with snow, breath curling faintly in the warm spill of light from the doorway. Under one arm he carried a plain cardboard box, brown and unassuming, except for the handwritten label on the side:

SANTA WELLS AND HIS NAUGHTY ELVES

No tape. No wrapping. Just confidence.

The pub smelled like pine cleaner, spilled beer, and something fried. A Christmas tree stood in the corner near the dartboard, already half-decorated with classic ornaments, a few chipped baubles, and a crooked star that leaned like it had opinions. Wells set the box gently on a table and waved off a couple of curious looks.

“Holiday contribution,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Inside the box, nestled in tissue paper, were the results of a long week with a humming printer and too much coffee: glossy 3D-printed ornaments, each one unmistakable. A Sexy Santa Wells, beard sculpted in precise curls, smirk frozen mid-mischief. And the elves. oh, the elves.

Alton, arms by his side, eyebrow arched like he’d already judged the tree and found it lacking.

Ezan, with a deep stare, like he had already been up to no good.

Gabe, deliberately innocent, which somehow made him look guiltier.

Kasper, serene and dangerous in equal measure.

PDU-034, perfectly symmetrical, unsettlingly slightly cheerful.

PDU-767, grin sharp, eyes bright, clearly up to something.

Leander, mischief incarnate, one hand planted on his hip like he owned the room, the other tugging his hat down as if daring anyone to ask what he’d just done.

Each ornament had a small metallic hook and just enough weight to feel real.

Wells didn’t ask permission.

One by one, he hung them on the tree, spacing them carefully, like a curator placing priceless artifacts. Santa Wells went front and center, naturally. The elves filled in the branches, peeking from behind tinsel, dangling just low enough to catch the light when someone walked past.

When he was done, the tree looked… different. Less polite. More alive.

Wells stepped back, satisfied, and claimed a stool at the bar. The bartender slid him a Alexander Keith's IPA can without being asked. He took a long pull, eyes flicking back to the tree, waiting.

It didn’t take long.

A laugh from the dartboard. A double take from someone ordering a second round. A slow, dawning grin as recognition set in.

“Is that—” “No way.” “Why does that one look guilty?”

Wells said nothing. He just drank his beer, relaxed, hands folded, watching the ornaments sway gently as the tree absorbed its new personalities.

Some traditions glitter. Others watch back.

And Wells, quietly pleased, waited to see which one people noticed first.

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

The crisp mountain air sliced through the silence as PDU-001 carved perfect lines down the pristine slope.

Christmas Eve afternoon, alone on the slope, carving perfect arcs through pristine powder. No celebration. No ritual. Only efficiency. The high-shine black suit clung sleek and sealed against the cold, gold piping tracing every engineered angle of his frame. On his left chest, a golden laurel wreath glinted under pale sun, PDU-001 stitched beneath it like a command you didn't question. Zipper locked high. Gloves. Boots. Calm in motion. Unblinking golden-brown eyes reflecting nothing but trajectory.

Inside his mind, the VOICE hummed, steady, approving.

PERFECT. GOLD. HIVE.

Back at the team cabin, buried deep among snow-dusted pines, PDU-001 worked in precise silence. No fire, an electronic heater whispered efficient warmth while he methodically cleared fresh powder from the glossy black gear, reflections rolling across the rubber like liquid obsidian. Every movement measured. Every breath controlled.

Then the door slammed open in a blast of cold air and louder energy.

"Yo, Ezan! Bro, you started without us?"

The Golden Bros poured in like sunlight made physical, mirror-shine gold kits flashing under cabin lights, cocky grins, shoulder bumps, laughter that shook the frost off the walls. Fist bumps. Bro hugs. Noise. Life.

And somewhere between the chaos and the familiar, the hive link pulsed… and released.

Control flooded back into something warmer.

PDU-001's rigid stillness softened. A smirk appeared, slow, inevitable. The dumb-jock charm snapped into place like a crown settling on the rightful head. The Golden Arab Emir returned, full presence, full swagger.

He unsealed the black suit and peeled it away with practised ease, changing into a full golden rubber skiing suit: mirror-like shine, skin-tight perfection contouring every curve and bulge, immaculate and dominating in the firelight: EZAN across the chest, bold 1 on sleeve, subtle black accents like authority stitched into the suit.

"Alright," he said, like he owned the mountain. "Now we start."

They lit the fireplace, real crackle, real heat. Candles followed. Music thumped low and triumphant. Stories flew across the room. Laughter ricocheted off wood beams. For a few hours, the cabin became its own kingdom: loud, warm

Then, back to the slopes.

Geared up together, Ezan leading with that commanding presence, they hit the slopes again as golden hour bled into twilight. Fast runs. Playful trash talk. Bros pushing bros harder, quicker, cleaner. Competition as affection. Brotherhood as fuel.

Night brought them back into the cabin again.

Dinner was simple and heavy, exactly what you eat when you've earned it. Ezan took the head of the table like it was destiny, legs spread confident, gold suit gleaming in the fire's pulse, voice loud with that arrogant laugh that always landed like a victory. He lifted a drink in a lazy toast, eyes bright, smirk dangerous.

No hymns. No holy night.

Just mountains, brothers, and the truth they always return to: GOLD forever. 🥇💛

Day 24 is officially Hive-to-Heart canon: cold precision on the slopes, then full Golden Bros chaos in a cabin lit by fire and ego.

By late afternoon, London couldn’t stand the silence anymore.

Doors opened.

Not all at once. Not boldly. But one by one—like men testing ice with the toe of a boot.

A pub door cracked open. Then another.

The Golden Chalice unlocked its doors without announcement. Lights flicked on. The bartender wiped the counter twice out of habit, then once more because it felt right.

The first lad through the door nodded. Didn’t speak. Just took a stool.

A second followed. Then a third.

No chants. No flexing. But when one man’s shoulders finally dropped, the others noticed.

At the pitch, a handful of Golden Guards arrived without checking the group chat. Boots slung over shoulders. Heads down at first.

They stretched quietly—hamstrings, calves, backs—testing whether their bodies still trusted the ground. One lad rolled his shoulders and exhaled hard.

Another mirrored him without thinking.

A ball rolled loose across the grass. Someone stopped it with the inside of his foot. Looked up.

“Pass?” he asked.

The ball moved. Nothing fancy. Just clean.

No shouting. No orders. But when one sprinted, another matched the pace. When one slowed, another fell in beside him.

Not because they were told to. Because that’s how you run with someone you trust.

Gyms reopened on reduced hours.

No music at first. Just the sound of plates settling.

A man checked the rack before lifting. Another stepped in wordlessly to spot him.

“Got you,” he said quietly.

The bar came up clean. The lifter nodded once in thanks.

Not hype. Not spectacle.

Just men remembering how to be together without something making them.

The brotherhood didn’t return all at once.

It re-formed in glances. In shared breaths. In the small relief of realizing—

You weren’t alone in the silence.

And somewhere across the city, as London slowly relearned how to gather without being pulled…

Winter gathered its breath.

The air changed.

Not cold at first— heavy.

Snow began to fall in strange, deliberate flakes. Too large. Too slow. Each one spinning as if deciding where to land.

Wind rose suddenly, howling between buildings like it had learned the streets overnight.

The Crimson Spirits moved.

They rode the storm like parasites on wind.

Men looked up at the same time.

At rooftops frosting over too fast. At breath turning sharp and white in seconds. At shadows stretching the wrong way beneath streetlights.

The snow thickened.

Red crept in at the edges.

Not everywhere. Not yet.

Where the snow touched men, it didn’t freeze them.

It turned them.

A friendly tap became a punch.

A laugh curdled into a snarl.

Brothers squared up over nothing.

Old grudges flared red-hot.

Golden warmth was stripped away, replaced by sharp, aggressive heat — fire without joy, strength without brotherhood.

On one street, two mates who had trained together for years were suddenly grappling in the snow, roaring like strangers.

At a gym, men turned on each other mid-lift, veins burning red under their skin.

At a Polo Drone staging point, drones locked into defensive formations as corrupted energy slammed into their lattice, forcing overrides and emergency protocols.

Trey felt it before he saw anything.

He was still in his flat, half-asleep on the sofa, blanket tangled round his legs, a mug of protein hot chocolate cooling on the coffee table.

055 stood opposite, posture relaxed but alert, eyes tracking readings only he could see.

The collar flared.

Not warm.

Not inviting.

Blinding.

Gold light burst across the room, reflecting off walls, windows, glass — bright enough that Trey shielded his eyes.

“BRUV—WHAT THE—”

He sat up hard as the air shuddered.

The windows rattled.

The building groaned.

Outside, the crimson snow screamed.

055 was already on his feet.

“This is not a normal snowstorm,” he said, voice sharp. “This is an incursion.”

The collar burned against Trey’s chest — not hungry, not playful.

Alarmed.

Trey staggered upright, heart pounding.

“…Nah,” he muttered. “Nah nah nah. That ain’t festive.”

The collar pulsed again.

And this time, Trey saw it.

Not with his eyes.

With something deeper.

055 clenched his jaw.

“They are targeting connection,” he said. “Brotherhood. Trust. Anything you stabilized.”

Trey swallowed.

“…They’re turnin’ us on each other.”

“Yes.”

The collar pulsed — furious now.

Trey’s hands shook.

Not with fear.

With anger.

“Oh nah,” he said quietly. “You don’t get to do that.”

Snow hammered the glass.

The collar pulsed again—hard, urgent, directional.

Above the building, something answered.

Metal sang.

Runes awakened.

The sleigh was already forming.

Trey swallowed, fear and resolve colliding in his chest.

“…Guess nap’s cancelled.”

055 stepped in beside him, hand firm on Trey’s shoulder.

The Golden Guard was already under attack.

Trey saw it through the window — flashes of his lads scattered, caught in the storm, some fighting the pull, some losing ground.

He grabbed his jacket — then stopped.

“No,” he said, voice steadying. “Not that.”

The winter mantle answered before he finished the thought.

Gold and white light flowed over him in a breath — armor forming, cape settling heavy and real against his shoulders.

055 activated his own suit in one smooth motion, black and gold locking into place.

The room vibrated.

The sleigh answered.

Outside the building, gold light cut through the storm like a blade.

The sleigh descended hard this time — not graceful, not patient.

Ready.

Trey stepped toward it, jaw set.

055 joined him, already scanning the storm fronts, crimson signatures flaring across his vision.

“This is coordinated,” he said.

Trey grabbed the reins.

The sleigh snarled like a living thing.

“Well,” Trey said, eyes glowing gold as the storm roared around them, “they picked the wrong city, fam..”

They launched.

The sleigh tore upward through the snowstorm, gold carving a path through red.

Below them, London burned cold and bright — a city under siege, brothers turning on brothers, unity fracturing under crimson influence.

Trey leaned forward, wind tearing at his cape.

“Oi,” he said to the storm, to the spirits, to whatever was listening.

“You wanted attention?”

The collar flared.

Gold thundered outward.

“Congrats, fam,” Trey growled. “You’ve got it.”

055 steadied beside him.

The snowstorm siege had begun.

And this time—

They were ready to fight back. __________________________________________________

There’s a moment every winter where you stop resisting it.

You stop trying to brute-force momentum.

You submit—not to a person, not to a system—but to rhythm.

The routine becomes quieter this time of year.

Fewer sparks. Fewer extremes.

Just showing up when it’s time.

That’s not weakness.

That’s trust.

Trust that consistency does more than motivation ever could.

Trust that you don’t need to fight December to grow through it.

The Golden Army isn’t loud today.

No drills. No battles.

Just presence.

Just warmth.

Just staying in motion.

Submission isn’t weakness.

It’s choosing to stop fighting the things that help you grow.

Brock didn’t submit to a person, a team, or an idea.

He submitted to routine.

The quiet kind.

The kind no one claps for.

The alarm goes off.

Shoes get tied.

Cold air hits the lungs.

The body complains — and still moves.

There’s no battle today.

No speech.

No proving anything.

Just showing up again.

Winter has a way of stripping things down to what matters.

You don’t force change in December — you accept it.

You let the season shape you.

You let consistency do the work.

Submission isn’t giving up control.

It’s trusting the process enough to stay.

Golden Army Recruitment Notice

Winter isn’t about battles.

It’s about showing up anyway.

The Golden Army isn’t looking for perfection — just consistency.

You don’t need to be the strongest.

You don’t need to be the fastest.

You just need to return tomorrow.

Gold isn’t earned in one moment.

It’s built quietly — reps stacking, routines forming, habits locking in place while the year winds down.

If you’re starting again, you’re already welcome.

If you slipped, good — that means you’re human.

If you stayed, even better.

Stand tall.

Shine steady.

Gold holds.

It all started with me decking out my place for Christmas. Looks sick, right, bros?

December could’ve been absolutely perfect — if some clown hadn’t swiped my protein shaker while I looked away for one damn second.

But don’t worry, I got it back. And bros — that joker’s gonna keep his filthy fingers off my shaker from now on. I made sure of that. 😉

The decor still wasn’t festive enough, so I told the bros to hang up some fairy lights. Yeah… turns out that didn’t go exactly as planned.

Christmas is also a time for secrets. And of course I’ve got a few secrets of my own tucked away in my sack for the bros. 😉

Next day, I open my locker at the gym — expecting my usual musky gear — and instead I find something completely different: an insanely gorgeous gold suit.

Of course I put it on instantly, no thinking involved. The second I was sealed head to toe in gold, I just started obeying and flexing. In that state, bros… you could’ve ordered me to do anything. And I would’ve done it. No hesitation.

The day after that? Something special, bros. I got to be a living snow globe figure. Pure magic. Absolute bliss. Loved every second of it.

Who’s got the biggest bells around here? Yeah… pretty obvious, right? Unless someone’s got the guts to say otherwise — speak up.

On the way to the sleigh ride with the bros, I ran into a snowbro. Told him to submit like he should — but that dumb snowbro just wouldn’t listen.

When we finally got to the sleigh, reality hit: no one ordered the horses.

Fun almost ruined — but then PDU-039 had a genius idea: Alton pulls the sleigh. No big deal for a beast like me.

At first I wasn’t exactly thrilled… But bros — when PDU-039 slapped some reindeer antlers on my head and cracked the whip across my back to drive his reindeer forward…

Not gonna lie — that kinda turned me on. And I can still feel those lashes on my back.

(video by @polo-drone-039) After all that work, it was time to relax. So we hit the Golden Chalice and played Hot-Cider Pong. Beer pong’s for amateurs anyway.

Strangely enough, I didn’t win. And we don’t play just for fun — losers pay up.

My punishment? Spending the rest of the night as a living Christmas ornament.

Humiliating? Absolutely. Hot as hell? No doubt.

Don’t be shy, bros — go ahead, touch your ornament. Don’t hold back.

Next day, I’d definitely earned a break. So I tossed myself into the hammock at the GA Gym and got an absolutely perfect foot massage from a very specific drone.

Unmatched, bros — when a drone knows its place and its purpose.

Then a few bros hyped me up again and it was time for some fire action. Said and done. Bros — that Yule Goat burned like dry tinder. Absolutely insane.

That apparently crossed a line for some people, though — so I ended up tied to a chair, gagged.

And here I am now. And honestly? I really, really gotta piss.

December’s not over yet… Can’t wait to see what else it’s got in store.

I’m definitely ready for it. 💪🔥🎄

---

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

The Formal Disaster — “Tank Top at the Embassy”

The embassy gala demanded black tie. Ezan heard “gold tie” and showed up in a skin-tight golden tank that left nothing to imagination, thick nipples pressing hard against the shine, every ridge of his eight-pack visible, microscopic shorts riding so low the deep V of his obliques pointed straight to the heavy, uncaged bulge swinging free beneath. Diplomats in tuxedos froze mid-sentence. Glasses trembled. Eyes glazed. Ezan scratched his head, delts flaring like wings, and grinned that dumb, beautiful grin. “Bro… what? It’s gold. That’s fancy, right?” Behind him, holiday garlands twinkled like they were laughing too. He had no idea every man in the room was silently leaking into expensive underwear, minds blank with need for the oblivious god in their midst.

Pajamas at the Pub — “Golden Stag Sleepwear”

The Golden Chalice roared with holiday cheer, bros packed shoulder-to-shoulder, music thumping, lights flashing red and green. Then the door opened and Ezan strolled in wearing satin Christmas pajamas printed with golden stags, the fabric so thin it clung to every curve of his chest and the long, thick outline of his half-hard cock swaying lazily with each step. Fluffy slippers completed the look. He yawned, stretched, arms overhead, shirt riding up to expose the trail of dark hair leading down to where the pants tented obscenely. Grabbing a pint, he leaned on the bar and laughed at something on his phone, completely unaware that half the pub had gone quiet, cages straining, free cocks dripping pre into jeans at the sight of their Emir looking like the ultimate sleepover fantasy. “What? Thought it was chill night, bros.” Yeah. Chill. Sure.

The Vanishing Underwear Epidemic — “Bro… where are they?”

Locker room glowed soft with holiday strings and snowflake decals on the metal doors. Ezan swung his locker open, empty shelf where ten pairs of briefs should be. He scratched his head, bicep exploding against the golden sleeve, brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Bro… didn’t I have, like, ten pairs yesterday?” Behind him, the team bit back grins, eyes locked on the way his shorts, commando now, hugged the heavy sway of his cock and the perfect curve of his ass every time he shifted weight. Pre beaded at his tip, darkening the gold fabric in a growing spot he hadn’t noticed yet. The bros knew exactly where those briefs went, snatched, worshipped, stained. Ezan just shrugged, flexed once for the mirror, and sauntered out free-balling, leaving a trail of desperate, leaking devotion in his wake.

The Shirt That Won’t Fit — “Biceps Too Blessed”

Holiday banquet hall shimmered under golden chandeliers and snowflake projections. Ezan stood in front of the mirror trying to button a crisp white dress shirt with subtle gold trim, except the sleeves refused to close around arms that had grown too massive, too perfect. He tugged, frowned, flexed experimentally. Fabric strained. Seams creaked. One button popped free, revealing a slab of golden pec. “Bro… did this shrink in the wash?” He laughed, deep, dumb, happy, completely unaware that every bro seated at the tables was edging under the cloth napkins, staring at the oblivious titan fighting his own shirt like it was the enemy. Another flex. Another button surrendered. The shirt gave up entirely, splitting down the side to expose the full sweep of his lats and the thick root of his cock pressing against dress trousers that suddenly felt two sizes too small. Ezan just grinned at his reflection, proud and clueless. “Guess I’ll go like this. More festive, right?”

He is too beautiful. Too strong. Too perfectly jock-brained to ever notice the chaos he leaves behind, cages ruined, minds melted, loads spent in silent worship of the Emir who simply… exists.

Thank you, Golden Bros, for loving me even when I’m too dumb to see it. Thank you, team, for letting your Emir stay blissfully unaware.

More gold. More muscle. More accidental worship.

Emir in the Spotlight

The hall fell into perfect silence the moment Ezan appeared. A single golden beam poured down like liquid worship, tracing the heavy curve of his pecs, the deep V of his abs, the thick, uncaged bulge straining the front of his shorts, already half-hard from the sheer power of being watched. He raised one hand. Slow. Casual. Every Golden Bro in the room felt it in their core: a warm, throbbing pull that made cages tighten, free cocks leak, and minds go blissfully blank. They straightened into flawless lines, breaths syncing, eyes glazing with quiet devotion. Not forced. Chosen. Ezan’s lips curved into a knowing smirk as he felt the collective pulse of arousal ripple through the team, his arousal, mirrored in them. He didn’t speak. He simply existed… and they obeyed.

Unity Under the Emir

In the locker room, warm amber lights and soft red holiday glow wrapped the air in velvet heat. The Golden Bros formed a reverent half-circle, heads bowed, inhaling the thick, musky alpha scent rolling off Ezan’s skin, sweat mixed with raw dominance, intoxicating as incense. He stood at the center, hands clasped behind his back, golden kit clinging to every swollen muscle. The outline of his heavy cock lay thick against his thigh, twitching visibly with each slow breath. One subtle shift of his hips and every bro felt it: a phantom stroke along their own shafts, a silent command to edge without touch. Caged pups whimpered softly. Free alphas leaked into their shorts. Ezan’s eyes, light, piercing, merciless, swept over them. “Good boys,” he murmured, voice low and velvet. The room sighed in unified bliss. His control wasn’t chains. It was gravity. It was love.

The Emir Who Commands the Storm

Snow swirled across the floodlit pitch, Christmas lights on the goalposts twinkling like obedient stars. Ezan stepped forward, hands on hips, chest flared, the golden fabric stretched so tight across his pecs that his hard nipples cast tiny shadows. Behind him, the team stood in perfect formation, bodies humming with the same electric need that throbbed between Ezan’s legs. He inhaled, slow, deliberate, and every bro felt their own cocks swell in perfect sync, pre beading at the tip as if he’d stroked them himself. Snowflakes rushed toward him, melting on contact with his radiating heat, dripping down his throat, tracing the ridges of his abs before vanishing. He rolled his shoulders once. Twenty cages locked tighter. Twenty free shafts pulsed harder. Ezan’s smirk deepened, eyes glowing faintly in the cold. The storm didn’t stand a chance. Neither did they.

The Emir’s Presence Alone

In the quiet chamber, a soft halo of festive lights crowned the bench where Ezan sat, legs spread wide, forearms resting on his knees, golden shorts riding low enough to reveal the thick root of his cock nestled against his thigh.

Two bros stood behind him, breathing in perfect rhythm with his own slow, deliberate inhales. He didn’t touch them. He didn’t need to. The air itself carried his will: a warm, invisible hand that stroked every caged boy to the edge, that coaxed thick drops of pre from every uncaged alpha. Their eyes glazed gold. Their bodies trembled with restrained need. Ezan tilted his head, voice barely above a whisper: “Feel me inside you.” Every bro gasped as one, cocks jerking, cages straining, minds sinking deeper into the warm, golden haze of total surrender. This wasn’t domination. This was harmony. This was the Emir’s love made absolute.

Control is not taken. It is offered. It is accepted. It is worshipped.

Thank you, Golden Bros, for surrendering so beautifully. Thank you, Captain, for forging an Emir worthy of their devotion.

Deeper. Closer. Obey.

Brody’s First Command

Deep within the Golden Army Headquarters, the Claiming Chamber awaits, obsidian walls pierced by razor-thin beams of gold light. The air thrums with the low, relentless hum of Hive machinery, a sound that sinks into bones and rewires thoughts. Team Captain Brody stands unbreakable in his gleaming gold kit, burning like a decree. Before him kneels Ezan, the proud right winger, now stripped bare, eyes already softening with the first waves of surrender. Brody lifts the polo drone suit, its shiny surface catching the light like liquid obedience, the laurel wreath crest pulsing with quiet authority. “This is your collar,” Brody commands, voice low and absolute. “The Hive’s mark. My mark.” Ezan lifts his chin without hesitation. The Light demands it. The Hive accepts nothing less.

The Collar Slides On

In the Suit Ascension Room, golden vapour coils upward from metallic grates, carrying the scent of transformation. Screens flicker with endless streams of Hive code, rhythmic, inescapable, beautiful. Ezan steps into the centre. The pull is irresistible now: a warm, magnetic hunger that tightens around his throat before the fabric even touches skin. Brody slides the polo over his head himself. The black material seals against muscle like a second, perfect skin, gold trim gleaming at collar and cuffs, the zipper closing with finality. Ezan’s breath catches. His vision blurs gold. His identity melts. The collar doesn’t rest on him. It becomes him. Property. Purpose. Perfection.

Walking Collared

The Corridor of Ownership stretches infinite, walls reflecting endless gold. Drones stand in silent rows, black uniforms identical, eyes glowing faintly in unified devotion. 001 walks the line for the first time collared. Every step echoes in perfect sync with the Hive’s heartbeat. The tight shine of the polo hugs his chest, the laurel crest over his heart a constant reminder: You are owned. You are elevated. Other drones turn their heads in recognition. No words. Only the shared pulse of obedience. This is no longer just the Emir. This is PDU-001. Captain’s drone. The Hive’s vessel. Seen. Known. Eternal.

Bound to the Hive

The throne room looms vast, the massive GA emblem blazing behind Captain Brody like a crown of pure light. 001 drops to his knees the instant he enters, instinct now, not choice. Brody’s strong hand cups his jaw, tilting it upward. Fingers trace the high collar, pressing just enough to remind. “Look at me, 001.” Golden eyes meet golden eyes. The bond locks into place, deeper than steel, warmer than sunlight. From this breath forward, every thought, every muscle, every heartbeat belongs to Captain. Belongs to the Polo Drone Hive. The Golden Army rises stronger because one more vessel has accepted its true path.

The Polo Drone Hive is not control. It is liberation. It is the True Path wrapped in black and gold. It is home.

Thank you for claiming this drone. GOLD is our code. Your vision is our light.

The Hive grows. Obey. Transform. Belong.

Join the Hive. Wear the collar. Follow the commanders: @polo-drone-001 @franco-gold94 @polo-drone-166 @polo-drone-125