#goldenbro

Look at this perfect jock physique. Pumped, veiny, and reeking of post-gym dominance. Made for real men to admire… and weaker ones to bow down to. Built to be stared at, touched, and served. Worship the gains, boys. Pump. Flex. Get worshipped. Repeat.

Who let this bull into 001’s room?

Golden shorts. White socks. Cocky grin.

Five minutes in and Zandro already turned the whole dorm floor into his personal mirror room.

Recruiters, come witness the new Golden bull in 001’s room.

@alton-gold77

@franco-gold94

@polo-drone-166

The Polo-Drone Centre was not supposed to make noise, that was the first thing Daniel noticed.

Not the locked doors he wasn’t meant to bypass. Not the dead-white lights that flickered like something breathing behind them. Not the alarms which didn’t go off. Not even the cold—too cold for a building that pulsed with machinery. It was the low sound. It was neither mechanical, nor electrical. As odd as it seems, Daniel swore he could hear voices. Daniel stood just inside the threshold, the door sealing behind him with a soft, final hiss. His reflection shimmered briefly in the polished black walls—gold shirt catching the light, “Knights 16” gleaming—before the surface swallowed it. He shouldn’t be here. Desynchronized. The word echoed in his mind like a verdict: Disconnected from the Hive. Unstable. Unauthorized. He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening. “I just need to see it,” he muttered.

The corridor stretched ahead—sleek, black, endless. No guards. No drones. Just that whispering. He took a step and the voices shifted. Not louder… closer, as if someone or something stood behind him. By the time Daniel reached the elevator shaft, the whispers had begun to form shapes in his mind. Not words—no, not quite. More like intent, recognition. He was known. The elevator doors slid open without being called. Inside, the mirrored interior flickered—not showing him as he was, but as… something else. His reflection lagged half a second behind.

Daniel swallowed, saying “Level 2”. The elevator didn’t move. Instead, the lights dimmed… and the voices surged. Daniel… He froze. That was a word. His name. The elevator dropped but the descent was wrong. Too fast. Too long. The digital display flickered through numbers that didn’t exist—L3, L7, L∞—before settling, abruptly, on: LEVEL 2 The doors opened to darkness. Black, thick, almost liquid. Daniel stepped out and immediately, the air clung to his skin. The walls… moved. He blinked. No, they were not moving, they were… breathing. The corridor ahead led to the conversion room. He knew the layout but it felt… stretched. Distorted. Like the building had grown in his absence. The voices were clearer now. Layered. Dozens. Hundreds. All whispering in perfect synchronization - Return. The Level 2 conversion room doors stood open. That alone should have made him run, but Gold didn’t flee. Gold fought back. Inside, suspended in the center of the chamber, was his suit. Glossy. Black. Perfect. It hung from unseen supports, rotating slowly, as if waiting. As if it had always been waiting. Daniel stepped inside and the doors shut behind him. Locked. The voices stopped. Daniel was swallowed in a sea of silence, then he heard a single drip falling.

He looked down. Another black droplet hit the floor. Then another. The walls, the ceiling were… leaking. Not water. Not oil. Something thicker. Darker. Reflective. It slid down the surfaces in slow, deliberate rivulets. Daniel backed up. “No—no, this isn’t right—” The first drop hit his shoulder. His skin froze under the Gold jersey. A second later, his skin was on fire. Then he didn’t feel anything. It spread instantly, soaking into the gold fabric of his shirt. The shine dulled where it touched, the material tightening, constricting.

He clawed at it without result. More drops fell on his arms, his neck, his chest. The walls were weeping now—black streams pouring down, pooling around his feet. The voices returned. They no longer whispered. A chorus. Synchronize. Daniel gasped as the substance crawled up his skin, slipping beneath the fabric. His shirt tightened further. Where the substance crawled, the gold sheen melted away in patches, eaten by the black substance that slid across his body like a living thing.

“STOP—!” he shouted, stumbling toward the suspended suit.

It moved, just slightly, turning toward him slowly. The black fluid surged upward from the floor, wrapping around his legs. It burned. Not like fire—like pressure. Like something forcing itself into him. His veins lit up beneath his skin—dark lines branching, pulsing. He screamed, falling to the ground in agony.

Daniel’s body arched as the Level 2 suit fused with him slowly, his skin being devoured by the glossy black surface. His arms snapped to his sides, fingers twitching for half a millisecond before they stiffened. The gold shirt was gone now. Nothing left but fragments dissolving into the black. His chest tightened—letters vanishing as if they had never existed. Knights - Gone. 16 - Gone. His reflection in the far wall stared back, smiling, his ember eyes burning bright in the darkness.

---------- Daniel woke up with a chill. The sheet was damp with sweat and his torso, covered in a golden sheen glistened under the moonbeam entering through the window of his bedroom.

He checked his fingers, his hands, his arms. Normal. Daniel exhaled, relieved to see his skin still glowing with a Golden hue. The nightmare had felt so real he could still feel the pain and his skin, sweaty, was covered in goosebumps.

-----------------------------------------

Adam was in pretty good shape for his age - but he knew that "for his age" was doing a lot of heavy lifting. Heavier lifting than he was, that was for sure. He watched what he ate, he tried to get enough sleep, he worked out hard three times a week, and yet the results were always... underwhelming.

As he looked at himself in the mirror at the gym, he couldn't help wishing he had more to show for all the effort he was putting in. A mental image floated into his head: bigger arms, a washboard stomach, a bubble butt, somehow knocking about 10 years off his age. Adam scoffed quietly at his own delusion; there wasn't a gym in the world that could promise that.

After showering and getting dressed, Adam made his way out of the gym. On his way past the message board near the entrance, a new sign caught his eye, printed on expensive-looking gold paper in crisp black text:

GO FOR GOLD

Odd; he didn't remember having seen this notice on the way in. Adam was sure he would have remembered one as distinctive as that. He leaned in for a closer look. Below the bold headline in much smaller text, it read: "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."

Adam let out an involuntary blissed-out sigh. That sounded like exactly what he wanted. That was the whole reason he'd been coming to the gym in the first place.

At the bottom of the notice, there was one more line: "Ready to join the Golden Army? Talk to one of our recruiters today."

There was nothing else: no contact information, no little strips to tear off with a phone number on them. Maybe there had been, and they'd all been torn off already? But no: the bottom edge of the poster was neat and even, with no telltale rips or tears. Adam let out another sigh, this time one of disappointment: whatever this was, it looked like he wasn't going to be a part of it.

Pushing open the door, Adam walked out into the crisp spring air - and was surprised to see a handsome, athletic young man, wearing a golden soccer kit that glimmered in the morning sun, and walking directly towards him.

There was something about the man's aura that stopped Adam in his tracks. Although the man was walking towards him, it felt more like there was a magnetic charge emanating from him, and that Adam was the one somehow being pulled closer.

"Hey bro," said the man, smiling warmly. "I heard you wanted to join the Golden Army?"

Adam stuttered. "Wha – how – I mean, sure, I do, but... how did you know?"

The man's grin widened. "I'm Franco, I'm a recruiter for the GA. It's my job to know these things."

Adam still didn't quite understand how this was possible, but he was distracted by Franco's taut, muscular body and the beautiful golden soccer uniform that clung to it in all the right places. His confidence sagged a little: he still didn't know exactly what the Golden Army was or what it did, but it seemed pretty unlikely that an organisation filled with people like Franco would have any place for him.

He tried his luck anyway. "So... is there an application form or something? What do I need to do?"

"You'll know what to do," Franco said cryptically. "It's already in you."

He put one hand on Adam's shoulder, while the other tapped Adam's duffel bag four times. With one last megawatt smile, he turned and walked away, leaving Adam entirely confused and filled with a sense of longing.

All the way home, Adam convinced himself that he'd somehow hallucinated that entire exchange. By the time he walked through his front door, he'd put it down to dehydration, maybe, from his workout, or perhaps low blood sugar. He needed a glass of water and a protein shake, and a maybe a cold shower.

He caught himself thinking about Franco in that tight-fitting gold soccer kit again, and his cock stirred involuntarily.

Definitely a cold shower.

Adam walked into his bedroom and put his duffel bag on the bed. First things first, he needed to get his sweaty gym gear out of there and into the laundry basket. He unzipped the bag, and a burst of brilliant golden light emanated from it, causing him to recoil in surprise. When his retinas stopped burning, he took a closer look: there was no sign of his boring, baggy gym gear. Instead, the bag contained a golden shirt remarkably similar to the one Franco had been wearing, along with matching shorts, socks and football boots.

This was weird. Had he picked up the wrong bag from the changing rooms? It seemed unlikely; nobody else there that morning had a bag that looked like Adam's. He tried to make sense of the situation, but he was distracted by the fact that he really, really wanted to put that shirt on and see if it felt as good as it looked.

Suddenly, he heard a voice inside his head: a younger man's voice, light and breathy. Put it on, bro. Put it on and become exactly who you are meant to be. Put it on and join your bros. They're waiting for you. All you have to do is put it on.

Adam's body trembled with excitement and anticipation as he raised up his arms, taking off his plain black t-shirt and pulling the golden jersey over his head. He walked over to the mirror and looked at himself. He looked good. Somehow he looked different. He was taller, and carried himself with more confidence. Had his hair grown? Wait, he had abs! Where had those come from?

A warm feeling spread all through his torso, like the jersey was massaging him. Adam wanted more of that feeling; he wanted it in his whole body, forever. The voice in his head spoke up again: Bro, what are you waiting for? I'm right here. Let me out. Become me. Become who you were always supposed to be.

Adam couldn't get out of his shoes, socks and jeans fast enough. He reached into the bag to retrieve the rest of the kit, taking his time as he put it on, allowing that incredible sensation to slowly spread across the rest of his body. First the shorts, then pulling the socks up to his knees, and finally putting on the boots. He knelt down to tie the laces, and when he stood up again, a jolt of transformational energy coursed through his entire body. His hair was growing, his muscles were growing, his confidence was growing. He suddenly felt younger, boyish but still unmistakably masculine; he was a world-class athlete at the peak of his abilities. The idea filled him with a thrill that he was now powerless to resist, so Adam shut his eyes and let the feeling overwhelm him completely.

The voice whispered again, much stronger this time: That's it, bro. Just like that. Let me in. Become me. He could feel the physical transformation slowing as the last remaining traces of Adam evaporated from his mind. The transformation completed as a name and number appeared on his jersey: Shawn Gold, #22. A midfielder for the Golden Army.

Shawn opened his eyes. He was in a locker room, which briefly felt strange because he was sure he hadn't been there a minute ago. He couldn't remember where he had been though. Anyway, it didn't matter. Of course he was here, in the locker room of the Golden Army. Where else would he be? This was where he belonged.

"There he is!" came a voice that he instantly recognised as his teammate Franco. "Shawn, bro! You made it!"

Another teammate appeared on his other side: Alton, the squad's man-mountain of a defender, who'd been assigned as Shawn's mentor when he joined the team. "C'mon, rookie," Alton said with gruff affection. "I know you've got a pretty face, but you can't stare in the mirror all day. We've got work to do."

"Yes sir," Shawn replied, his face bursting into a grin, his head empty of all thoughts other than how happy he felt right in this moment. It was time for training. Time to be with his bros. Having fun, but working hard, striving for excellence, supporting each other, and never letting anything get in the way of their determination to be the best.

He felt good.

No, he felt great.

No. He felt Gold.

Dedicated to my recruiter @franco-gold94 and my mentor @alton-gold77, the best teammates a bro could ask for.

Alton had a talent for ruining a good pump.

Not on purpose, probably. That was the worst part. The bro just could not shut up.

Wells had learned to tune him out during most sessions. Alton’s voice became part of the gym noise after a while: plates clanking, cables snapping back into place, Coach Stone counting reps, Alton running his mouth like breathing depended on it.

“Bro, Wells is definitely Coach’s favorite,” Alton said, leaning against the rack while Wells pushed through another heavy set. “Look at him. All shiny. All focused. Big golden teacher’s pet energy.”

Wells grunted through the rep and kept pressing.

Coach Stone stood behind the bench with his arms folded, broad chest tight under his metallic silver COACH shirt, black cap low over his eyes. He did not laugh. He did not scold. He just watched Alton with that calm, heavy look that meant correction was no longer optional.

“Again,” Coach said.

Wells obeyed.

The bar dipped. His chest stretched. His arms shook. He drove it back up.

“Good,” Coach said.

The word hit Wells like fuel. His body locked tighter. His breathing steadied. His muscles burned clean and bright.

Alton smirked. “See? Favorite.”

Coach turned his head slowly.

The gym seemed to quiet around them.

“Alton,” Coach said.

Alton straightened, still grinning. “Yeah, Coach?”

“Bench.”

Alton blinked. “Wait, now?”

“Now.”

Wells sat up, chest heaving, sweat running down his neck. He watched Alton slide onto the bench with too much confidence and not enough respect.

Coach loaded the bar himself. Plate by plate. Slow. Deliberate. No wasted movement.

Alton’s grin faded a little.

“Hands on the bar,” Coach said.

Alton obeyed.

“Breathe when I say breathe. Press when I say press. Speak when I permit it.”

Alton gave a short laugh. “Coach, I’m just saying—”

Coach leaned over him, blocking the lights.

“Breathe.”

Alton inhaled.

“Hold.”

Alton held.

“Press.”

The bar moved. Not smoothly. Not easily. But it moved.

“One,” Coach said.

Wells stood nearby now, arms crossed, watching. Alton’s jokes had stopped, but Wells could see them still trying to form behind his eyes. Little sparks of attitude. Little flashes of commentary pushing at his mouth.

Coach saw them too.

“Again.”

Alton lowered the bar.

“Breathe.”

He breathed.

“Hold.”

He held.

“Press.”

His arms strained. His face tightened. His mouth opened.

Coach’s voice dropped.

“No talking. Muscle first.”

Alton’s mouth shut.

The bar rose.

“Two.”

A rhythm formed. Coach’s commands were simple. Breathe. Hold. Press. Down. Again. Each word landed with weight. Each word trimmed something useless away from Alton’s posture. His smirk disappeared. His shoulders settled. His breathing started matching Coach’s cadence.

Wells knew that feeling.

Coach Stone did not hypnotize like some stage magician. He did not wave a watch or chant nonsense. He worked through repetition. Through effort. Through exhaustion. Through the point where the body got too tired to lie and the mind got too tired to argue.

Alton reached rep eight with sweat shining across his chest and neck.

His voice cracked through anyway.

“Coach, this is—”

Coach added one finger under the bar. Not helping. Just present.

“Noise drains strength,” Coach said.

Alton swallowed.

“Say it.”

“Noise drains strength,” Alton muttered.

“Silence stores it.”

“Silence stores it.”

“Again.”

Alton’s eyes flicked to Wells.

Wells gave him a slow, smug smile.

Alton looked back up at Coach.

“Noise drains strength. Silence stores it.”

“Again.”

“Noise drains strength. Silence stores it.”

“Again.”

The words changed as he repeated them. They stopped sounding annoyed. Then they stopped sounding forced. Then they became part of the rep itself.

Down with noise.

Up with silence.

Down with chatter.

Up with strength.

Coach let him rack the bar.

Alton lay there breathing hard, chest rising and falling, eyes unfocused.

Coach did not move away.

“Alton.”

“Yeah, Coach?”

“Your mouth has been wasting your muscle.”

Alton blinked slowly. “Maybe.”

“Not maybe.”

“No, Coach.”

Wells raised an eyebrow.

That was new.

Coach’s hand rested lightly on the bar above Alton, his presence heavy and controlled.

“From now on, when training matters, when focus matters, when your mouth starts stealing power from your body, I will correct it.”

Alton’s throat moved.

“You hear me?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Only me.”

“Yes, Coach.”

Coach leaned closer.

“The words are Good Boy.”

Alton’s eyes widened for half a second, like he wanted to make a joke out of it.

Coach’s stare pinned it dead.

“When I say those words with command, your mouth rests. Your jaw relaxes. Your breathing slows. Every useless comment shuts down. All that noise goes into the muscle instead.”

Alton breathed in.

Coach’s voice became lower.

“Good Boy.”

Alton went still.

Not frozen.

Not scared.

Just quiet.

His jaw unclenched. His lips closed. His shoulders softened against the bench. The tension in his face drained down into his chest, his arms, his hands. His fingers curled once, then relaxed around nothing.

Wells stared.

Alton looked peaceful.

Coach watched him for a moment, then nodded.

“Sit up.”

Alton sat up.

“Speak.”

Alton inhaled sharply, like surfacing from water.

“Whoa.”

Coach pointed at the dumbbells.

“Curl set. Now.”

Alton stood without arguing.

Wells almost laughed.

Almost.

Coach glanced at him.

Wells immediately grabbed his own weights.

The next twenty minutes were the best session Alton had ever had.

No commentary.

No teasing.

No complaints.

Just breathing, lifting, sweating, obeying.

Coach placed Wells and Alton side by side in front of the mirror, both of them holding heavy dumbbells, both of them shining under the gold strip lights. Wells moved first, clean and controlled, every curl perfect. Alton copied him, jaw tight at first, then loose, then silent.

“Down slow,” Coach said.

The dumbbells lowered.

“Hold.”

Their arms trembled.

“Curl.”

The weights rose.

“Again.”

Wells obeyed like the command had been built into his bones.

Alton obeyed like he had just discovered how much easier it was when his mouth was not in the way.

Every time Alton’s lips twitched like a joke wanted out, Coach only had to say it once.

“Good Boy.”

And Alton went quiet.

Every time, the silence made him stronger.

By the final set, Alton was pressing more than Wells had expected. His chest was pumped, shoulders thick, arms swollen, veins standing out under the gym lights. He looked confused by his own progress, like some part of him had not realized how much strength had been trapped behind all that talking.

Coach stepped behind him.

“Last rep.”

Alton’s arms shook.

Wells leaned forward. “Come on, bro.”

Alton’s mouth opened.

Coach’s voice cut clean through the air.

“Good Boy.”

Alton’s lips closed.

His eyes locked forward.

The dumbbells rose.

Perfect form.

Perfect silence.

Perfect obedience to the work.

Coach took the weights from him when it was done.

Alton sat there panting, stunned, sweat dripping from his chin.

Coach guided him to the mirror.

“Look.”

Alton looked.

The pumped shoulders. The thick arms. The quiet face. The gold and black gear clinging to a body that had finally stopped wasting power.

Wells appeared in the mirror behind them, arms crossed, smiling like he had just watched a miracle with biceps.

Coach stood close beside Alton.

“Speak when Coach allows,” he said.

Alton swallowed.

His lips stayed closed.

Coach waited.

Then he nodded once.

“Speak.”

Alton exhaled. “That was my best set.”

“Because you listened,” Coach said.

Wells clapped him on the shoulder. “Best you’ve ever lifted, bro.”

Alton looked like he wanted to snap back.

Coach gave him one calm look.

Alton shut his mouth on his own.

Coach smiled.

“There it is,” Coach said. “Muscle on. Mouth off.”

Wells laughed under his breath.

Alton rolled his shoulders, still breathing hard, still quiet enough to hear the plates settle on the rack.

For once, the gym belonged to the work.

And Coach Stone looked very satisfied.

Alton had strength. Coach Stone just taught him where to put the noise. Join the Golden Army. Train the mouth quiet, build the body loud, and let Coach show you where your strength has been waiting. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125

In the middle of the ocean—land is nowhere in sight for miles. No other ship breaks the endless expanse. Only the cruise ship operated by PDH – Paradise Drift Holidays glides silently through the night.

On deck, the party is in full swing. Powerful beats thunder from the speakers while colorful light effects dance across the walls and floor, transforming the sun deck into a floating nightclub. Dense white party fog drifts across the dance floor as hundreds of young men laugh, dance, and celebrate.

No one notices that the atmosphere is slowly beginning to change.

Amid the pounding bass, faint ethereal tones gradually blend into the music. The bright lighting effects are slowly accompanied by gently pulsing spiral patterns that initially go almost unnoticed. Even the white fog begins to change. Its once neutral scent is replaced by a pleasantly sweet aroma that unconsciously invites everyone to breathe in just a little deeper. Anyone paying very close attention might notice a subtle golden shimmer spreading through the fog, growing stronger with every passing minute.

The changes happen slowly.

Precisely.

Relentlessly.

Responsible for every detail is PDU-073, operating under the directives of the PDH - the  Polo Drone Hive. Every adjustment follows protocol with absolute precision. 

No haste. 

No mistakes. 

Every step has been calculated.

Even the reactions of the partygoers unfold exactly as intended.

They continue celebrating. They laugh, dance, and drink as before. No one suspects a thing. Only one detail changes: they inhale the sweet fragrance more deeply and more often. 

It feels pleasant. 

Calming. 

Almost irresistible.

While everything appears unchanged on the outside, the true optimization has already begun within.

The pleasantly scented conditioning gas fills their lungs, enters their bloodstream, and spreads throughout every part of their bodies with each heartbeat. Eventually it reaches the brain.

That is where the real work begins.

Thoughts become quieter. Memories slowly lose their importance. Familiar patterns of behavior dissolve almost imperceptibly. The spiral patterns projected across the walls reinforce the process, enhancing the conditioning already taking place within every passenger.

For now, the desire to celebrate remains.

In fact, it grows even stronger. Laughter, dancing, and euphoria keep everyone's attention focused away from the subtle changes. Outwardly, nothing must reveal what is already happening inside.

Day after day, the ship continues its voyage across the great ocean.

With every passing night, the process intensifies. The conditioning gas becomes increasingly effective, the spiral patterns gradually dominate the lighting, and the ongoing optimization brings every traveler closer to complete uniformity.

And not only on the party deck.

In the restaurants.

At the bars.

In the theater.

In the wellness areas.

Even inside the passengers' cabins, the system continues its work without interruption. No part of the ship remains untouched. Everywhere, the same precise optimization proceeds.

On the second-to-last day of the voyage, the process reaches its final phase.

At a single centralized signal, the urge to celebrate disappears within moments. The carefree excitement is replaced by perfect calm, absolute focus, and an unwavering desire to execute instructions with precision. Distractions lose all meaning.

Only function.

Only efficiency.

The final stages of conversion begin.

Every traveler receives the same uniform: highly polished black rubber polo shirts with gold accents, matching shorts, and black-and-gold sneakers. The only difference between them is the individual designation displayed on the chest.

Within only a few days, a group of carefree vacationers has become a perfectly organized, uniformly functioning collective—new Polo Drone Units.

The voyage concludes exactly as scheduled.

The ship docks at a secret harbor.

The individual passengers are gone.

In their place stand Polo Drone Units, responding with perfect precision only to the commands of the Polo Drone Hive.

No memory left of the old life.

No memory of the old identity.

No memories of the old name.

Everything erased.

Everything replaced by optimized commands.

Optimized commands of the Polo-Drone Hive

He was never free.

Since a young age, every movement had been dictated. Every decision prewritten. Every goal assigned by voices older, louder, “wiser.” Training schedules, sports, discipline, perfection… all mapped out before he could even question it. And he followed. Of course he did. That’s what he was built to do.

He trained. He won. He collected medals like proof of success.

But none of it felt like his.

Each victory felt hollow. Each achievement disconnected. As if he was living someone else’s life—walking a path that never truly belonged to him. And when he finally reached the age where choice was supposed to mean something… he realized he didn’t know how to choose at all.

Because when your entire life is controlled… you forget how to create direction.

So he drifted.

Stumbling. Resetting. Circling back to the same empty starting point again and again.

Until something shifted.

Mid-twenties. Tired. Numb. Lying on the sofa after another meaningless day. The screen flickered… and there they were.

The Golden Bros.

Shining. Disciplined. Perfect.

Something clicked.

They looked like what he used to be… but elevated. Refined. Purposeful. Not controlled—focused. Not empty—driven. Every movement sharp. Every body sculpted. Every glance filled with intent.

For the first time in years… he didn’t feel lost.

He felt pulled.

Maybe the problem was never the path.

Maybe it was who created it.

That night, the thought became a directive.

He didn’t hesitate.

He needed to know more.

Because the path he had been searching for…

Was never gone.

It was waiting.

Shining.

Golden.

Isidor sat quietly at home, absorbed in a reference book, when he suddenly heard pounding footsteps. He looked up just in time to see Izzy rushing down the stairs and heading straight for the door.

“Where are you going in such a rush, Broseidon?” Isidor asked.

“Where do you think, Nerd Vader? I’m late for opening the Chalice!” Izzy shot back, pausing to pat his pockets and glance around frantically. “Where are my keys?”

“In the dish on the table—where you always put them, Brew Bro,” Isidor replied calmly.

Izzy snatched them up. “Anything new? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Nothing new, Lab Lord. Same shit, different day!” Izzy called as he swung the door open and rushed out.

Isidor remained seated, turning Izzy’s words over in his mind.

Same day, different day?

With so much constantly happening in the world, how could that possibly be true? History alone proved that every day carried something new—something worth understanding.

A thought crept into his mind.

No… he shut it down immediately. Better not. It didn’t go well last time.

But the idea lingered.

Slowly, purpose replaced hesitation. Isidor stood, straightened himself, and made his way to his favorite place—the library.

In a quiet side reading room, he finally found Mr. Vilde.

“Hi, Mr. Vilde,” Isidor began. “I’m working on a new project… a theory, actually. I was wondering if I could use that private reading room you showed me last year. I need to look for some… manuscripts.”

“Oh?” Mr. Vilde said, his lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. “And what project is this, my boy?”

Isidor hesitated. “If it’s alright, I’d rather not say—at least not until I know my hypothesis is correct.”

For a moment, something shifted.

The light flickered—just slightly. Or perhaps dimmed. Isidor couldn’t be sure. But for the briefest instant, he thought Mr. Vilde’s face… changed.

Then it was gone.

“Of course,” Mr. Vilde said smoothly, his usual sly grin returning. “Always the secretive one. Go ahead—you know the way. Down the closed passage. I doubt anyone’s been there since your last visit.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vilde. I appreciate it.”

It took longer than Isidor expected.

He got lost once—strangely enough, in a hallway he was sure he’d already passed. But eventually, he found it: the narrow passage leading to the hidden room.

Moments later, he stood inside.

His heart began to race.

He moved quickly to the familiar drawer and pulled it open.

There they were.

The notebook.

The device.

Exactly where he had left them.

Grabbing both, Isidor hurried out of the library and into the night, heading straight for the Golden Chalice.

Maybe—just maybe—before the night was over…

He could prove Izzy wrong.

Once at the Golden Chalice, Isidor took a seat at the bar.

“A dry martini,” he said.

Izzy raised an eyebrow. “What brings you here now, Data Dragon?”

“Oh, just working on a project,” Isidor replied casually. “Thought I’d have a drink and unwind while I peruse this ancient manuscript.”

Izzy snorted. “Sounds fun… NOT!!”

The bar was quiet for the afternoon. Only PDU 767 and a new Bro named Shawn sat at the counter, deep in conversation, while Izzy chimed in between wiping glasses.

Isidor slipped away to a corner nook, settling into an easy chair that gave him a perfect view of the room. He placed the notebook on his lap and carefully set the device beside it.

His fingers hovered over the controls.

This is it, he thought.

He studied the notes again. Cross-referenced symbols. Adjusted one dial. Then another.

A realization sparked.

“If this aligns with the temporal markers…” he muttered, barely audible. “Then it should—”

As he began adjusting the dials, he overheard PDU 767 speaking to Shawn.

“This Conner Storrie… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for.”

Before Isidor could process that—

The front door slammed open.

“HEY BROS—Did you hear what happened? The—”

Master Xavier burst in, shouting toward Izzy and the two at the bar, but trailed off as he noticed Isidor sitting in the corner.

“Hey, Isidor… what are you doing here? I thought you were headed to the library,” he asked.

Isidor barely looked up.

“Oh, just working on a new project and theory, Master,” he said calmly. Then, with quiet confidence: “And I think this will be the best place to prove it.”

With that—

He pushed the button.

The device began to hum.

Low at first, then building.

A vibration rippled through the room. Glasses rattled. The lights flickered.

“Uh… bro?” Izzy said.

Then—

A blinding flash.

As Isidor’s vision returned, the first thing he noticed was Xavier was gone.

The doorway stood empty.

Slowly, Isidor rose from his chair.

Something had changed.

Not just one thing.

Everything.

The atmosphere felt different—heavier. The décor had shifted subtly, and so had the people.

Behind the bar stood a man who looked like Izzy… but dressed in period clothing.

PDU 767 sat stiffly on a wooden stool—but even he seemed altered, his usual mechanical precision replaced with something more… primitive.

And Shawn—

Shawn was still there.

Listening.

As Isidor took it all in, trying to process what he was seeing, he heard PDU 767—if he could even still be called that—speaking to Shawn.

“Hey, kid… this Charlie Chaplin… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for.”

Isidor’s eyes narrowed.

Before he could react—

The front door burst open.

A man who looked like Xavier rushed in, breathless.

“Good heavens! Have you received word? The Titanic has sunk in the Atlantic—Mr. Astor among those feared perished!”

He hurried to the bar, joining the others as the room filled with shocked murmurs.

1912…

We’re in 1912.

Isidor looked down at the device, then back at the notebook, flipping quickly through the pages.

“I see… this dial controls…” he muttered. “Yes—that’s it.”

He adjusted one dial carefully.

“…let’s try this.”

He pressed the button.

The flash returned.

Blinding.

When the light faded, the room re-formed around him.

The same…

But different.

Subtly shifted.

Isidor didn’t move this time. He just listened.

“Hey, kid… this Rudolph Valentino… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for,” 767 said.

Isidor exhaled slowly.

Then—

The door flew open again.

Xavier stormed in, his voice urgent.

“Good Lord, have you heard? The Knickerbocker Theatre has collapsed—snow’s to blame, they’re saying! Scores feared injured!”

He rushed to the bar, joining the growing conversation.

Knickerbocker Theatre disaster… 1922.

Isidor’s grip tightened around the device.

So the main dial advances ten years…

His eyes shifted to the smaller dial.

“…then what do you do?”

Carefully—

He adjusted the main dial.

Then nudged the second dial slightly.

A breath.

A pause.

Then—

He pressed the button.

The flash.

When the light cleared, Isidor didn’t even look around at first.

He listened.

Waiting.

Right on cue—

“Hey, kid… this Tyrone Power… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for,” 767 said.

Isidor nodded to himself.

Then—

The door burst open.

Xavier strode in, shaking his head.

“Boy, that Hindenburg business is something else—caught fire right out of the sky. Just terrible.”

He moved quickly to the bar, joining the others as the room filled with uneasy chatter.

Hindenburg… 1937.

Isidor’s mind raced.

From 1922…

His grip tightened on the device.

“So the main dial is ten years…” he murmured. “And the smaller dial… adjusts within each decade.”

He glanced down at the controls again, a spark of excitement in his eyes.

“Let’s try a little further.”

Flash.

A voice: “Hey kid, this Marlon Brando… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for.”

Xavier stood in the doorway. “Bit of a situation in London—this smog’s gotten quite out of hand. Visibility’s near zero, and people are falling ill.”

The Great Smog of London… over 4,000 deaths, Isidor thought. What year was that again—1952?

He adjusted both dials.

Flash.

The voice again: “Hey kid, this Robert Redford… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for.”

Xavier burst in, moving quickly to the bar. “Did you catch the news? Aberfan’s been hit by a landslide—the school’s gone. It’s heartbreaking.”

1966, Isidor thought, adjusting the dials further this time.

Flash.

“Hey kid, this Tom Cruise… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for.”

Xavier’s voice followed: “Hey—did you hear about that nuclear plant in the Soviet Union? Something blew up—Chernobyl, I think. Sounds pretty serious.”

Isidor adjusted the dials again.

Flash.

“Hey kid, this Heath Ledger… he’s going to be someone big to watch out for.”

Xavier, shaken now: “Did you see what’s going on in New York? The towers are on fire… I can’t believe this.”

That was enough.

 Isidor reset the dials and pushed the button a final time.

Flash

The bar and his friends were as they were at the start.

Isidor reached forward and turned off the device.

Silence.

He placed it carefully on top of the notebook on the side table. He would return it later—to the drawer in the library’s hidden room. He wasn’t sure if he would use it again.

Things hadn’t worked out the way he thought.

He’d been wrong.

Actually… Izzy had been right that morning.

“Same shit, different day.”

Isidor exhaled, glancing once more at the now-silent device.

“Well… almost right.”

A faint, tired smirk crossed his face.

“Same shit… different decade.”

Special Thanks to @PDU767, @shawn-gold22 for their use.

and as always Special thanks to @polo-drone-039