Alton Gets Sent on a Surprise Trip? (Pt. 2)

Turin with 039

Next stop: Turin. It’s 10 a.m. sharp when Alton rolls into the train station. He sprints across the concourse, late as always — he was supposed to already be at the café.

“Bro! Sorry I’m late,” Alton pants. “Drone acknowledges Alton. Golden Bros are always late.” “C’mon bro, that’s not fair! I really tried to be on time.”

They sit down at a terrace table and order two espressos.

“It knows the problem with Golden Bros: too easily distracted. Drones are disciplined. Focused. Efficient.”

“Oh yeah, 039 bro? Prove it! Staring contest. Whoever blinks first loses.” “It accepts Alton’s challenge.”

Alton leans in, laser-focused, locking eyes with 039.

“I’ll show you who’s disciplined, bro,” he thinks.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. Suddenly a ridiculously hot Carabinieri strolls by their table. Bam — Alton’s eyes dart instantly.

“Dammit, bro!” Alton groans, slapping the table. “It was right.” “Yeah, you were, bro. Hate when you’re right!” Alton laughs. “So, what’s on deck today, bro?” “It has arranged motorcycles.” “Bro, you’re the best! Love you, man,” Alton beams.

They tear through Turin’s grand boulevards, then out of the city, flying past Stupinigi and Venaria Reale, ripping through the vineyards of Piemonte, drunk on speed and freedom.

Back in town, after aperitivo, they hit a trattoria. 039 orders, and the waiter shaves fresh Alba white truffle over their plates.

“It’s called agnolotti — stuffed pasta, Piemonte specialty,” 039 explains. “Bro, this looks insane, smells even better. And…” Alton glances at the waiter, grinning, “…no way we’re pulling a staring contest in here!”

They laugh. Alton takes a bite, then sighs. “But seriously bro… being more focused, like you, wouldn’t be so bad.” “There is a way, Alton. You should go to Budapest. Speak with Franco.”

Budapest with Franco

Next stop: Budapest. Alton pushes through the chaos at Keleti station, already hyped to see his bro Franco. And there he is.

Grinning wide, Alton smacks his hand into Franco’s and pulls him in for a hug. “Bro, so good to see you again!” “Same here, Alton!” Franco laughs.

They stroll the Buda old town, chatting and sightseeing, until Alton spots a street stall stacked with rose hips and every possible rose-hip product.

“Rose hips, bro?” “Oh yeah, bro! Fall here means pumpkins and rose hips. We go big on it.”

Alton, a sucker for rose hips, samples everything. Meanwhile, Franco grabs a fresh one, splits it, scoops out the seeds — and rubs them all over Alton’s neck.

Alton screams, flailing. “Franco, bro! You’re dead! When I get my hands on you—”

Franco’s doubled over, laughing his head off, while Alton claws at the burning seeds. Finally calm again, they grab a coffee.

“Bro, wanna relax? How about the baths?” Franco asks. “Hell yeah, bro!”

They head to the famous Széchenyi Thermal Bath. Soaking in the warm pools, Alton brings up Turin.

“Bro, 039 showed me we get distracted too easy. Said there’s a way to fix it. You know about that?”

Franco looks serious. “Yeah, bro. But whether you’ll like it… that’s another story.” “Spit it out, bro.” “I don’t think I’m the one to explain.” “Bro, you kidding me? You always know what to say!” “This case is different. I think you need to go to Trier. Talk to 073.” “073? Bro, you think I don’t know what that means? You think I’m dumb?” “Stop talking nonsense. Trust me. It might have a solution. But be careful.”

Alton’s left thinking hard. That night, hungry as hell, they hit a trendy restaurant in Pest serving Hungarian classics as tapas.

“Bro, genius idea! I can finally try everything in one go,” Alton grins. “Right? Glad we found this place,” Franco laughs.

Trier with 073

Final destination: Trier. With a knot in his stomach, Alton steps off the train and heads for the Kaiserforum to meet 073. He likes 073 — they get along great. But he also knows exactly what 073’s role in the Golden Army is. And Franco’s cryptic words still weigh on him.

Still — no risk, no fun.

“Yo 073, bro! Awesome to see you, man! How you been?” “It is glad to see Alton. Shall we explore the city?” “Absolutely, bro! Love checking out new places.”

They wander Trier, 073 dropping knowledge on every monument, square, and alley. Alton’s impressed. But sightseeing makes him hungry.

“073 bro, I’m starving. Got a good spot in mind?” “It knows exactly the place.”

They sit down in a traditional tavern. 073 orders Trier Flieten. Alton has no clue what that is.

“Hopefully not Tokyo-level weird,” he mutters. “Though some of that stuff was actually fire…”

The plates land on the table — chicken wings and fries.

“Bro, this is perfect! You’re the man, 073!” “It knows what Golden Bros like.”

Stuffed and happy, Alton finally brings up what’s been bothering him.

“073 bro… in Turin, 039 showed me I’m not as focused as I thought. Franco said you might have a solution…” “Alton knows the answer to his unasked question. And Alton knows what represents discipline and focus in the Golden Army.” “Yeah, 073, that’s true. But you also know my answer to your unasked question.” “073 acknowledges.” “A dilemma then.” “Alton probably means a stalemate.” “Thanks, 073. As always, right.” “Perhaps it does know a solution. Follow 073.”

---

Wanna join the fun? Contact our recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-125, @polo-drone-166

You think you know where the road leads. You think you’ve seen everything the world can show you. But you haven’t.

Vienna glittered under the morning sun.

Domes and spires glinted like relics of a forgotten empire, but Hive orders had nothing to do with beauty—or history.

034 moved through the crowd, unaffected. It had one purpose.

On a busy street near the university, the target came into view: A restless student, seated on a bench. Books scattered. Fingers twitching. Eyes full of hunger—not for food, but for meaning.

034 approached without hesitation. From its pack, the device emerged: sleek gold frames, lenses etched with pulsing golden spirals. The newest Hive tech.

034 extended them.

“Try these. They hold the knowledge you seek,” it said, voice flat and mechanical.

The boy hesitated. Then, as if drawn by unseen threads, he reached for the glasses and lifted them slowly to his face.

The moment they settled over his eyes, his breath hitched. The spirals turned. Light sank into his pupils, thought collapsing into golden loops.

His mouth parted. His fingers twitched.

034 leaned closer, whispering:

“Obey the gold. Be the gold. Become one with the Army.”

The boy trembled. Then- He gasped.

His posture shifted—shoulders squaring, breath deepening. Golden shimmer traced faintly along the veins in his neck.

“I… am Golden,” he breathed. Reverent. Awestruck. Reborn.

034 nodded once.

“Didn’t it tell you? You would gain knowledge.”

“Yes, bro,” the boy said, grinning now. “I’m so stoked you showed me the truth. Oh—and I heard someone left a black envelope, kinda rubbery, near the fountain in the park. Thought you’d wanna know.”

“Gratitude for this intel,” 034 replied. “Now go—train. Seek out your new brothers.”

034 turned without another word and headed for the park.

The fountain gurgled softly, surrounded by pigeons and morning joggers. 034 scanned the benches.

There—tucked against the slats of worn wood—lay the envelope. Black. Seamless. Almost breathing.

034 opened it.

Next Directive: Germany Recruit for the Hive. Assimilation required.

034 tucked the message away and moved swiftly toward the nearest train station.

Germany awaited.

To find out what happens next, turn the page…

Orders came sealed in black envelopes. No briefing, no details. Just one line: “Pack light. Report to Gate 46.”

We thought it was another covert drill. But when the jet sealed and the engines screamed, we realized this wasn’t Earthbound. Hours later, we broke orbit—our gold kits gleaming as the Commander grinned: “Bros, welcome off-world. Golden thrives anywhere—even the stars.”

In orbit, the surprise kept building. Issued new lion-marked suits—special gear for zero-G operations—we felt the weight of secrecy even as gravity slipped away. Resistance bands snapped against weightless frames. Slow-motion sparring, soccer balls turned meteors. At every turn, classified corridors revealed more than they should—and less than we were cleared to know.

One thing was certain: this wasn’t training for nothing. Whatever waits out there, the Golden Army was being sharpened for it.

We adapt. We obey. We conquer. On turf, sand, or starlight.

Surprise Trip: complete. Mission: classified. Memory: eternal.

The call won’t come with details. Just an order. Just a gate number. The Golden Army doesn’t wait for explanations — we adapt, obey, and conquer wherever we’re sent. Turf, sand, orbit, or beyond, Golden pride thrives.

✈️ Golden Pride, Golden Flight ✈️

The call came at dawn. No warning, no itinerary, no chance to second-guess. A golden duffel landed in Nate’s hands, heavy with gear. One order only: pack, move, follow.

The bus roared down unfamiliar roads, curtains drawn. Bros sat shoulder to shoulder, no questions asked, just grins and flexes, muscles twitching with anticipation. Nobody knew the destination—but every heartbeat thumped in rhythm, one squad, one will.

When the doors finally swung open, the Golden Storm of voices erupted. An abandoned arena, lights flickering, golden banners unfurling in the shadows. The command rang out: “Drop bags. Form up. Drill.”

No hesitation. Jerseys peeled, sweat broke, chants echoed against the steel rafters. Push-ups in puddles, sprints through dark corridors, tackles in the dust. Each challenge came sharp, unplanned, relentless. And yet—the squad adapted. They thrived.

By nightfall, drenched and panting, they laughed around their gear, gold uniforms glistening under dim floodlights. The surprise hadn’t been the destination. It had been the reminder: wherever the Golden Army lands, that is home.

Strength wasn’t knowing what came next. Strength was the pride of meeting it together.

The drills were over. His body was still humming from the sudden sprints through airports, the surprise obstacle course in the Metro tunnels, and that 4 a.m. wake-up call in a hotel lobby. But now—at last—Wells had a free day. And in Montreal, that meant adventure.

Ezan was waiting at the hotel doors, dressed smartly but casually for sightseeing. He gave Wells a nod that was half challenge, half invitation. “You ready to actually enjoy the city instead of just running through it in compression tights?”

Wells laughed, tugging at the strap of his golden duffel bag slung across his shoulder. “As long as this trip doesn’t end with another surprise push-up contest, I’m in.”

The two bros hit the cobblestoned streets of Old Montreal first, wandering past stone facades and tucked-away cafés. Wells towered in his golden hoodie and tights, but for once he wasn’t sprinting—he was soaking it all in. Ezan pointed out the details, pausing for photos against murals, guiding them toward hidden courtyards, and teasing Wells whenever he tripped over uneven stones.

They ducked into Notre-Dame Basilica next, the golden light of the stained glass spilling over their shoulders. Wells tilted his head back, taking in the vaulted ceilings. “The Captains say strength is about resilience, but this… this is a different kind of power.”

Ezan smirked. “Even you need balance, bro. Can’t flex without some perspective.”

By midday, their stomachs made the call. They stopped at a legendary spot for Montreal smoked meat sandwiches. Wells grinned as the server dropped a plate in front of him: rye bread piled high with steaming, peppery beef, mustard dripping onto the plate.

He flexed theatrically before taking his first bite. “Golden drills? Tough. But this? This is the real challenge.”

Ezan laughed, snapping a photo as Wells tried to wrestle the sandwich into submission. “Caption: ‘Victory tastes like smoked meat and mustard.’”

Later, they’d climb the steps at the Olympic Stadium, snap selfies in front of the Ferris wheel at the Old Port, and wander aimlessly down more hidden streets. But the memory that stuck was that sandwich—shared laughter, mustard on Wells’ golden hoodie, and a rare moment where the Golden Army’s surprise trip was about slowing down and simply living.

Golden Army Lesson: Strength isn’t just tested by the drills. It’s tested by how you savor the detours, the meals, and the brothers by your side.

“Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @brodygold, @polo-drone-001 or @polo-drone-125”

Alton Gets Sent on a Surprise Trip? The Golden Army decides their bros deserve a break — so they ship them out on surprise trips. The catch: nobody knows where they’re going or what’s waiting for them.

Doesn’t matter. Alton loves challenges. He grabs a backpack and stuffs it with everything he might need — swim trunks, winter jacket, sleeping bag, yoga mat. He’s ready for anything.

It’s a perfect fall day as he heads to the train station.

Time for adventure, bro.

Montréal with Wells

First stop: Montréal. Alton steps out of the airport and bam — Wells is already there waiting.

“Bro! Long time no see, how’s life?” Wells grins. “Always good, bro. What’s up with you?”

Laughing, the two cruise into the city and wander around without a plan. Eventually they hit an outdoor rink.

“Yo, you ever play hockey, bro?” Wells asks. “Nope, never.” “Then today’s your debut, bro!”

Before Alton can even react, Wells shoves a pair of skates into his hands. “Suit up, bro!” “Uhh, bro… these things don’t exactly smell fresh.” “As if you don’t love it,” Wells fires back with a wink.

They hit the ice. Wells runs him through the basics, then it’s one-on-one, full send.

After a sweaty session, Alton beams: “Bro, this sport is insane! Why didn’t I think of this sooner?” “Good thing you came to visit me, bro. Let’s grab food.” “Perfect, bro. I’m starving.”

At a café nearby, Wells orders. Plates hit the table: Montreal bagels and beaver tails dripping with maple syrup.

“Dig in, bro!” Wells grins.

Alton doesn’t hold back, demolishing the sweets. “Bro, this stuff slaps!” he mumbles with a full mouth.

Fayetteville, WV with Gabe

Next destination: Fayetteville, West Virginia. Alton meets up with Gabe.

“Alton, bro! Pumped you made it!” “Glad to be here, Gabe bro! What’s that special event you hyped me about?” “Patience, bro. First, let’s check out the town.”

They stroll through the small city and land at a farmers market — apples everywhere. Cider, pies, juice, you name it.

“Bro, what’s with all the apples?” “Alton, bro, you serious? West Virginia’s apple country! Golden Delicious is our thing.” “No way, I never knew.”

They sample apple treats, then Gabe grins and points at another stand. “Hungry, bro?” “Do you even know me?” Alton laughs. “Then you gotta try this: Slaw Dog. Local specialty.” “What’s a Slaw Dog?” “Hotdog with coleslaw and meat sauce. Next-level, bro.” “Bro, gimme that right now!” Alton’s eyes go wide.

They chow down and keep moving. Finally, Gabe drops it: “Time for the event, bro.” “What is it?” “The Bridge Day Festival. Happens once a year.”

At the New River Gorge Bridge, Alton realizes what’s up — base jumping.

“Bro, this is wild!” “Knew you’d be into it. Already signed you up, bro.” “You mean I actually get to jump?” “Hell yeah, bro.”

Harnessed up, helmet cam on, Alton steps to the edge. Heart racing. Way higher than it looked from below.

But no hesitation — Alton launches himself off the bridge, whooping into the wind.

Tokyo with Percival

Next stop: Tokyo. The city is pure chaos — lights, noise, crowds. By the time Alton finds Percival, he’s wiped.

“Perc, bro… how do you live in this madness every day?” “You get used to it. Don’t worry, I’ve got something to chill you out.”

Percival leads him out of the bustle to a traditional tea house. “Trust me, bro. A tea ceremony is exactly what you need.” “Alright, bro. Let’s roll.”

They enter the simple room. The ceremony begins — harmony, respect, purity, stillness. Step by step, Alton feels himself relax. By the end, he’s calm and centered.

“Perc, bro, genius move. I feel amazing.” “Good. ’Cause I’ve got one more surprise.” “Ohh, I love surprises.” “Sumo wrestling match. You in?” “Bro, absolutely.”

At Ryogoku Kokugikan Arena, they watch the giants go at it. Alton’s jaw drops. “Bro, I had no idea they were this agile.” Percival laughs: “Bet you wouldn’t dare face one.” “Perc, bro… you really should know me better by now.”

Minutes later, Alton’s in the ring. Bad idea? Definitely. He gets flattened instantly. But walking out, he’s grinning ear to ear.

“Lost your bet, Perc bro. What’s my prize?” “A special dinner, bro.”

Perfect. Alton’s starving anyway. Percival orders a spread — special and rare Japanese delicacies: fugu, shirako, shiokara, shirouo no odorigui.

Alton stares in disbeliefe, Percival smirks. “Bro… you call this a reward? Looks more like a challenge!”

The envelope slid under the door at dawn. Black wax seal. Golden crest pressed deep into the surface. No address. No sender.

The Hive never needed to announce itself. Its call was enough.

PDU-034 broke the seal with steady hands. Inside: a single slip of paper, inked in angular letters that pulsed faintly with golden shimmer.

“Travel to Paris. Volunteer as a librarian. Follow for the next tasks.”

It packed without thought. A drone does not ask “where” or “why.” It obeys.

The morning air clung cold against its uniform as it boarded the train, the designation 034 glinting faintly on its chest. Reflections of its rubber suit shimmered in the window, blue eyes watching the countryside blur into shadow.

The destination was mysterious—yet inevitable.

Paris received it in a flood of sound and scent: horns blaring, cobblestones slick with rain, the distant aroma of butter and wine curling through narrow streets.

But none of it registered as beauty. The Hive had no interest in romance. Only obedience.

Inside the Bibliothèque Mazarine, silence ruled. The air tasted of dust, parchment, and ancient secrets. Its task was simple: shelve books, assist readers, catalog knowledge like a dutiful servant.

Each motion was mechanical- Hands sliding across worn spines. Boots echoing on marble. Body bent in submission to the order of the archive.

Hours passed. Or perhaps only moments. Time dissolved in the rhythm of service.

Then the second envelope appeared. Not handed. Not dropped. Slipped silently between the pages of a book it had been instructed to shelve:

“Follow the lead of Dan and Amy Cahill’s first travels.”

At the end of its shift, 034 found a promising volume: The 39 Clues: The Maze of Bones. It read it cover to cover, alone in the archives.

When night swallowed the sky, it knew where to go.

The catacombs awaited.

Narrow staircases spiraled downward, stone slick with centuries of hands. The air grew colder, heavier—musk thick with the rot of bones long settled.

Millions of skulls watched from stacked rows. Empty sockets caught the flicker of torchlight.

Fear scraped at the edges of its programming. Fascination gnawed deeper.

Each step was a trial, a confrontation with the nothingness Hive training had promised to erase.

The drone’s breath rasped in its ears—mechanical, shallow, but steady.

Bones stripped of names. Identities erased. Only unity remained.

At a deep chamber, the floor glowed faintly. A sigil, etched in stone, shimmered with liquid gold.

At its center: an envelope. Still warm to the touch. As though it breathed.

Next Directive: Italy. Sweep the streets clean.

034 rose from the catacombs—dread and awe fused into perfect obedience. The Hive had tested its resolve. The next trial awaited.

It boarded the next train bound for Rome.

To find out what happens next, turn the page…