#goldengods

But who holds the power: The throne or the trident?

Fourth Quarter

Gold led 38–18.

Before the whistle signaled the start of the final quarter, the Red Coach stepped onto the field and approached midfield, stopping just short of the Golden line.

His posture was controlled, but not calm. Contained.

“Finish the game,” he said. “No interference.”

It wasn’t a request. It was an attempt at restoring order.

Behind him, his formation was already changing.

Red substitutes broke from the sideline and moved into the stands—not scattered, not reactive, but placed. They took positions along stairwells, railings, and access lanes, spacing themselves deliberately to divide the lower bowl into controlled segments. Movement within those sections slowed, redirected, contained.

It wasn’t football anymore.

It was crowd control.

Across from them, Gold adjusted without needing the words spoken aloud. The field remained theirs. The stands would be easier to defend for the Golden Gods with such synchronization.

The whistle blew.

At the edge of the field, the new balance held—briefly.

Ares engaged first, driving straight into RED-001 (@polo-drone-001) and forcing it to ground, locking its core presence in place through repeated, forceful collisions. The impact didn’t stop it, but it fixed it—anchored it where it could be contested.

To either side, Kanaloa (@leander-gold-88) moved along the segmented lines, pressing down the flow of movement where pressure built, turning surges into slow, resisting currents.

Above them, Adonis (@brodygold) stood visible—unmistakable. Where his attention settled, the crowd steadied. Not safe, but stable. Panic did not spread where he held it.

Between those layers, the Red Coach’s units advanced along their assigned lines, intercepting movement before it could spill between sections. For a moment, the two systems—Gold and Red—aligned without trust, but with purpose.

Containment existed.

The system was in place.

But it was about to  be tested.

Drive 1- Red

Red continued where they left off, getting a 1st down on the first play of the 4th quarter. However, the next three plays were a repeat of what had happened before. Xavier (@polo-drone-039) blocked a long pass intended for Red #89. Tamerlan (@polo-drone-073) took down Red #40. Kasper (@pdu-090) snuck through the line to land yet another sack. It felt like Red’s plans of improving were not working as well as they hoped. They settled for punting, hoping to recover on their next drive. 

Drive 1 - Gold

Gold opened already stretched across the field, forcing Red to declare its coverage early. Gabe (@polo-drone-075) stood in shotgun, composed, with Grayden (@polo-drone-084) isolated wide, Rainer (@rainer-gold-56) inside, and Alton (@alton-gold77) tight to the line as both threat and support. Franco (@franco-gold94) lingered offset, present but not central.

Red answered with pressure disguised as structure. Edge rushers angled wide, coverage tight underneath, a single deep safety holding the shape together.

The snap came clean.

Red #72 surged off the edge, aiming to collapse the play before it formed. Maximus (@polo-drone-070) met him at contact and redirected the rush outward, not stopping it but displacing it. Inside, Christian (@polo-drone-055) absorbed the initial push while Wells (@wells-gold58) stepped into the delayed blitz from Red #95 before it fully developed. He met it early, anchored low, and sealed the gap completely.

The pocket held.

Gabe stepped into it without hesitation and released quickly to Grayden on a slant. The route won on timing, not separation, gaining clean yardage and establishing rhythm.

_____

Along the lower rows, red units had repositioned—not in lines for play, but spaced deliberately between stairwells and railings, cutting the stands into narrow segments. They moved laterally, herding movement instead of attacking, forcing clusters of fans back into contained pockets.

Within those pockets, the Golden Gods operated in motion. Ares (@goldengod-ares10) drove straight into RED-001, keeping it locked in place through repeated, violent collisions. To either side, Kanaloa pressed outward, slowing the surge of bodies as it tried to spill past the boundaries. Above it all, Adonis held the nearest sections steady—not stopping the threat, but preventing the panic from outrunning it.

For a moment, the lines held where they stood.

_____

But it did not hold cleanly.

RED-001 did not break the lines, it ignored them.

From where Ares held it, something extended—not a movement of the body, but a reach. Thin. Precise. Directed elsewhere. It slipped beneath the visible field of control, passing through the structure of the stands instead of across it.

A section at the edge of the lower bowl shifted—subtle, almost unnoticeable at first. A hesitation. A break in rhythm.

Kanaloa turned toward it immediately.

And somewhere else, just beyond where he had been, the pressure rose.

_____

Gold flowed directly into the next play, shifting alignment just enough to pull Red’s coverage inward. Rainer occupied space, Alton delayed then released, and Grayden drew attention again to the boundary.

Red adjusted a fraction too late.

Grayden sold inside, then broke outward. The window was narrow, but Gabe had already committed. The throw came early, precise, arriving as the route resolved.

Grayden adjusted in stride.

Touchdown.

As the gold fans in the lower stands surged to their feet, the Golden Knight turned toward them, arms raised, drawing the reaction higher—noise building, unified, controlled. For a moment, it looked like any other score.

Then the line broke.

Not from the surge of bodies, but from beneath them. A thin seam of red forced its way upward through the structure, slipping past the containment line before it could be sealed. Kanaloa shifted immediately, pressing down on the breach, but the movement pulled him away from another edge where the pressure began to thin.

Gold transitioned immediately. Seamus stepped in and converted the kick cleanly.

The lead extended—not explosively, but with quiet certainty.

Gold 45 - Red 18

Drive 2 — Red

Red tightened their formation and accelerated their tempo, forcing decisions before Gold could impose pressure. Red #18 released quickly—first a slant underneath, then an inside draw to Red #34 behind a pulling block from Red #95. The gains were modest, but controlled.

Gold held, but not cleanly. Shawn (@shawn-gold22) anchored the middle, the line prevented collapse, yet the defense reacted rather than dictated. The timing was off by a fraction.

At the upper edge of the stadium, RED-016 (@danielgold-16) was still watching from the side. Its head turned—not toward the field, but toward the access corridor behind it.

They were already there.

SERVE-302 (@serve-302) advanced first, precise and deliberate, with SERVE-425 (@serve-425) close behind. They moved without urgency, but without pause, deploying as they walked. A pale containment field began to form between the seating rows, stabilizing the space ahead of them.

RED-016 did not engage. It stepped back, then higher, withdrawing along the structure before the field could fully close.

Nate (@polo-drone-166) returned mid-drive, aligned correctly but not fully present, his focus splitting beyond the field. Red did not test him directly. They did not need to.

Short passes and contained runs carried them forward, step by step, until the defense finally stabilized at the edge of scoring range.

Here, the Red coach chose control over ambition. The kick unit stepped in and claimed a field goal.

Gold 45 - Red 21

As the ball cleared the uprights and the reaction rose from the stands, the balance shifted again beyond the field.

Loki (@jordan-gold-40) folded space around RED-001 just long enough to hold it in place. Ares broke from the clash immediately, driving into a cluster or red pup forming where a newly converted fan had already begun attacking those around him, the surge spreading faster than the line could contain. The impact cleared it—but not early enough to prevent the pressure from rising elsewhere as he moved.

Drive 2 — Gold

Gold condensed the formation this time, drawing Red inward instead of stretching them. The response was immediate—pressure declared early, Red #95 and #72 committing to the rush with the clear intent to break the play at its source.

For a brief instant, Maximus wasn’t looking at them.

His focus had shifted past the line—past the field—into the lower stands.

Kanaloa was there, deep in a tightly packed section near the front rows. The movement around him didn’t stop—it broke. Surges of motion were driven sideways, compressed, forced into new directions as if caught in a current they couldn’t escape. Red forms that tried to push through were struck down and scattered before they could spread. He wasn’t just holding the line, he was forcing it into shape.

Then Maximus saw it.

Behind him.

What had been nothing more than a smear of red across the steps—something already crushed, already dealt with—began to gather again. The surface pulled inward, folding, rising. Reforming.

Two shapes took it. RED-073 and RED-153. Not gone. Never gone.

They split as they formed, low and fast, angling in behind Kanaloa—closing from opposite sides.

Maximus felt it before he thought it—the surge, sharp and immediate. Not just the threat. The recognition. Those two who used to be PDU-073, Eduard… And Leander’s godly form was still in the middle of it.

The pull hit hard—clean, violent, absolute. Cratos’s essence was urging him to go crush his enemies.

Christian grounded it.

Not forcefully, not loudly—just enough. A hand, a word, something steady in the moment. Wells did not turn, did not need to. His voice came low, even, carrying through the line without breaking its focus.

Hold.

Use it here.

The shift was immediate. Maximus exhaled once, tension compressing instead of spilling. When he reset his stance, it wasn’t restraint—it was direction.

He struck first at the snap, meeting Red #72 and driving him outward with controlled violence, clearing the edge instead of contesting it. Inside, Christian absorbed the initial contact, holding the center just long enough for the structure to form.

And Wells—

Wells did not react. He was already there.

Red #95 came through the gap at speed, but Wells met him before the momentum could fully exist, anchoring low, hands set inside, halting the rush at its origin. Then, without breaking his base, he shifted just enough to disrupt the looping pressure behind it, collapsing the movement into itself.

The line held.

Not loosely. Not barely.

Perfectly.

Elsewhere, Loki still held RED-001 in a warped pocket of space—contained, for now, but never still.

Maximus stayed engaged a fraction longer than necessary, then released with a sharp call, a single word of direction that carried down the line. Briar (@polo-drone-050) adjusted. Hans (@polo-drone-069) followed. The structure tightened even further, each piece reinforcing the next.

The pocket became absolute.

Gabe stepped into it without hesitation. There was no need to extend the play, no need to improvise. The read had already resolved—Grayden deep, cutting through the secondary, his defender trailing just out of alignment.

The throw came early and landed exactly where it had to.

Grayden met it in stride.

Touchdown.

The line held their positions a moment longer, the formation not breaking immediately, as if the structure they had built needed to settle before releasing.

As the reaction rose from the stands, RED-001 exploited the distraction to strike—this time in multiple places at once. Thin projections slipped past the warped space around it, splitting outward toward three dense sections before the barrier could adjust.

Ares re-engaged immediately, driving back into the core to hold it in place. Loki released his bind and moved just as fast, folding space around one impact point and isolating the newly struck victim before the conversion could spread further. Adonis turned toward another, and the people there stopped—movement breaking as those closest to the impact steadied instead of turning on each other, the projection dissolved by his presence before it could take hold. 

The third landed cleanly. Too far. Too late. No one was there to see it as the game continued below.

The kicking unit takes the field, Seamus lines up, and it’s good.

Gold 52 - Red 21

Gold extended again. Not through speed. Through something unbreakable, held in place by three points of certainty—Christian at the center, Wells at the core, and Maximus driving force into form.

Drive 3 — Red 

Red spread the field again, but this time they did not attack it all at once. They advanced in fragments.

Short routes. Quick releases. Small gains that did not threaten, but accumulated. The ball came out before pressure could form, each play ending just ahead of contact. Gold answered, but half a step behind—adjusting rather than controlling.

Xavier held the structure together, supported by Brock (@brockgold).

Twice he closed space that should have opened, stepping into passing lanes just as they formed, forcing hesitation, cutting angles before they broke clean. Once he drove forward to limit a gain that could have turned into more. Each intervention slowed the advance, but did not stop it.

High in the stands, SERVE’s containment fields held where they had been deployed, carving out stable pockets within the crowd. Inside those zones, the red spread stalled, held back by a steady shimmer that defined the limits of control.

But the coverage was selective. Between those secured sections, the stands remained open, and the pressure continued to build where no field reached.

The drive continued in that rhythm—gain, reset, gain again. Kai (@kai-gold-99) gave ground but held position. Chavaun adjusted late but recovered enough. The line remained solid, Kasper and Tamerlan applying pressure that never quite arrived in time, Trevor (@polo-drone-125) sealing the middle while Grant (@grant-gold) absorbed contact without control.

Then Nate hesitated.

Not visibly. Not enough to fail the play outright. But enough.

His focus shifted beyond the field, drawn to something that no longer waited.

It happened close. Too close to ignore.

Near the sideline, where equipment cases and water carriers marked the edge between game and crowd, Felix (@felix-gold-21), one of the younger waterboys, was still moving between players—late, but steady, doing what he had been told.

It came from below, without warning.

A thick red tendril emerged from the ground at his feet, almost indistinguishable from the shadows between steps and cables. It slithered just behind him—unseen—then surged upward in a single motion.

The strike hit across his shoulder and neck.

He froze mid-step.

The tray slipped from his hands, bottles scattering across the ground, liquid spreading unnoticed.

For a fraction of a second, nothing else happened.

Then everything did.

His spine straightened sharply, pulled taut as if something had taken hold beneath the surface. His hands curled inward, fingers locking as the red spread across his skin—not randomly, but in defined paths, tracing and sealing, replacing. His breath caught once, a sharp intake that never fully released.

The change was fast.

Clothes dissolved into the forming layer. Structure smoothed. Color deepened.

Where the waterboy had stood, a red drone remained. RED-021.

It moved immediately.

Its head turned—not in confusion, but with purpose—and its hand shot forward, seizing the nearest shoulder, pulling another figure toward it.

Nate saw it.

Recognition came first. Then certainty.

There was no hesitation.

“Cover left,” he called—sharp, already moving.

The shift was immediate.

Succelos took hold as he stepped off the field, not waiting for the play to resolve, not looking back as he crossed the boundary toward the stands.

The change did not break the defense immediately.

It unbalanced it.

Assignments stretched. Roman widened to compensate. Shawn called adjustments that arrived just late enough to matter. The spacing changed, subtly at first, then more clearly as Red increased the tempo again.

The final sequence came faster.

A quick completion to pull the defense inward. A reset before alignment could settle. Then the shift—Red #40 split wide, drawing just enough attention to disappear from it. The route curved upward along the boundary, unnoticed for a fraction too long.

Brock moved—but from too far, as did Xavier.

The throw was already placed.

Touchdown. Neatly extended by a clean kick. Gold 52 - Red 28

As the players reset, the struggle in the stands tightened into something more deliberate.

At the edge of the spreading zones, the Red Coach’s units shifted formation at a single, sharp signal. They did not pursue RED-001 directly. Instead, they moved to cut its reach—closing access paths, intercepting newly formed pups before they could reach denser sections, forcing the spread outward toward less crowded rows.

It did not stop the expansion.

But it redirected it to lessen its impact on the game itself. 

Drive 3 — Gold 

Gold did not try to answer force with force.

They condensed again, but this time not to dominate—to control. Alton aligned tight to the line, with Nils (@polo-drone-034) drawn in closer on the opposite side, reducing the width of the formation and slowing the pace before the snap even came. Franco settled deeper in the backfield, ready for contact rather than space.

The snap came without urgency.

A run to Penn followed, direct and contained. The gain was minimal, but it was enough. The play ended cleanly, no disruption, no loss of structure. Gold reset at the same measured pace.

____

Meanwhile, Succelos reached the sideline section just as the new drone turned outward.

RED-021 moved fast—too fast for hesitation—closing on the nearest targets where the crowd thinned into staff and support. Trey (@hero21us) stumbled back. Beside him, Rickard Stone, Wells’s Coach, was exposed.

Succelos did not strike first.

He shifted the outcome, channeling his power over good fortune.

The ground underfoot held firm where it should have slipped. A step landed clean instead of failing. A shoulder turned just enough. What should have been contact became a miss—barely, but enough.

The opening followed.

Trey reacted—late, but now possible—driving forward instead of away, breaking the angle before RED-021 could recover it. Rickard followed through the same gap, clearing space that had not existed a moment before.

The attempt to break Gold’s offense line by targeting their closed one has been thwarted. Now there was even an opportunity to capture the new drone before it did any damage, as Succelos spotted SERVE-897 (@serve-897) with a containment unit.

Then RED-063 (@chevy-gold) hit.

It came from the side, fast and direct, not aiming to spread—only to stop him. The impact broke the flow, forcing Succelos to turn, to commit.

He did.

The shift was immediate. The next movement aligned—timing collapsing into certainty. He met RED-063 at the point of contact, redirected it, and drove it down before it could break away again.

Contained. And then captured, as SERVE-897 arrived just in time to deploy a locked containment cell around the pup.

But behind him, RED-021 had already moved on, slipping past the cleared space into a thinner section of the stands, where no one stood ready to intercept.

Succelos held one.

The other was already gone.

___

The next play built from that rhythm. Play-action drew a moment of hesitation, but Red did not fully commit. Pressure still came—Red #72 widening the edge, Red #95 pushing through the interior—but it arrived without the same sharpness as before.

Wells met it.

Not explosively this time, but early. He absorbed #95 at the point of rise, halting the forward surge, then shifted just enough to close the inside lane forming behind it. The movement was controlled, economical, leaving no opening rather than erasing one.

The pocket held long enough.

Gabe released short, finding Rainer underneath. The route was simple, the gain sufficient. First down.

Gold continued in that pattern—Franco taking contact and falling forward for extra yards, Alton securing short passes and anchoring the edge when needed, each play extending the drive without exposing it. There was no attempt to break the defense open, only to keep it contained.

The clock moved with them.

A few sections over, RED-777 (@pdu-777) advanced through the rows with a small pack of newly formed pups, driving straight toward a clustered group near the aisle. The movement was direct, forceful, leaving no space to react. People recoiled too quickly, turning into each other, the retreat collapsing inward as the pressure built and the distance closed.

Adonis stepped into their path.

He did not strike. He did not call out. He simply stood—visible, centered, undeniable.

The change spread from him without motion.

The panic broke.

Where fear had been rising, something else took hold—certainty, quiet, immediate. The crowd steadied as one. No one pushed. No one fled. They held their ground, drawn into a calm they did not question.

At the edge of that space, the pups reached him—and dropped.

Not driven back, not resisted. They lowered where they stood, limbs folding into stillness as if the command had always been there waiting to be obeyed. The aggression left them completely, replaced by a quiet, total submission.

RED-777 remained upright.

It did not advance. It did not retreat. It simply stopped at the boundary of that presence, held in place without contact, its momentum cut short by something it did not challenge.

Within that space, nothing broke. But beyond it, the movement continued.

By the time Gold reached the edge of range, the drive had already served its purpose. The formation tightened once more, not to advance further, but to secure the outcome.

The kick unit stepped in.

Distance was not trivial, but the structure around it held. Isaac (@isaac-gold-45)’s snap came clean and direct, a straight line of motion that gave no room for disruption. The hold followed without adjustment, the timing preserved exactly as intended.

Seamus stepped through the strike with controlled precision, sending the ball on a steady, rising arc.

It cleared the uprights without deviation.

Gold 55 - Red 28

Drive 4 — Red 

Red came out already in motion.

There was no reset between plays, no time for Gold to gather themselves. The formation stretched wide, the snap following before the defense could settle, forcing immediate reactions instead of coordinated ones.

A crossing route cut through the middle—caught cleanly, just beyond reach. The next play broke outward, Kai turning late and chasing along the boundary, the gain secured before contact could form.

Beyond the field, the pace was rising as well.

What had been isolated breaches no longer came alone. In two separate sections, red struck almost at once—one from above, another from within the rows themselves. Neither spread fully before being met, but the reactions overlapped, forcing responses to split instead of focus.

Gold resisted, but not as one.

Kasper crashed inward on one snap, trying to close the space before it opened. On the next, Tamerlan widened his rush, forcing the play to stretch sideways. Trevor held the center—and more than that, he held the line together, calling out adjustments, steadying the formation, forcing focus back into place.

For a moment, it worked.

Then the next snap came too quickly.

The rush formed in fragments—pressure here, then there—never converging at the same instant. Grant was turned aside once, his footing slipping just enough to open a narrow seam.

Red moved through it immediately.

No hesitation.

The tempo climbed again.

Short gain. Reset. Snap. Another completion before the defense could realign. Shawn called changes, Roman stretched outward to compensate, and Trevor’s voice cut through it all—sharp, insistent, pulling attention back, pushing his teammates to hold.

But the rhythm never slowed enough to recover.

In the stands, the balance had shifted beyond coordination.

Ares still held RED-001 in place, each impact anchoring it where it could be contested—but the effort no longer contained what spread from it. The reach extended past him in multiple directions at once.

Loki’s control shortened. The space he warped closed faster than before, forcing him to release and move sooner, never holding the same point long enough to fully secure it.

Kanaloa abandoned one section entirely to answer another, the current of force he drove through the crowd no longer enough to hold both.

Adonis held his ground where he stood. Within his reach, nothing broke, but he did not move from it. Beyond that space, his influence did not follow, and the pressure built where he was not.

Elsewhere, Succelos moved through the gaps, unseen but felt—steps landing where they should not have, paths opening just long enough for allies to slip through. It kept many from falling, but only slowed the unrelenting spread.

SERVE’s fields remained intact where placed—but unchanged. They did not expand. They did not shift. The safe zones held, but the spaces between them widened in effect as pressure gathered outside their reach.

At the edges, the Red Coach’s units tightened their formations, intercepting what they could, redirecting movement away from dense areas—but even that came later now, each action arriving just behind the need for it.

Nothing had broken.

But nothing felt enough.

Finally, on the pitch, the break came in motion.

A play-action look from #18 drew the second level forward for a fraction too long. The line held just enough to sell it—then the ball slipped into #34’s hands.

The crease opened instantly, right where the defense had vacated it. One cut, sharp and decisive, and #34 was through—past the collapsing edge, into open field.

No one recovered in time. Touchdown.

Red stayed on the field.

No hesitation. No pause. The red coach was trying to push even more.

The two-point attempt formed quickly, Red #18 rolling out, drawing pursuit, stretching the defense laterally one last time. The play compressed toward the boundary, forcing a final decision.

This time, Gold answered together.

Xavier had already shifted.

He cut across the path before the throw could fully form, reading the motion rather than the target. When Red #18 released under pressure, the margin was gone—too low, too exposed.

Xavier stepped into it cleanly.

Interception.

The field inverted.

He turned and released immediately, a short lateral to C.C. already crossing behind him. The exchange held, smooth and uninterrupted.

C.C. accelerated.

Gold surged forward around him, forming instinctively, turning defense into motion before Red could recover. The return cut across open space, gaining ground rapidly before he was forced out, but the shift in position was decisive.

Red’s attempt for 2 extra points had failed.

Gold 55 - Red 34

Trevor remained at the center as the play ended, still calling, still steady, pulling the defense back into shape as they reset.

Red had pushed harder than before.

But not far enough.

Drive 4 — Gold

There was little time left.

Gold took the field already in position, the ball set deep enough to consider more, not because it was needed, but because it was there.

The formation came quickly, tighter than before, no elaborate setup. The decision had already been made.

The snap came.

Gabe didn’t hesitate. The line engaged just long enough—Maximus driving forward, Wells anchoring once more, Christian holding the center—to give him a single lane. Not wide. Not clean. Enough.

He took it.

The run broke through the first layer immediately, acceleration carrying him into open ground before the defense could fully react. For a moment, it looked as if it might extend further—space ahead, momentum building, the line pushing behind him.

Then it closed.

Red converged late, but together this time, cutting the angle down before it could reach the end zone. Contact came hard, driving him down just short—ten yards from the line.

The whistle followed soon after.

The noise didn’t settle with it.

It carried past the field, where the same struggle continued—contained in places, breaking in others, held where it could be, slipping where it couldn’t.

Ares remained locked with RED-001. Loki moved between breaches without holding any for long. Kanaloa forced space where he could, abandoning it elsewhere. Adonis stood, one section unbroken around him. Succelos crossed the gaps, shifting moments without stopping the whole. SERVE’s fields held their limits. The Red Coach’s units worked the edges.

No side advanced.

None withdrew.

Gold did not rush another play.

There was no need.

The attempt had been made. The field held. The time ran out with the same controlled certainty that had defined the half.

The score remained.

Gold 55 — Red 34.

The game was theirs, but the fight was not finished.

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To join the Golden Team and takes part in such challenges, contact one of our recruiters @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166, @alton-gold77, or @polo-drone-125

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Want to follow along or catch up with "The Red" storyline/saga check of the Red Index here: The Red Index

The Red storyline is a collaboration with SERVE and additional collaborations have occurred recently. The two groups have a connected past, but are no longer connected. Please do not ask Golden Army recruiters how to join SERVE or SERVE recruiters how to join the Golden Army.

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Acknowledgments :

Outline and text by Grayden (@polo-drone-084) and Maximus (@polo-drone-070).

The forest received Wulfgar without resistance.

Leaves crushed under its weight. Branches snapped as its massive frame pushed through the undergrowth, amber eyes burning with purpose. Every sense was sharpened beyond reason. The world was no longer color and sound—it was scent, heat, signal.

And the signal was unmistakable.

Red.

Not blood. Not prey.

Goo.

The trail wound deeper into the trees, glossy footprints pressed into damp soil, climbing rocks where no ordinary creature should have been able to move. The smell carried something else now—familiarity. Recognition buried under layers of instinct.

Phoenix.

Wulfgar accelerated.

Ahead, the forest opened into a clearing drowned in moonlight. The air shimmered faintly, as if heat still radiated from the ground itself. At the center stood a figure both wrong and inevitable.

Phoenix waited.

The Red Goo Dog’s form was massive—low-slung but powerful, muscle packed densely beneath a skin of living, liquid red. Its surface rippled slowly, like a held breath. Hollow eye sockets faced the trees, tracking Wulfgar long before it emerged.

When Wulfgar burst into the clearing, it snarled—a warning, a challenge, a declaration of dominance.

Phoenix did not retreat.

Instead, it stepped forward.

The ground answered.

Red tendrils seeped from Phoenix’s paws, sinking into the soil, spreading outward like roots. The air thickened, heavy with that synthetic scent Wulfgar couldn’t ignore. Its hackles rose. Instinct screamed danger—but another directive overrode it.

Approach.

Phoenix tilted its head, as if remembering something human. Something shared.

Then it lunged.

The impact shook the clearing. Fur and goo collided in a violent tangle, claws scraping uselessly against Phoenix’s elastic mass. Wulfgar’s strength was immense, but every strike sank in too deep, limbs momentarily trapped as red substance wrapped around wrists and forearms.

Wulfgar roared, tearing free, slamming Phoenix into a tree hard enough to crack bark.

Phoenix didn’t bleed.

It spread.

Red flowed up Wulfgar’s arm where contact had been made—thin at first, like paint, then thicker, heavier. The fur beneath darkened, stiffened, began to gloss over.

He couldn’t allow the red essence to spread. Survival instinct seized him, and with a single, savage bite, he tore away his own compromised forearm.

A ferocious howl erupted—not of pain, but of pure rage and defiance. Summoning every shard of his remaining strength, he hurled himself at the crimson entity.

With a lightning-fast leap, he aimed for the jugular. He seized the throat, gripping tighter, and tighter still. He was a heartbeat away from ripping that wretched red head from its body when the scent of Phoenix halted him.

Phoenix… echoes of a vanished past flickered before his eyes in slow motion: the first contact at the Polo, the drinks, the smoke, their shared moments…

…But Phoenix was not there! Only the Goon remained.

And that fleeting instant was all the Goo needed to break free and force its way into Wulfgar’s jaws—this time, striking from within.

Its body tried to reject it —but the red answered. It pulsed in time with its heartbeat, syncing, learning. The goo didn’t force its way in. It invited itself.

Phoenix stepped closer again, slower now. Deliberate.

A low sound resonated from its hollow chest—not a growl, not speech, but a vibration that carried meaning without words.

Wulfgar staggered. Its claws dug into the earth as the red climbed higher, creeping over muscle, binding fur flat against skin. The golden remnants of the soccer kit fused into the spreading mass, losing color, losing identity.

The wolf tried to howl.

The sound broke halfway out.

Its muzzle warped, bones softening under the influence, reshaping as red crept along its jawline. Amber eyes flickered—wolf, drone, something else—before dimming into a deeper glow.

Phoenix placed one massive paw against Wulfgar’s chest.

Contact was enough.

The red surged.

It poured across Wulfgar’s torso, sealing over ribs, rebuilding his torn off arm, flowing along shoulders and neck, crawling up the back of its skull. Fur vanished beneath a living shell. Muscles remained—enhanced, preserved—but no longer lupine.

No longer free.

Wulfgar collapsed to its knees.

The name meant nothing now.

Inside, Xavier’s last fragments dissolved quietly, absorbed into the same red silence that had taken Phoenix before him. Not erased—repurposed.

The transformation ended without ceremony.

Two red forms stood in the clearing now.

One taller. Broader. Newly forged.

The former werewolf rose, its surface glossy and uniform, eyes hollowed and glowing faintly. It turned its head toward Phoenix, movements synchronized, instincts aligned.

Phoenix stepped beside it.

The forest fell silent.

Somewhere far away, alarms would soon sound. Scanners would register a new anomaly. A new signature.

But here, under the full moon, the Red Hive had grown.

And Wulfgar was no longer hunting the corruption.

He was part of it.

Oh, divine drink—you milk of the gods. You will enchant the bros and the drones alike and send them into a state of fertile ecstasy.

The kennels of the Golden Army were restless that night. except for the low, trembling growl of one pup: Masty (@polo-drone-039).

Gabe #75, keeper of the night shift, felt it before he heard it—a strange pull beneath the skin, a hum in the blood. When he opened the gate, Masty was already waiting, leash in mouth, eyes wide and wild as if the moon itself had called his name.

“Easy, pup,” Gabe murmured, kneeling. “You’re trembling.”

Masty pressed forward, whining softly, tail twitching. He wanted out. He needed out. Against instinct, Gabe clipped on the leash and followed him into the park.

The night was silver and alive, the air was colder than usual, the silence tense— The full moon hung above them like an open wound—vast, breathing, pulsing. The grass shimmered in its light. Masty froze mid-step, head tilted upward.

The Friday night of Labour Day Week-end hit different because it always feels like it makes the unofficial end to the summer. Wells had asked Tanner to join him at the "Golden Gods EDM Festival" tonight an early warm up party for the up and coming 1 year anniversary of the Golden Army. When Wells and Tanner rolled up to the city’s biggest EDM festival, which was being thrown in honour of the Golden Gods, a full-on golden glow-up. The moment they stepped through the gates, jaws dropped. Not just because of the pyrotechnics lighting up the mainstage — but because the two Golden Bros were shining.

Literally.

Head-to-toe in matching metallic reflective golden Spandex bodysuits, every flex of muscle caught the strobe lights just right. Spandex stretched over biceps like it was painted on, and the glint off their thighs was basically its own light show. No subtlety. No chill. These two came to be seen and to honour the gods.

They moved through the crowd like VIPs without the lanyards — high-fiving strangers, catching compliments left and right, drinking glowing cocktails, and laughing with that unbothered bro energy. When the bass dropped, Wells hit the floor with that signature wide-armed power move, while Tanner pulled off a slow body roll that made half the dance floor do a double take. The other half? Already filming.

They danced like they owned the night — because in that moment, they did. Glittered shoulders bouncing in sync with the beat, gold-on-gold in a sea of flashing lights. The music stopped and the headlining DJ spoke:

"Tonight we are all here to honour the Golden Gods"

"Herc!"

"Atlas!"

"Ares!"

"Freyr!"

"Janus"

"Cratos!"

"Adonis!"

"Tonight we honour them, through dance, through music, through song, through drink, through our bodies and through love"

"We honour them, for all they do for the Golden Bro's and the Golden Army"

"So tonight, I have a special song for you all and the Golden Gods!, you will all be the first to hear my new single "Golden Gods"

"So raise a glass, feel the fire!"

The beat of the song kicks in behind the DJ

"We shine, We rise"

The crowd began to dance lost in the golden beats, dancing in honour of the Golden Gods.

Wells and Tanner danced like they owned the night, because in that moment, they did in honour of the Golden Gods. Glittered shoulders bouncing in sync with the beat, gold-on-gold in a sea of flashing lights. And when the headliner dropped the song "Golden Gods" They lost their minds. Arms around each other, yelling lyrics into the night sky, the gold gods of EDM.

No drama. No worries. Just two ripped bros in liquid gold suits, soaking up the music, the vibes, and every bit of attention they were born to bask in.

Golden rule of the night? Shine bright, dance harder, and never apologize for being the most extra version of yourself. Wells and Tanner? Yeah, they understood the assignment. They danced, they drank, they partied hard to honour the Golden Gods.

Featuring: @tanner-gold-61

Image Credit for the "Golden Gods" Cover art: @hero21us

The gates loomed high, carved in radiant marble, glowing as if alive. Tanner stood before them, kit gleaming like molten fire, his name and number stamped in bold across his chest: TANNER 61. His breath came hard and steady, every inhale pulling in the electric hum of the temple, every exhale releasing the last scraps of his old self. With one step forward, he crossed the threshold.

Inside, the air was thick with gold. Light poured from unseen fires, coating every surface. Tanner’s boots clicked against polished stone, echoing loud and proud. He wasn’t walking into a temple. He was walking into eternity.

At first, he stood tall, shoulders square, kit shining like armor. He had trained for this—hours in the gym, sweat pouring, muscles aching—but nothing prepared him for the presence waiting within. The Pantheon of the Golden Gods.

Herc was first to rise from his throne. The god’s body was a fortress of muscle, veins glowing like rivers of molten metal. Tanner dropped before him instinctively, his palms slamming to the marble. Push-ups. One after another. His chest hit the stone, then surged back up, golden jersey clinging tighter with each rep. His arms shook, but Herc’s fire filled him, making him more. He wasn’t repping for himself. Every push was an offering.

Ares followed, spear blazing, armor alive with light. The point pressed beneath Tanner’s chin, forcing his eyes up. “Obedience,” Ares commanded, voice cracking like thunder. Tanner’s heart skipped. His mind emptied. His spine straightened, chest swelling beneath the kit. He wasn’t thinking anymore. He was obeying, molded by war itself into something sharper, harder, greater.

Then Atlas moved, massive even while kneeling, the Hive itself shimmering across his shoulders. The weight of countless brothers pressed down as if gravity had doubled. Tanner’s lungs seized, his back screamed—but he did not bend. His kit stretched across his frame, glowing brighter, as if the fabric itself had taken on the burden. Atlas’s voice rumbled, “Endurance.” Tanner understood. This wasn’t about carrying himself. This was about carrying his team. Carrying the Army. Carrying the Hive.

When Tanner lifted his head, he saw them all. Herc, Ares, Atlas, and the others, throned in glory, golden eyes blazing with judgment. He stood at the center of their fire, kit blazing, chest rising high. His name, his number—TANNER 61—was no longer his. It was theirs. Every muscle flexed, every bead of sweat fell, not as his own tribute but as part of their eternal flame.

The gates opened once more. Tanner strode out, his golden kit alive with fire, aura blazing brighter than the sun. His footsteps shook the stone, each stride a declaration: he was no longer just Tanner. He was Tanner Gold, #61, vessel of the Pantheon. His body burned with Herc’s strength. His mind thrummed with Ares’s obedience. His lungs carried Atlas’s weight.

He walked into the world not as one bro, but as the flame of the Pantheon itself. A mortal made divine, a brother claimed, a player reborn.

The Pantheon didn’t just stand above him. They lived inside him now. Every rep, every sprint, every game—tribute to the gods. And through Tanner, their fire would blaze forever.

0440 hours.

A soft chime pulsed through the darkened drone bay, breaking the immaculate stillness of the recharge rows. PDU-034’s systems stirred awake, posture unfurling with practiced mechanical grace. The glossy black of its rubber uniform caught the ceiling lights in long, liquid streaks; the golden 034 emblazoned across its chest glowed like a dormant circuit returning to life.

On the console beside its station, a single directive blinked:

DIRECTIVE: Construct parade cart for Hive representation. Deadline: Golden Army Grand Parade. Lead Unit: PDU-034.

No hesitation. No emotion. Only acknowledgment.

“Affirmative,” the drone intoned, voice flat as a calibration tone.

The workshop bay stood empty at this hour—wide, cold, symmetrical in its silence. Tools hung in perfect alignment along the walls. In the center of the chamber rested the cart frame: a skeletal structure of steel beams and rubberized panels waiting for purpose.

PDU-034 approached and set its hands upon the unfinished frame.

Metal chilled its hands. Protocol aligned. Construction began.

034 worked without pause as morning crept across the facility. Every movement precise, every action measured.

0820: Structural foundation locked. 0945: Gold-trim accent beams welded into place. 1110: Rubberized outer panels sealed—polished to a mirror-dark gloss. 1300: Central projector mount installed. 1425: Spiral-casting array fitted behind rear axle. 1500–2000: Stability calibration, circuit testing, full-surface polish.

No drift. No error.

Other drones passed intermittently through the workshop. They inspected stabilizers, verified projector output, confirmed the uniformity of the gold trim. None disrupted the labor. Their silent observations served as approval.

When 034 tightened the final bolt on the standing platform—designed to hold six drones in flawless formation—the cart gleamed with quiet perfection. Black rubber surfaces mirrored the overhead lights; golden piping traced clean geometry along its edges.

Decoration came next.

Night deepened outside the workshop, but 034 remained immersed in its task. The Golden Army headquarters roared with pre-parade energy—players drilling entrances, waterboys testing high-pressure sprayers, mascots tumbling in rotating practice formations. Other groups added their own noise:

Chavs swaggered in gold tracksuits, the street bending around their confidence. Arab bros spun staves in synchronized gold, sashes snapping with crisp authority. Pups bounced and twirled, collars chiming with bright puppy pride. The Golden Gods stood radiant, each pose a myth written in armor. And the Preppies—cool, composed, immaculate—glided by in golden finery, a quiet procession of cultivated grace. Inside the workshop, however, silence reigned.

034 draped rubberized black sheets along the cart’s sides, stretching them until the reflections were flawless. Gold piping traced geometric pathways toward the Hive insignia centered on each panel—a stylized golden wreath encircling a glossy black disc.

Beneath the platform, the drone installed the projector—compact, hidden, angled to cast hypnotic black-and-gold spirals across the street behind it. Not deep enough to overwhelm the mind.

Just enough to shape attention.

Then came the T-shirt cannons: sleek black cylinders with gold accents, loaded with alternating golden jerseys and glossy black polo shirts—the standard drone-uniform top. Gifts for the crowd. Tools of outreach, not aggression.

034 adjusted each cannon until every trajectory aligned with machine precision.

At 0300 hours, the final diagnostic pinged green.

The drone knelt beside the completed float—still, silent, awaiting dawn.

The Golden Army Grand Parade ignited the city at sunrise.

Crowds flooded the streets, tens of thousands strong. Gold banners snapped from balconies. Music thundered from mounted speakers. The air vibrated with shared pride and feverish anticipation.

The opening procession hit like a shockwave:

Players marched first—towering, muscled, radiant in gold-armored kits. They beat their chests in rhythmic percussion, driving the crowd into ecstatic uproar.

Arab bros followed—disciplined, sharp, spinning gold-lined staves in unison as they chanted verses honoring the Emir and the Army. Their movements were powerful, elegant, razor-clean.

Chavs swaggered behind them, stomping in gold tracksuits, snapping gum, tossing coins to the crowd. Their every step radiated weaponized attitude.

Mascots somersaulted past in spinning, glittering arcs, kicking plumes of gold confetti skyward.

Waterboys marched in crisp, organized rows, their polished gold jugs swinging in synchronized waves.

Pups bounded through the formation—leaping, crawling, tails wagging in rhythmic unity, gold collars chiming with every bound.

Then came the Preppies.

They glided forward in immaculate golden suits and cream ensembles embroidered with subtle gold threading. Their procession was silent, aristocratic, composed. Some spun gold-tipped canes with effortless polish; others adjusted ties or smoothed hair with ritual poise.

They did not dance. They displayed.

Finally, the Golden Gods—titanic figures in radiant armor—strode through the avenue, glowing like beings carved from living sunlight. The crowd’s roar rose to near delirium.

Float upon float passed in a tapestry of gold, myth, swagger, and spectacle.

But the Hive did not move.

The Hive waited.

At the rear staging zone, PDU-034 stood at the head of the cart it had built. Five drones formed a perfect rank behind it—uniforms gleaming, expressions blank, posture identical.

The parade director approached and froze for a moment, unsettled by their stillness.

“You’re the final entry,” he breathed. “The Hive float rolls last. Is… everything ready?”

034 turned, motion exact and minimal.

“Affirmative.”

The director stepped back and waved them forward.

The cart rolled out.

A hush rippled through the avenue as spectators caught sight of the Hive float.

It glided in silence.

Effortless. Unnerving. Beautiful.

The black panels shone like obsidian plates. Gold piping shimmered along their edges. The Hive insignia pulsed once—black and gold—acknowledging the thousands watching.

The six drones atop the platform rotated their heads in perfect unison, movements smooth and identical, like a single consciousness spread across six forms.

Whispers spread through the crowd:

“Is that the Hive float?” “They don’t look real…” “Why is it so quiet?” “They’re perfect.”

Behind the cart, spirals began to unfurl.

Black and gold. Slow. Deliberate.

Symbols blooming and dissolving beneath the wheels, subtle enough to avoid alarm, compelling enough to draw the eye.

Then—

THOOM.

A golden jersey arced into the crowd from a T-shirt cannon. Hands shot upward as cheers erupted.

Another shot— A glossy black polo traced a perfect arc overhead. A young man caught it and held it reverently, fingers tracing the gold piping.

The drones did not cheer. Did not pose. Did not break formation.

They only performed slight, synchronized head movements—acknowledgments woven seamlessly into the choreography.

More shirts flew. More spirals coiled behind the cart. More awe followed in its wake.

The Hive neither shouted nor danced. It didn’t need to. Presence was enough.

As the cart approached the final plaza—a vast open square overflowing with spectators—something shifted.

Music faded. Voices quieted. Movement stilled.

The spirals widened behind the cart, black and gold blooming outward like living sigils.

PDU-034 stood at the front.

Then, with a motion slow and precise, the drone raised its right hand and waved.

Not theatrically. Not exuberantly. But with perfect, controlled grace.

The other five drones mirrored the gesture exactly.

A surge of emotion swept the crowd—shock, awe, exhilaration. Applause thundered so loudly the air trembled. People cheered, shouted, lifted their phones, begged for shirts, reached toward the float as if drawn by gravity.

The Hive did not react.

The wave completed. The hands lowered. The cart rolled on.

At the route’s end, the float glided into the staging area. The projector dimmed. Cannons folded. The last spirals flickered and faded.

One by one, the drones stepped down—perfect synchronicity.

034 descended last.

It inspected the cart, evaluating every weld, panel, beam, and circuit.

All functioned flawlessly. All served purpose.

DIRECTIVE FULFILLED. FUNCTION COMPLETE.

The roar of distant crowds continued long after the Hive had vanished from sight.

034 joined formation beside the other drones and delivered its final log:

“Unit 034 reports successful parade execution. Hive presence reinforced. Crowd response: optimal. Directive complete.”

The chorus of drones responded in perfect unison:

“Affirmative.”