#goldenpen

The office was silent, shadows broken only by the golden glow radiating from the desk. At its centre sat Percival, impeccably dressed in his tailored black suit with gold trim, hypnotic golden eyes fixed on the trembling young man across from him.

Between them lay the parchment. Blank. Heavy. Waiting to be signed.

The recruit’s hand quivered as he lifted the pen, its golden nib pulsing faintly like a living thing. Percival leaned forward, calm and commanding, his voice smooth as silk, impossible to resist.

“Sign.”

The nib met the page. Golden ink bled outward like veins, alive and hungry, racing across the parchment, and into the boy. His breath caught, a gasp escaping as golden light surged up his arm. Muscles tightened. Form sculpted. His veins blazed, bright enough to burn away hesitation. His pupils shrank until molten gold filled his eyes.

Percival smiled faintly. The contract had done its work.

The boy’s body flexed instinctively, civilian clothes unraveling into a shimmer of nothing, exposing the perfect form gold had carved. His chest rose and fell with newfound strength, a faint number flickering across his skin, marking him for the Army.

“Your will is mine now,” Percival murmured. “Your body, your strength, your future, it belongs to GOLD.”

And the recruit stood taller, no longer a boy, but a man claimed, bound, and reborn into destiny.

It started in the locker room at the Golden Stadium. Wells was digging through his gym bag for a clean shaker lid when he felt something heavy, warm, metallic at the bottom.

The golden pen.

No idea how it got there. But the moment he touched it, the words came pouring out, lines that practically wrote themselves onto his notepad. By the time he looked up, he’d finished a whole song. He laughed, muttering, “Guess I’m a lyricist now, bros.”

But when he recorded it and played the track back through the Stadium’s sound system, the impossible happened.

“Out on the field, under stadium lights, Engines are humming, we’re ready for flight. Golden precision, in patterns we weave, The Polo Drones rise—there’s glory to achieve…”

The roof shutters opened. Across the city, Polo Drones stirred from their silent docks. One by one, they rose into the night, syncing their formations to Wells’ chorus.

That’s when PDU-034, PDU-090, and PDU-166 stepped onto the turf. They weren’t here for the music. They were here for the pen.

Their HIVE minds rippled with unease. The golden pen wasn’t just a trinket, it was a directive tool, a relic capable of bending code and awakening entire fleets. And Wells, oblivious, had just activated it with the catchiest hook of the decade.

“Uh…” Wells glanced at the sky as the Drones spiraled tighter, tracing glowing letters across the stars: P-O-L-O.

034’s voice was almost a growl. 166’s tone? A warning. 090? Silent, watching.

“Hand over the pen,” they said.

But Wells, half-terrified, half-excited, ran back to the control room and grabbed onto the mic, grinned, and belted the chorus louder.

The stadium shook as the Drones answered.

The song wasn’t just a song anymore. It was a command.

And somewhere above, the Polo Drones chanted back in vocoder tones: “Fly… fly… fly…”

Wells stuffed the pen back in his gym bag and ran out of the stadium once the song was over. A voice inside of him, told him to keep the Golden Pen, as he may need it again, he wasn't sure why but something in his gut told him to keep it.

Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters:

@polo-drone-001 @polo-drone-125 @polo-drone-166 @franco-gold94