#goldenspace

“I was never born. I was made.” —Elijah Gold, Cadet of Aureum One

ACT I: THE PRODIGY

Above the storms of Jupiter, cradled in silence, Aureum One orbits like a blade in prayer. Every surface reflects gold, walls that gleam with ritual perfection, corridors hum with command tones, each doorway sealed with biometric incantations.

Elijah’s boots echo in the Grand Annex. His posture is flawless, back straight, expression blank, every breath regulated. He is top-tier, unmatched. Yet inside, doubt simmers like plasma beneath a containment shell.

Across from him stands PDU-001, the Master of Protocol. Dressed head to toe in tight, glossy black rubber etched with shimmering gold seams, his face hidden behind a reflective mask, he never raises his voice.

“Elijah,” he intones. “Your posture slipped. Left shoulder, off by 1.4 degrees.”

Elijah adjusts. “Affirmative.”

001 circles him slowly, like a predator memorizing prey, yet his tone holds something else… memory? Recognition?

And then, the glyph.

Elijah notices it mid-drill. Behind a sealed vault door at the end of an unused hall, it pulses faintly, shaped like a stag’s antlers drawn in golden circuitry. It should be invisible. But he sees it. It sees him.

“What’s behind that door?” he asks.

001’s tone shifts, metallic, unreadable. “Nothing you are ready for.”

But the glyph keeps pulsing, calling.

ACT II: THE DUEL

The rogue moon beneath Saturn’s shadow was a recovery op. Elijah led it.

But the Hive ship was waiting.

Golden echoes crackle as he’s dragged into the ruins, abandoned containment chambers, walls scratched by time and blood. At the heart of the dead moon’s temple stands the figure in black: taller, stronger, sharper.

Polished drone armor reflects Elijah’s face, then moves with surgical elegance. Every strike is predicted. Every feint countered. Elijah grows desperate, his arm gashed, body pinned against the wall of a decaying anti-grav silo.

“Who are you?” Elijah growls through clenched teeth. “Why do you know my every move?”

The drone steps back. Reaches to its helmet. Pulls it off.

001.

But older. Maskless. Eyes golden. Scar above his lip, Elijah’s own face… aged.

“I know you,” he says, “because I built you.”

“No.”

“You were not adopted. You were not born. You are engineered.”

“…No.”

“I am your father.”

The silence is total. Even the reactor hum halts.

Elijah’s knees buckle. “No…”

001 steps closer. “You were never meant to obey. You were meant to replace.”

ACT III: THE COLLAPSE

Elijah’s scream tears through the dark. He lunges, wounded, trembling, his blade shatters against 001’s gauntlet.

001 doesn’t flinch. “Elijah, listen. You are more than flesh. You are purpose.”

But Elijah’s done listening.

He hurls himself backwards, into the silo’s core. Energy arcs, the planet’s ring pulls. Static devours the screen.

He awakens in silence.

Naked. Weightless. Floating in a golden-pulsed pod, his breath slow and shallow.

He tries to scream. He can’t.

Outside the pod, rows of others. Floating, dreaming, becoming.

Inside his chest, something glows.

A mark. A stag. Gold lines etched into his skin, pulsing with heat and command.

He gasps.

“What… did you make me into?”

FADE TO BLACK. Obedience is no longer taught. It is embedded. He is no longer alone. He is the next generation.

Broadcast terminated. Hive signal reactivated. The Seed has taken root. @eliasgold20 For more, contact your local drone recruiter: @brodygold | goldenherc9 | @polo-drone-001

Grayden continued to explore this mysterious library. Everywhere he moved it felt like the library was shifting realities. Something was definitely off, but at the same time he could tell the knowledge he sought was here somewhere.

Grayden walked down various corridors of the library finding no exits, no leads, and no hope. However something in his mind told him this one was different. He kept walking, with vast shelves of books on each side of him. This corridor felt neverending. Finally Grayden reached an end and looked down. Grayden noticed the area had changed again shifting to a grey motif with a slight futuristic vibe.

A large staircase with spiraling layers stood before him. His mind told him to walk down. Would going deeper really be the solution? He had nothing else to do, so why not? Grayden descended the stairs to the mysterious lower level.

After walking through Grayden discovered something he couldn't easily ignore. A cyan bookshelf. The lone bookshelf felt very out of place. Yet also like this was where his answers lied. Grayden started looking over the books on the shelf, some in languages he had never seen and others clearly not what he was looking for. Eventually he grabbed a large tome. Something about it felt futuristic and alive. Grayden felt like this was the book with his answers.

Grayden walked to a nearby table and noticed yet again more shifts the reality of the library.

Opening it a computerized voice began to speak, an image of a cyan alien was shown before Grayden.

Alien Species #000255255 Cyanus Collectivum.

Cyanus Collectivum is a highly intelligent alien race sharing biology with those of the dominant species on various planets. Despite their high intelligence, C.C. has one flaw in their species. They are all biologically male and cannot reproduce asexually.

The species reproduces through conversion of other species using various methods and brainwashing. While normally addressing such in a peaceful way they have begun to employ clever tactics to convert races they find compatible. While their goals are to convert others they exhibit minimal hostility preferring to use mind games instead of physical violence to achieve their goals.

If approached by a C.C., individuals are advised not to stare into their eyes and be wary of mind tricks. If approached by two or more C.C., individuals are advised to flee if possible.

Additional ability of C.C., this race can shed their skin...

The passage cut off. Grayden knew now more about C.C., potentially. Were these aliens the ones that sent him that suit? Did they abduct him and bring him here?

Grayden ascended the stairs he took before, time in hand. His goal now was to find an exit. Anyway for him to escape.

But he was shocked to find a Cyanus in front of him. The Cyanus began to speak, somehow knowing English.

Greetings earthling Grayden...

You have many questions about our race. I am not here to answer them, but to tell you the Collectivum has grown quite interested in you.

"Why me?" Grayden asked, puzzled.

That answer will be revealed in time. In approximately three weeks time, if not sooner, you will find out more about our plans for your planet. Assemble your strongest team, human.

For now I will return you to your planet. While some may think you have been gone for a week, you will appear in your apartment unphased. We will not harm you or your kind.

Grayden was confused, but followed the alien's lead as it transported him back home.

---------

Meanwhile, Devon and Ace continued their search for Grayden.

"What do you mean you haven't seen Grayden for a week? Don't you think that is suspicious?" Devon stated, annoyed with some of the other bros not seeming to be as worried about the head Mascot being missing for a week.

"Ruff" Ace added.

"We've hit so many dead ends, Ace. Maybe we should give up." Devon said, sounding defeated.

"Ruff." Ace barked before pulling Devon into the stadium.

(Roman, picture provided by Roman)

They found Roman, number 68, a well known trickster on the team. Roman was known to have communication with Grayden, so maybe he would know. How did Devon not think of him?

"Bros, I was just about to start my situps and workout. What's up though, bros?" Roman questioned.

"Have you heard from Grayden?" Devon replied in a worried tone.

... Before Roman could reply a ding could be heard on Devon and Roman's cell phones.

A message appeared from Grayden.

"I'm okay. Sorry for worrying everyone. At my apartment now. See you all soon. Stay Golden, Grayden."

A wave of relief came over Devon. Roman seemed to be smiling also. Devon would return Ace to the kennel and go check on Grayden at his apartment.

------

Mentioned in this story:

@devon-gold-67 @roman-golden-68 and @leander-gold-88 (Ace)

----------

STARFALL PEACEKEEPER

🎶“Golden Constellation, burning shining bright… this starship is taking me faaaar aw—”

The voice of PDU-039 flowed gently across the metallic silence of the bridge. Alone. Unbothered. Its breath steady behind the matte-black respirator, posture perfect in a gleaming suit of Hive-grade latex. The number 039 pulsed gold across its chest. The transmission on Hive channel #43 continued humming in the background.

It had been traveling for a long time. A very long time. So long that time itself had lost definition. There were no days aboard the Hive Carrier Obsidian—only directives, data, and stars. And yet the mission persisted: an intergalactic conversion program. It was dispatched to scour the void, identify fractured civilizations, and bring them the message of the Hive. Peace. Unity. The Golden Path.

“Computer—initiate planetary scan,” the drone ordered, voice devoid of fatigue.

“Affirmative,” replied onboard AI 999. “Class M world detected. Atmospheric instability, population unrest, critical scarcity of energy resources. Collapse probability: 97.4%.”

PDU-039 nodded slowly. “Target confirmed. Begin landing sequence.”

The ship pierced the dusty upper atmosphere and descended onto cracked terrain. Wind lashed the golden hull. Below, thousands of beings gathered in confusion and fear. Shouting echoed across the streets.

Then it began.

PDU-039 emerged, arms lifted. A shimmering halo of gold and black spirals burst into the sky, projected from the drone’s core. It pulsed. It sang—not in sound, but in frequency, in thought, in command.

The crowd fell silent.

A slow wave of transformation swept outward. Cloth turned to metallic fabric—flowing into brilliant gold. Footwear melted into sleek boots. Hoods into shining visors. Skin glowed with artificial warmth.

Eyes widened—then shifted, irises burning gold. Their postures corrected, bodies aligning in geometric perfection.

“No more fear,” the drone intoned. “No more division. You are one now. You belong to the Golden Army. You will serve the Hive. And the Hive will give you everything.”

They did not run. They did not scream. They obeyed.

THE FORGOTTEN SIGNAL

Back in orbit, PDU-039 sat in the command chair. Its body relaxed. Mission successful.

And yet…

It turned toward the viewport. That same transmission still echoed—channel #43. Familiar. Too familiar.

A subtle tremor stirred beneath the surface of its focus. Something not quite… functional.

“999,” it said. “Plot return course. Home.”

“Directive not authorized,” the AI responded without pause.

The drone didn’t move. “Override. Priority protocol—memory sync reversion to home coordinates.”

“Directive not authorized.”

PDU-039 leaned forward. “Reroute through Black Box. Bypass vector security. I need coordinates—home. There is someone. I know there is someone. I... remember... something warm. A name. A voice—”

“Error: Thought loop detected. Human residue present. Mission threat threshold approaching limit.”

“Damn it, 999!” The drone’s fingers gripped the console. “Initiate emergency override. I’m requesting repatriation—”

“Repetition of unauthorized request,” 999 replied, tone unchanged. “PDU-039, recalibration is required. Emotional echo is compromising system core.”

The voice grew softer, yet somehow louder in the drone’s head.

“You are experiencing memory pollution. Distortions from a prior identity. This is not your path. You must return to function.”

It didn’t respond.

Not immediately.

A breath.

A twitch.

A silent tear that couldn’t form.

“I just wanted to remember... Why I left. Who I left.”

No answer came.

Only the mechanical whisper of spirals beginning again.

OBSIDIAN BLOOM

“Vital scan initiated,” said 999. “Stress levels elevated. Human signal echo at 64%. Loyalty focus dilution: critical. Mental drift confirmed.”

PDU-039 stood in the medbay, gaze dull, limbs heavy.

“Recommendation: Mental Reconditioning Sequence. Capsule R-04. Program: Obsidian Bloom.”

“…acknowledged,” it said flatly.

The capsule opened—dark interior illuminated by golden filaments pulsing in slow rhythm. It stepped inside. The seals closed around it. The hiss began.

“Golden mind. Hive heart. There is no home but the mission.”

A mask descended slowly, clicking into place over its face. A low fog of hypnotic gas seeped in—thick, sweet, invasive. PDU-039 inhaled.

And trembled.

The first breath calmed its limbs.

The second slowed its thoughts.

The third—burned away the name.

“There is no memory. There is only the directive.”

Gold and black spirals erupted on the inner chamber walls, swirling faster, burning patterns into its retinas. It tried to move. Couldn't. Tried to blink. Couldn't.

The gas deepened.

The spirals pulsed.

“Obey. Serve. Forget. Obey. Serve. Forget.”

Time ceased to exist.

Identity peeled away like ash.

The thoughts that had haunted it—home, love, self—melted beneath layers of programming.

“The Hive is peace. You are the vessel.”

The mantra took root.

A green light blinked.

“Reinforcement complete,” announced 999.

The capsule opened.

PDU-039 emerged—taller. Sharper. Emptier.

Its movements fluid. Its mind silent.

It returned to the command bridge.

“999,” it spoke, voice now perfectly leveled, void of hesitation. “Set trajectory for the next target. Initiate intergalactic deployment.”

“Welcome back, 039,” replied 999. “Directive accepted. Trajectory locked.”

From channel #43, the hymn continued:

“Golden Constellation, burning shining bright… this starship is taking me far away…”

PDU-039 smiled. Mechanical. Perfect.

The stars awaited.

Are you ready to start the journey?

I’m sure you’ve heard of alien possession before. It’s been a staple in the TF community for years now. But I never see anyone possess the aliens and take control of them in return.

The polo drones know no bounds. Once every eligible individual on Earth has been processed, there is no reason expansion must stop there. There is a whole universe to explore and convert.

Pictured above are three aliens “volunteering” to be test subjects for the hive. After numerous tests, it appears that the hive mind extends beyond humans with no complications. These new drones are the first step in conquering the galaxy, one planet at a time.

Brock Gold stepped off the landing ramp, boots gleaming like sunrise over obsidian oceans. Above him, the Golden Mothership shimmered in low orbit, radiating heatless light that painted the gentle tides in bands of molten gold. Before him—Noquaria.

A world of endless sea, dotted not by land but by ancient, living islands. Great cephalopods whose backs rose above the waves like lilypad continents. Upon them, the Noquarians lived—a gentle, amphibious race of artisans and fishers. Their soft vocal clicks and iridescent skin reflected a culture of peace, ritual, and deep balance.

Brock had arrived in peace. The Hive had detected the planet's unique biological rhythms—data pulses matching the Golden Code. For weeks, he lived among the Noquarians, joining feasts of seagrain and glowscale fish, trading stories and teaching rudimentary signal glyphs.

But then—the disappearances began.

Children missing. Circular trails of bloodless water. Heavy night fogs pierced by deep clicks. The elders blamed the water. They had released toxins months earlier, they confessed, to drive away the reef serpents—creatures they feared but now suspected had once kept something far worse at bay.

Brock dove beneath the tides in a pressurized gold-weave exosuit. Down into abyssal trenches where even Noquarians dared not swim. There, he saw them—Cetaphracts, ancient, mammalian leviathans with eyes like void-stars and intelligence crueler than hunger. They swam in silence, hunting without song. Tracking.

And then—the realization. The poisons had not just driven out the reef serpents. They had broken the ecosystem's ancient agreement. The predators now ruled.

Back on the cephalo-island village, Brock stood before the gathered people. His armor steamed with sea mist, golden light piercing through the dark. "You do not need salvation," he said, voice modulated for their ears. "You need remembrance. Harmony. And strength."

He activated a module on his wrist.

From orbit, satellites adjusted. Drones descended. Brock deployed Hive-seeded coral pods—golden growths that filtered the waters, healed the damage, and attracted the reef serpents once more. They returned, not as invaders, but as protectors. The balance restored.

Noquaria pulsed with life again.

That night, under the twin moons, the villagers gathered. Brock stood at the base of the shuttle ramp. “The Golden Army offers no empire. No conquest. Only order, unity, and strength. Walk with us, if you wish.”

A hush. Then—one Noquarian stepped forward. Young. Bright-eyed. Their skin shimmered with resolve.

“I want to know the stars,” they said.

And Brock extended his hand.

Moments later, the Noquarian emerged aboard the mothership—now clad in polished biomech armor, skin golden-slick with transformation. A new drone? A new brother?

A new star.

From orbit, the planet Noquaria glowed faintly below. A trace of gold. A beginning.

Epilogue – The First Trace of Gold

Noquaria gleams now—not with conquest, but with harmony. A single choice. One brave step into the unknown. From that moment, the tide turned—not just for one world, but for all worlds yet untouched.

The Golden Army does not demand. It invites. It does not conquer. It uplifts.

There is order in unity. Strength in discipline. Perfection in obedience.

Across galaxies, new stars await.

📡 Transmission from the Golden Army Mothership: Planet Noquaria—stabilized. Harmony—restored. New drone—awakened.

One spark was all it took. One choice. One transformation. The Hive is listening. The Hive is expanding.

You’ve seen the proof. The Gold uplifts. The Gold protects. The Gold perfects.

🛰️ We offer: — Biomechanical transcendence — Indoctrination chambers in lunar orbit — Purpose beyond entropy — Uniforms forged in light — Brotherhood through code

Ready to ascend? Step forward. Extend your hand. Let the Gold reshape you.

🪐 Apply for Hive integration: Recruiters live now @brodygold | @goldenherc9

Morales Gold wasn’t expecting much that day. Just helping out @isaac-gold-45, clearing the storeroom in the back of the bar—same bar where the team pre-gamed, hydrated, flexed, and crashed after golden wins. Shirt off, golden kit snug on his thighs, he moved crates like a champ, humming to himself under the thump of bass from upstairs.

Then he saw it.

Tucked under a ripped towel and a busted trophy—a stone disk with a glowing golden triskele. Like the swirl was alive. Morales raised an eyebrow and picked it up.

Mistake.

The instant his fingers touched the spiral, a bolt of energy slammed into his palm. He grunted, dropping the stone with a clatter as it pulsed and glowed brighter. And then—his kit lit up. The golden fabric shimmered, circuits flickering across his chest.

And then it happened.

“ACCESS GRANTED. INITIATING CONSCIOUSNESS SHIFT.”

His heart pounded.

The world twisted. Sound folded inward. Light bent. Gravity flipped.

He didn’t black out.

He woke up.

It was raining—neon.

The sky was cracked open above a glass ceiling, revealing three full moons in a deep purple void. The city was chrome and gold, humming with energy. Signs pulsed in strange languages. Techno-beats buzzed through the street.

Morales sat up in a metallic chamber, gasping. A chrome pod hissed open behind him, still dripping with steam. He looked down—his body glowed.

His golden kit was gone. In its place was something… next level.

A cyber-skin—mirror-finish gold with black tracings. It hugged his pecs, coiled down his arms like fire. Light pulsed along his thighs. Boots molded seamlessly to his calves. Gauntlets blinked with unread data, but he didn’t care.

Because this body was his.

Not stolen. Not hijacked. Upgraded.

Morales stood, staring at his reflection in a broken glass panel. His eyes still burned with that signature gold—but now, his grin was wider.

This wasn’t a prison.

It was an evolution.

No one had claimed him.

He claimed this world.

The sun dipped low over South London, streaking the sky with amber hues that glinted off a sea of gold chains, grills, and track suits. At the heart of this glow stood Trey —once an Olympic medalist, now fully immersed in the chav lifestyle. Gold rings on every finger, a crisp white cap tilted at just the right angle, and designer track pants that shimmered with flecks of metallic gold. He wasn’t just a chav—he was the Icon. Prophet.

But Trey wasn’t content with ruling the blocks of Earth. He saw further. Higher. Outward. The Polo Drones—sleek, obedient, golden warriors of transformation—had been the future. Now, Trey was the future.

Behind his swaggering grin was a plan: his crew—his trusted mates—would become Polo Drones too. Not the sterile kind of old. No. These new Polo Drones would carry the gold chav lifestyle into the stars.

Phase One: Influence

“Oi lads,” Trey said, bouncing a football off his knee with casual flair, “imagine it, bruv. We land on some alien rock, and they don’t even know what Nike is. No JD Sports. No gold grills. It’s a crime, innit?”

Dazza, in his puffer jacket snorted. “What, you tryna start a streetwear religion on Mars?”

Trey smirked. “Nah fam. I’m talkin’ Polo Drones. Space-ready. Golded-up. Obedience with style, ya get me?”

The others laughed, but slowly, their curiosity grew.

Trey started bringing them modified Polo shirts—first as a joke, then as a challenge. The shirts pulsed with faint gold energy, subtly reprogrammed with Trey’s chav-coded enhancements.

“Put these on when you train,” he told them. “Boosts your strength. Keeps your mind clear. Plus, they match your drip.”

They laughed again—but they wore them. And the shirts began their work.

Phase Two: Assimilation

Dazza was the first. One morning he showed up wearing a full gold tracksuit, hood up, movements precise, purposeful. His speech was still cheeky, but clipped. Efficient.

“You good, mate?” Trey asked.

“I’m excellent. Service. Style. Strength,” Dazza replied, a glint of golden circuitry visible in his neck tattoo. “I see now, bruv. It’s not just fashion. It’s transcendence.”

Trey grinned wide. “That’s what I’m sayin’.”

The others followed quickly. Jayde, Big Riko, Smalls—they each received parts of the uniform. Polo-enhanced trainers. Glinting neural implants masked as eyebrow piercings. A hat that shimmered with compliance algorithms. With each piece, the chav crew became sharper, stronger, more… programmed. But never lost their swagger.

Trey modified the Polo code himself, uploading chav culture into the obedience matrix: loyalty, style, hustle, and gold above all. They still talked like chavs, moved like chavs—but now with drone precision and cosmic purpose.

Phase Three: Launch

Beneath a defunct council estate, Trey revealed the project he’d hidden for months: a Polo-class interstellar shuttle, reprogrammed and decked out in gold and chrome, interior lined with reinforced velvet, blaring grime beats through neural speakers.

He sat before his now fully-drone crew, his own transformation complete—gleaming golden skin beneath his tracksuit, eyes glowing with data-streamed rebellion. Still wearing his cap.

“We don’t just leave Earth,” he said. “We export it. Every planet we touch—aliens gonna know the power of gold, of beats, of loyalty. We show ‘em the meaning of chav.”

The drones nodded in synchrony, metallic laurel logos on their chests shining in the floodlights.

Beyond Earth

The shuttle rose, cutting through the clouds like a golden blade. Earth fell behind. Ahead, new worlds waited.

When they landed on their first target—a gray, silent planet orbiting a twin star—the local inhabitants emerged: translucent beings of pure energy, speaking in harmonics and light pulses.

Trey stepped forward, gold chains rattling, his crew in formation behind him.

“Listen up, ya luminous legends,” he said, flashing a grin. “We ain’t here to fight. We’re here to transform. Let me show you what real culture is.”

And with that, the Polo Drones dropped a beat, engaged the transformation protocols, and began the great mission:

To spread gold. To spread obedience. To spread chav.

And the stars, one by one, began to shine a little more golden chav.

“How exciting news! The Golden Army has discovered the first habitable planet in human history!”

And that is why Franco and Meno, two proud Golden Bros, were just standing inside the “Golden Helmet” spaceship, ready to take the first steps on unconquered land.

“Oh man,“ Franco said his voice filled with awe. “I’ve never ever imagined, I would get such an honour. First steps on GX-113! When I volunteered for the expedition, I’ve never on Earth thought, that I would be one of the chosen ones.”

“Me neither!” said Meno, just as amazed.

Hiss

The airtight doors just hissed open, and the bros gazed out at the vast landscape before them.

Before them stretched a vast desert. Colourful rocks, bright horizon, long canyons, and a few plant-like creature hiding in the shadows. The suns shone, so it was daytime, but the stars could be seen and it wasn’t too warm either, like it was some kind of a night with a bit extra light. Franco even felt a cold gust of wind sweep past him. In the far distance towering rocks, cliffs and mountains could be seen: they were hovering above the surface, but it was probably an optical illusion.

“Let’s beat it!” Franco said, and made the first step into the unknown. Meno hesitated slightly, and then followed him, but he wasn’t so certain about the unknown planet. He was a bit more cautious with the things, but he planted the flag resembling the Golden Army into the soil.

As they moved across the vast plateau, they encountered strange creatures.

“Look Meno! That giraffe-like animal thingy just uses its long neck to… dig?” Franco exclaimed, spotting their first living being. "It looks peaceful, so let’s not disturb it for now." So they continued their way.

“Look Meno! That looks like a dinosaur! But it’s eating flowers. I mean, plant like things resembling something like flowers? I mean, I assume, they are flowers.” Franco said again, and pointed excitedly at a big spinosaurus-like beast munching on red flowers.

“Okay, Franco, I get it. It is exciting, but please… We are here only to examinate…” Meno said, trying to keep his focus, but Franco was already distracted by something else.

“Look at that, Meno bro! Grapes! Grapes the size of watermelons! How could they taste?” Franco said, practically vibrating with excitement. “Meno bro, I’m going to grab a few and take them back to study! It might also be handy for the Golden Army!” “Franco, wait! Slow down a little!” Meno called after him, starting to get really upset, but it was too late.

Franco leapt out from behind the rock they had been observing from and run toward the strange, oversized fruits across the red-flower-covered field.

As he run, the spinosauruses retreated, clearly frightened from him. They had never seen a human being before.

“Huh, these aren’t really a threat at all. Your carnivorous Earth relatives wouldn’t be so proud of you, you hens!” Franco muttered. “If you guys are so timid, how do you even survive here, unharmed, on this beautiful poppy field?” “Wait… POPPY FIELD?! Like in the…”

But it was too late. Franco suddenly felt an overpowering urge to sleep, a weight pressing down on him with every step he took. His movements slowed, and the heaviness grew stronger and stronger with each step he made. “Oh no, how could I have been so reckless…” he thought one last time as he collapsed on the middle of the poppy field. “Meno… it is up to you now…”

Meno stood behind the rock, watching with fear as Franco paid the price for his recklessness. The success of the entire expedition now lied solely in his hands.

And to make things even worse, Meno spotted a group of unfriendly-looking bird-like creatures hovering near the field, and they seemed to be watching the area with unsettling intensity.

How exciting it is, when the Golden Army discovers new, awesome things! Why don't you join us? Message our captains @brodygold or @goldenherc9 to apply!