The Defender stood there like a black tank against the white mountain backdrop, engine idling low, steady, patient. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the cold air, settling on Alton’s shoulders as he leaned against the hood, arms crossed, gaze fixed down the road. He didn’t check his phone. Didn’t shift his weight. Didn’t show impatience. He didn’t have to. Wells noticed anyway. “Bro,” Wells said casually, adjusting his jacket, “you’re doing that thing again.” Alton didn’t look at him. “What thing.” “The silent countdown thing. Where everyone pretends nothing’s wrong, but deep down they know they’re about to disappoint you.” Trey laughed, rubbing his hands together. “Yeah man, it’s like standing next to a bomb with no timer. You don’t hear it ticking, but you feel it.”

Alton finally glanced at his watch. “One minute,” he said. Wells followed his gaze down the empty road. “Franco’s probably just stuck in traffic.” “This is a mountain village,” Alton replied calmly. “The only traffic is cows.” Trey snorted. “Yeah, and those dudes don’t respect schedules either.” They waited. The minute passed. Alton straightened up. “That’s it.” Wells raised both hands. “Alright, alright— Bro, come on. He’s your guy. Five more minutes?” Alton looked at him then. Not angry. Not annoyed. Just steady. “Even if Franco is my best buddy,” he said, voice low and even, “he knows the rules. Be on time. If you’re not, you deal with the consequences.” The words landed heavy. Trey opened his mouth, closed it again. He knew that tone. Everyone did. That was the tone that meant this conversation is over. He shrugged instead and went for the driver’s door. “Fine. Let’s roll.” Before his hand touched the handle, a presence appeared next to him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Trey looked sideways. Alton stood inches away, eyebrow slightly raised. “…Getting us there?” Trey offered, trying a grin.

Alton didn’t smile. “Nobody drives my baby but me.” Wells let out a low whistle. “Oof. Rookie mistake.” The smile died instantly and Trey shrugged. “Alright, General Iceberg.” Alton slid into the driver’s seat, fired the engine, and within seconds the Defender surged forward, tires crunching into snow. They hadn’t gone fifty meters when Trey glanced in the side mirror. “Uh… guys?” Wells turned. Down the street, a figure came sprinting around the corner, jacket open, arms pumping wildly. Franco. Out of breath. Too late.

Wells sucked in air. “Ohhh no.” Trey leaned forward. “Bro, look at him go.” Franco waved desperately, shouting something no one could hear. Alton didn’t slow down. Didn’t even look back. Wells shook his head. “That’s brutal.” Alton kept his eyes on the road. “He’ll survive.” Ten minutes later, the tension cracked. Music blasted through the speakers, bass heavy enough to rattle the mirrors. The road wound upward, trees thick with snow on both sides. Trey bounced in his seat, already back in form. “Okay, okay, I forgive you now. This is sick.” Wells laughed, leaning back comfortably. “Weekend off. Mountains. Cabin. No responsibilities.” Alton nodded once. “Mm.” Wells smirked. “That’s a yes in Alton-speak.” They laughed.

The conversation drifted — trash talk about Regency, impressions of their smug captain, exaggerated reenactments of past matches. Trey shook his head. “Man, I swear those dudes look like they moisturize before kickoff.” “Probably have a stylist on the bench,” Wells added. Alton smirked faintly. “Doesn’t help them defend.” That earned approving nods. By the time the cabin came into view — a dark wooden structure nestled deep between snow-heavy pines — the mood was light, loud, and loose. Too loose, as it turned out... They unloaded the car in silence broken only by jokes and exaggerated groans. “Who packed this?” Trey complained, lifting a crate. “You planning to feed an army?” “Preparation,” Alton said. “See? That’s the word he uses right before ruining fun,” Trey muttered.

Firewood was stacked. Bags were dragged inside. Boots lined up by the door. The cabin slowly came alive — crackling fire, warm air, the smell of wood and snow melting off jackets. Wells dropped onto a bench with a satisfied sigh. “Alright. Now I’m officially switched off.” Alton looked around, assessing. Then said, “Change.” Wells frowned. “Change… as in?” “Training gear,” Alton clarified. “We run.” Trey stared at him. “You’re kidding.” Alton wasn’t. Wells blinked slowly. “…You brought us to a mountain cabin to suffer?” “Discipline doesn’t take weekends off,” Alton replied. Trey groaned dramatically. “I knew it. I knew this was a trap.” The forest was silent except for breath and footsteps. Snow crunched under shoes. Cold air burned lungs. Push-ups. High knees. Lunges. Sprint bursts uphill. Trey slipped during a turn, went down hard into powder. “—SON OF A—”

He stood up, snow clinging to his face. “…Okay, that one’s on me.” Wells laughed so hard he had to stop running. Alton didn’t laugh. He just kept moving. By the time they reached the cabin again, all three were steaming. “Showers,” Alton said. “I’m first. Wells. Trey.” Trey stared at him. “You even assign shower order?” “Yes.” Trey rolled his eyes. “Of course you are.” They gathered by the fireplace later, wrapped in hoodies, hair damp, heat radiating. Alton stood, ready to speak. Trey snapped. “Bro, enough!” He stood up, pacing. “This was supposed to be chill! Not Alpha-Bootcamp 2.0! Can you just — I don’t know — put the Macho-Commander away for like two days and actually enjoy yourself?” The room went dead silent. Alton looked at him. Long. Unblinking.

The kind of look that made you instantly replay every bad decision of your life and that made Wells suddenly very interested in the fire.

Finally, Wells cleared his throat. “Alton… he’s kinda right.” Another pause. Then Alton exhaled. “…Alright.” Both of them froze. “My bad,” Alton said calmly. “You’re right.” He looked at Trey. “You’re in charge now. I won’t interfere. I’ll do whatever stupid thing you say.” A beat. Then he smiled. Trey stared. “Wait… seriously?” “Seriously.” Trey grinned wide. “Alright then. First command: I’m starving.” Dinner took way longer than planned. Not because the food was complicated — but because everything kept escalating. Trey stood at the counter, aggressively chopping onions like they had personally insulted him. “These things are attacking my eyes, bro.” Wells leaned against the fridge, sipping a beer, smirking. “That’s emotion, man. You’re not used to it.” Alton stirred something in a pan, calm, precise, like he was executing a drill. “Knife angle’s wrong,” he said without looking up. Trey paused. “…I didn’t ask.” Alton adjusted the pan anyway. The food instantly smelled better.

Music blasted from a speaker — some loud, dumb anthem. Wells sang every second line wrong on purpose. Trey jumped in, making up lyrics that made zero sense. Alton shook his head, but there was a smile there now. A real one. They ate straight from the pans, standing, laughing, burning their tongues because nobody wanted to wait. After dinner, cards came out. “Strip poker,” Trey said immediately. Wells raised an eyebrow. “Bold opening.” Alton shrugged. “Fine.” That confidence lasted exactly twenty minutes. Wells lost his shirt first. “Still hot,” he declared, flexing unnecessarily. Trey followed, dramatically flopping back in his chair. “This game is rigged.” Alton lost last. He stood up, didn’t hesitate for a second, and stripped completely like it was the most normal thing in the world. Silence. Then Wells exhaled. “…Yeah. Okay. That tracks.” Alton sat back down naked, grabbed his beer, completely unbothered. “What?” he said dryly. “I’m comfortable.” Trey whistled and nodded. “Yeah… makes sense.” Later, they moved to the fireplace. Wells grabbed his guitar. He was amazing. Alton sat on the rug, still naked, firelight painting him in gold and shadow, relaxed like he belonged exactly there.

Wells played. Sang softly this time. Trey leaned back, flirting with the night itself, making comments to nobody in particular. For a while, nobody talked. It was one of those rare silences that didn’t need fixing. Morning light hit the mountains like a damn postcard. No alarms. No schedules. Trey burst out of the cabin first, arms wide. “YES! This is the day. I can feel it in my bones.” They grabbed sleds and headed uphill, laughing before they even started. Wells went first — clean run, controlled, stylish. Trey followed immediately after, screaming like he was being launched into battle. “I’M NOT IN CONTROL —” He wiped out halfway down, rolling into a pile of snow. Alton went last. No drama. No shouting. Just straight down — fast, smooth, perfect. At the bottom, Trey sat up, snow in his hair. “…Okay, yeah. That was sexy.”

Later, deep in the woods, they set up targets. Wells hit bullseye twice. Trey missed. Wide. “Wind,” Trey said instantly. “There is no wind,” Wells replied. “Exactly. Suspicious.” They wandered further into the mountains after, boots crunching, views opening up that made them stop talking without realizing it. Big white peaks. Endless quiet. At one point Trey just said, “Damn,” softly. No one mocked him. Snowball fight erupted out of nowhere near sunset. Wells ambushed Alton. Bad idea. Alton retaliated with surgical precision. Trey got caught in the middle, laughing so hard he dropped to his knees.

By the time the sun dipped behind the peaks, all three were soaked, exhausted, and grinning like idiots. Night again. Fire roaring. Bottles half-empty. Marshmallows everywhere.

“Trey says… hop on one leg!” Alton and Wells complied instantly. “Trey says… spin!” They did. “Trey says… bark!” Wells barked like an absolute maniac. Alton barked once. Flat. Serious. Trey nearly fell over laughing. “Trey says… compliment each other!” Wells turned to Alton. “You’re annoyingly perfect.” Alton nodded. “You’re loud.”

Trey wiped tears from his eyes. “Beautiful.” The game escalated. “Trey says… dance.” They danced. Badly. “Trey says… sing.” Wells sang. Loud. Then Trey grinned. “Trey says… Alton jumps.” Silence. They all looked toward the balcony. Alton stood up immediately. “Wait,” Wells said. “You don’t have to —” Alton was already walking. He stepped onto the railing, glanced down at the deep snow, then back at them. Challenge accepted. He jumped. Disappeared. Then popped back up, arms raised.

They erupted. Later, the cabin finally went quiet. Alton passed out first, stretched across the couch, snoring softly. Wells nudged Trey. “…You thinking what I’m thinking?” Trey grinned. “Already am.” Wells pulled out a waterproof marker like it was contraband. They leaned over Alton carefully, suppressing laughter. Wells wrote slowly, carefully: “HOT AS FCK.” Trey covered his mouth to keep from losing it. They stepped back, admired their work. Perfect. “What do we do now?” Wells whispered. Trey smirked. “I got an idea. Come with me.”

Morning came quietly. Wells and Trey shuffled downstairs, tired, smug, satisfied. Wells froze. “Oh shit.” Trey blinked. “What?” “I forgot about the writing.” Alton stood at the mirror, shirtless, examining his reflection. He read it. Paused. They waited. He shrugged. “Accurate,” he said dryly. “It’ll come off eventually.” He turned around. “Pack up.” Outside, cold air hit them awake again. Alton opened the Defender, then stopped. He looked at Trey. “Yo, Trey. Bro.” Trey turned. Alton tossed him the keys. “But don’t scratch my baby.”

They burst out laughing. The Defender rolled away down the mountain road. A perfect weekend. And Regency had no idea what was coming.

---

Wanna join the fun, Bro?

Contact our recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166, @polo-drone-125

The lodge was cut into the mountainside; a long timber structure braced against the slope. Early snow had already begun to weigh on the roof. Five friends arrived just before dusk: Kenny, Victor, Steve, Bruce, and Kyle. Their headlights vanished as the road narrowed behind them. They joked about the isolation—about being off-grid for the weekend, about the cold sharpening with every step from the car to the door.

Inside, the lodge was warm and old-fashioned. Thick beams. A wide stone fireplace. Furniture built to endure decades of use. Sound seemed to sink into the wood instead of echoing. They unpacked slowly, claimed rooms, argued over music, opened drinks. Outside, snow fell gently, almost ornamental, dusting the railings and softening the trees.

By nightfall, the wind rose.

Phones lost signal one by one. A radio on the kitchen counter crackled to life with a flat announcement: all mountain roads closed indefinitely. Plows grounded. Conditions unsafe. The message repeated every hour, word for word, without emphasis or concern. Outside, snow erased the driveway, then the trees, then any sense of distance. Inside, the lodge became the entire world.

The first day passed easily enough. The fire was lit. Food cooked. Cards played. Kenny kept score. Bruce mocked the radio voice. By the second night, the storm had not weakened. It had thickened. Snow pressed against the windows like static. The lodge felt smaller. Time slowed.

It was during a late search for extra blankets that Victor opened the last closet.

At the back, behind old coats and a broken sled, hung a single shirt.

It did not belong there.

A rubber polo. Black rubber, glossy even in the dim light. Gold trim lined the sleeves and collar. On the right breast, stitched cleanly and with precision, was a golden laurel. There was no brand. No dust. No sign of age. The closet smelled of cold wood and old fabric. The shirt did not.

They joked about it. A remnant from some eccentric former renter. A costume. A uniform. Steve dared Kenny to try it on, just to cut the tension.

The rubber was warm.

When Kenny pulled it over his head, the laughter faded. The polo fit perfectly, sealing to his torso without folds or resistance. The gold trim caught the firelight. The laurel rested exactly where it should, centered and balanced.

Kenny exhaled.

The noise in his head stopped.

Thoughts no longer collided or wandered. They aligned. The cold no longer mattered. The wind outside registered only as distant input. Kenny stood straighter without noticing. When he spoke, his voice was calm. Measured. Fewer words. No excess.

They teased him for acting suddenly serious. He did not react. He sat by the fire, hands on his knees, posture correct, eyes unfocused but alert.

That night, Kenny did not remove the polo. He fell slept on the couch wearing it. His breathing slowed. His muscles settled into symmetry. The rubber did not wrinkle. The laurel did not dull.

By morning, the number 257 had formed on his left pec.

Kenny was already awake.

The others found him in the kitchen, preparing breakfast with quiet efficiency. The room was cleaner than it had been the night before. Wood stacked. Trash sorted. He suggested a schedule, calmly, explaining it would conserve heat and energy. The reasoning was sound. No one objected.

The storm continued.

On the third day, Bruce complained about the cold. Sleep had been poor. Kenny’s silence felt steady. Warm. When the closet was opened again, another polo was waiting, identical in every detail.

That night, Bruce wore it.

Sleep came quickly. The mind went quiet. By morning, the golden numbers 258 appeared on his left pec. Bruce spoke less. Moved with purpose. The schedule expanded.

On the fourth day, Steve took his turn. Then Kyle the day after. Each night followed the same pattern. The polo sealed. Sleep deepened. The mind emptied. Each morning, a new number appeared.

Victor was the last.

By then, names felt unnecessary. Speech was reduced to confirmation. Tasks were completed without discussion. Cold was managed. Silence preferred. The lodge functioned smoothly, efficiently, without wasted motion.

On the seventh day, the radio crackled again. Road’s reopening. Plows en route. Rescue possible.

No one responded.

When the storm finally cleared, the lodge was empty. The fire was out. Floors swept. No signs of struggle. Outside, a single line of footprints led down the mountain, evenly spaced, precisely aligned.

PDU-257 walked first. PDU-258, PDU-259, PDU-260, and PDU-261 followed.

Winter had done its work.

The cold doesn’t demand noise.

Neither does Brock Gold 46.

Outside, winter holds the line—snow packed tight, air sharp, everything stripped down to essentials. Inside, firelight moves slow across gold fabric, catching on shoulders, chest, the calm rise and fall of breath. No rush. No performance. Just presence.

Brock doesn’t sprawl out or fill the room with words. He stands or sits upright, mug steady in hand, eyes focused somewhere past the flames. Bros are nearby—close enough to share warmth, far enough to respect silence. This is recovery without softness. Heat earned, not begged for.

The gold kit stays on. Identity doesn’t come off just because the temperature drops. Firelight reflects discipline back at itself. Winter becomes quieter when you don’t fight it.

Some people fill silence.

Others let it work.

Winter strips things down.

Noise fades. Pretenders disappear.

What’s left are the ones who can sit in silence, hold their ground, and stay gold without needing an audience. The Golden Army isn’t built on volume—it’s built on discipline, awareness, and brothers who know who they are.

If you don’t need to fill the room to belong in it,

if you move with intention,

if the cold doesn’t shake you—

There’s a place by the fire.

Step forward.

Hold the line.

Stay gold.

Join the Golden Army.