Golden Reset: The Awakening of Percival
Not the kind of silence that fills a room, but the kind that presses in like fog, thick, heavy, final. The stadium was gone. No golden banners. No spiral lights. No scent of rubber sweat and worship. No Captains. No Emir Ezan. No Polo Drone Hive humming in the background.
Just the soft ticking of a clock. The scent of printer toner. An open Excel sheet blinking on a monitor.
Percival blinked once. Twice. Sat up straighter in his chair.
His fingers flexed instinctively, expecting the pull of latex gloves, the precision of programmed keystrokes. But his hands were bare. Skin. Real skin. His sleeves weren’t gold-threaded or ritualistic. Just a crisp white business shirt, rolled to the elbows. RM Williams boots on his feet. A faint coffee stain on his tie.
He reached for his phone. No messages from Captains. No training orders. No drone check-in rituals. Just a notification from Telstra. “Payment overdue.”
He laughed, low, disbelieving, almost broken.
It was gone. All of it. The chants. The hive. The uniforms. The spirals. The conversions. Gone. Like smoke. Like a wet dream that soaked your sheets and evaporated with daylight.
But the strangest part? He didn’t feel relief.
Something was missing. His chest ached, phantom-like. His mouth remembered the taste of submission. His skin remembered golden sweat, the sharp snap of rubber against thigh, the seductive murmur of a master’s voice whispering his purpose.
Walked to the office mirror. Looked at himself.
Just an Aussie office worker. Ordinary. Plain. Normal.
He touched his chest, where the “001” used to shimmer like a brand. Nothing. But in his mind, he still heard the whisper.
“You are mine. You are Ours. You are Rubber. You are Submission.”
He smiled. Not cocky. Not cruel. Just... broken. Nostalgic.
Then he whispered to no one:
"Obedience was pleasure. Pleasure was purpose. And I miss it."
He sat back down. Opened a blank email. The subject read: “001 Status Report.” Then he paused.
Instead, he typed: “Percival. Office Admin. Status: Awake.”
He stared. Then he deleted that too.
Because no matter what he wrote, he knew.
He could wear the suit. He could drink the coffee. He could pay the bills.
But part of him was still kneeling.
Because you can wake from a dream.
But some dreams never truly let you go.
Want to kneel again? Want to remember what it was like to obey? Contact @hypnogold @goldenherc9 or @brodygold and maybe, just maybe, you’ll wake up in Gold once more.
