The locker room was silent. Every Bro polished his kit with reverence, golden fabric gleaming like relics. Number 80 ran the cloth over his jersey, watching it glow brighter with every stroke. He was not cleaning cloth—he was preparing armor.
One year ago, they were just men. Now, they were something more. The Golden Army. A brotherhood, a Hive. The anniversary was not just a date. It was a ritual.
Outside, mascots rehearsed chants like sacred hymns. Waterboys moved with ritual precision, placing goblets and plates as though setting an altar. Polo Drones drilled in flawless unison, their boots striking the earth in a rhythm deeper than sound. Every role, every movement, part of the same preparation.
The countdown ticked: three days. Two. One.
On August 31st, the stadium became a temple. Floodlights blazed like golden fire, banners shimmered like sacred cloth. Bros marched out, shining in their kits, statues of living sunlight. Then came the Drones, black rubber gleaming, gold insignias burning, their formation a living mandala.
The chants began—Be Gold… Be Bro… Be Proud…—low and steady, growing louder, heavier, until the whole stadium trembled. Bros flexed in rhythm. Drones locked into stance. Mascots raised flags like relics. Waterboys scattered confetti like holy smoke.
Number 80 stepped forward. His eyes burned with the glow. He raised his arms, and silence fell. Then the golden flare erupted—a pillar of fire into the night sky. The light struck them all at once, filling every body with a surge of unity, of transformation, of pure golden power.
And then—ritual snapped into chaos.
The Bros roared, voices cracking with joy, tackling each other in wild embraces. Mascots stormed the field, flags waving like storm winds. Waterboys hurled goblets skyward, golden liquid raining down. Even the Polo Drones, perfect in their precision, broke formation—not in disorder, but in celebration, a frenzy of synchronized stomps and sharp movements that shook the earth like thunder.
Stefan threw his head back, laughing, roaring, golden jersey clinging to his skin as he raised his arms to the sky. Number 80 was not alone—he was one of many, one of all. The Army had been reborn.
The first year was complete. The next would be brighter. Louder. Stronger. The gold would never stop flowing.
Stefan - #80: “One year of discipline. One year of ritual. One year of gold. But when the fire lit the sky, the ritual broke into frenzy—Bros chanting, Drones stomping, mascots roaring, waterboys flooding the field. Chaos. Unity. Joy. The Golden Army is only one year old. Imagine what comes next.”
