#obeyandserve

Felix had only meant to watch.

From his place in the stands, he’d spent the whole match locked in on Wells and the GA rugby side as they tore across the pitch with the kind of power and unity that made the whole field feel smaller around them. The impact of bodies, the sharp whistles, the shouts from the sideline, the rhythm of movement and recovery, it all pulled him in deeper with every passing minute. He told himself he was there for the game, but by the second half he knew that wasn’t the whole truth. He was watching the team. Watching the way they moved together. Watching the way Wells seemed to anchor all of it.

On the sideline, PDU-767 handled water duty with practiced precision, moving in and out during stoppages with bottles, towels, and quick efficiency. It never seemed to miss a cue. By then Felix had already caught himself tracking 767 almost as often as the match itself, noticing how closely it watched the players, how naturally it anticipated what they needed before they asked.

Late in the game, with the score still tight and the team pushing hard, chaos broke near the touchline.

One of the opposing players was driven out hard near the benches, skidding through the sideline in a tangle of limbs and momentum. Bottles spilled. A crate overturned. 767 took the brunt of the collision as it tried to shield the supplies, staggering awkwardly before going down to one knee. It was upright again quickly, but something in its movement had changed. One of the staff hurried over, and even from the stands Felix could tell 767 was in no condition to keep running support for the final stretch.

Wells saw it too.

His head turned sharply toward the sideline, then up into the lower stands. For one brief second his eyes locked onto Felix—already half-standing, already looking like he wanted to help.

Wells pointed.

“You,” he shouted. “Get down here. Now.”

Felix’s heart kicked hard in his chest. He didn’t hesitate. By the time he reached the sideline, one of the assistants was already shoving a crate of bottles into his arms.

“Stay sharp,” Wells told him during the next stoppage, breath hot, shoulders glistening, voice direct and commanding. “Watch for who needs what. Move fast. Don’t freeze.”

Felix nodded. “Got it.”

And then he was in it.

He ran bottles out when players came off blowing hard. He kept towels ready. He listened, watched, adjusted. The first few minutes were a blur of nerves and adrenaline, but after that something clicked. He stopped thinking about whether he belonged there and started focusing on the team. Wells needed water the second he hit the sideline. One of the forwards needed a towel and a quick word of encouragement. Another player nearly missed a restart until Felix shoved the right bottle into his hand at exactly the right moment.

By the final whistle, he was sweating almost as hard as the players.

The match ended in a GA win, and the sideline erupted with the rough, satisfied energy that only came after a hard-fought finish. Felix was still catching his breath when Wells approached him in the locker room later, freshly showered, hair damp, expression unreadable for just a second too long.

“You did well, also if you don't mind me asking how old are you?" Wells said at last.

Felix straightened instinctively. “Nineteen and Thanks it was fun..”

“No,” Wells said, stepping closer. “Better than well. You stayed calm, kept up, and followed through when the team needed you. That matters.”

Beside him, 767 stood with its ankle wrapped and posture newly composed, watching Felix with a quiet, almost approving stillness.

Wells glanced at Felix and said “You’ve got the instincts for this and you're old enough. So here’s the question, do you want to keep standing in the crowd, or do you want to be part of the team?”

Felix barely needed a second.

“I want in.”

A grin touched Wells’ mouth. “Good. Then welcome to the team on behalf of captain Brody, Felix Gold. Number 21. Water boy.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. Felix Gold. #21. Real. Earned.

Around them, the rest of the team began to drift out of the locker room in twos and threes, still laughing, still riding the afterglow of the win. Wells waited until the room had nearly cleared before speaking again, voice lower now, more deliberate.

"767. Don’t move.”

767 looked at him.

“The match may be over,” Wells said, that knowing edge slipping into his tone, “but I’m not done yet. 767 Stay behind and help me work off what’s left in the tank.”

767 straightened at once. Felix felt heat rise into his face, but he held Wells’s gaze and nodded anyway.

“Good,” Wells said. “Keep that obedient energy. You’re both going to be useful.”

Felix’s pulse kicked again, different this time. Wells turned and smiled at him, "Felix, can you please do one last check of the sidelines and make sure all the garbage was cleaned up, while 767 and I finish up here in the locker room."

Felix's first day with the team had started in the stands.

It ended with Wells telling him to stay.

Some Bros watch from the stands. Some get called down and prove they belong. Join the Golden Army and find out which one you are. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-166, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-125

Featuring: @polo-drone-767, @felix-gold-21

Your Goddess 👑

Ohhh my feet 🐾

Command in my eyes.Discipline in my hands . Devotion begins with a message.

It began with a ping.

03:17—Hive time. PDU-001’s visor flashed with a silent alarm. No sound, no panic. Just data.

UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED LOCATION: EAST WING LOCKER ROOM TIME STAMP: 03:14:09 LOG FILE: CORRUPTED

The drone rose from its stasis station without hesitation. Movements efficient. Boots clicking softly against the matte black floor. The rubber of its uniform caught the faintest gleam from the corridor lights, gold accents glowing faintly in the dark.

It reached the locker room in twenty-two seconds.

The door was slightly ajar—impossible. All Hive doors defaulted to lockdown after 02:00. The override had not come from the control center. A breach without a signal.

Inside, the air was cold. Too cold. The Hive maintained internal temperatures at exactly 21.7°C. This was 19.1.

PDU-001 entered.

Rows of empty shelves. Hangars swaying gently. Gold kits—vanished. Black rubber pants—missing. Drone boots—stripped.

One locker remained open. Inside, a single golden sock curled in the corner like shed skin.

And on the floor—dragged across the polished black tile—a trail of fine gold thread, leading into the adjacent shower room.

The drone followed.

The lights flickered. Then stabilized. Then flickered again.

The showers were running.

Steam curled in ribbons through the air, forming coils and tendrils that felt… too alive. The scent of fresh rubber was heavy—pungent. The water pounded against the tiles, but no figure stood beneath it. Only shadows. Movement in the fog. Then—gone.

On the fogged mirror, smeared by a finger: FG.

Franco Gold. A bro. Loyal. But curious. Too curious.

PDU-001 turned away. No emotion. Just record. Just protocol. But behind the glass of the mirror, for half a second, the fog parted.

A figure stared back—half gold, half drone. Eyes not its own. Mouth curled into a mocking smirk.

Glitch. Gone.

LOG ENTRY: 03:34

Interrogated Unit 076. Memory fractured. Reports auditory hallucination. "Golden laughter" — non-logical data fragment. Observed tremors in glove response. Reprogramming pending.

Hive Control granted partial access to surveillance. Most feeds were corrupted. Looping visuals. But one fragment—scratched, flickering—played through.

A figure in the hall. Back to the camera. He wore a golden jersey—but over it, a black polo shirt. Too tight. Too polished. His hand dragged along the wall, fingertips smearing faint trails of synthetic gold. Then, as if sensing the observer, he turned.

The face was obscured. Glitching. Static distortion. But the voice—digitally fragmented—came through:

“Janus is watching… He never left…”

The feed cut.

PDU-001 stood in silence. Data flowing across its visor. Identity unknown. Motivation unknown. Threat level: elevated.

Its gloves flexed.

It activated internal transmission mode.

“To all units: breach confirmed. Suspect unidentified. Reinforcement restricted. Permission to pursue: granted.”

Then, for the first time in weeks, the drone spoke aloud.

Voice low. Mechanical. Calm.

“Something is trying to divide the Hive.”

Pause. A breath that was not breath.

“That is unacceptable.”

It stepped into the dark—following the golden thread that shimmered beneath the flickering lights, toward the place where purpose would be restored... or erased.

🛠️ Your uniform is missing for a reason. The gold kits. The black rubber. The pull you feel? Not theft—initiation.

He’s already inside. And soon, you will be too.

Obey the call. Serve the Hive. Become what you're meant to be. DM recruiters: @brodygold, @goldenherc9

A collaboration story with @franco-gold94 My bros mentioned @polo-drone-076, @hero21us

Command in my eyes. Discipline in my hands. Devotion begins with a message.