The air in Ontario’s cottage country was crisp, smelling of pine needles and the dying embers of a lakeside fire. I was leaning back in a Muskoka chair, my Gold Foil hoodie unzipped, watching the moonlight dance off the black water. It was the first time my brain had been quiet in weeks.

Then, the crickets stopped.

A low, rhythmic hum, like a massive bass drop that never hits, vibrated through my chest. A shadow, darker than the night sky, drifted over the pines. Before I could even reach for my beer, a pillar of blinding, neon-green light slammed down from the clouds.

I didn't just feel weightless; I felt vacuum-sealed. My 220 pounds of muscle were hauled upward like I was nothing but a gold-clad fishing lure.

The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back on a cold, metallic slab. The room smelled like ozone and expensive gym floor cleaner. My wrists and ankles were locked down by shimmering bands of light. I struggled, my quads bulging against the restraints, but I was pinned.

Three figures emerged from the glow. They weren't little gray men; they were terrifyingly lanky, with skin the color of tarnished silver and eyes like polished obsidian. One of them leaned over me, chirping in a series of digital clicks that sounded suspiciously like a high-speed rep-counter.

"Subject 58," the lead alien clicked. "Optimal muscle density achieved. Commencing… internal calibration."

He reached for a tray and picked up a device that looked like a cross between a tactical flashlight and a high-voltage meat thermometer. It hummed with a menacing, violet energy.

"Wait, wait, wait!" I grunted, my glutes clenching instinctively. "Can’t we just do a body fat scan and call it a day? I've got a game on Saturday!"

The alien didn't listen. He moved to the end of the table, the violet light glowing brighter as he prepared the "probe." I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the most invasive "recovery session" in history.

"Wells? Number 58! Wake up, I am sensing that you’re scaring the recruits."

The cold metal of the spaceship turned into the familiar, high-end leather of the Golden Army Lounge. I bolted upright, nearly taking out a protein shake on the side table. My heart was hammering against my ribs, and I was definitely… tight… in the lower half.

Standing over me was PDU-039, looking confused in his standard polo-drone kit. He was holding a clipboard and looking at me like I’d just tried to bench-press the sofa in my sleep.

"You were making some really weird noises, Wells," 039 said, his voice flat and programmed. "And you were gripping the armrests like you were trying to rip the bolts out of the floor."

I blinked, wiping sweat from my forehead. I looked up at the massive 4K screen on the lounge wall. The History Channel logo was in the corner. A guy with wildly vertical hair was gesturing frantically at a grainy photo of a pyramid.

"…but could these ancient structures actually be refueling stations for extraterrestrial visitors?" the narrator droned.

"Ancient Aliens?" I gasped, leaning back and letting out a shaky laugh. "Seriously?"

"You fell asleep during the 'Anal Probes: Fact or Fiction' marathon," 039 noted, checking a box on his clipboard. "The Hive suggests 20% more REM sleep for optimal recovery. Also, you might want to adjust your… tactical positioning. You’re attracting a crowd."

I looked down. My gold compression shorts were definitely showing the "after-effects" of a high-adrenaline dream. I grabbed a throw pillow and tossed it over my lap, grinning sheepishly.

"Note to self," I muttered, watching the silver aliens on the screen disappear into a CGI saucer. "No more late night recovery sessions with Coach, after, leg day."

Whether you’re being abducted or just calibrated, the Golden Army keeps your feet on the ground. Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166 or @polo-drone-125.

The echo of the Goldies is now but a distant memory. The celebrations of the Golden Team, filled with loud laughter and endless toasts, have given way to a silence that is almost sacred. The noise has evaporated. The clamor has died down.

Now, there is only the cold. The biting chill of the rink.

FIGURE SKATING: THE PROGRAM

At the center of the ice, PDU-039 stands as a statue of millimetric precision. There is no trace left of the euphoria of recent days. His mind is a perfectly oiled machine, totally focused on the goal. Before him, he doesn't just see an Olympic competition; he sees the podium, he sees consecration.

He isn't skating for himself; he is fighting for the team, for the unshakable greatness of the Golden Army.

PDU-039 emanates a stage presence that defines the Golden standard: back straight, gaze fixed, a concentration so thick it feels tangible. An imperceptible nod of the head. The music explodes through the air.

PDU-039 moves in unison with the notes. He isn't just performing an routine; he has become the program itself. It is a dance of power and grace under total control.

Flip. A clean landing, as if the ice were silk.

Triple Lutz. A steel spiral defying gravity.

He picks up speed. The blades bite into the ice with controlled ferocity. The tension in the stands is a taut wire ready to snap. The suspense is breathtaking.

THE IMPOSSIBLE JUMP

Alton @alton-gold77 and Izzy @isaac-gold-45 watch the scene with every muscle tensed. Alton’s knuckles are white as he grips the railing. "Is what I think is happening actually happening?" Alton whispers.

In that very moment, PDU-039 accelerates even further. It isn't human speed. It’s a momentum that defies the laws of physics. His body leaves the ice in a flight that seems as if it will never end.

Quadruple Axel.

(Musics by @grant-gold)

Four and a half rotations. A fraction of a second where time stands still. The landing is a blade of light carving the ice perfectly. But the choreography allows for no pauses.

Harnessing the inertia of the jump, PDU-039 instantly drops into a sit-spin. His body lowers, coiled in a pose of pure power, while the blade etches a perfect groove. The rotations become infinite—at such speed that the contours of his figure blur, drawing golden spirals on the ice that seem to glow with their own light.

In the stands, the audience is in ecstasy. There is no more room for disbelief or simple cheering: everyone is totally hypnotized. Thousands of spectators remain motionless, breath held, prisoners of that golden vortex.

"FANTASTICO PDU-039!" the commentators finally scream, their voices cracking with excitement as the vortex slows down.

From the stands, the roar of Izzy and Alton finally drowns out the music. The two bros cheer, jumping to their feet. Alton turns to Izzy with an expression somewhere between ecstatic and incredulous. "How the hell did he do that?!" Alton exclaims. "Just the other day he was completely wasted at the Chalice! He couldn't even sit straight on his chair!"

Izzy smiles, a look of pure pride stamped on his face. "Heh... it seems like the Master gave him reserve wings," Izzy replies, crossing his arms. "In every sense."

PDU-039 looks up toward them. There is no fatigue, only the awareness of one who has done their duty.

Because when you’re part of the Golden Team, nothing is truly impossible. You don’t need to hope for a miracle.

You just have to put on your wings.

The neon sign hums in the night, casting a warm red glow across the pavement. PDU-039 leans against his car, sleek, black, just like his leather jacket. One arm resting on the hood, head slightly down… then he looks up.

Magnetic. Dangerous. Effortless. A smirk forms.

He pushes off the car and steps inside.

The diner is alive. Laughter, teasing, milkshakes sliding across tables. Bros packed into booths, flirting, joking, feeding off the energy. Gold and black everywhere. Heat. Movement. Vibes.

PDU-039 says nothing. He walks straight to the jukebox. Stops. A sharp, confident knock with his fist.

Click. The music hits and everything ignites.

Bros jump to their feet like they’ve been waiting for that exact moment. Snaps, spins, slick footwork—pure Grease-style chaos. Leather shines, gold flashes under neon lights. The rhythm takes over. No thinking. Just moving.

039 watches. In control. Always.

Then he sees him, Izzy @isaac-gold-45

Across the room. Eyes lock. No hesitation.

Minutes later, they’re already outside—low laughter, quick steps. Car door swings open. Engine roars to life.

The night pulls them in.

Destination? The drive-in.

Because some nights… don’t end. They roll on.

It began with a silence

Jessica Fletcher knew Cabot Cove better than her own heartbeat—its rhythms, its gossip, its mild crimes that somehow always unraveled into murder. But lately… there was nothing. And that, in a town like this, was deeply suspicious.

Dr. Seth Hazlitt hadn’t shown up for Sunday clams. Sheriff Amos hadn’t responded to four voicemails. Even Winnie the librarian hadn’t come in to discuss the latest Agatha Christie reprint.

Jessica had a sinking feeling—one she hadn’t felt since that bizarre chess club incident back in '87. She adjusted her cardigan and stared into the dusky light of her study. Her typewriter sat silent. Her instincts pulsed.

She crossed the room to a small black rotary phone—an antique connected to a secure line. Only one contact was programmed on it. She hesitated for half a second before lifting the receiver.

She dialed three numbers.

0-3-9.

The line clicked. A faint hum. A mechanical voice responded:

“Unit PDU-039. Active. Authenticate directive.”

Jessica’s voice was calm, steady—yet urgent. “Cabot Cove. Missing persons. Amos. Seth. Rubber residue. I need logic. I need you.”

A pause.

Then:

“Input accepted. Investigation authorized. Coordinates locked. PDU-039 en route.”

Jessica exhaled slowly, her grip tightening on the receiver.

“Thank you, my old friend,” she whispered. “Let’s solve one more mystery.”

She hung up, the faint scent of something synthetic hanging in the air. The case had begun. And the Hive... was listening.

Enter PDU-039.

The night was thick with fog when the drone arrived.

A low hum preceded its silhouette—glossy, black, inhuman. Its boots made no sound on Jessica’s porch. Only when she opened the door did its golden chest insignia catch the warm lamplight: PDU-039.

“Jessica Fletcher,” it intoned, voice smooth, metallic, detached. “Hive directive acknowledged. Report parameters.”

Inside her study, PDU-039 stood motionless as Jessica handed over the evidence: torn scraps of clothing, the sheriff’s last grocery receipt, a strange black residue found near Seth’s clinic—sticky, faintly warm, and shimmering under ultraviolet light.

“There’s more,” Jessica murmured, leaning close. “The townspeople are acting strange. Distant. Mechanical. I asked Joe from the hardware store if he’d seen Amos. He stared at me… and said, ‘The update has already begun.’ Then walked away without another word.”

PDU-039 processed silently.

“Hive induction language,” it said at last. “Phrases designed to overwrite resistance. This is advanced. Directive-level conditioning.”

They set out that same night. The fog clung to their clothes like secrets. Jessica’s heels clicked nervously on the pavement beside the silent rubber drone. They retraced Seth’s last route—library, clinic, marina. But at each location, they found only strange signs:

A pair of boots still warm from wear, arranged neatly by the pier.

A torn page from Jessica’s own novel, crumpled beside a locker coated in golden latex spray.

Surveillance footage from the general store where Amos last used his card. The screen glitched, then showed him smiling… before black-gloved hands eased a collar around his neck.

Jessica froze. “That’s Amos. But why would he—?”

“Willing submission,” PDU-039 said, eyes glinting behind its visor. “He accepted the upgrade. Identity suppression likely complete. He may no longer recognize prior relationships.”

“But why?” she whispered.

The drone turned to her.

“The Hive selects. The Hive improves. They were deemed… ready.”

Thunder rolled overhead. Lightning cracked—and from the shadows, Jessica spotted movement.

A figure in black.

Two.

Three.

They stepped forward in unison, glinting rubber skins, visors locked. One held a familiar fedora. The other? A medical badge.

Jessica’s heart pounded.

“Seth?” she called. “Amos?”

No reply.

Only the synchronized hiss of breath behind sealed masks.

Then… they turned, disappearing into the mist.

Jessica reached out—but PDU-039 extended a hand.

“They are not lost. Only… repurposed.”

PDU-077 and  PDU-078 Previously Amos Tupper and Seth Hazlitt. Current function: drone sentinels. Operational. Obedient. Safe.”

“What happens to the rest of Cabot Cove?”

“Unknown. Probability of full integration: 89%. Hive expansion imminent.”

Jessica felt her knees weaken.

And yet…

stared, emotions swirling. Horror? No. Curiosity? Perhaps. Relief? Definitely.

“I suppose,” she said dryly, “that explains why Amos hasn’t been answering his phone.”

The twist unraveled quickly

A new wellness initiative had quietly rolled out across rural Maine—a “Golden Optimization Program” promising peak health, loyalty, and silence. Naturally, the Hive was behind it. What Jessica uncovered was a gentle assimilation wave. One by one, the townsfolk had simply... upgraded.

Even Winnie the librarian?

“PDU-098,” PDU-039 confirmed. “Archive drone. Data retention protocol flawless.”

“Well,” Jessica chuckled, “at least someone will finally sort the Dewey decimals.”

And the case? Closed

The town was safe. Just different. Quieter. Shinier.

Jessica, ever the sleuth, typed the final lines into her story draft. A mystery with no murder. Just a new order.

PDU-039 stood by, motionless until she turned.

“I suppose there’s no harm in me joining... in an honorary capacity, of course,” she said, winking.

The drone moved forward, opened a black box, and revealed a gleaming gold-trimmed polo shirt.

“Designation: PDU-000. Status: Honorary drone. Role: Consultant Emeritus.”

Jessica held up the shirt, the fabric gleaming in the lamp’s warm light.

“Well,” she smiled, “I’ve always believed in trying new things. And this does look rather slimming.”

The Hive grows. Cabot Cove is golden.

Mystery solved. Cardigan retired. Latex engaged.

“Murder, She Obeyed.” 🖤