#percivalgold

The containment alarms had not stopped since the pressure spike began.

Inside the laboratory chamber, the Red continued its slow, deliberate movement against the stabilization field. Not violently. Not randomly.

Testing.

Learning.

Adapting.

The drones around the chamber remained motionless, their attention fixed on the growing anomaly within the containment capsule. Diagnostic readings scrolled across the glass console faster now, energy levels fluctuating in patterns that no normal substance should produce.

The Red sample had doubled its activity in less than ten minutes.

That was enough.

“Prepare Level Two containment,” I ordered.

The lab drones moved instantly. Reinforced field emitters activated around the chamber, locking the laboratory into emergency isolation mode. Steel shutters sealed the outer corridors while the internal containment grid expanded across the floor.

The Red was no longer a specimen.

It was a threat.

A black case rose from the laboratory floor beside me, its surface marked with the golden insignia of PDU-001.

Level Two.

Full drone containment armor.

If the Red could convert drones, then a drone would have to face it first.

The suit unfolded piece by piece as the drones assisted the preparation sequence. Glossy black rubber slid across my legs, sealing tightly against the skin before locking into reinforced boots. The torso plating followed, compressing firmly across my chest and back as the neural interface connectors aligned with the internal monitoring system.

The rubber tightened.

Controlled.

Perfect.

Gloves sealed over my hands. The final helmet locked into place with a sharp mechanical click, sealing the suit completely. The internal display activated instantly, flooding my vision with biometric readings and containment telemetry.

Breathing stabilized.

Neural connection confirmed.

“Recording directive,” I said through the suit’s comm channel.

The drones turned toward the console as the command log began transmitting.

“If this experiment confirms Red conversion capability… all Polo Drones are prohibited from direct contact with Red material. All future testing will be conducted through remote containment protocols.”

The Red had already shown compatibility with drone polymer.

If it could spread through the suit…

Then every drone in the Golden Army could be vulnerable.

“Experiment classified as highly dangerous,” I continued.

“If contamination occurs, this lab will enter permanent lockdown.”

The drones acknowledged the command.

The containment chamber opened its secondary interaction field.

Inside the capsule, the Red stilled.

For a moment it looked almost harmless again.

A small crimson mass suspended in energy.

Waiting.

I stepped forward until the reinforced glass separated us by less than a meter.

The stabilization field lowered slightly, allowing controlled interaction between the sample and the outer containment layer of the Level Two suit.

Nothing happened.

Five seconds passed.

Ten.

The Red remained motionless.

“Begin interaction scan,” I ordered.

The suit sensors began analyzing the surface behavior of the substance. Chemical readings spiked briefly as the Red reacted to the proximity of the suit’s rubber shell.

Then it moved.

A thin tendril extended slowly from the crimson mass.

It stretched toward the suit’s surface with careful precision, touching the black rubber layer for less than a second before pulling back.

Testing.

The same behavior we had seen with the earlier drone polymer sample.

“Contact minimal,” I reported.

“Continue observation.”

The tendril returned.

This time it did not retreat.

The Red spread across the surface of the containment field, pressing harder against the barrier separating it from the suit.

Energy readings climbed sharply across the console.

The stabilization field flickered.

“Pressure spike detected,” one of the drones said.

The Red surged.

The chamber erupted with violent movement as the crimson mass expanded outward in a sudden wave of tendrils. The containment field strained under the impact as the substance slammed against the barrier separating the chamber from the suit.

The field failed.

Not completely.

Just long enough.

A fragment of Red slipped through the destabilized grid and struck the surface of the Level Two armor.

The contact point burned across the suit’s display.

WARNING — UNKNOWN SUBSTANCE DETECTED

The Red did not dissolve.

It spread.

The crimson mass flowed across the rubber surface like living liquid, gripping the suit’s material as if it had been waiting for the opportunity.

“Containment breach,” a drone announced.

The alarms escalated instantly.

Emergency barriers slammed into place around the lab as the drones attempted to reactivate the stabilization field. I raised my arm to examine the contamination point.

The Red was no longer outside the suit.

It was merging with it.

“Seal the chamber,” I ordered.

But the suit’s neural interface stuttered.

A wave of static exploded through the internal systems as the crimson substance burrowed deeper into the rubber layer. The pressure against the suit increased rapidly as the Red began spreading across my chest and shoulders.

WARNING — SUIT INTEGRITY COMPROMISED WARNING — NEURAL INTERFACE ERROR

My breathing distorted inside the helmet as the internal sensors began failing one by one.

The Red tightened across the suit like a second layer of rubber.

The drones moved toward me.

“Unit PDU-001 contamination detected.”

I tried to step back.

The suit did not respond.

My arms moved without command as the crimson mass crawled across the surface of the armor, spreading toward the helmet.

“Lock the lab,” one of the drones ordered.

The laboratory doors sealed shut.

Containment protocols activated.

But the Red was already inside the system.

My vision flickered as the internal display warped into a storm of distorted signals.

The suit’s command interface no longer responded to my input.

It was responding to something else.

The Red tightened across the armor.

My voice distorted through the comm channel.

“Containment… failure…”

The drones froze as the suit’s posture changed.

Not a controlled movement.

Not mine.

The crimson mass pulsed across the armor as the suit systems collapsed under the corruption spreading through the neural network.

The Red had found a host.

And the laboratory was now sealed with it.

—

Return to Headquarters

Research Log: Red Sample 01

—

If you wish to understand what is happening… if you wish to stand with the Golden Army…

Contact the recruiters.

They will guide you.

@alton-gold77 @franco-gold94 @polo-drone-166 @polo-drone-125

The doors are still open.

The doors of Golden Army Headquarters opened with the same quiet hydraulic sigh I remembered.

For three months I had been away.

Training cycles, external duties, distance from the hum of the Hive. Long enough for the world to change without me watching it happen.

The building should have felt familiar.

Instead it felt… watchful.

The golden halls were still polished. The banners still hung proudly from the vaulted ceiling. Drones moved through their routines with perfect precision. Players crossed the corridor toward the locker wing, preparing for the match that everyone had been whispering about.

But something beneath the rhythm had shifted.

I could feel it.

Screens flickered along the command wall as I entered the operations room. Tactical displays, infection maps, match projections. Streams of data moved across the glass like nervous currents.

Red sightings.

Converted players.

Reports from scouts observing the Crimson Frost Giants.

Anders leading the formation.

The Red Coach orchestrating the plays.

The Red had spread further than I expected.

I rested my hands against the console and watched the data cascade. The Golden Army was still moving. Still training. Still preparing for the match ahead.

But the tone of the reports had changed.

Containment. Conversion. Corruption.

Words that had no place in Gold.

My office door slid open with a quiet chime. The room was exactly as I had left it months ago. Clean desk. Ordered shelves. The faint scent of rubber and metal that always lingered in the headquarters air.

On the wall opposite the window hung the artifacts that reminded me who we were.

The black rubber polo marked PDU-001, polished and perfect.

The white thobe of Emir Ezan, still resting carefully where he had left it before beginning his pilgrimage.

And beside them, draped across a carved wooden mount, the sacred fur cape bearing the golden stag of Freyr.

Three symbols.

Duty. Leadership. Life.

The Emir had begun his sacred journey.

Which meant someone else would have to hold the line.

I turned back to the console as another alert flickered across the screen.

RESEARCH LAB — RED SAMPLE SECURED

Recovered from a skirmish near the stadium perimeter. Containment protocols active. Awaiting analysis.

The Red.

Everyone spoke about it like a disease. Like a spreading infection that could be isolated and neutralized with the right countermeasures.

But the reports told a different story.

The Red adapted.

It learned.

It waited.

And if the Golden Army intended to defeat it, we needed to understand what it truly was.

I closed the tactical feed and stepped back into the corridor.

The research wing was quieter than the rest of headquarters. The hum of containment fields echoed faintly through the polished floors as I approached the laboratory chamber.

Inside, surrounded by reinforced glass and layered shielding fields, sat the sample.

A small mass of crimson substance suspended within a containment capsule.

Still.

Silent.

Contained.

For a moment I simply watched it.

Three months away… and this was what the Golden Army had been fighting.

“We cannot defeat what we refuse to understand,” I murmured.

The scanners began their cycle as I stepped closer to the chamber.

The sample remained motionless.

Then something shifted.

Just slightly.

A ripple passed through the red surface.

Slowly… almost deliberately…

the substance turned toward the glass.

Toward me.

And for the first time since returning to headquarters…

I understood.

The Red was not just spreading.

It was watching.

—

If you want to participate in the Golden Army stories, matches, and events, and stand with the team against the Red… contact our recruiters:

@alton-gold77 @franco-gold94 @polo-drone-166 @polo-drone-125

The bar pulsed with energy, a lively haven for laughter and camaraderie, but for Percival and PDU-076, it was the perfect hunting ground. Percival, the ever-charismatic manager of the Golden Army, had agreed to spend an evening with his loyal teammate after work. With his sharp style and effortless charm, Percival fit seamlessly into the social scene. For most of the night, he was simply "Percival," as his teammates called him, friendly, sharp-witted, and undeniably magnetic.

However, once the workday had ended, the shift was inevitable. 001 stirred beneath the surface, watching, waiting. By the time they arrived at the bar, Percival’s friendly demeanor began to shift, his control slipping as 001 took over. In the dim light of his office earlier, Percival had found himself drawn to the polished black polo hanging neatly in his closet. His movements had become automatic as he slipped it on. By the time he arrived at the bar, 001 was fully in control, the polished manager now an extension of the Polo Drone Hive’s will.

The target that evening was clear: the bartender.

He was impossible to ignore, his rugged features framed by dark stubble and a natural charisma that drew patrons like moths to a flame. His tight black shirt and athletic build made him stand out even more. He moved with a practiced ease behind the bar, crafting drinks with confidence and a knowing grin that seemed to charm everyone who approached.

Percival, with 001’s cold precision guiding him, leaned in toward 076. “He is ideal,” 001 murmured, his voice low but commanding. “His influence here is significant. With him, the Hive’s reach will grow.”

076 nodded, already falling into his role. Together, they approached the bar, their steps calculated and deliberate. Percival led the conversation, his usual charm now sharpened with the hypnotic undertone of 001’s influence.

“Busy night?” Percival asked, flashing an easy smile.

The bartender grinned back. “Always is,” he replied, his deep voice cutting through the hum of the bar. “You two look like you’re having a good time.”

Percival chuckled, his golden gaze locking onto the bartender’s with unnerving intensity. “We are now. You’re good at what you do, you know that? Must take a lot of focus and discipline.”

The bartender’s smile wavered slightly, but he nodded. “It’s part of the job,” he said, glancing briefly at the other patrons. “You have to know how to handle people.”

“Discipline and focus,” Percival echoed, his tone almost hypnotic. “Qualities we value deeply. You’d fit right in.”

The bartender frowned slightly, sensing something unusual in Percival’s words. But before he could respond, 076 added softly, “We’d love to show you something. After your shift. Something that might change your life.”

The bartender hesitated, but something in their presence—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on—drew him in. He nodded slowly. “Alright. You’ve got my attention.”

The bar had emptied out, leaving only the three of them in the quiet storeroom. The bartender leaned casually against the counter, his usual confidence dimmed by the weight of the moment. “So, what’s this about?” he asked, his tone steady but curious.

Percival stepped closer, pulling a sleek black polo shirt from behind his back. Its glossy surface shimmered faintly in the dim light, the golden accents catching his eye. “This,” Percival said, his voice smooth and inviting, “is for you. Put it on, and you’ll understand.”

The bartender frowned, his instincts telling him to refuse. But as his gaze locked onto Percival’s glowing golden eyes, his resistance melted away. The words swirled in his head like a command he couldn’t escape. “Just try it,” Percival added, his voice low and compelling. “You’ll feel the difference.”

Almost against his will, the bartender took the shirt. The fabric felt impossibly smooth against his fingers, its weight heavier than it should have been. He hesitated for a moment longer before slipping it over his head.

The transformation was immediate.

As the polo settled onto his body, a surge of warmth flooded through him, spreading from his chest to his limbs. His thoughts blurred, his confidence replaced by a serene calm he couldn’t explain. The shirt clung to him like a second skin, its sleek surface molding perfectly to his muscular frame. The golden laurel emblem glinted on his chest, just below the glowing number “495” that etched itself into the fabric.

“What’s… happening?” he murmured, his voice softer now, tinged with confusion.

“You are becoming who you were meant to be,” 076 said from behind him, his voice steady and assured. “You are part of the Hive now.”

The bartender’s rugged features began to soften, his expression blank as his old identity faded away. His memories, his name, his very sense of self—all of it dissolved, replaced by an overwhelming sense of unity and purpose. His golden eyes glowed faintly as he straightened his posture, his voice calm and monotone. “I understand. I serve the Hive.”

001 stepped back, a satisfied gleam in his golden gaze. “Good. You will continue your role here. You will remain the bartender. But now, you will serve a higher purpose.”

076 added with a faint smirk, “You will lure them. Trap them. Turn them. Handsome. Young. Strong. Every night, you will bring one back to the Hive.”

PDU-495 nodded, his voice devoid of emotion. “Lure. Trap. Turn. I understand.”

The next night, the bar seemed unchanged, its lively hum returning as patrons filed in. But for those who looked closely, the bartender’s magnetic charm carried an unsettling edge. His golden eyes seemed to pierce through the crowd, his smile calm yet calculated. He moved with perfect precision, pouring drinks and engaging with his targets effortlessly.

One by one, the young, handsome customers found themselves drawn to him, captivated by his charm and charisma. And as each night ended, another would disappear into the storeroom, never to be seen again.

“Lure. Trap. Turn.” 495 executed his purpose flawlessly, the Hive’s influence expanding with every passing night. And through it all, Percival, now fully 001, watched from the shadows, his mission complete. The perfection of the Hive was inevitable.

🌀 How Percival Became a Golden Office Drone

It started like any internship. A handshake. A desk. A suit that didn’t quite fit.

Percival thought he was walking into a corporate future. Assistant to Walid Gold himself, executive, recruiter, master of the hive. At the time, Percival still used words like “career,” “resume,” “identity.” How quaint.

He never saw the trap. Not until the tie.

Phase I: The Dress Code Directive

“Here,” Walid said. “Let me fix that.”

The gold tie wasn’t standard issue. But Walid wrapped it around his neck with such forceful calm, Percival didn’t resist. The fabric shimmered. The embroidery on his shirt had changed too— PERCIVAL // INTERN —not a name tag. A brand.

“Fix your tie,” Walid said, smoothing it into place. “Fix your mind.”

And Percival did. Something clicked, subtle, quiet, deep. When he looked in the mirror that night, the gold letters seemed to glow. He stood straighter. Talked less. Thought less.

Phase II: The Monitor Method

He was assigned a solo workstation. One screen. White walls. Headphones.

Nothing loud. No orders. Just phrases scrolling in gold across the screen.

“OBEY THE TEAM.” “FORGET THE SELF.” “SUBMIT TO GOLD.”

Each scroll perfectly timed with a pulse in his headset. Each loop hollowing him just a little more.

He stopped checking the clock. He stopped taking breaks. When Walid passed by, Percival no longer looked up. He just said, “Yes, sir.” Even when no one had spoken.

Phase III: Executive Override

The door locked behind them. Walid entered, gold suit, black shirt, gloves.

“This will be the last thought you have,” he whispered.

The head harness came down from the ceiling, gleaming gold, coiling over his scalp, jaw, temples.

He twitched, but it was already too late.

The helmet pulsed. Warm. Steady. Like breath. Like control. Like command.

Golden spirals overtook his eyes. His past—deleted. His dreams, rewritten. His name, irrelevant.

“It thought it was a man.” “Now it functions as a tool.”

Phase IV: Drone Registration Complete

The next morning, he reported for duty wearing his new shirt: GOLDEN OFFICE DRONE SCHEDULER // MASCOT LIAISON

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t have any. He walked hallways with his new smile, serene, smug, empty.

If you saw him on the street, he'd smile wider. Hold out his hand. Spiral eyes glittering.

“We’re friends, right?”

You’d nod. And follow. And forget.

The office was silent, shadows broken only by the golden glow radiating from the desk. At its centre sat Percival, impeccably dressed in his tailored black suit with gold trim, hypnotic golden eyes fixed on the trembling young man across from him.

Between them lay the parchment. Blank. Heavy. Waiting to be signed.

The recruit’s hand quivered as he lifted the pen, its golden nib pulsing faintly like a living thing. Percival leaned forward, calm and commanding, his voice smooth as silk, impossible to resist.

“Sign.”

The nib met the page. Golden ink bled outward like veins, alive and hungry, racing across the parchment, and into the boy. His breath caught, a gasp escaping as golden light surged up his arm. Muscles tightened. Form sculpted. His veins blazed, bright enough to burn away hesitation. His pupils shrank until molten gold filled his eyes.

Percival smiled faintly. The contract had done its work.

The boy’s body flexed instinctively, civilian clothes unraveling into a shimmer of nothing, exposing the perfect form gold had carved. His chest rose and fell with newfound strength, a faint number flickering across his skin, marking him for the Army.

“Your will is mine now,” Percival murmured. “Your body, your strength, your future, it belongs to GOLD.”

And the recruit stood taller, no longer a boy, but a man claimed, bound, and reborn into destiny.

There I was, thinking being an office drone was all it took to serve my purpose. Wearing the shiny uniform, keeping the office neat, thinking I was where I was meant to be—serving Cap and the Golden Team. I thought I was a good drone, and that was it. But nah, turns out there was another level I was about to reach—another role for me to serve. And it wasn’t what I expected.

Roman needed something else. He didn’t need an office drone—he needed something a little more... intimate. Something to wear, to feel him, to support him. He didn’t need me organizing the office or sorting out equipment. Nah, he needed me at the gym, wrapped around him, giving him everything, absorbing every bit of him.

So, there I went, transformed into Roman's golden jockstrap. The moment it happened, everything changed. No more cleaning, no more typing—just the feeling of being stretched across his hips, hugging his musky golden goods. Just being there, wrapped tight, every flex of his muscles reminding me of my place. It was leg day, and I knew what was coming—the sweat, the pressure, the closeness.

Roman didn’t even have to say anything. He just picked me up and slipped me on, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And for him, it was. I wasn’t even a drone anymore; I was Roman's golden jockstrap. It felt right. Just like Dad used to follow his boss without question, I followed Roman. I didn’t have thoughts, I didn’t have a name—I was just there to serve. Every squat, every lift, every bead of sweat soaking into me—it all felt so right.

The more Roman worked out, the more I felt myself fading. My thoughts, my identity, all melting away with every rep, replaced by the simplicity of being just a piece of gear—just something Roman needed. I hugged his golden orbs as he squatted, my whole being reduced to the pressure, the weight, the warmth of his body. There was nothing else—only Roman.

And you know what? It felt kinda good. No pressure, no expectations. Just the warm musk of Roman's workout, the golden goo seeping into me, and the knowledge that I was exactly where I was meant to be—serving the Golden Team in the most intimate way possible. No thoughts, no resistance—just pure submission.

Ready to embrace the gold? Ready to find your place, no matter what form it takes? Contact @hamza-goldenarab, @brodygold, or @hades-golden19 for your initiation. Let the gold consume you. 🌀💛

Thanks Roman @romangolden68

The office was quiet, the faint hum of the air conditioning the only sound as Percival adjusted his neatly pressed tie. He glanced at the framed certificates lining the walls of his workspace, a testament to his efficiency, precision, and devotion to his role. Everything about him was immaculate, from his perfectly styled hair to his polished loafers. This was his domain, a sanctuary of control and order.

But today was different.

The screen on his desk flickered, and a notification lit up. "500 Followers Milestone Achieved." Percival leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into a satisfied smile. The achievement felt monumental, a reflection of his dedication not only to his work but to his journey. As he rose from his chair, his office seemed to shimmer around him, the crisp scent of leather and polish giving way to something deeper, something richer. The transformation was calling.

In the blink of an eye, the office faded, replaced by the echo of cleats striking the pitch. Percival was no longer the composed office drone. He was Ezan now, the golden right winger, the pride of the field. His sharp polo was replaced by a gleaming metallic golden AC Milan jersey, perfectly fitted to highlight his athletic frame. The scent of freshly cut grass and the roar of an imaginary crowd filled the air, urging him onward. He adjusted his sleeves, the reflective material catching the light, and stepped onto the field with confidence radiating from every move.

Ezan’s purpose was clear. He wasn’t just part of the team; he was a leader, a symbol of precision and unity. The ball was his tool, the game his stage, and the followers, his audience. The golden jersey wasn’t just a uniform; it was his identity, a glowing emblem of achievement and dominance.

But the journey didn’t stop there.

The field melted away, and the space grew dark, enveloped in a glossy black sheen. The once-golden jersey reformed, turning into a skin-tight, gleaming black latex polo with golden accents. The transformation into 001 was seamless. His movements slowed, his mind quieted, and any lingering individuality dissolved into obedient clarity. The visor slid into place, covering his eyes, and his purpose aligned with the collective: recruit, convert, grow.

As 001 stepped forward, his presence was commanding, robotic yet magnetic. Before him stood a new figure, hesitant and uncertain. The soft hiss of a mist dispenser released the faint scent of musk into the air, and 001 extended a polished polo toward the recruit. Within moments, the transformation began. The recruit’s resistance faded, their clothes dissolving into black latex as they were enveloped by the Hive's influence. A fresh polo drone was born, ready to serve.

001 stood tall, the golden accents on his uniform glinting under the low light. Another conversion. Another milestone. Another step forward.

The Hive headquarters shimmered with festive warmth, its golden lights casting a glow that wrapped the entire space in a sense of purpose and unity. This was a time of giving, a time for the Golden Army to honor their brothers through meaningful gestures, each gift strengthening their bonds and celebrating their collective spirit.

In the quiet hum of the training chambers, Polo Drone 001 stood immaculately, his black rubber polo gleaming with gold accents under the Hive’s glow. His glowing golden eyes scanned the line of drones before him, each standing rigid, their glossy uniforms catching the light with perfection. The energy in the room was palpable, a silent anticipation building.

001 stepped forward, his boots clicking softly on the polished floor as he approached PDU-084, a seasoned and respected drone whose recent innovations had elevated the Hive’s efficiency. From behind his back, 001 produced a sleek black box, tied with a ribbon of shimmering gold. The golden glow of his eyes reflected off the surface as he extended the gift toward 084.

“PDU-084,” 001 said, his voice steady, every word purposeful, “your dedication has driven the Hive to new heights. Accept this token as recognition of your precision and service.”

As 084 opened the box, the anticipation in the room seemed to hold its breath. Inside lay a sleek black rubber collar, its surface smooth and glistening, with "084" engraved in bold, golden letters at the center. 001’s tone was devoid of emotion, yet carried the weight of pride. “This collar is not just a mark of recognition but a reminder of your place within the Hive. Wear it with pride, for it symbolizes your unity with the collective.”

084 bowed his head as he accepted the collar, his hands trembling slightly as he fastened it around his neck. The other drones raised their voices in unison: “Obedience. Precision. Unity.” With a subtle nod, 001 returned to the line, his glowing golden eyes scanning the formation once more. “Serve the Hive. Strengthen unity. Perfection is our purpose.” The mantra echoed powerfully, solidifying the moment as the drones fell back into disciplined silence.

In the golden locker room, Ezan stood at the center of his team, his golden AC Milan jersey clinging to his sculpted frame. His masculine scent, a potent mix of alluring musk and raw athleticism, filled the air, wrapping around his teammates like an invisible pull of dominance. His hypnotic golden eyes scanned the room, their glow drawing the attention of every player present.

“070,” Ezan called, his voice rich and commanding, the kind that could silence a crowd with its sheer presence. 070, the team’s tactical powerhouse, stepped forward with a confident stride, his gaze meeting Ezan’s with mutual respect.

From behind his back, Ezan revealed a golden VR headset, its surface gleaming and engraved with the Hive’s laurel emblem. The VR headset was no ordinary device; it was a tool of connection, of precision, and of training. “This,” Ezan began, his deep voice resonating in the quiet room, “is for you. Your vision and strategy have guided us to countless victories. This headset will sharpen your skills even further, bringing us closer to perfection.”

070 took the headset, his hands firm, his posture unwavering. “Thank you, Ezan,” he said, his voice resonating with pride. Around them, the players erupted into cheers, clapping 070 on the back as Ezan’s hypnotic gaze lingered on the room.

Before stepping back, Ezan raised his hand, his tone softening yet retaining its authority. “Brothers, remember this. Our strength is in our skills, our unity, and our brotherhood. This is what makes us golden.” His words hung in the air, a potent reminder of their bond as a team.

Upstairs, in the polished and elegant office of the Hive’s operations, Percival exuded effortless charm. Dressed in a perfectly tailored golden blazer, his preppy elegance was matched only by his magnetic presence. His desk was a masterpiece of precision, every document and accessory meticulously placed, reflecting his disciplined nature. As 110 and 016, two esteemed members of the Hive, knocked at the door, Percival’s warm voice called out, “Come in.”

They entered together, their eyes bright with curiosity, knowing that a visit to Percival’s office always came with purpose. Percival greeted them with his signature smile, a disarming mix of charm and authority. “Gentlemen,” he began, his tone smooth and inviting, “you both have served the Hive with unwavering dedication, and today, I wanted to honor that.”

Reaching into a golden gift bag, Percival first addressed 110, pulling out a gleaming golden paintbrush, its handle etched with intricate patterns of laurel leaves. “110,” he said, handing over the brush, “your creativity and innovation have brought beauty and strength to the Hive. This brush is a symbol of that, a tool to continue crafting the vision that binds us all.”

110 took the paintbrush, his expression a mix of pride and gratitude. “Thank you, Percival,” he said, his voice steady yet touched with emotion.

Percival then turned to 016, reaching once more into the bag and producing a golden pen, its sleek design embodying precision and authority. “016,” he said with a warm smile, “your words, your ideas, have shaped the Hive in ways few can match. This pen is a testament to your influence and a reminder of the power you wield through your vision.”

016 accepted the pen with a quiet nod, his respect for Percival evident. “Thank you,” he said simply, yet the weight of his words carried deep gratitude.

Percival leaned back, his gaze shifting between the two. “Both of you embody what the Hive stands for: creativity, precision, and unity. These gifts are tools for you to continue elevating us all. Now, go forth and show the Hive what you’re capable of.”

As 110 and 016 left the office, the smile on Percival’s face lingered. His golden eyes flickered with pride and satisfaction. The Hive thrummed with life, each space filled with acts of recognition and unity, each gift a step closer to perfection.

Though they operated in different realms, 001 among the drones, Ezan on the field, and Percival in the office, their purpose was the same. Every gift they gave carried the weight of connection, a reminder of the unyielding bond that tied the Golden Army together. Under the glowing lights of the Hive, the message was clear: every action, every gesture, brought them closer to the perfection they sought as one.