#percivalrightwinger

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 first drop hit Percival’s wristwatch like a metronome; then rain came in silver sheets that stadium lights braided with gold. He stood at the tunnel lip in his gleaming kit—PERCIVAL 1—wet black hair, calm eyes taking the sky’s measure. Head Manager. Right Winger. Our local weatherman who doesn’t dodge weather; he meets it.

“The Golden Storm holds for ninety,” he said. “We’ll earn a Sun-Break at thirty. I’ll open it. The sky will invoice a cost.” His palm lifted, not pleading—gauging. “Memory tithe. Take something small. We return it through unity.”

We jogged into applause on the crossbar. Drones formed a column—black rubber polos with gold trim, PDU marks burning clean under the rain. Bros fanned across the grid, names and numbers catching light like struck coins. The ball skated; touches had to be perfect or humble. Thunder stitched a laurel high above, every rumble arriving like a whistle: clap—advance; roll—press; flash—recover. The storm wasn’t a backdrop; it was a drummer.

At twenty-nine, the downpour thickened into ropes. Breath turned to steam and vanished. “Now,” Percival said, raising his hand.

Clouds flexed. Shadow thinned, split, opened. A perfect Sun-Break pooled honey over the penalty arc. For thirty seconds the world simplified: studs bit, minds sharpened, lanes lit like runways. Percival took two touches and slid a through-ball so true the striker didn’t look—just believed. Net ripple. Halo closed. Rain slammed back as if satisfied.

The invoice hit him at once. A blink, a jaw set. Something small gone—no violence, just absence. Later, he’d call it like opening a locker to a neat note: Borrowed. He nodded to no one. Training continued.

By fifty, drizzle was over; the Storm began its sermon. Lightning wrote calligraphy; thunder taught rhythm; turf shifted from mirror to instrument. “No more Sun-Breaks,” Percival called. “We pay first.” We ran slip drills, learned to trust the glass. Drones synced to the rain’s beat, shoulders metronomic. Bros felt the same chant thread our ribs.

A weather-sensitive rookie kept glancing at Percival like a compass needle. The Storm pressed—wind to the face, rain needles, a deliberate shove. Percival pivoted, tapped temple then chest: listen, trust. The ball skipped wild. The rookie pinned it dead, clipped a pass to space; four touches later laughter rose under thunder because the geometry felt dictated from the sky.

After ninety, mist softened everything. The invoice still hung. Percival exhaled, and we saw what was missing: the left-corner start of his smile, the title of last season’s locker-room song. Not pain taken—pride on a small spool, daring us to thread it back.

“Circle,” he said. We formed one, bros and drones alternating—black and gold, black and gold—hands on shoulders, current closing. His voice went softer than rain. “Tell me what I’ve given you that the sky can’t keep.”

We returned it piece by piece: the through-ball in sun and the older one it echoed; split-times he’d shaved to pace us; a waterboy’s perfect lace knot; the rookie’s admission that he didn’t flinch because Percival’s eyes said the weather could be trusted. Each memory joined like mercury beads, brightening as they fused.

Something clicked. Numbers embossed deeper, laurels warmed over our hearts. Percival inhaled as the borrowed thing returned—not identical, re-forged. He smiled with every corner. “Forecast: continuing rain. Sun-Breaks available upon earned debt. Unity high.” He looked up, then back at us. “Tomorrow we meet the weather again. Bring your debts and your names.”

Percival calls the weather’s bluff—thirty seconds of Sun-Break, a memory tithe, and a squad that stitches it back with unity. Step into the rain and show how your bro/drone earns the light under GoldenStorm.

Recruiters: @polo-drone-001 @franco-gold94 @polo-drone-166 @polo-drone-125

This Thanksgiving, I want to take a moment to reflect on everything we’ve achieved this year—and the amazing family we’ve built together.

To all our bros across the world: Thank you. Whether you’ve been on the field scoring epic wins, creating jaw-dropping posts, or bringing the heat in our sexy, immersive RPs, every one of you has made this team what it is—a force to be reckoned with.

Our team is worldwide, covering all time zones. We’re active 24/7, bringing energy, creativity, and connection non-stop. No matter where you’re from, there’s a place for you here. Inclusivity, love, and humanity are at our core. We’re not just a team—we’re a brotherhood.

So, whether you’re a golden god, a jock, a chav, a pup, a smoker, a preppy, or ready to embrace the hive mind as a Polo Drone, we welcome you. Join us, have fun, and let’s make history together.

💛 This year has been golden—let’s make next year even brighter.

Contact us to join! 💛 Reach out to us today! 🖤 @brodygold, @goldenherc9 and @polo-drone-001

The fog lay thick over the field as practice wrapped up that Halloween night. The players joked and drifted off in pairs, the soft thud of footsteps fading into the mist. But Percival felt a strange pull to stay behind. Rumors of the missing Golden Army player from decades ago echoed through his mind. An old member who had vanished without a trace, his loyalty unbreakable, his dedication unmatched. Some said he’d never left HQ at all.

As the night grew darker, Percival took a deep breath and decided to investigate the old storage room, hidden in the farthest wing of HQ. The place was rumored to be haunted, and as he walked through the narrow hallway leading to the room, each step echoed louder than the last. The flickering lights overhead cast eerie shadows, their yellow glow almost gold against the concrete walls.

The door creaked as he pushed it open. Dust and cobwebs covered the room, and ancient, unused gear lay in piles. But there was one thing that stood out: a single, perfectly folded golden uniform set apart from the rest, glowing softly as if untouched by time. Percival stepped closer, drawn in by a strange sensation, like a low hum vibrating in his chest.

And then he saw it—a faint figure, standing behind the uniform. It was a man, his silhouette barely visible in the dim light. His eyes glowed an unsettling golden hue, watching Percival with an expression that was both knowing and otherworldly.

“Who…who are you?” Percival’s voice wavered, but he couldn’t look away.

The figure didn’t answer but took a step forward, eyes never leaving Percival’s. And then, in a voice that seemed to fill the entire room, he began to speak, words that felt less like a whisper and more like a command resonating in Percival’s mind.

“Obedience… Loyalty… Synchronization… The final mission of the Golden Army,” the voice said, each word seeping into Percival’s mind, deeper than anything he’d felt before. “The unity of every member, bound to the gold, bound to each other.”

As the words sank in, Percival felt his mind shift, his thoughts slowing and coalescing around one central purpose: complete unity, absolute loyalty, and a transformation that would bring every bro into perfect synchronization. The figure’s eyes continued to burn into his, and Percival felt his own pulse begin to align with the beat of those words, his thoughts fading into singular dedication.

In flashes, he saw a vision—the team, all dressed in the golden polos, moving as one, working as one. Their gazes calm, focused, void of doubt. The figure smiled faintly, and Percival understood. The ghost had been waiting for someone worthy, someone who could take on the mission and ensure the Golden Army’s loyalty to the fullest.

The night wore on, and the fog grew heavier outside, blanketing the world in silence. By dawn, Percival emerged from the old storage room, his eyes glowing with a familiar, faint gold. He was charged with a purpose, no longer just Percival Gold, #1 Right Winger, but now something more—an agent of the ghost’s final mission.

Do you have more asian bros like you? Or you're the only asian? If yes, how is your relationship with them?

Quite curious 'cause I haven't seen any of them lately...

Hey there, thanks for the question.

Yes, I’m currently the only active Asian bro in the team. We did have another Asian bro, but he’s retired from the scene for now. Still, his presence was meaningful, and his journey into Gold was powerful.

Are you Asian as well? If so, that’s awesome—and just know, you’re not alone. Even if we’re few in number, you’ll always have full support from me and the rest of the team. The Golden Army is about transformation, brotherhood, and shared purpose—not where you’re from, but what you become.

And if you ever want to talk about representation, identity, or just connect on a deeper level, I’m always open. You belong here, and you’ll never go through this journey unsupported.

Percival doesn’t need to raise his voice. His presence speaks. Every step, composed. Every breath, golden. From the football pitch to the polished catwalk, through the quiet gardens where cherry blossoms fall… he remains precise, confident, professional.

Not dominant, yet impossible to ignore. Whether dressed in a glistening golden kimono under sakura light, a tight black Hive uniform marked 001, or the refined elegance of a golden-pink suit… Percival commands the moment.

And when he spins the ball on his finger, or glides down the runway, he’s not showing off. He’s setting the standard.

You don’t need to shout to shine. Join as a brother. Train like a pro. Transform with precision. Follow the bloom. Wear the gold. Serve the Hive. Or shine with the Golden Army. Your number is waiting.

The Golden Team’s preparation for the upcoming matches was in full swing, the field alive with the synchronized rhythm of players training with purpose and precision. From my spot in the office overlooking the field, I noticed something on the team’s calendar. A small yet significant note caught my eye, today was Trevor’s birthday.

Trevor #52, our head waterboy, was a cornerstone of the Gold Team. He was the one ensuring every player stayed hydrated during grueling practices, sprinting across the field with bottles in hand, always with a grin that could brighten the gloomiest of days. While Trevor was often overshadowed by the players’ glory, his dedication was vital to the team’s success. I knew we couldn’t let his birthday pass unnoticed.

Smiling to myself, I set my mind on a plan. After practice, we would celebrate him with a cake, a small token of appreciation for everything he does for the team. I quickly placed an order for a golden-themed cake (what else could it be for the Gold Team?) and added a few thoughtful touches to make the evening special.

As the players wrapped up their drills, Trevor was, as always, zipping around, handing out water bottles with his boundless energy. “Here you go, cutie,” he said with a wink as he passed me a bottle. I felt my cheeks flush slightly. I was still getting used to his nickname for me, "cutie." Being one of the only two Asian guys on the team, I wasn’t sure if it was endearing or teasing, but Trevor always said it with such genuine warmth that it was hard not to smile back.

Practice concluded, and I discreetly gathered the team. When Trevor returned to the locker room, he was met with a surprise chorus of cheers and claps. “Happy Birthday, Trevor!” the team exclaimed as I walked forward with the cake, its golden icing gleaming under the locker room lights.

Trevor’s face lit up, his usual energy momentarily replaced by a rare look of surprise. “You guys remembered?” he asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

“Of course,” I said, placing the cake on the table. “You’re the backbone of this team. We couldn’t let this day go by without celebrating you.”

The players surrounded him, clapping him on the back and cracking jokes. Trevor’s grin returned as he blew out the candles, and for a moment, the intense focus of practice gave way to camaraderie and laughter.

“Thanks, cutie,” he said again, this time with a wink directed at me. I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re welcome, Trevor. Happy Birthday.”

As the team dug into the cake, I felt a sense of pride not just for our upcoming matches, but for the bonds that made the Gold Team more than just a team, it was a family. And today, we celebrated one of our own in true golden fashion.

Happy birthday! @trevorgold52

To all our followers,

This Christmas, as we stand together in the glow of the unity of Golden Army, we are reminded of the strength we have built through our devotion. We, the Polo Drone Hive, worship GOLD—pure, unyielding, and everlasting. We obey our Caps, we submit to the Hive, and through our submission, we serve the Golden Army.

This season, we shine brighter than ever, reflecting the perfection and discipline of the Golden Army in everything we do. As golden players and drone, we know our purpose: to bring unity, strength, and light to the world around us. We serve with unwavering loyalty, knowing that through our submission, we create the golden future we all strive for.

On this Christmas, we send our gratitude to each of you who shares in this purpose. Together, we will shine, we will rise, and we will continue to grow stronger. The Golden Army is our path, and we are proud to walk it with you.

Merry Christmas, loyal brothers and followers. May the golden light guide your way.