#redcoach

The Red Coach was gone. Alton rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the lingering tension from the earlier attack. The Red Pup had been fast—unnaturally fast—and the impact still lived in his muscles like a deep bruise under the skin.

He walked across the now dark living room, city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Reflections of gold and white danced across the floor, but his mind kept replaying the same thing:

The Red Coach. That calm smile. That voice.

You would be stronger without the rules.

Alton clenched his jaw.

“Not happening,” he muttered to himself.

He headed into the bedroom, stripped off the day’s clothes. By the time he slid into bed, exhaustion hit him like a heavy tackle. His body was spent, his nerves raw. Within seconds, sleep pulled him under.

The first thing I notice is the red light. Everything is bathed in it—dark crimson shadows stretching across a concrete floor that seems endless. The air feels thick, hot.

I try to stand. My legs don’t move. I look down. I’m kneeling.

Both knees pressed to the ground. Hands resting on my thighs like I’m waiting for judgment. My chest tightens. This is wrong. I force my muscles to rise, to push up the way they always do when I’m hit, when I’m challenged, when someone tries to dominate me. Nothing. It’s like gravity has doubled.

Then I hear the footsteps. Slow. Confident.

They stop right in front of me. I lift my head. The Red Coach stands there. He looks exactly the same—calm posture, hands behind his back, that small knowing smile on his face like he’s watching something unfold exactly the way he predicted.

“Alton,” he says.

His voice is smooth, patient. My mouth moves before my brain catches up.

“Yes, Coach.”

The words hit me like a punch. I didn’t choose them. I try to close my mouth, try to shake my head, but my body won’t obey. The Red Coach steps closer.

“You came,” he says softly.

And somehow I hear my own voice answer.

“I had to.”

My stomach twists. I don’t want to say these things. The Red Coach studies me like a coach evaluating a player during tryouts.

“You fought it,” he says. “You fought very hard.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

“But deep down you know the truth.”

I try to speak. To argue. To tell him he’s wrong. But what comes out instead is a whisper.

“I’m tired.”

The Red Coach nods slowly.

“Yes,” he says. “Exactly.”

His hand rises and settles on the top of my head. The contact sends a strange pulse through my body.

“You don’t have to carry that anymore,” he murmurs.

My throat tightens. Because part of me understands exactly what he means.

“You could belong to something stronger,” he says. “To the pack.”

My breathing becomes shallow.

“And if I belong…” I hear myself say.

“You are free,” the Red Coach finishes.

The word echoes in the red-lit space. Free. Free from expectations. Free from rules. Free from the endless weight of being the one who must always stand tall. The Red Coach tilts his head.

“Tell me what you want, Alton.”

My jaw trembles. Every instinct screams at me to stop talking. But the words push out anyway.

“I want to serve.”

The Red Coach’s smile grows.

“Say it clearly.”

I swallow.

“I want to belong to you.”

Silence stretches across the red room.

“I knew you would understand eventually,” he says.

And that’s when I hear them. Breathing. Low. Wet. Moving in the shadows. The Red Pups crawl forward from the darkness. Their bodies move on all fours, smooth and controlled. They circle me slowly. My heart hammers. Fear floods through me. But I don’t move. The Red Coach’s hand presses down on my head again. “Stay,” he commands.

I stay. The first Pup reaches me. It touches my shoulder. Its touch is warm. Alive. Then its mouth opens. Thick red liquid spills out. The red goo. It pours over my shoulder in heavy strands.

The moment it touches my skin, pain explodes through my body. I gasp violently.

It feels like liquid fire sinking through my flesh. The goo clings to my skin, stretching and tightening like living latex. Another Pup moves in. More red goo spills across my back. The burning spreads instantly. My muscles seize. My teeth clamp down so hard my jaw aches. But I don’t move. Because the Red Coach told me not to.

“That’s it,” he says calmly. “You’re choosing it.”

More Pups step forward. They pour the goo over my chest. My arms. My neck. Every drop burns deeper than the last. The sensation becomes unbearable. It feels like my nerves are being peeled apart and rewired at the same time. My vision blurs. My breathing turns ragged. The goo spreads across my torso, sealing itself around my muscles.

Tight. Smooth. Alive.

I shake violently, every muscle screaming. But I stay where I am. Because I asked for this. The Red Coach’s voice floats through the agony.

“You wanted freedom.”

Another Pup pours the liquid across my face. The burning becomes blinding. It crawls across my jaw and cheeks, sealing over my skin like a second layer. My hands slam against the concrete as my body convulses. The goo tightens around my arms. It pushes inward. Deep into muscle. Deep into bone. I feel my heartbeat change. Slower. Heavier. Stronger. My hands tremble in front of me. My fingers look wrong. Thicker. Stronger.

The skin coated in glossy red. The Pups continue pouring. The liquid floods across my shoulders and down my back. The pain reaches a level that should break a human mind. But something strange happens. Instead of destroying me, it rebuilds me. My muscles surge with new power. My spine arches. My breathing deepens. The Red Coach watches calmly.

“You’re almost there,” he says.

The goo wraps around my torso like armor. My body lowers toward the ground. My arms extend. My knees spread. I collapse forward onto all fours. My vision sharpens suddenly. I can smell everything now. The air. The Pups. The Red Coach. The pack surrounds me completely. I look down at my hands. They are no longer hands the way they were before. They are stronger. Denser. Built for movement close to the ground.

The last of the goo tightens around my body. Then the pain stops. Just like that. Silence fills the red chamber. I breathe slowly. My mind feels… quiet. Clear. Empty.

The Red Coach steps forward. The pack shifts automatically, creating space. I lift my head and look at him. Something inside me recognizes him instantly.

Leader. Owner. Purpose.

The realization is immediate and absolute. I am not one of the pups. I am above them. The Alpha. The Red Coach’s eyes meet mine.

“There you are,” he says.

His hand lowers again onto my head. The contact sends a deep pulse of satisfaction through my body.

“Perfect,” he murmurs.

I lean forward instinctively. The motion is natural. Right. Behind me the Red Pups bow their heads. Submission flows through the pack. The Red Coach looks down at me.

“Do you remember who you are?” he asks.

For a moment something flickers in the back of my mind. A gym. Golden lights. Voices calling my name. But the memory fades quickly. Because none of that matters now. My purpose is simpler. Clearer.

“I serve,” I say.

The Red Coach smiles.

“Yes.”

My chest fills with pride. Not the pride of victory. Not the pride of leadership. A deeper pride. The pride of belonging completely. The pack shifts behind me, waiting. Hungry. Obedient. The Red Coach turns slightly.

“Pack,” he says.

The word carries through the red air like a command. Instantly the Pups lower themselves further. I do the same. My body moves without hesitation. Mindless. Perfectly obedient. The Red Coach looks down at me again.

“You will obey me,” he says calmly.

“Yes, Coach.”

“You will serve the pack.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“You will break anything that stands against us.”

A deep growl builds in my chest.

“Yes, Coach.”

The Red Coach nods once. Satisfied. Then he turns and begins walking away.

“Follow.”

The command hits like electricity. My body surges forward immediately. Strong. Fast. The pack flows behind me. I feel nothing but hunger to obey. Nothing but the need to serve. Nothing but the certainty that the Red Coach owns every part of me.

Alpha. Servant. Weapon. The perfect Red Pup.

Alton exploded upright in bed.

Air tore into his lungs as if he had been drowning. His entire body was soaked in sweat. His heart pounded so violently he could feel it in his throat. For several seconds he couldn’t move. The room slowly came into focus. The dim city lights. The familiar walls of his penthouse. The quiet hum of the night outside.

It was just a dream. A nightmare.

Alton dragged both hands across his face and took several deep breaths.

“Dammit…” he muttered.

His heart rate slowly began to settle. He swung his legs off the bed and sat there in the dark, trying to steady himself. It had felt so real.

The pain. The submission. The transformation.

He rubbed his arms as if expecting to feel the burning again. Nothing. Just sweat. He stood and walked toward the bathroom mirror. The man staring back at him was still the same. Broad shoulders. Strong chest. Sharp jaw. Blue eyes with the faint golden ring. Still Alton. Still human.

Relief spread slowly through his chest. “Just a dream,” he said quietly. But he could still hear the Red Coach’s voice.

Soft. Patient. Waiting.

I knew you would come.

---

What happened before: You're Not Stepping On My Field

---

Want to help us defeat the Red Coach and his pups?

Then hit up our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166, @polo-drone-125

It was just your average Sunday. Grayden and Leander were helping Wells get out of drag after performing a drag show with him while wearing their Golden Knight mascot armor. When suddenly Grayden got a call from Trevor.

“Bros, where are you? Practice started 5 minutes ago. Brody said he needs you three here.”

The clock on the wall in the dressing room clearly showed they had a little under two hours until practice time. Until Grayden took the clock down and inspected it. Oh no, red goo.

“Trevor, we should be there in ten.”

The Red Coach must be nearby and he or his pup drones tampered with the clocks. Instead of turning them forward an hour for daylight savings they got turned back an hour. Grayden could sense the Red presence nearby.

“Bros, it's time for a battle. Let me help you two get better equipped.”

Grayden suddenly channeled Atlas. Wells still dressed as Alberta pulled out some PDU Hive issued weapons that 767 had lent to him. Atlas began a prayer blessing.

“Oh fair and energetic Apollo. Please grant these Golden Bros with a musical blessing so they may neutralize the Red threat with their song.”

Wells (as Alberta Clipper) and Leander began to glow. Then Atlas spoke again, “I am granting your weapons with my own blessing. It should allow them to repel the red goo. However if we see the Coach please get behind me.”

Atlas shut the door and suddenly the room went quiet. The sound of Cleats mixed with the squeaks of latex was in the distance. They were here and fast approaching.

Wells then spoke, throwing knives near him. “I guess Alberta is coming to practice. Get ready boys.”

“I’m ready when you are, bros.” Leander replied.

The dressing room door burst inward with a metallic slam. Red pups flooded through the opening in a blur of snarls, and slick crimson goo, their movements sharp and unnatural as they spread out to surround the room. Red slime dripped from their paws and shoulders, hissing where it hit the tile. The mirrors caught flashes of gold and red, turning the whole dressing room into a stuttering battlefield of reflected light.

Leander took one step back. Wells didn’t. Grayden did not retreat either.

He planted his feet, eyes narrowing as that cold, familiar pressure rolled through the room. He could feel the Red presence pressing at the edges of his mind, testing, probing, looking for fear. Instead of yielding, he drew in a steady breath and let Atlas rise fully through him. The shift straightened his posture, sharpened his focus, and filled his chest with divine certainty.

Wells lifted his chin, and something in his expression changed too. The last traces of post-show exhaustion burned away. His stance sharpened. His eyes gleamed. Alberta was here now.

“Oh, that’s rude,” Alberta said coolly, rolling a throwing knife once across his fingers. “Crashing the dressing room without applause.” Grayden stepped in front of Wells and Leander, Atlas blazing through him now, but still unmistakably Grayden in the set of his jaw and the way he glanced back to check on his bros.

“Stay close,” he said, voice carrying both his own urgency and Atlas’s authority. “Let them come into the light.” The pups lunged.

And in that instant, Apollo answered. Golden light burst through the room. A shining instrument appeared in each of their hands as if called from the air itself: in Alberta’s grip, a brilliant golden electric guitar, sleek and sharp-edged, its body glowing like a captured sun; in Leander’s hands, a radiant microphone-staff and lyre hybrid, strung with threads of living light; and in Grayden's arms, a broad golden drum slung across his chest, its surface etched with sunbursts and laurel leaves.

For half a heartbeat, even the red pups hesitated.

Grayden felt the weight of the drum settle against him like a blessing and a command. Atlas was there, guiding his hands, but the strength beating in his chest was still his own. He lifted his chin toward Wells and Leander.

“Now,” he said. Then Alberta struck the first chord. The sound cracked through the dressing room like lightning.

Leander joined at once, his voice rising clean and bright over the pulse of Grayden’s drum. Grayden drove the first beat through the room, and the sound hit the tile so hard he felt it echo up through his legs. The music filled the air in hot waves, golden and defiant, but the pups kept coming, snarling as they pushed forward through the sound. One slammed into a costume rack, sending pieces of armor clattering across the floor. Another dragged a streak of goo across the wall, closing off their left side.

“Corner!” Leander shouted.

He was right.

The three of them were being driven backward, step by step, until the mirrors were at their backs and the red pack had nearly boxed them in. Alberta slashed another ringing chord across the room, and Grayden answered with a thunderous beat that made the tile shake beneath their feet, but still the pups advanced, flinching yet refusing to break.

A red paw swiped toward Leander’s shoulder.

Grayden moved before he could think. He intercepted it with the rim of his drum, the blessed surface flashing white-gold as it struck. The pup yelped and recoiled, but another was already moving in its place. Grayden shoved Leander back behind him with one arm.

“Stay on the melody,” he snapped. “I’ve got you.”

“We need more,” Grayden said through gritted teeth, feeling Atlas’s power burning through his arms as he held the line.

Alberta’s eyes narrowed. “Then let’s give them more.”

He shifted his grip and hit a sharper progression, faster, brighter, more dangerous. Leander caught the change immediately, weaving his vocals around it. Grayden drove the rhythm harder, each beat like a command, each strike forcing the red pups to hesitate just a fraction more.

Then it happened.

One note rang out wrong or maybe right.

A thin, strange resonance cut through the dressing room, higher and colder than the others, with an eerie silver-gold shimmer under the sound. The mirrors trembled. The red goo smeared across the walls began to quiver.

Grayden felt it first in his teeth and spine, a frequency that did not just sound through the room but seemed to pierce straight through it.

And every single pup froze.

Then they screamed.

Hands flew to their ears. Several dropped to one knee. One stumbled sideways into a bank of lockers with a howl of pain. Another clawed at the goo coating its own neck as though it had turned against it.

Leander blinked. “What was that?”

Grayden’s eyes widened as Atlas’s understanding flashed through him. He could feel the note resonating against something old and hostile in the red slime.

“Again,” he said at once.

Alberta grinned, fierce and dazzling. “Oh, now we’re talking.”

He hit the note a second time.

The reaction was even worse. The pups reeled, wincing and snarling, their formation breaking apart completely now. The golden strings of Leander’s instrument lit brighter as he found the harmony beneath it, and Grayden adjusted his drumbeat until the whole room seemed to vibrate with that same piercing resonance.

“Two hundred ten point four two, hertz,” Grayden said, almost in disbelief, Atlas speaking through his understanding but not replacing it. “Moon Frequency.”

Leander stared at him for half a second, then laughed breathlessly. “Good. Then let’s moon-blast them.”

Alberta’s smile turned wicked. “Boys,” he said, drawing himself up as the golden aura around him flared brighter than ever, “from the top.”

And then the song began for real.

Grayden laid down the beat first: deep, commanding, impossible to ignore. Leander’s voice rose above it, sharp and bright, carrying Apollo’s blessing into every corner of the room. Alberta drove the melody forward with slashing golden chords, every note edged with challenge and glamour and the kind of confidence that made retreat feel inevitable.

The sound became a weapon.

Golden waves pulsed outward with every chorus line, striking the red pups like blasts of heat and moonlight combined. Goo peeled off their suits in steaming strips. Their red slickness recoiled from the frequency, shuddering across the floor toward the doorway as though desperate to escape. The pups themselves staggered backward, covering their ears, their snarls turning panicked.

Grayden hit the drum harder, pouring all of himself into it now, not just Atlas’s force but his own protectiveness, his own refusal to let his brothers be taken. Every beat said the same thing: not today.

Leander stepped into the center of the rhythm, voice ringing:

“LET ME SHOW YOU HOW IT'S DONE! WALKING CLOSER TO THE SUN! NEVER SECOND, ALWAYS ONE! LET ME SHOW YOU HOW IT'S DONE! FEEL THE RHYTHM IN THE FLOOR! KICKING DOWN THE HEAVY DOOR! WATCH THE KINGDOM COME! I WILL SHOW YOU HOW IT'S DONE!”

Grayden slammed the next beat.

Alberta answered with a cutting chord and a fierce grin. “And if you want a show, sweetheart, Alberta owns the night.”

The pups broke.

One bolted for the hall. Then two more. Then the whole red pack turned and fled in a scrambling, panicked retreat, slipping on their own goo as they crashed back through the doorway. The last one out took a final blast of golden sound square in the chest and went sprawling into the corridor before vanishing from sight.

Silence hit almost as hard as the music had.

The three of them stood there panting, golden instruments still humming in their hands, red goo bubbling weakly at the threshold before dissolving into harmless.

Leander bent over, laughing between breaths. “We… we actually sang them out of the room.”

Grayden lowered his drum slowly, chest heaving, still watching the doorway in case anything red came back through it. Atlas was fading from the front of his mind now, but the god’s certainty still glowed in him.

“Apollo’s blessing revealed the weakness,” Grayden said, voice rough with adrenaline. He looked at Wells and Leander with a grin of exhausted disbelief. “And you two turned it into a rout.”

Alberta gave a dramatic flick of his wrist, and the guitar dissolved into drifting gold sparks. “Naturally.”

Then all three looked up at once toward the wall clock.

Ten minutes.

Wells exhaled hard, Alberta’s edge settling back just enough for his usual voice to come through again. “We are absolutely not telling Brody we were late because we had to defeat goo-covered attack pups with moon-frequency battle pop.”

Leander snorted. “No, we are definitely telling him after practice.”

Grayden let the drum dissolve into light, Atlas fading fully now but leaving behind a steady fire in his chest. He grabbed his gear and headed for the door.

“Move, bros,” he said. “Battle first. Practice second. But we are still making practice.”

Wells scooped up the blessed knives. Leander straightened, still glowing faintly around the edges. Together they sprinted from the dressing room, leaving the ruined red ambush behind them as they tore down the corridor toward the field.

They had won the battle.

As the three panted exhausted seeing the repelled pups and fleeing Coach they ran for Football practice. Arriving exactly within that 10 minutes they told Trevor. Grayden and Wells/Alberta geared up while Leander prepared his cheers. 

Brody looked over, “Grayden as our roster manager, how do you think we should approach the Crimson Frost Giants defense?”

Grayden responded, “We have to work together as best we can and protect one another. Our offense may have some gaps in skill compared to last year. But we won't give up. We’re the Golden Army!”

The team cheered. Brody ordered the team to do various drills as he practiced long throws to Grayden, Rainer, and Nils. And shorter passes to C.C. and Franco. The team’s game was almost here and they needed all the practice they could get.

Gold can show you how its done, if you think you can do, contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-166, @polo-drone-125, @franco-gold94

This story was a collaboration done by @polo-drone-084 and @wells-gold58

The morning air was crisp, but the tension between Wells #58 and Coach was still smoldering from the night before. They walked toward the Golden Army Gym, the high-performance facility’s glass exterior glinting in the early sun.

Wells took a long, satisfied draw of his Cold Brew, the thick layer of protein cold foam coating his upper lip. Beside him, Coach looked devastatingly composed, his large hand wrapped around a double-shot Iced Protein Latte. He was back in his signature black wet-look tights that shimmered with every powerful stride. Today, however, he had swapped the standard gray racerback for a light gray, shiny, skin-tight spandex compression metallic muscle shirt. The fabric was so thin it looked sprayed on, and across the massive expanse of his chest, the word DADDY was printed in bold, high-gloss lettering.

Wells glanced over, his alpha swagger back in full force despite the late night. He leaned closer to Coach, his eyes dancing with mischief.

“You’re walking pretty well this morning, Coach,” Wells teased, his voice a low, cheeky hum. “After the 'playbook' I ran at your condo last night, I figured you’d be using that whistle to call for a medic. I gotta say… I was impressed with how well you handled being pinned. You took it like a champ for a guy wearing that shirt.”

Coach didn't even look over, but a dark, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t get cocky, Wells,” Coach purred, his voice a deep vibration. “You won the race, so you got to call the plays for one night. But remember, I’m the one who oversees your 'conditioning.' By the time I’m done with your hypnosis and muscle-loading session this morning, you’ll be the one begging for a break".

Wells laughed, a sharp, confident sound. “Is that right? Well, I’m ready for whatever 'deep' work you’ve got planned.”

But as they crossed the final stretch of pavement, the banter died down. Wells felt a sudden prickle at the back of his neck. He adjusted his golden gym bag, glancing over his shoulder. The street seemed empty, yet the sensation of being watched was oily and persistent.

Coach noticed the shift immediately. His dominant posture stiffened, his eyes scanning the perimeter with tactical precision. “You feel that too?”

“Yeah,” Wells muttered, his alpha instincts on high alert. “Feels like someone’s tracking us.”

Neither of them saw the flash of crimson behind the industrial waste bins. Hidden in the shadows, a Red Rubber Pup Drone, one of the Red Coach's and Red Handler's more feral, persistent scouts, crouched low to the ground. Its eyes were locked on the golden glint of Wells’ kit and the shimmering metallic gray of Coach’s shirt, silent and unblinking, documenting every move they made for the Red Coach's records.

Coach gripped Wells’ shoulder, his touch firm and grounding. “Ignore it for now. We have work to do. Inside. Now.”

The Red Coach is always watching. Are you ready to be seen in Gold? Contact our recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166 or @polo-drone-125.

The Golden City at dawn is a masterpiece of symmetry and light. As I hit my fifth mile, the sun began to reflect off the glass spires, turning the entire park into a shimmering landscape of amber and gold. My breathing was rhythmic, my heart rate steady exactly in sync with the 138 BPM of "The Great Big Open (Club Mix)" my morning run track always made it go.

I was wearing my lightweight metallic gold compression running tights, the "Big Dumb Jock" muscle hoodie and high-performance gold-and-black trainers, the soles gripping the white marble path as I carved through the morning mist. My mind was focused on one thing: the upcoming Football game against the Crimson Frost Giants. I could already feel a slight burn in my legs from this morning run.

But then, the rhythm broke.

Near the edge of the ornamental koi pond, where the park's gold-leafed trees cast long shadows, I saw it. A jagged, pulsing vein of Red Goo was snaking its way across the pristine white marble path. It looked like a raw, open wound against the perfection of the City. It wasn't just sitting there; it was reaching, vibrating with a low-frequency hum that set my teeth on edge.

I skidded to a halt, the rubber of my trainers chirping against the stone. If a civilian or a low-level Drone stumbled into that on their morning walk, the infection would be instantaneous.

I pulled my cell phone from my hoodie pocket, the screen instantly recognizing my face. I bypassed the standard apps and hit the encrypted Golden Army alert icon.

"Command, this is Wells #58," I said, my voice sharp and authoritative as I held the phone up to capture a scan of the breach. "I’ve found a red-tier contaminant breach in the Central Park sector, Path 12. It’s active and searching for a host. Send PDU-767 and PDU-090 to my coordinates for immediate containment. I'm holding the line."

Within moments, the familiar whir of the transmat beam signaled their arrival. PDU-767 and PDU-090 they stepping out of the beam, their gold-and-black clashing with the serene morning light. They didn't need a briefing; they saw the red stain and moved.

“Securing the perimeter, Master 58,” 767 said, snapping an energy pylon into the marble.

I stood back, phone still in hand as the confirmation of the lockdown pinged on my screen. I watched as they boxed the crimson filth behind a shimmering amber resonance field. The Goo lashed out against the barrier, a desperate, oily flick of red before the field stabilized and neutralized its signal.

"Area secure," 090 reported, standing at attention.

I nodded, sliding my phone back into my pocket. The Red Coach were trying to get inside our heads before they even stepped onto the field. I took a deep breath, reset my music, and started my run again.

They can send all the Goo they want. The Golden City, doesn't break.

Constant vigilance is the price of perfection. We keep the city clean so the Hive stays strong. Ready to join the watch? Contact our recruiters: @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166 or @polo-drone-125.

The Red storyline is a collaboration with SERVE. The two groups have a connected past, but are no longer connected. Please do not ask Golden Army recruiters how to join SERVE or SERVE recruiters how to join the Golden Army.