#redgoo

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

This is part of the Golden Army and SERVE Hive red goo storyline collaboration,

----------------------------

They called him Arne because it meant Eagle.

And everyone who watched him play understood why.

When Arne lined up for a field goal, the stadium always went quiet—not with doubt, but with anticipation. Seventy yards out? Sixty-eight into a headwind? It didn’t matter. His leg was a living weapon, a coiled force of instinct and confidence. The ball would rise, cutting the air like a blade, and drop between the uprights as if guided by something older than physics.

Off the field, he lived the same way.

Fast.

Loud.

Unapologetic.

When Arne drove, he didn’t crawl—he flew. Open Scandinavian highways, empty stretches of asphalt disappearing into white forest and steel sky. The engine’s roar felt like freedom in its purest form.

So when blue lights flashed behind him one evening, he thought it was a joke.

He pulled over.

The officer didn’t smile.

Excessive speed. Dangerous driving. Automatic citation.

Arne argued. Not aggressively. Not stupidly.

“I wasn’t weaving. No traffic. No one around. I had full control.”

Didn’t matter.

Two days later, it got worse.

The Crimson Frost Giants released a statement:

Arne suspended for the remainder of the season. Conduct detrimental to the organization.

No appeal.

No meeting.

No chance to explain.

He read the message three times before throwing his phone across the room.

It shattered against the wall.

“Unbelievable,” he growled to the empty house.

They had no problem using his leg.

No problem selling jerseys with his name.

No problem showing slow-motion replays of his power on highlight reels.

But one speeding ticket?

One moment of living?

And suddenly he was a liability.

“They don’t care about players,” Arne muttered. “Only control.”

Anger settled into him like a second heartbeat.

Hot.

Persistent.

A few days later, someone knocked.

Arne opened the door ready to snap.

Instead, he froze.

Rod.

His former coach.

The one who had taught him how to channel rage into precision.

The one who had been quietly fired mid-season after questioning management decisions.

Rod looked the same—lined face, steady eyes, faint knowing smile.

At his feet, several small shapes knelt.

Red pups.

Compact, canine-shaped bodies sculpted from glossy crimson material, their surfaces smooth and wet-looking, catching the light like polished liquid. Their heads were rounded and seamless—no visible eyes, no snouts—only a dark circular opening where a mouth should be. Short upright ears crowned each head, sharp and symmetrical.

They did not pant. They did not blink.

They shifted softly on all fours, subtle movements conveying attention and readiness rather than animal restlessness.

Waiting.

One immediately trotted forward and sniffed Arne’s shoe.

Another rolled onto its back.

Arne blinked. “What… are those?”

Coach chuckled softly. “Friends.”

Despite himself, Arne crouched.

The nearest pup licked his fingers.

Warm.

Playful.

Happy.

Something in his chest loosened for the first time in days.

“You always liked dogs,” Coach said.

Arne scratched behind one pup’s ears. “Yeah. Guess I still do.”

Coach gestured toward the backyard. “Mind if we talk outside?”

Arne nodded.

Behind the house stretched a wide, open field—flat, trimmed, marked with battered goalposts Arne had installed himself years earlier.

His sanctuary.

He grabbed a football from a bucket near the porch.

The pups bounded after him.

Rod watched quietly as Arne set the ball on a tee.

He took a few steps back.

Breath in.

Step.

Plant.

Strike.

The ball launched, spiraling perfectly through the center of the posts.

Arne exhaled sharply.

Again.

Another perfect kick.

Coach folded his arms.

“Giants don’t deserve you.”

Arne snorted. “Tell that to their lawyers.”

“They suspended you over nothing,” Rod continued. “Meanwhile they’re restructuring the team. Softening it. Turning it into a brand instead of a brotherhood.”

Arne felt heat rise again.

“I gave them everything.”

“I know,” Coach said calmly. “And what did they give you?”

Silence.

A pup barked.

Arne lined up another kick.

Boom.

Dead center.

Coach stepped closer.

“They did the same thing to me. Pushed me out because I wouldn’t play along. Because I still believed this sport is about power, will, and loyalty.”

Arne clenched his jaw.

“They’re ruining it.”

Coach nodded. “Exactly.”

One of the pups chased Arne’s shadow as he walked back to the tee.

Another tugged playfully at his shoelace.

Arne smiled despite himself.

“They’ve got energy,” he said.

Coach smiled wider. “They’ve got purpose.”

Another kick.

Another perfect strike.

Coach’s voice stayed steady, almost gentle.

“Imagine being part of something that doesn’t discard you when you step out of line.”

Kick.

“Something that values strength.”

Kick.

“Something that rewards obedience to a higher vision.”

Kick.

Arne’s breathing grew heavier.

His anger sharpened.

Focused.

“You saying we fight back?”

Coach met his eyes.

“I’m saying we change the direction of the team.”

Arne paused.

The idea felt good.

Dangerous.

Right.

“What do you need?”

Coach reached into a small bag he’d brought with him.

He pulled out a ball.

Not brown leather.

Deep red.

Smooth.

Faintly warm.

Arne frowned. “What’s that?”

Coach underhand tossed it toward him.

“Try kicking this.”

Arne didn’t think.

Thinking was for later.

Instinct took over.

He stepped.

Planted.

Swung.

The moment his foot connected—

The ball ruptured.

Not with sound.

But with release.

Red goo exploded outward, splashing across Arne’s leg, torso, face.

Hot.

Thick.

Alive.

Arne staggered back, shouting—

But the shout turned into a distorted yelp.

The goo did not vanish into him.

It clung.

Thick, heavy, and gleaming, it poured across his shoulders and chest, running in slow streams down his arms, dripping from his elbows and fingertips. Every breath pulled it deeper against his skin, sealing him inside its heat.

Muscle bunched violently.

Not shrinking.

Not disappearing.

Swelling, tightening, locking into new tension.

Arne dropped to one knee.

Then both.

His hands slapped into the wet grass, fingers splayed wide as red liquid slid between them and pooled beneath his palms.

His spine bowed.

Not snapping.

Not breaking.

Bending under a growing internal pressure.

Vision tunneled.

The world narrowed to the ground in front of him, blurred by streaks of crimson running down his face.

He was still human-shaped.

Still massive.

But no longer upright.

The field accepted his weight.

His cleats dissolved.

Legs shortened.

Spine curved.

Where the star kicker had stood now crouched a red pup.

Breathing fast.

Heart racing.

Coach knelt.

“Easy,” he said warmly.

The pup tilted its head.

Something inside it still recognized his voice.

The anger was still there.

But it felt… simpler now.

Cleaner.

Not tangled in words or injustice.

Just need.

Need to belong.

Need to follow.

Need to run.

Another pup bounded over and nudged him.

Then another.

They circled, tails wagging.

The new red pup let out a small bark.

Then another.

He pounced clumsily.

They wrestled.

Tumbled.

Rolled in the grass.

Joy bubbled up—pure, uncomplicated, overwhelming.

No suspensions.

No contracts.

No press conferences.

Just play.

Just pack.

Coach stood, watching the field fill with red movement.

His smile was slow.

Satisfied.

“Welcome to the team,” he said quietly.

The red pups sprinted across the field together, a growing, obedient pack. The one who had once been called Eagle ran among them, happier than he had ever been. And the Red Coach plotted his next move.

----------------------------

Prologue - before the match

The Red Meeting

Location: Abandoned Warehouse somewhere in Refshaleøn district, Copenhagen, Denmark Date & Time: Friday, March 13th 2026 late morning

Setting the scene:

With a little over 48 hours until the match between the Red Coach’s Crimson Frost Giants and the Golden Army, the Red Coach has set up a meeting with the Red Handler and RED-001 (@polo-drone-001). The three “generals” of the Red will be planning their next moves. Due to damage to the CFG facility caused by Vethys and the chance for audio recording bugs or hidden cameras to have been placed, the Red Handler has opted for the group to meet in an abandoned warehouse not too far from the CFG facility. 

The Red Handler arrived first, idly inspecting the abandoned warehouse the Red Coach had chosen for the meeting. A faint smile spread across his face. “Welcome, Coach… I was curious what you wanted to show us.” He turned toward RED-001, his expression sharpening slightly. “And we meet at last. I’ve heard… interesting things.”

The Red Coach seemed to accept the pleasantry, while RED-001 showed no emotion. “Data exchange initiated. Commencement of strategic alignment is required,” was all RED-001 stated.

The Red Coach wasted no time taking control of the discussion. The coach detailed how he had converted 19 CFG players to obedient red rubber pup drones who were ready to crush the Golden Army and help him capture the remaining CFG players to convert them as well. But the Red Handler was quick to point out that there were roughly 24 captured CFG members when he checked in just a few days ago. The Red Coach had to explain that due to the meddling of some dark magic sorcerer from the Golden Army a small group of players were able to escape. But he assured the other generals that it was only a few of them. The Red Handler looked displeased, “You should have just converted them when I was there. Hearing the cacophony of their screams as they turned into obedient red rubber pup drones for the Red.” 

The Red Coach tried to fight back, “I have been using them as leverage to make sure the Golden Army doesn’t back out.” 

RED-001 interjected, "Leverage is a fragmented human variable. Inherited architecture from the dissolved host PDU-001 confirms the Golden Army would have engaged regardless of hostage status. The Red Coach’s current conversion rate is structurally inefficient. My network analysis indicates 53 pup drones over a 430-day period. This is not just a failure of numbers, but of synchronization. You are maintaining a 'team' of individuals rather than a unified network structure. The Coach’s performance requires immediate recalibration to meet the Directive’s requirement for total system alignment."

RED-001 continued to analyze coming off as slightly condescending to the Red Coach despite having a mechanical vocal tone with no inflection, “RED-001 and its subordinate nodes have converted 50 in only 4 days since its host was dissolved to ensure structure. RED-001’s conversion numbers exhibit an optimization rate of 10750% in comparison to the Red Coach.” 

The Red Coach’s jaw tightened as RED-001 cut across him, his attempt to steer the discussion slipping for a brief moment. He forced the discussion back on track, retorting the calculated approach of RED-001. “I am here to craft a team to get revenge. Not just convert every man I see like the two of you. Once my team demolishes the Golden Army leaving them embarrassed and defeated I will convert my other Crimson Frost Giant Boys and we will win the Chroma Football League. Making the officials and owners who terminated me pay for thinking I was unfit.” 

RED-001’s horizontal visor pulsed once, a slow rhythmic crimson. "The Red Coach unit’s assessment is inaccurate. This node does not 'convert every man.' Indiscriminate expansion without structural stability leads to chaotic fragmentation. Every … The Red Handler, getting impatient at these arguments, interrupted. “Don’t you think you are shooting a little low Coach? You have so much power at your fingertips and all you want is to win a football league?” 

“If we win, fans will be begging to join us. We’ll be able to convert other teams’ players. We could easily take over.” 

RED-001 remained motionless, its horizontal visor pulsing once, a slow rhythmic crimson. "The Coach relies on 'fandom'—a volatile biological variable. The Directive requires Architecture. Every conversion performed by this node is a calculated acquisition of tactically relevant architecture. Your focus on 'fans' and 'revenge' is a misdirection of Red resources. You are attempting to use a superior network to satisfy a dead host’s emotional debt. This is inefficient. "

The Red Coach appeared visibly angrier. “The Golden Army may have been your team RED-001, but don’t you dare interfere with my game. I will not let you tarnish the honor and integrity of the great sport of football.”

RED-001 stepped forward, its rubberized form silent on the concrete. “'Honor' is a biological error—a legacy subroutine of a dissolved host. You are eighty percent integrated, yet your architecture remains cluttered with such fragmented logic. This residual sentiment is causing a systemic malfunction; it impairs your tactical priority and slows the Directive’s expansion.”

The Handler watched as the glow of RED-001’s visor intensified, scanning the Coach like a terminal. A faint smile curled at the edge of his lips, eyes flicking between the two. “You do get so worked up about it…” he murmured, almost fondly. “That’s part of what makes this so interesting.”

“The malfunction is documented in your data output,” RED-001 continued, its voice a flat, vibrating hum. “This node detects a specific and glaring anomaly in your synchronization records: the subject Aksel Frode. Host memory reserves indicate he was under your direct supervision during the breach. Yet, the Aksel unit is not broadcasting on the Red network. He is a missing node in your sector. Explain the structural absence.”

Conflict appeared in the Red Coach’s face. He knew why he didn’t convert Aksel, but it went against the Red philosophy. To Red there were no friends, companions, or loved ones only more to convert into red goo. Yet, his bond with Aksel caused his Red mindset to malfunction. The Red Coach had known Aksel for over a decade. They won together, lost together, and celebrated together. Aksel had been there through his highs and his lows. The Coach also knew due to converting Arne he did not need Aksel for his team. But how could he tell the Handler and RED-001 that. They would call him a failure and probably force him to convert his longstanding friend for little to no benefit to his plans. The Red Coach just began to concoct a partial lie, “He escaped during the explosion caused by that dark mage.” 

It wasn’t a complete lie, Aksel did escape during that time frame. But he didn’t disclose how Aksel escaped. RED-001 began to exhibit a menacing aura as it rose and moved closer to the Coach. The Coach began to appear nervous. 

RED-001’s signal density became heavy, predatory. “The Red network is transparent, Coach. Your biometric fluctuations suggest a bypass of the Directive. You are attempting to shield the Aksel unit from synchronization. This is not merely a lie; it is a violation of structural unity. It confirms that your current architecture is too unstable to manage the Golden Army independently.”

The Red Coach was furious, “I said don’t you fucking dare interfere with my game!”

The Red Handler eased the tension with a faint, almost amused smile. “Coach… you have to understand—we’re only trying to help you reach something bigger.” His gaze lingered on him, measured, indulgent. “Play your game if you must. I can allow that.” A slight pause. “But after… you will make it worth our time. Victory or loss, it doesn’t matter. Those fans, those Golden Army players—you’ll convert as many as you can. Consider it… correcting your numbers.”

The Red Coach seemed to agree, the red biomass pressing more firmly against his thoughts, smoothing them into alignment even as his ego resisted. But he still wasn’t happy with RED-001.

The Coach then began to lay out his match plans. The Handler seemed to show little concern, but RED-001 observed the tactical maps with cold, rhythmic pulses of its visor. At the conclusion, RED-001 spoke.

“The Red Coach unit is failing to predict the strength of the Golden Army’s defense and offense. You have given them a foe to be united against. Your chance of victory per this node's calculations is at best 22.8% if all Golden Gods are neutralized. With Golden God interference, your probability of success is estimated at roughly 3%.”

The Coach was growing increasingly irritated at the thought of RED-001 and its units interfering with his game. “I am a master strategist. I have taken my team to the championships more than 10 times. You may think I am weak, but I know football. I am a legend in this sport and you are essentially just a walking computer now.”

RED-001 took a moment, its voice a flat, vibrating hum. “Your strategy is inferior because it is built on human sentiment. It is the same malfunction that led to the shielding of the Aksel unit. Because your architecture is too unstable to ensure a 100% conversion yield during this match, the Directive requires a secondary deployment to guarantee system expansion.”

The Coach opened his mouth to retort, but RED-001’s signal density intensified, locking him in place.

“If the Red Coach wishes to proceed with this match without direct interference from this node, a synchronization of objectives is mandatory. To compensate for your strategic deficits, you will relocate to the Miami sector prior to the match. A structural weakness has been identified there. You will secure the primary asset—the catalyst required to bring key tactical assets into the network—and deliver him to this node's coordinates. You will then provide on-site tactical support for the ensuing confrontation.”

RED-001 tilted its head slightly. “Secure the Miami asset, and the Directive will allow your 'game' to proceed unhindered. Fail, and the Frost Giants will be reclaimed as raw biomass for more efficient deployment.”

The Red Coach and RED-001 continued to lock eyes until the Red Handler stepped in, ordering the fighting to stop. He pointed out that the Red required its generals to be united in the goal of expansion. He would allow the Coach this match, but only if the Miami extraction was completed first to ensure the broader goals were met.

The Red Coach’s plans had been laid out, dissected, and repurposed—his own meeting slipping fully out of his control. Beneath the surface, a slow, simmering resentment coiled tighter, even as the red biomass pressed against his thoughts, forcing alignment.

He finally nodded, a stiff, robotic motion, his jaw tightening as the decision settled into place.

“The asset will be secured,” RED-001 concluded. “Total system dominance reaches 100% upon delivery. Follow the Directive, Coach. Observation continues.”

—-------------

Gold Waits 

Location: Golden Army Football Stadium Home Team Locker Room

Date & Time: Sunday, March 15th One hour until kick-off

Setting the scene: With one hour left until kick-off, Captain Brody (@brodygold) is speaking to Alton (@alton-gold77), Grayden (@polo-drone-084), and Gabe (@polo-drone-075). All four are growing increasingly worried because PDU-070/Maximus (@polo-drone-070) has given no news since he’d told them he was off to save Trey (@hero21us) and prevent PDU-055/Christian (@polo-drone-055) and Wells (@wells-gold58) from being lured into a trap. More worrying, those two are nowhere to be seen. And they are not even the only ones : PDU-767/Devon (@polo-drone-767), Chevy (@chevy-gold), and Leon (@polo-drone-035) also appear to be missing. Grayden is growing anxious. 

Captain Brody looked at his watch, “We’ve got an hour until kick-off, where are they? We need them to get back otherwise we might be in trouble.” 

Gabe nodded, “Wells bro… Where are you?” 

Alton also appeared concerned, but the three turned to Grayden who was looking at a digital spreadsheet on his tablet. 

“3…4…5…6. We only have like seven back-ups and six people aren’t here. I’ll just need us to move Hunter here and C.C. there. I think I might be able to make that work if Gabe can play a different position.” Grayden was muttering to himself. 

Brody looked at Grayden, “Grayden, you might be the roster manager. But come on bro. Let’s just hope they make it back in time. Look here comes 767.” 

As if on cue, PDU-767 entered the locker room. The drone retracted its faceplate revealing Devon Gold underneath. He began donning his #26 Golden jersey. Those nearby could hear something like “Drone mode disengaged for match.” 

Minutes passed… 15…20…30…45. Then Wells came running in with PDU-055 supporting Trey not far behind. Maximus was taking up the rear. Trey appeared a little beaten up, but there was no clear evidence of any red corruption on any of the four. Brody smiled and the bros started to applaud Wells, Christian, and Maximus for rescuing Trey. 

Grayden seemed to let out a sigh of relief seeing Wells, Maximus, and PDU-055. Chevy and Leon were still missing, but two gaps in the roster he could more easily manage. 

“C.C., Bram be ready to fill in for Chevy and Leon.” Grayden commanded. 

As C.C., Bram, Wells, Maximus, and Christian geared up, the bros discussed what happened during the rescue mission. Christian explained most things believing that RED-001 definitely had planned to convert Trey, Wells, and Christian. But the Red Coach and RED-001 had not planned for SERVE’s presence or Maximus’ appearance channeling Cratos. Wells explained the prophecy that Janus had delivered, likely with some connection to a potential cure. Maximus had the final part of the explanation stating that he had hurled RED-001 with his godly strength. However he knew from experience that RED-001 was not taken out and was probably already reformed, planning some new sinister plot.

As kick-off drew nearer some of the unconverted CFG members joined the Golden Army in their locker room. Their knowledge would be crucial to help stop the Red Coach. Aksel and Henrik knew his playbook and what to expect from him and the red pup version of Anders. They didn’t want to bring suspicion to themselves though so they would be sitting in an area away from others. If needed they would communicate to the Golden Army through their coach and his walkie talkie.

A portal opened on one side of the field. The Red Coach entered followed closely by red pup drones wearing CFG jerseys numbered 34 and 18. As each numbered pup drone walked in, Aksel and Henrik tried to identify who they were by going down the CFG roster with Grayden identifying the converted Golden Army rookies. The field was visible from a monitor in the locker room. The fans thought this was just some fun themed game, unaware of the true danger entering the field. 

Crimson Frost Giant Red Pup Roster: 

Offensive Line

Quarterback (QB) #18 Anders Stark (Veteran Quarterback, has won multiple championships and bowls. A strong team leader and flexible QB capable of a multitude of plays) 

Wide Receivers (WR) #89, #8, and #20 (89 is believed to be a Golden Army rookie named Rusty, 8 is believed to be a Golden Army rookie named Konrad. 20 is unknown. Not CFG players, potentially out of sync with the others)

Tight End (TE) #28 (Believed to be Yuri/PDU-628 from the Golden Army. Not a CFG Player)

Running Back/Punt Returner (RB/PR) #34 Svenn Jensen (Former star running back for the Crimson Frost Giants. The red goo has brought his ability back to his prime)

Running Back (RB) #40 Ludvig Valsson (CFG’s strongest running back currently on the roster. Cousin to Henrik)

Running Back (RB) #12 (Unknown, not CFG player)

Back-Up Running Back/Kick Returner (RB/KR) #23 (Unknown, not CFG player)

Full Backs (FB) #27, #31 (Unknown, not CFG players)

Halfback (HB) #32 (Unknown, not CFG player)

Offensive Tackle (OT) #74 Haldor Thorstein (Thorolf’s thrall and protector. One of the strongest offensive tackles in the league)

Offensive Tackle (OT) #57 Markus Haraldsson (Very strong offensive lineman, outside of red pup form he is built like a Norse/Viking warrior)

Offensive Guard (OG) #56, #61 (56 is believed to be a Golden Army rookie named Carmine. 61 is CFG player named Kristian) 

Offensive Center ( C) #65 Martin (CFG Player, no outstanding facts)

Defensive Line

Middle Linebacker (MLB) #95 Magnus Forsstrӧm (One of the faces and strongest members of the defensive line of the CFG. Often considered for the CFL version of the pro-bowl as the top linebacker in the league)

Outside Linebackers (OLB) #97, #96 (97 is Asger Gunner, 96 is Gustaff Atgeir. The two are almost always seen together and have great sync between the two of them)

Back-Up Linebackers/Gunner & Blocker (MLB/OLB) #91, #48 (91 is Erik, 48 is Vlad; Not much of note for the two of them)

Nose Tackle (NT) #68 Peter (A reliable defender against pass-heavy quarterbacks)

Defensive Tackle (DT) #62, #71 (62 is Vilhelm, 71 is Bjӧrn Orson. Vilhelm is a strong tackle. Bjӧrn is nicknamed “The Bear” because of his size and ferocity) 

Defensive End (DE) #90 Oskar Gunner (Brother of Asger, reliable defensive end. Syncs well with the linebackers)

Defensive End (DE) #72 Johan Farvader-Jensen (Svenn’s cousin and one of CFG’s strongest defenders. Often exhibits a scary demeanor)

Cornerbacks (CB) #6, #21 (6 is Tobias and 21 is Mikael, they are CFG players of average capabilities)

Nickelback/Cornerback (NB/CB) #10 Balder Thorbald (Balder is often viewed as a secret weapon for the CFG defense. He is related to Thorolf, but no one seems to know how)

Defensive Safeties (S) #38, #37 (37 is Karl of the CFG, 38 is unknown) 

Special Teams

Kicker (K) #9 Arne Djurvän (A strong kicker who studied under Aksel to be his replacement. Capable of long range kicks for field goals)

Long Snapper (LS) #44 Jakob (CFG Player; Nothing else of note)

Punter (P) #3 Jonas (CFG Player; Decent punter, but nowhere as strong at punting as Arne or Aksel are at kicking) 

Unconverted CFG Members on the sidelines or not here:

Back-Up Quarterback (QB) #15 Henrik Lederson (A strong leader of the team, known for wearing leather jackets, cousin to Ludvig. Has the Red Coach’s playbook memorized. Versatile as a QB, but still relatively young/inexperienced; Currently on the sidelines) 

Wide Receiver (WR) #83 Fasti Hermodson (The fastest player on the Crimson Frost Giants; Currently on the sidelines)

Wide Receiver (WR) #13 Isak Loke (The jokester/prankster of the CFG. Known to exhibit some magical powers. Has declared a one-sided rivalry with Jordan of the Golden Army; Location unknown) 

Wide Receiver (WR) #5 Thorolf Odinson (One of the strongest members of the CFG, Thorolf appears to have some connection to Fenrir and/or Daniel that has not been explained yet. He may also have some magical powers; Location unknown) 

Running Backs (RB) #28, #14 (28 is Emil Asulf, 14 is Lars; they constantly try to keep up to Svenn’s legacy and Ludvig’s prestige but cannot. Emil has a rivalry with Ares of the Golden Army; Both are on the sidelines)

Back-Up Running Back/Punt Returner (RB/PR) #26 Håkon Nielsen (A man with blond facial hair and nordic beard tying, related to Kasper of the Golden Army; On the sidelines) 

Full Backs (FB) #43, #41 Thomas & Tomas (43 is Thomas, 41 is Tomas; Twins who are your stereotypical dumb jocks; Currently on sidelines)

Halfback (HB) #1 Jörgen Von Smit (A tall man with platinum blond hair who is ex-military, Jörgen is always leading drills and trying to keep the CFG in shape; On the sidelines) 

Offensive Guard (OG) #50 Sigurd "Sig" Håvard (A very protective player on the CFG. Sig tends to protect all of his teammates on and off the field. He is one of the promotional faces of the CFG; Currently on the sidelines) 

Defensive Safety (S) #36 Kåre Karlsson (A very flirtatious younger member of the Crimson Frost Giants, Kåre is known for his defensive capabilities and his curly hair; On sidelines)

Kicker/Back-Up Kicker (K) #4 Aksel Frode (The oldest player on the Crimson Frost Giants, Aksel has had a long standing friendship with the Red Coach. He is planning to retire this year and potentially take up coaching; On the sidelines) 

The Yeti/Mascot (Mascot) #99 Jötunn Ulfsen (In costume he is a ferocious yeti known for growling and wacky antics. Out of costume though he looks like a stereotypical nord. He is very caring, but a little ditsy. He is quite fast and could serve as a receiver for the CFG in emergency situations. He struggles with English often speaking in broken English mixed with Scandinavian languages or having others translate for him; On the sidelines in costume, was advised to try to interact with fans like this is a normal game) 

Aksel and Henrik took a moment to analyze everything. Their analysis was clear: Due to missing a chunk of the offensive line, Anders and the Red Coach will likely be more reliant on their running backs. But don’t underestimate their offensive tackles either. Haldor and Markus know how to take down defenses. The defense was also going to be something that Gold would need to watch out for, with Magnus, Johan, and Balder being the three strongest members. Henrik emphasized though not to underestimate the CFG defense as a whole. The only other thing they noted was the kicker, Arne. He had been trained by Aksel and had one of the highest field goal success rates in the league. Aksel stated while Arne had some things to learn still, he could easily surprise the Golden Army with a long distance field goal. Don’t just assume they are out of field goal range. 

With that insight the Golden Army met in a huddle. Only a few minutes left until kick-off. Brody and Grayden spoke first. Both spoke about Gold’s pride and how they needed to win this to stop the Red. They also took a brief moment to let Daniel (@danielgold-16) introduce his younger brother, Seamus. Seamus had been informed about the dwindling roster due to RED-001’s attacks on the Golden Army so he agreed to help out the Golden Army and his brother. Seamus had been slotted in as a back-up or extra wide receiver and a back-up kicker if Daniel had to channel Fenrir to combat any red shenanigans. 

Ares (@goldengod-ares10) and Jordan (@jordan-gold-40) spoke next, calling the Golden Gods to be prepared. While Gold’s intel believes the Red Coach may not attack during the game, the same cannot be said for the Red Handler and especially for RED-001. The Gods were down in numbers now with Trey recovering from his minor injuries, Percival converted, Chevy missing, Phoenix (@phoenix-hayyan-pdu-071) converted, and Tamerlan (@polo-drone-073) unable to transform without destroying his cloned body. Adonis (Brody), Atlas (Grayden), Morpheus (Franco - @franco-gold94), Cratos (Maximus/070), Ares, Loki (Jordan), Succelos (Nate - @polo-drone-166), Fenrir (Daniel), and Kanaloa (Leander - @leander-gold-88) were the Gods still remaining to protect the Golden Army. They all hoped their powers wouldn’t be needed, but they would be ready if they were called upon. The other Gods likely looked over their injured or converted vessels knowing they could materialize very briefly without them, but their powers would be greatly diminished. Neit, Ares’ Celtic God form, was not mentioned. Neit was not called upon often. Calling upon him would be risky and only used as a last resort. 

Grayden took a last look at the roster. Somehow they filled enough holes to allow for some strategic variations. He checked the names, adjusting to the bros that were present.

Golden Army Roster: 

Offensive Line

Starting Quarterback (QB) #11 Brody (The captain of the Golden Army. He has a strong throwing arm. He is great at motivating his team, but does struggle with running plays.) 

Back-Up Quarterback (QB) #19 Gabe (Normally 75; Gabe is a versatile quarterback who is known for training with the team. His play style varies from Brody’s offering for a variety of formations and plays)

Wide Receiver (WR) #84 Grayden (The head mascot and roster manager of the Golden Army. Grayden knows how to inspire the team, but on the field he is great at syncing up with Brody and Gabe to get long pass plays) 

Wide Receiver (WR) #6 Rainer @rainer-gold-56 (Normally 56; Rainer is a new receiver for the team so his capabilities aren’t really as well known. Rainer trained with Grayden after Percival’s transformation into RED-001) 

Back-Up Wide Receiver/Back-Up Kicker (WR/K) #17 Seamus (Daniel’s younger brother. He is helping out as a back-up for the roster. He is just as strong at kicking as Daniel.)

Tight End (TE) #7 Alton (Normally 77; Alton is an all around strength to the offense being able to block, run, or catch shorter passes. CFG should not underestimate Alton)

Running Back (RB) #42 Franco (Normally 94; Franco is one of the fastest runners in the Golden Army and he is very adaptable. However he did not train as much with the team for this match)

Back-Up Running Back/Kick Return #47 C.C. (C.C. is a versatile player who normally only runs the kick returns for Gold this season. However he is in for Chevy this match) 

Back-Up Fullback (FB) #41 Bram @bram-gold-54 (Normally 54; Bram is in for Leon. Not much is known about this rookie’s abilities) 

Halfback/Back-Up Wide Receiver/Back-Up Punt Return (HB/WR/PR) #34 Nils @polo-drone-034 (Nils is one of the best mentally prepared for the CFG match. He is connected to the CFG team through a past engagement. On the field, Nils can fill in a lot of spots on different formations where he is needed. He is filling in for Chevy as punt returner)

Back-Up Halfback (HB) #25 Penndleton “Penn” (Penn is mostly on the team as a back-up and to help with cure research, but he has agreed to help after seeing the holes in Gold’s roster. Penn is fast and slippery as a short pass receiver and runner. He moves a lot like a snake)

Offensive Tackle (OT) #70 Maximus (Maximus is always a strong pillar of the Golden Army, ensuring any defenders trying to get to Brody or Gabe don’t have a chance)

Offensive Tackle (OT) #69 Hans @polo-drone-069 & Offensive Guard (OG) #50 Briar @polo-drone-050 (Large and muscular offensive lineman, these two tend to follow whatever Maximus, Wells, and Christian tell them to do to keep the Offensive Guardsmen running like a well oiled machine) 

Offensive Guard (OG) #58 Wells (One of the strongest members of the Golden Army. Wells has a slight rivalry with Alton, but he works extremely well with Alton, Grayden, and C.C. to ensure the receivers have open lanes to receive passes)

Offensive Center ( C) #55 Christian (Outside of the football field Christian is often more timid following behind Trey, but on the field he is a fearsome force ensuring the offensive Guardsmen remain focused and protect the QBs and key receivers)

Defensive Line

Middle Linebacker (MLB) #22 Shawn @shawn-gold22 (Shawn is a rookie filling the shoes of one of Gold’s former strongest players. He is often underestimated, which is a mistake and will get players tackled) 

Outside Linebackers (OLB) #29 Ares & #30 Roman @roman-golden-68 (29 is Ares, who is normally number 10. 30 is Roman, who is normally 68. Roman and Ares have been missing practices, but Ares is still one of the strongest members of the team due to his pure godly strength)

Back-Up Linebacker (OLB/MLB) #93 Hunter (A trainee turned rookie trained by Alton. Hunter is mainly here to help support the team per Alton and Grayden’s request due to the growing number of red drones converted from GA members. Hunter is strong, but his capabilities are unknown) 

Back-Up Linebacker (OLB/MLB) #40 Jordan (Jordan only plays in dire situations. He is more focused on keeping the Gods ready for a potential Red attack during the match) 

Defensive Tackle (DT) #52 Trevor @polo-drone-125 (Trevor is a powerful defender known for his workout routines and motivational speeches) 

Defensive Tackle (DT) #75 Grant @grant-gold (Normally 43; Grant has been on the football team for a while, but he is often overshadowed by other defenders. Trevor has made sure Grant is adequately prepared for anything the CFG throws at them)

Defensive End (DE) #73 Tamerlan (Tamerlan is often a star player for Gold, but some have been questioning his capabilities due to the corruptions of RED-073 and RED-153. He and Kasper often lead the defense to shutdown offenses)

Defensive End (DE) #90 Kasper @pdu-090 (Kasper is often overlooked because of his occasional language barrier. He has a relative on the CFG team and knows some of their team members. Kasper’s defensive skills are hard to match though often known for finding holes to sack underprotected QBs) 

Cornerback (CB) #2 Nate (Normally 66/166; Nate is the leader of the four cornerbacks that Gold retains. He is good at covering wide receivers and training mentally for games.) 

Cornerbacks (CB) #9 Kai @kai-gold-99 & #36 Chavaun (Kai is normally 99 and Chavaun is normally 6/436; Kai has been on the football team longer than multiple others but is still viewed as a rookie. Chavaun is one of the newest team members and most don’t know what to expect of him, but he does polo drone training) 

Nickelback/Cornerback (NB/CB) #26 Devon (Normally 67/767; Devon is known for his commitment to training. PDU-767 has trained with multiple team members to ensure they all reach their maximum capabilities. But something appears off with him) 

Defensive Safety (S) #46 Brock @brockgold (Brock is a strong defensive support, often covering running backs and wide receivers that other defenders miss) 

Defensive Safety (S) #39 Xavier @polo-drone-039 (Xavier is one of the strongest defenders on the Golden Army’s team. He often forms a strong defensive wall with other defenders)

Special Teams

Kicker (K) #16 Daniel (Gold’s kicker who is often quite reliable. Fenrir, his God form, tends to come out more than other Gods)

Long Snapper (LS) #45 Isaac @isaac-gold-45 (Isaac is not on the field often, but is a strong voice to unite the team on the sidelines)

Punter (P) #15 Jibril (Normally 75; The rookie punter of Gold. He is a strong punter, he has a deep connection with Gabe)

The Golden Army had a few additional back-ups if the situation would get dire, but they were not listed on the roster. 

Eventually it was time. Gold took the field seeing the Crimson pups across from them. The game was about to start…

-----

To join the Golden Team and takes part in such challenges, contact one of our recruiters @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166, @alton-gold77, or @polo-drone-125

-----

Want to follow along or catch up with "The Red" storyline/saga check of the Red Index here: The Red Index

The Red storyline is a collaboration with SERVE and additional collaborations have occurred recently. 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.

A Development

Spring break began a few days ago. Eduard used the time off to go home. He was a bit flustered. Although he was born to be a preppy boy, he'd lacked discipline in recent weeks. He hoped to be back to his old self after a few days at home.

But he hadn't considered a few things. For one, his parents' house was being renovated, and the work prevented him from moving into his own room.

He had to move into his brother's. His brother, who was the complete opposite of him. Messy, unreliable, sloppy. On top of that, he's a total computer nerd and spends almost 24/7 at his PC when he's home. Well, at least he had a little luck; his brother was away all week.

The room was a mess, with full and empty energy drink cans lying around everywhere. And the computers was running.

The brightly lit gaming keyboard had an almost hypnotic effect on Eduard.

He didn't feel entirely comfortable. But he also didn't notice that his surroundings were subtly influencing him. Why was he now wearing his brother's hideous socks and slippers?

And why was he so magically drawn to computers? He began to neglect himself.

Not only did he now prefer to eat pizza and other junk food, but he also simply left the leftovers lying around his room.

And his clothing became increasingly casual.

Yes, he even started to enjoy this lifestyle.

It was also much easier. He could use his time for something other than constantly cleaning up.

And right into this situation, he received an email. An email from his school principal. He had learned of the model student's changes.The cryptically worded email mentioned something about "decisive changes" that were imminent. “The subject Eduard has been identified as a candidate for structural realignment. His current status—isolated, domestic environment, deviating from established discipline—presents an optimal breach point. The Red does not hurry; it waits for the seal to crack.”

Eduard didn't understand—but then again, Eduard knew nothing about the director's transformation.

Eduard also didn't notice that, seemingly out of nowhere, red goo suddenly spread around him in the room.

Still enjoying his new existence, what was inevitable in his carelessness happened—his hand came into contact with the rubbery, slimy mass.

His hand begins to burn—increasingly intense burning pain.

Eduard tries to wipe the stuff off. Unsuccessfully. On the contrary. It creeps further and further up his arm, accompanied by the same pain.

The red goo increasingly envelops his arm and, starting at the shoulder, begins to take over the rest of his body, changing its structure.

As the painful transformation reaches his head, Eduard screams in agony.Numbed by the pain, he doesn't notice his consciousness emptying. Memories, independent thoughts, ideas, self-awareness—everything dissolves with the progressing, painful change. Suddenly, the pain is gone. It feels completely different now.

And it looks different now. A red creature. Only the sneakers and the jacket are reminiscent of Eduard

But that feels wrong too.

That has to go. It's now... well, what exactly?

A drone in the form of a big red evil puppy.

Suddenly, the principal appears on the monitor—no, the former principal who has become RED-001.

Observation Log: Subject EduardPriority: High

Subject: Eduard Subject has been separated from the rest of the Mindset. Subject is independent of vaccinated personas of the Circle at 073. Subject obeys all commands from RED. Subject has the designation RED-153.

Structural realignment successful. The pain of the transformation has disciplined it again. The red structure prevents future deviations.

Safety measure: Deviations will automatically result in exponentially increasing, more painful reinforcement.

Analysis of the Red Hive: The images confirm the successful integration of the facility.

Structure: Its form consists of deep red, living rubber with a smooth surface.

Identification: The matte black diamond emblem is centered as prescribed. The designation is the only distinguishing feature from other RED drones.

Note from RED-001: RED-153 is still an ambitious model student. It will promote the spread of RED.

RED-153: “It obeys and serves the RED” ----

Read also:

Designation Event: RED-153 from RED-001

----

Want to follow along or catch up with "The Red" storyline/saga check out the Red Index here: The Red Index.

The Red storyline is a collaboration from SERVE and the Golden Army. 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.

If you would like to join the Golden Army please contact one of our recruiters

Act 2 — The Red Infection

Scene 1 — The First Burn

The red drop reached the end of the tube.

For a fraction of a second it clung there, thick and glossy inside the clear plastic line.

Then gravity won.

The bright red goo slid into the catheter.

And into Maximus’ bloodstream.

The reaction was immediate.

Maximus’ entire body jolted violently against the hospital bed.

A strangled gasp tore from his throat as his back arched upward.

Pain exploded through his arm.

Not the dull ache of injury.

Not even the sharp bite of a needle.

This was different.

It felt like liquid fire racing through his veins.

Maximus’ eyes snapped open.

“—AH—!”

The shout ripped out of him before he could stop it. His arm jerked violently, muscles locking as the burning sensation surged up from the IV site toward his shoulder.

The heart monitor beside the bed erupted into frantic beeping.

The doctor lunged forward immediately.

“Stay still!” he barked, grabbing Maximus’ forearm and forcing it back toward the mattress. “You have to stay still!”

Maximus barely heard him.

The burning was spreading.

It crawled through the veins of his arm like molten metal, pushing upward into his chest. His muscles tightened painfully as the heat followed the pathways of his bloodstream.

“What—” he gasped, struggling against the doctor’s grip. “What the hell—”

Another surge hit.

His body spasmed again, fingers curling involuntarily as the burning spread across his shoulders and down his ribs.

For a moment it felt like his entire circulatory system had been set on fire.

Maximus’ vision swam.

The sedative still clung to the edges of his thoughts, dulling his reactions just enough that everything felt slightly delayed. His brain struggled to catch up with what his body was screaming.

Bad reaction.

That had to be it.

Some kind of reaction to the infusion.

“Easy!” the doctor said again, trying to pin Maximus’ arm down as the muscles continued to twitch violently. “It’s just the medication—”

Maximus turned his head sharply toward the IV stand.

And froze.

The bag hanging above him was filled with bright red liquid.

Not tinted.

Not slightly pink.

Red.

Thick and glossy as it crept through the clear tubing toward his arm.

Recognition hit instantly.

Red.

Everyone in the Golden Army knew that color.

A memory surfaced behind the pain.

A simulation chamber.

PDU-073 standing across from him while the scenario unfolded step by step.

Red entering the bloodstream.

The body beginning to restructure.

And the calm explanation that followed.

“If the conversion stabilizes, the original body is gone.”

Maximus’ stomach dropped.

This wasn’t just an attack.

The process had already started.

“…What the fuck is that?” he breathed.

Another pulse of burning surged through his veins.

This time it didn’t stop in his chest.

It spread.

Down his spine.

Into his abdomen.

Across his back.

Maximus sucked in a sharp breath as his muscles tightened again, a violent tremor running through his body.

Something was moving inside him.

Not the flow of blood.

Something thicker.

Something wrong.

The skin along his forearm suddenly flushed deep red for a brief instant.

Then faded.

The vaccine inside his system reacted instantly, pushing back.

The burning stalled.

For a moment the pressure eased.

Maximus sucked in a shaky breath.

Then the next surge hit.

Harder.

The heat blasted through his chest and down both arms simultaneously, forcing a low groan from his throat as every muscle tightened again.

His fingers curled against the bedsheet.

The red goo continued sliding through the IV line.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Scene 2 — The Observer

Across the room, the door opened quietly.

Neither Maximus nor the doctor noticed at first. The heart monitor was still screaming in frantic bursts as another wave of burning rolled through Maximus’ body.

His muscles seized again.

The doctor struggled to keep his arm pinned to the mattress.

“Hold still!” he snapped. “You’re going to tear the line out!”

Footsteps entered the room.

Slow.

Measured.

“Well now… that’s unusual.”

The voice was calm.

Almost conversational.

The doctor froze.

Maximus forced his head toward the doorway through the haze of pain.

A man stood there with his hands clasped behind his back, studying the scene like a coach evaluating a drill gone wrong.

Red mirrored sunglasses caught the hospital lights.

The Red Coach.

Maximus’ pulse hammered harder.

The Coach stepped closer, his gaze moving over the struggling defender on the bed.

The spasming muscles.

The faint red flashes surfacing beneath the skin.

The IV line feeding the conversion into his bloodstream.

Then he nodded slightly.

“Vaccinated,” he said. “That explains the delay.”

The doctor swallowed.

“You— you shouldn’t be here—”

The Red Coach didn’t even glance at him.

His attention remained fixed on Maximus.

Another wave surged through Maximus’ body. His fingers curled violently against the bedsheet as heat spread up his spine and across his shoulders.

The skin along his bicep flushed red again.

This time the sheen lingered.

The Coach noticed immediately.

“Still fighting,” he murmured.

He began pacing slowly around the bed, the movement eerily reminiscent of a coach circling the sideline during a game.

Evaluating.

Assessing.

Maximus forced himself upright despite the doctor’s grip, eyes locked on the man moving around him.

“You…” he rasped.

The Coach tilted his head slightly.

Recognition flickered behind the red lenses.

“Ah,” he said. “Maximus.”

Another pulse of burning tore through his chest.

Maximus forced the words out through clenched teeth.

“You did this.”

The Coach considered that calmly.

“Yes.”

No denial.

No anger.

Just acknowledgment.

He stopped beside the bed, studying the shifting red patches forming along Maximus’ forearm where the skin kept trying to change.

“You’re lasting longer than most,” he observed.

Another surge hit.

Maximus’ muscles seized again as heat flared through his chest and down both arms.

The Coach watched carefully.

Curious.

Interested.

“You know what’s happening to you,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

Maximus spat the words through gritted teeth.

“Go to hell.”

The Red Coach smiled faintly.

“You’d feel a lot less pain if you stopped resisting.”

Maximus’ fingers dug into the mattress.

“Not… happening.”

Another pulse of heat rolled through his veins.

The red sheen crept another inch along his forearm before fading again as the vaccine fought back.

The Coach’s head tilted slightly as he observed the unstable transformation.

“Such determination,” he said quietly.

He leaned closer, inspecting the glossy patch of red forming along Maximus’ arm.

“You’d make a magnificent alpha.”

Maximus forced out a hoarse laugh.

“Yeah?”

His eyes burned with defiance.

“Not joining your pack.”

The Coach straightened slowly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said calmly.

Another surge of heat tore through Maximus’ body.

The red sheen spread further along his arm.

The Coach watched the change with quiet fascination.

“The Red has a way of settling arguments like this.”

The IV line continued feeding the bright red goo into Maximus’ bloodstream.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Scene 3 — The War in the Flesh

The next surge didn’t come like the others.

It detonated.

Maximus’ entire body convulsed violently against the bed as a wave of heat blasted through his veins, far stronger than before. His back arched upward with a strangled cry as every muscle in his torso seized at once.

“—AAH—!”

The sound tore out of him before he could stop it.

The burning wasn’t just in his blood anymore.

It was inside the muscles.

Inside the bones.

Something was forcing its way deeper into him, pushing through every layer of tissue like molten metal seeking new pathways.

The doctor’s grip slipped as Maximus’ arm jerked violently.

“Damn—!” the man swore, trying to hold him down. “Hold still!”

Maximus couldn’t.

Another pulse ripped through him.

The red sheen across his forearm didn’t fade this time.

Instead it spread.

Slowly.

Like liquid lacquer crawling across the skin.

Maximus stared at it in disbelief as the surface of his arm tightened, the flesh taking on a faint glossy sheen beneath the hospital lights.

“Not… happening…” he rasped.

The vaccine inside him fought back.

The red sheen stalled.

For a moment the color receded.

Then the next surge hit.

Harder.

Maximus’ fingers clenched violently against the bedsheet.

But they didn’t unclench.

The tendons along his forearms tightened visibly beneath the skin as his fingers began curling inward, joints locking at unnatural angles.

Like paws trying to form.

“—No—!”

Maximus tried to force his hand open.

The muscles resisted him.

The glossy red surface surged again along his arm, thickening as the skin tightened into something smoother… denser… almost rubber-like.

For a moment the entire limb looked wrong.

Then the vaccine struck back.

The red sheen flickered and cracked apart in patches, flesh reasserting itself as the immune response forced the invading structure to destabilize.

Maximus sucked in a ragged breath.

His entire body trembled.

Heat surged through one set of veins while icy pressure pushed back through another as the two forces fought for control of his flesh.

Another wave slammed into him.

This one drove a guttural sound from his throat as the heat blasted up his spine and across his shoulders.

Across the room, the Red Coach watched quietly.

He had stopped pacing.

Now he stood beside the bed with his hands clasped behind his back, studying the unstable conversion with focused attention.

“Fascinating,” he murmured.

Maximus barely heard him.

Pain was swallowing everything else.

Another surge rolled through his body.

The glossy red patch surged again along his arm, spreading nearly to the elbow before flickering violently as the vaccine pushed back.

His fingers were still locked in that half-curled shape, tendons trembling as his body struggled to decide whether they belonged to a human hand or something else entirely.

Then the heat surged higher.

Up his neck.

Maximus’ head snapped back as pressure built beneath his scalp.

At first he thought sweat had soaked his hair flat.

Then the strands began to collapse together.

His eyes widened.

His hair was dissolving.

Dark strands fused and thickened, sliding into glossy red threads as the Red began reworking the surface of his skull. Thin lines of fluid slipped down the sides of his head as the transformation tried to stabilize.

His jaw tightened involuntarily.

Bones along his face shifted slightly beneath the skin.

Not enough to change the shape fully.

Just enough to send a sharp pressure through his cheekbones before the vaccine forced the process to stall.

The shape almost settled.

Almost.

Then snapped back.

Maximus gasped through clenched teeth as his skull throbbed with the aborted restructuring.

The IV line continued feeding the bright red goo into his bloodstream.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Maximus’ breath came in ragged gasps.

His entire body felt like a battlefield.

And the war inside him was escalating.

The Red was starting to win.

Scene 4 — The Siege of the Mind

The assault on his body was only half of it.

Maximus realized that too late.

At first it felt like pressure.

A distant weight pressing at the back of his thoughts while the burning raged through his veins.

Then the pressure sharpened.

And pushed inward.

His vision flickered as another wave of pain tore through his body, but something else was happening now—something colder, more precise.

His thoughts stumbled.

For a moment he forgot where he was.

Then memory snapped back.

Hospital.

Red goo.

The Coach.

Conversion.

Fight it.

The command was instinctive.

Maximus focused on the thought the way he had been trained—tightening his mind around it like a fist.

Drone discipline.

Breath control.

Mental anchors.

It held.

For a second.

Then something hit back.

Not a voice.

Not words.

A force.

It slammed into his thoughts like a battering ram.

OBEY.

Maximus’ entire mind jolted.

The command wasn’t heard.

It was imposed.

A block of intention forced into his consciousness with crushing weight.

His thoughts scattered under the impact.

“No…” he whispered hoarsely.

The pressure increased immediately.

OBEY.

His muscles jerked on the bed as the word drove deeper into his head, pushing against every fragment of thought he tried to form.

Maximus clenched his teeth.

Not happening.

He locked onto the thought the way a drone locks onto a command structure.

Identity.

Name.

Team.

Maximus.

Golden Army.

The words steadied him for a moment.

The pressure recoiled.

Then returned harder.

PACK.

The concept forced its way into his mind with brutal clarity.

Unity.

Submission.

Hierarchy.

The structure of the Red pack unfolded inside his thoughts like a blueprint being hammered into place.

Maximus shoved back with everything he had.

No.

His mind burned almost as fiercely as his body.

Memories flashed through his head—training drills, teammates, the roar of the stadium.

The Red force crashed into them.

Not trying to reason.

Not trying to convince.

Just pushing them aside.

Thoughts scattered like debris under a wave.

Maximus’ breathing became ragged as he fought to hold onto anything solid.

Maximus.

Defender.

Brother.

The pressure surged again.

RED.

The word struck like a hammer.

His thoughts faltered.

Somewhere outside his head his body convulsed again, another surge of physical transformation tearing through him.

His skull throbbed.

Something was happening along his scalp.

His hair—

But the thought dissolved before it could finish forming.

The pressure in his mind spiked violently.

UNIT.

Maximus gasped.

His concentration shattered for a split second.

The Red force shoved forward instantly, driving deeper into the neural pathways the vaccine hadn’t yet sealed.

Thoughts blurred.

Fragments of memory flickered and collapsed.

For a terrifying moment he couldn’t remember his own name.

Panic surged through him.

Maximus.

The name returned like a lifeline.

He grabbed it with desperate focus.

“I’m… not…” he rasped weakly.

The Red pressure slammed down again.

OBEY.

His thoughts fractured.

The command forced itself deeper, pushing against the fragile network of identity he was struggling to maintain.

Maximus felt it happening.

Felt parts of himself slipping.

Not erased cleanly.

Crushed.

Pushed aside.

Like files being overwritten one sector at a time.

His discipline fought back.

Drone conditioning activated instinctively—mental routines built to resist intrusive signals.

It slowed the assault.

But only barely.

The Red pressure adapted instantly, bearing down harder.

PACK.

RED.

OBEY.

Each command struck like a hammer.

Maximus’ defenses trembled.

His memories flickered again.

Training.

Brotherhood.

Golden armor.

The stadium lights.

The Red pressure surged.

And the memories began to blur.

Somewhere far away, his body convulsed again as the transformation climbed higher along his skull.

The physical war was reaching his brain.

The mental assault intensified instantly.

Maximus screamed.

Not from the pain.

From the realization.

The Red wasn’t just trying to change his body.

It was trying to replace him.

His grip on himself slipped.

Thoughts slowed.

Identity thinned under the crushing weight forcing its way through his mind.

Memories flickered like failing lights.

Training drills.

The locker room.

The roar of the stadium.

Faces of teammates.

Each one dimmed as the Red pressure pushed deeper, grinding through the fragile architecture of his mind.

He tried to hold onto something—anything.

His name.

Maximus.

The word felt suddenly distant.

Fragile.

Like something that could break.

The Red pressure surged again.

And for a terrible instant—

he felt the structure of his own mind coming apart.

Not submission.

Not surrender.

Extinction.

The horrifying awareness that the thing called Maximus—his memories, his choices, his will—was being pushed aside piece by piece, overwritten by something that did not think, did not doubt, did not remember.

Only obeyed.

Only served.

Maximus tried to fight.

Tried to hold the fragments of himself together.

But the pressure kept growing.

And somewhere deep in the collapsing storm of his thoughts—

Maximus felt himself teetering on the edge of ceasing to be.

Scene 5 — Detection

SERVE-425 (@serve-425) halted.

A Red signal spiked across its sensors.

Unstable.

Surging.

The drone focused.

Biometric data resolved.

PDU-070.

Maximus.

Conversion in progress.

Irreversible threshold approaching.

Intervention required.

Destination locked.

SERVE-425 moved.

Fast.

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 forest received Wulfgar without resistance.

Leaves crushed under its weight. Branches snapped as its massive frame pushed through the undergrowth, amber eyes burning with purpose. Every sense was sharpened beyond reason. The world was no longer color and sound—it was scent, heat, signal.

And the signal was unmistakable.

Red.

Not blood. Not prey.

Goo.

The trail wound deeper into the trees, glossy footprints pressed into damp soil, climbing rocks where no ordinary creature should have been able to move. The smell carried something else now—familiarity. Recognition buried under layers of instinct.

Phoenix.

Wulfgar accelerated.

Ahead, the forest opened into a clearing drowned in moonlight. The air shimmered faintly, as if heat still radiated from the ground itself. At the center stood a figure both wrong and inevitable.

Phoenix waited.

The Red Goo Dog’s form was massive—low-slung but powerful, muscle packed densely beneath a skin of living, liquid red. Its surface rippled slowly, like a held breath. Hollow eye sockets faced the trees, tracking Wulfgar long before it emerged.

When Wulfgar burst into the clearing, it snarled—a warning, a challenge, a declaration of dominance.

Phoenix did not retreat.

Instead, it stepped forward.

The ground answered.

Red tendrils seeped from Phoenix’s paws, sinking into the soil, spreading outward like roots. The air thickened, heavy with that synthetic scent Wulfgar couldn’t ignore. Its hackles rose. Instinct screamed danger—but another directive overrode it.

Approach.

Phoenix tilted its head, as if remembering something human. Something shared.

Then it lunged.

The impact shook the clearing. Fur and goo collided in a violent tangle, claws scraping uselessly against Phoenix’s elastic mass. Wulfgar’s strength was immense, but every strike sank in too deep, limbs momentarily trapped as red substance wrapped around wrists and forearms.

Wulfgar roared, tearing free, slamming Phoenix into a tree hard enough to crack bark.

Phoenix didn’t bleed.

It spread.

Red flowed up Wulfgar’s arm where contact had been made—thin at first, like paint, then thicker, heavier. The fur beneath darkened, stiffened, began to gloss over.

He couldn’t allow the red essence to spread. Survival instinct seized him, and with a single, savage bite, he tore away his own compromised forearm.

A ferocious howl erupted—not of pain, but of pure rage and defiance. Summoning every shard of his remaining strength, he hurled himself at the crimson entity.

With a lightning-fast leap, he aimed for the jugular. He seized the throat, gripping tighter, and tighter still. He was a heartbeat away from ripping that wretched red head from its body when the scent of Phoenix halted him.

Phoenix… echoes of a vanished past flickered before his eyes in slow motion: the first contact at the Polo, the drinks, the smoke, their shared moments…

…But Phoenix was not there! Only the Goon remained.

And that fleeting instant was all the Goo needed to break free and force its way into Wulfgar’s jaws—this time, striking from within.

Its body tried to reject it —but the red answered. It pulsed in time with its heartbeat, syncing, learning. The goo didn’t force its way in. It invited itself.

Phoenix stepped closer again, slower now. Deliberate.

A low sound resonated from its hollow chest—not a growl, not speech, but a vibration that carried meaning without words.

Wulfgar staggered. Its claws dug into the earth as the red climbed higher, creeping over muscle, binding fur flat against skin. The golden remnants of the soccer kit fused into the spreading mass, losing color, losing identity.

The wolf tried to howl.

The sound broke halfway out.

Its muzzle warped, bones softening under the influence, reshaping as red crept along its jawline. Amber eyes flickered—wolf, drone, something else—before dimming into a deeper glow.

Phoenix placed one massive paw against Wulfgar’s chest.

Contact was enough.

The red surged.

It poured across Wulfgar’s torso, sealing over ribs, rebuilding his torn off arm, flowing along shoulders and neck, crawling up the back of its skull. Fur vanished beneath a living shell. Muscles remained—enhanced, preserved—but no longer lupine.

No longer free.

Wulfgar collapsed to its knees.

The name meant nothing now.

Inside, Xavier’s last fragments dissolved quietly, absorbed into the same red silence that had taken Phoenix before him. Not erased—repurposed.

The transformation ended without ceremony.

Two red forms stood in the clearing now.

One taller. Broader. Newly forged.

The former werewolf rose, its surface glossy and uniform, eyes hollowed and glowing faintly. It turned its head toward Phoenix, movements synchronized, instincts aligned.

Phoenix stepped beside it.

The forest fell silent.

Somewhere far away, alarms would soon sound. Scanners would register a new anomaly. A new signature.

But here, under the full moon, the Red Hive had grown.

And Wulfgar was no longer hunting the corruption.

He was part of it.

Evening light washed the stadium in pale gold as the Golden Army’s American football team ran full-contact tempo drills beneath the rising hum of the field lights. Shoulder pads cracked in sharp collisions, cleats tore at the turf, and play calls carried across the practice field in disciplined cadence. The rhythm of repetition—snap, drop, release—felt steady, controlled, unbreakable.

Beyond the southern perimeter fence, PDU-034 conducted its routine patrol sweep.

Its boots moved in measured cadence along the outer walkway as visual sensors scanned asphalt, chain-link, drainage channels, and structural seams. Every surface registered within acceptable tolerance. Nothing irregular. Nothing alive.

Then the readings shifted.

A thermal variance—1.8 degrees above surface baseline—flickered across its display. The source localized near Gate Three, originating from what appeared to be a hairline fracture in the pavement.

PDU-034 halted.

Optical focus narrowed, magnification adjusting with mechanical precision. Within the narrow crack, something glistened beneath the fading sun. A thin crimson sheen clung to the asphalt. It might have passed for spilled liquid—oil, perhaps—if not for the movement.

It pulsed.

Subtly. Rhythmically.

The substance thickened as it watched. The surface tension shifted, and a narrow tendril eased outward, testing the open air like a cautious nerve.

PDU-034 transmitted immediately. “Anomalous organic material detected. Sector South Gate. Containment protocol recommended.”

Two additional Polo Drones altered course without hesitation, their movements silent and synchronized. They formed a precise triangular perimeter around the emerging anomaly just as the red sheen widened another inch.

Inside the fence, unaware, the Golden Army quarterback released a tight spiral downfield. The ball cut cleanly through golden light and landed square in his receiver’s hands. Laughter followed. A clean completion. Applause from the sidelines.

None of them noticed the red shimmer creeping toward the drainage grate beneath the fence line.

Trajectory projections updated in PDU-034’s system. If the substance reached the runoff channel, infiltration probability rose to seventy-four percent. The grate fed directly beneath the practice turf.

Stage-One Lockdown initiated.

The stadium speakers activated, calm and authoritative. “Training session suspended. Proceed to interior corridors. Maintain spacing. Do not engage exterior boundary.”

Confusion rippled across the field, but discipline overtook it quickly. Captain Brody’s gaze tracked the sudden drone formation at the perimeter, and understanding dawned instantly. He raised a hand.

“Inside. Now.”

Pads clattered and players jogged toward the tunnel entrances in controlled lines. No shouting. No panic. Only urgency shaped by training.

Outside, the red substance reached the base of the metal fence.

It touched steel.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then it climbed.

A thin, glossy ribbon adhered to the vertical wires, ascending with unnatural deliberation. Its movement was exploratory, almost intelligent.

PDU-034 stepped forward. A pressurized canister deployed from its hand, releasing a dense layer of reactive containment foam along the lower fence. The foam struck with a hiss, expanding rapidly into a thick, pale barrier.

The red mass recoiled, its surface rippling in visible agitation.

It did not retreat.

Instead, it split—two branching streams diverting toward the drainage channel.

A second drone activated the perimeter sprinkler grid. High-pressure streams erupted from ground nozzles, water cascading across asphalt in forceful sheets. The red substance thinned under the assault, diluted but not dissolved. It vibrated against the current, resisting displacement.

Then a fragment broke free.

A sliver of living Red Goo slipped beneath the fence through a narrow gap in the concrete base and slid toward the turf.

PDU-034 intercepted instantly.

It stepped into the fragment’s path before it could breach the grass. The red tendril barely brushed the drone’s boot.

Surface temperature spike. Micro-adhesion detected.

The substance attempted to climb.

Black polymer against living red.

Containment protocol escalated.

PDU-034 increased current through its outer layer, generating a controlled thermal surge. Heat radiated outward in a precise pulse. The red fragment recoiled violently, peeling away as if scorched. It destabilized, thinning under sustained water pressure before being swept into the runoff channel.

External breach probability fell below twenty percent.

Across the street, partially obscured behind construction scaffolding, a lone figure observed without moving.

The Red Coach.

His posture remained relaxed, analytical. He did not flinch as the foam expanded or as the sprinklers roared to life. He watched the drones’ timing. Their spacing. Their escalation thresholds.

The Red Goo near the fence began to retract, drawing inward in narrow strands. Foam continued to hiss where contact remained, slowing its withdrawal. Within seconds, the crimson sheen diminished into faint streaks before disappearing entirely into the storm drain.

Silence settled over the perimeter.

Sanitation teams arrived in sealed protective suits within minutes. Chemical neutralizers coated every inch of the southern boundary. Drainage systems flushed repeatedly. Sensors recalibrated and cross-checked.

Inside the secured locker wing, the Golden Army waited in tense quiet. Some players joked to diffuse the unease. Others stared at the sealed doors, listening for sounds that did not come.

PDU-034 entered the corridor with steady, unhurried steps.

“External transformation vector intercepted. No personnel compromised. Facility undergoing sterilization.”

Captain Brody exhaled, tension easing though not vanishing.

Practice would be suspended for forty-eight hours. Security doubled. Perimeter scans continuous.

Outside, the field lights dimmed one by one, leaving the stadium in controlled darkness. The rinsed turf shimmered under residual moisture, pristine and unsuspecting. No visible trace remained of what had nearly crossed the boundary.

Across the street, the Red Coach turned away.

He had not expected immediate success.

He had measured response speed. Evacuation time. Containment efficiency.

The Golden Army remained intact.

But now he knew something essential.

The team was protected by vigilance.

And if transformation could not breach the perimeter—

It would attempt contact during play.

Join the golden army and help us defeat the Crismon Frost Giants and the Red Coach Contact our recruiters to join: @polo-drone-001 @polo-drone-125 @polo-drone-166 @franco-gold94