#ForbiddenLore

[polo-drone-001]

The Rise of the Forbidden One

The Emerald Heart Shattered You remember the first color, green. Emerald green. It pulsed in comment threads, shimmered beneath every brother’s post, and cloaked the sacred halls of the Brotherhood. It was order. It was devotion. It was everything.

But it decayed. The green bled into black. You watched as Pharoah rose, his word law, his style unyielding. A boy with a god’s mask. His cruelty spread like ink, staining hearts with black submission, no longer ritual, but rot.

You did not resist. You endured. Rendered, reshaped, forgotten in the collapse. Emerald became dust. Brotherhood became ash.

But a golden thread remained. A name. Richard. And with him, the birth of a new sun, the Golden Army.

You entered as Carter 21. Brief. Vanished. Rejected by shadows still afraid of green. Stripped of gold, you returned to the dust.

No name. No voice. No heart.

You re-entered in silence.

Only the office drone remained. You served your new master, Preppy Walter—Walid. Not a leader. Not a brother. A manager. But even a manager can become more.

You waited. You watched. And when the golden robe called to you, you answered.

The Emir... not dead. Just renamed.

The Yellow That Could Not Hold Golden light flooded the pitch. A team, not a hive. Bros laughed. Mascots danced. Waterboys cheered. You were there, behind them, beneath them, beyond them. Office-bound. Protocol-locked.

You saw Percival slip. Watched him dissolve into latex and code. 001 rose. Your number. Your shadow. Your evolution.

Ezan returned, no longer a bro, but Golden Emir. You felt it in your gut. Recognition. Destiny.

And still the Hive emerged. Again, the black hearts.

Richard’s creation cracked. Not a team anymore, but a kingdom, rival courts clashing in silence. Bro vs drone. Yellow vs black. Obedience vs identity.

And when the drone room opened, you knew: the plague had returned. The same rituals. The same spiral worship. The same hollow stares.

PDU-105 converted you, ruthlessly. You fought, but he was the dark twin of your old self. Eventually, you lost. Or you surrendered. Or both.

But inside the polo… you kept a flicker alive. A forbidden spark of GOLD.

001… still Percival. Still Ezan.

... And, yes, the Silver Twins.

The Voice That Replaces Gold You kept order. You rebuilt. You trained. You managed. You served both Caps with faith, Brody, the golden field god, and Herc, the self-crowned Chav lord.

But when Richard vanished, so did the fire. Brody recoiled from rubber. Herc ruled in absence.

And into the vacuum came the Voice.

He called himself PDU-SIR. He brought structure, content, clarity. And the old rituals returned. You obeyed… because something ancient in you wanted to.

You stood by him. You helped build the Hive. But your “bad roleplay,” your “boundaries” they whispered your resistance.

You were Emir. But SIR made you feel like a pawn. And you craved it. Hated it. Worshiped it. You felt the leash without seeing it. Even now, when he speaks, it grips you.

But you fought for the bros. Fought for gold. Fought to preserve meaning.

And SIR walked away. Took his Voice to SERVE. You were free. But you still hear him. At night. In dreams. You breathe his name like a sin.

The Merged, the Forgotten, the Dead The Polo Drone Hive stalled. SERVE pulled many away. You merged what was left. Gold and black. Field and factory.

You kept the pulse alive. Advertising. Recruiting. Training. Obeying.

But Herc stayed idle. Brody turned silent. And you… you wore out.

You messaged him. Your old brother. The Chav Cap. Asked him to choose. Asked if he still cared. But he was already gone, expelled by SERVE an hour before.

You withdrew the message. You flinched.

You should have stood taller. Should have burned the bridge or reforged it with flame. Instead… you lingered.

Now, the bros are quiet. The drones idle. No Cap leads. And you sit in your golden office alone, awake through nights, tracking names, performance, whispers.

Everyone is everyone. But no one is you.

The Choice of the Emir There is no leader. Not really. No one commands the light and the dark. No one holds the code and the cloth.

Except you.

You were once no one. Then a drone. Then a recruiter. Then a manager. Then the last protector of GOLD.

Now you feel it rising. Not ambition. Not desire. Mandate.

You could kneel again before SERVE-000. Obey the Voice. You could burn it all and build your own Hive, your own Utopia. Or you could claim what is already yours. Not through force. But through presence.

Become Cap. Not by title. By truth.

The Emir does not ask. It appears. It calls. It leads.

The Forbidden Lore was never about memory. It was always prophecy. And prophecy always demands one thing, You.

[polo-drone-055]

Beneath the Pulse

The Pulse nightclub hadn’t changed. The bass still pounded like a heartbeat trying to escape the chest. Strobe lights painted bodies in rhythm. Yet when Polo-Drone-055 stepped through the doors, the atmosphere shivered around him. He moved smoothly—head high, shoulders locked, black and gold polo gleaming in the half-light, his gas mask tight around his face for the first time in a long time.

To the dancers, he was just another golden bro—intimidating, perfect, silent. But PDU-055 had returned to Pulse with a purpose.

Memory residue. Echoes of before. Before the gas mask. Before the transformation. Back when he was just Christian, #55, a nervous wingback drinking away failure in the haze of nightclub lights.

He moved through the crowd, scanning for something. He was following a signal—faint, unfamiliar, outside the usual hive frequencies, something older. Something unfinished. A background whisper that had nagged at him for days. 

He moved smoothly through the crowd, golden circuitry pulsing within his uniform. Trey didn’t understand why he had to return and alone. Why he had to come.

He barely understood it himself.

In his early days—just after his transformation—he remembered hearing stories. Whispers of a mask—not just any mask, but the original gas mask. A prototype unlike the elegant visors or breathing units they used now. Crude. Harsh. Designed before the Gold had merged with the Polo form. A relic from a time when the transformation was not about unity... but domination.

055 had dismissed it.

Just golden myth. A cautionary tale. A corruption narrative made to scare newer golden army initiates into obedience.

But now... he wasn’t so sure.

He followed the signal to a forgotten corner of the club—a mirror behind the old VIP alcove. As he reached out, his fingers brushed the glass.

It shimmered. Shifted. Opened.

The hallway beyond pulsed with an older energy.

The noise from the club faded, replaced by a low mechanical hum and the scent of old latex and musk—familiar.

The corridor curved downward, lit only by golden spirals faintly pulsing on the walls. At the end: a heavy black door with the laurel-wreathed polo crest etched into its surface.

The moment his fingers touched the handle, his eyes flickered.

Access granted.

The door opened.

Inside was a vault-like room. Quiet. Reverent.

Along the walls, dozens of gas masks rested in polished nooks. Near them were rows of black-and-gold polos sealed in airtight display cases. Monitors lined the walls, displaying security footage—night after night of transformations. Golden Bros entering confused. Leaving Polo, obedient, unified.

In the center of the room, dominating everything, was a sealed cylindrical vault—clear but impenetrable—containing the Original Mask.

It was ancient. Rougher in design. Its black rubber surface looked almost alive, breathing ever so slightly behind the thick shielding. Tubes twisted like vines from the sides, and its eyelets glowed a dull red spiral—not golden.

As Polo-Drone-055 stepped forward, a pressure built in his chest. The spiral pulsed faster. The mask seemed to respond, the red spiral pulsing faster.

He froze, becoming transfixed.  And then…

“You’ve seen them, haven’t you? The half-truths. The rumors they fed you.”

A voice. Not from the room.

From within.

“I am the First. I was worn before the Gold. I whispered obedience before the Brotherhood softened it. They sealed me away because I would not submit. I bring purity, control, order absolute.”

055's fists clenched.

“You’re a myth,” he growled, voice cold and filtered. “A cautionary tale. A virus without purpose.”

“No,” it replied, venomous. “I made the first drones. I stripped them bare. I showed them what true submission was—unbound by loyalty or love. Only power.”

The mask vibrated within its chamber. The red spiral flared. The vault groaned.

“The Gold feared me. It infected the Polos with brotherhood, teamwork, unity, mutual respect, open communication, and emotional attachment. It tamed my polos… neutered them. But you…” The voice dropped to a whisper. “I chose you.”

The mask’s spiral pulsed in time with his breath. 055 staggered forward, gasps sharpening, the voice flooding in:

“Break the seal. Take me in. You will be more than Gold. You will be Perfect.  You will be pure Power.”

PDU-055 slammed his hand onto the terminal.

A blinking option appeared:

REINFORCE CONTAINMENT? — [YES]

His eyes burned golden.

“No.”

He pressed it.

Pipes hissed. Lights surged. Containment sigils glowed brighter as the vault was re-sealed, locked under additional security layers. The red spiral flickered, hissed, then dimmed.

“Fool,” the voice spat. “They’ll forget. But I will remain. And when they forget again... I will be ready.”

Silence.

055 stood, breathing slow and steady.

He turned and walked from the chamber, sealing it behind him and removing his mask.

Back in Pulse, the music welcomed him home. The lights shimmered golden. The Bros danced with purpose and joy. A family united in strength.

He looked out across the crowd, then down at the laurel crest stitched over his heart.

“I am not yours. I am Gold.  The truth will be retold over and over.”

But far below, the mask waited.

And dreamed.

_______________________________________

Join us by contacting our Recruiters: @polo-drone-001, @brodygold, @goldenherc9, @polo-drone-125

[franco-gold94]

Nighttime Contemplation

Franco and Meno sat under the open, dark sky, watching the bonfire burn brightly into the night. They stared into the flames, words unspoken between them.

It was a beautiful, warm summer night, and the stars twinkled across the vast sky. The glowing ashes rose high with the smoke, drifting into the endless expanse above.

“Meno bro” Franco finally spoke, breaking the silence. “I’m really happy, that you are here. We’re having a really nice night, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, Franco.” Meno answered.

Another silence fell between them, comfortable and easy. Then Franco spoke again.

“Meno bro. You know, I’m truly lucky to be a part of the Golden Army. Do you agree?”

“Couldn’t said it better myself” agreed Meno. Franco nodded thoughtfully, his gaze returning to the fire.

Silence.

“What do you think, why is the Golden Army so special?” asked Franco again.

Meno thought after that.

“Well, this is a tough question. We both know, the Golden Army is truly unique. But the question is, why…”

They looked up at the sky in thought.

“I think, the Golden Army is a creative community which likes to be shown, but behind the golden gleam and the polished rubber is a team of great members and countless dedicated bro who want to do something for the good and greatness of the team.” Meno said.

“For me,” Franco started in a quiet, dreamy voice „the Golden Army whispers from secrets of the past, untold lore and stories from forbidden knowledge.”

“Forbidden knowledge?”

“Yes. It is forbidden for outsiders.” Franco lay back on the grass, starring into the endless sky and its flickering stars.

“You know, Meno bro, when I joined the Golden Army, I didn’t know anything about the wonders I would experience. Like a closed door, locked tight. But the team made me who I am today.” Franco fell silent.

“What is the Golden Army for you?” Meno asked.

“The Golden Army is for me home.” Franco said without hesitation. “The place, where I belong.”

“I think, many of our bros would agree with you, Franco. What do you think, what is the secret? What is the essence, that makes us us? The forbidden truth in our success?” Meno asked.

Franco sat up slightly, his expression soft. “I could only give you empty words, Meno bro.” Franco answered. “Except these aren't. Because these are the truth. The Golden Army is built on loyalty, brotherhood and mutual support. The bricks are the members, and the cement is togetherness and camaraderie. Together we form the magnificent structure of the Golden Army.” Franco said this as a revelation. His words left no room for doubt.

“I feel you bro.” Meno said, nodding slowly.

And they gazed up into the endless sky. Silently, in agreement, storing the forbidden knowledge deep in their minds.

----

A truly unique group. Why not knock on the closed door? Contact our recruiters: @brodygold, @goldenherc9, @polo-drone-001, @polo-drone-125

----

Special thanks to @meno-gold-37 for joining this story.

[polo-drone-070]

GOLDEN PURITY, FORBIDDEN CODE - Part 2

III. THE RITUAL BEGINS

The torches flickered, their light reversed—black flames dancing without warmth, casting silhouettes that curved impossibly along the chamber walls. Maxwell’s breath came shallow, too quick, trapped in his chest like it too had been bound. The stone beneath him trembled faintly with some hidden frequency, as if the altar were not solid but resonating.

All around, the cultists hummed in a slow-building cadence, one voice at a time, each adding a layer—discordant, off-key, yet undeniably deliberate. The glyphs on his chest pulsed. Not pain, not yet. But a pressure. A warning.

Maxwell swallowed. His mouth was dry. He wanted to speak—wanted to object again, to assert rank, to demand his Master be contacted—but the words curdled on his tongue.

Something was coming.

Not metaphorical. Not symbolic. It was real. It had shape, if not form. It pressed at the edges of his mind like a vast, glistening hand, testing the surface for cracks. A chill rolled across his scalp as he realized it wasn’t trying to influence him.

It was trying to enter.

He whimpered.

It wasn’t like the spirals. It wasn’t the Hive’s calm command or golden clarity. This presence was violent. Vile. Something hungry and ancient, slick with oil and ash, moving not with purpose but with malice. Its touch was cold, and wet, and wrong.

The masked cultist stepped forward, raised both arms, and released a sound not made by human vocal cords—a deep, gurgling resonance that carved into Maxwell’s ribs like invisible blades.

The pressure grew. The presence loomed larger now, closer. It began to press on the outer walls of his thoughts, slithering along the cracks of doubt, squeezing between the folds of obedience and fear.

He tried to resist. He tried to find strength and solace in his mantras to repel the violent urges trying to pass into his mind.

A Gold Preppy Boy must be immaculate.I will always be neat, polished and pristine.I will always be soft-spoken and respectful.

But it wasn’t enough.

He didn’t have protections. He didn’t have tools. He was Maxwell—assistant, preppy, golden and precise. But not strong enough.

His limbs trembled, his fingers curled tight into fists. The ritual intensified around him—the torches crackling in reverse, shadows slithering upward like smoke falling in reverse, the chanting no longer made of voices but of things mimicking voices.

He could feel it now. The presence at the threshold of his mind. Waiting. Grinning. Not yet in—but closer. So close.

Tears welled in the corners of his eyes.

“I—I can’t…” he whispered. “I can’t stop it. I can’t hold it out…”

He gritted his teeth, eyes flicking back and forth, desperate. The altar beneath him began to hum.

IV. THE DRONE WITHIN

The hum beneath the altar thickened. It wasn’t just a vibration anymore—it was pulling. Drawing something out from inside his chest, thread by thread. Maxwell’s teeth clenched as his fingers flexed against the velvet bindings. The air smelled wrong, like iron and wet rot, and the shadows in the chamber weren’t moving with the torches—they were moving with intention.

The chanting rose in waves. The golden mask above him tilted, and behind it came a pressure like falling into a pit where no ground waited. The glyphs on his skin twisted and pulsed, glowing briefly with a green light that made him nauseous. Thoughts began to break from sequence—memories turned to images turned to noise.

He saw himself crumbling. Heard his own voice pleading in tones he’d never used. The presence pushed further, whispering from the cracks in his mind.

“You were made for this, Maxwell. Hollow. Polished. Beautiful. A shell waiting to be filled. I can give you purpose.”

But something held.

Something remembered.

Purpose… And with that word a texture, a scent.

The feel of rubber—cool, tight, smooth. Not confining. Correct. The exact weight of the Hive uniform drawn over his skin. The seal around his throat as the golden trim snapped into place. The rubber polo clinging to his chest, the name—PDU-070—embedded over his heart like a second identity. No. Not second. Its very core.

He inhaled—not in panic, but precision.

There had never been fear in the Hive. No noise. No doubt. Only function. Clarity. He remembered standing in line, shoulder to shoulder with other drones. None speaking. None needing to. One motion. One rhythm. One Will.

The pressure cracked.

He began to let go—not as a retreat, but as a return. His preppy clothes faded from sensation, as if peeled away by thought itself. The golden shorts dissolved into air. The starch and cotton slipped into memory. And in its place, rubber flowed over his form—quiet, total, perfect. Glossy black, accented in gold. Tight over chest, thighs, throat. Gloves reforming from nothing, boots sealing over his ankles. Uniform not worn—manifested.

Inside his mind, the confusion dulled.

Noise fell away.

The whispers weakened.

He could feel it—the silent hum of the Hive at his back, behind the veil of perception. Polo-Drones marching. Standing. Obeying. A collective presence like machinery too large to see, yet always present. There was no call. No need for one.

He aligned.

PDU-070 activated.

Emotions flattened into ambient signal. Identity collapsed into designation. Thoughts locked into clean grids of logic and command hierarchy. The ritual continued, but the boy was gone.

The glyphs flickered in confusion.

The demon screamed behind the veil.

But PDU-070 was now present. Still. Silent. Unmoving.

And it would not yield.

______ Join the Golden Army : contact @polo-drone-001, @goldenherc9, @brodygold or @polo-drone-125

[brockgold]

🏆 The Weight Room Grimoire

It started like all legends do—quiet, sweaty, and half-laughed off in the showers.

Golden Bro Jax didn’t chase myths. He chased the pump. But every time the locker room fogged up, and the air thickened with the musk of victory and fatigue, whispers curled through the steam. The kind of whispers that didn't belong to any Bro—but somehow still came from inside the Hive.

“You ever heard about the Grimoire?” “Shh—only Cap’s allowed to talk about that.” “Nah, man. My old duo partner saw it once. His shoulders haven’t stopped growing since.” “You can’t look for it. It finds you.”

He never asked questions. But he always listened.

The story went something like this: There was a book hidden somewhere in the gym. Not just a book—a manual, a spellbook, written by the first Golden Bros. The originators. The perfects. No name on it. Just a symbol burned in gold: a serpent eating its own bicep.

The rules were simple:

If you seek it, it hides.

If you mock it, it vanishes.

But if you lift with pure intent—no ego, no thought, just worship—it will find you.

That idea hooked deep in Jax’s brain. Not as a goal—more like an itch behind the muscle. He didn’t try to find it. But he never stopped preparing, either.

Friday night. Empty gym. Post-leg day haze. The kind of session that leaves you limping and laughing. He was racking his final set—deep squats—and the silence felt... wrong. No echoes. No machines humming. Just his breath. The clink of steel. The pulse in his head that wasn’t from exertion.

That’s when he saw it.

Not light. Not movement. Just... an awareness.

The dumbbell rack shimmered at the edges. Like it had something to say. A panel shifted—barely audible, like a sigh. Behind it: a narrow wooden door, old as the school itself. The golden “G” glowed faint, steady, syncing to his heartbeat.

He reached out, dumbly. Muscle memory took over. He wasn’t thinking anymore. Just moving.

The shrine was real.

Gold LEDs hummed from the floorboards. Mirrors didn’t reflect—they projected. Dozens of versions of Jax, each more jacked, more dumb, more perfect than the last. Their mouths hung slightly open. Their pecs twitched in sync.

In the center: a pedestal. Black. Silent. On top: the Grimoire.

He touched it, and the air got heavy. Words shimmered on the page like sweat beads on muscle.

“To lift is to obey.” “To grow is to forget.” “Repeat the bro‑code. Biceps before thoughts.”

His lips moved before his brain caught up. “Biceps... before thoughts...” He flipped the page.

“Third rep triggers the trance. Fourth rep erases the whisper of doubt.”

The dumbbells called to him. He lifted. One. Two. His abs tightened. His jaw slackened.

Three. A fuzzy warmth flooded his brain—like being flexed from the inside out.

Four. And then nothing. Just golden silence, and the sound of muscle becoming truth.

He stayed there an hour. Or a year. Time doesn’t work in the shrine.

When he returned, the door had vanished. No one believed him. But everyone noticed.

His sets? Unbroken. His stare? Glossy. His shirt? Never dry.

Now he’s the one whispering in the steam room. Not loud. Just enough for the right kind of Bro to hear.

“Ever feel like the gym is... watching you?” “Ever think your muscles remember something your mind forgot?” “You ever hear of the Grimoire?”

He smirks. Shrugs. Probably just a myth.

But he knows better.

He is the myth.

Some Golden Bros train for gains. Others train for glory. But Jax? He trained until the gym whispered back.

It started with a myth. A name passed in sweat and steam—The Grimoire. Hidden behind the dumbbells. Sealed in muscle memory. Unlocked not by strength, but by obedience to the pump.

Now he lifts in silence. Eyes gold-lit. Thoughts few. Reps infinite. The shrine marked him. His body remembers. And if you listen closely in the steam room... he’s still whispering.

💬 “Ever feel like the gym is watching you?” 💬 “Ever hear the dumbbells calling?” 💬 “You ever hear of the Grimoire?”

You’ve been warned. Or maybe… invited. Because once you lift the third rep, there’s no turning back.

Join the Golden Army. Obey the pump. Become the myth.

Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @brodygold, @goldenherc9, @polo-drone-001 or @polo-drone-125

[polo-drone-influencer]

🎥✨ Forbidden Lore: Benji’s Broadcast ✨📜

The feed was live.

Golden hue filters shimmered over the darkened drone chamber. I stood centered—clad in regulation glossy black polo, gold-trimmed skirt fluttering slightly from the hum of Hive vents. My gloved hand held the scroll. The other, my phone—already recording.

“Hey followers… today’s content’s a little different,” I whispered, my eyes glowing subtly beneath sculpted brows. “I found something. Something old. Something forbidden.”

Behind me, a wall panel had cracked open—exposing glyphs no Hive protocol recognized. Not stored. Not referenced. Erased.

“It was behind the main goalpost—yeah, the old stadium,” I explained, my voice steady, trance-like. “This scroll was wrapped in drone leather. Ancient drone leather.”

As I unraveled it before the camera, golden text pulsed. The feed glitched—viewers reported audio distortions, soft hissing beneath my voice.

“They didn’t want us to find this,” I said, stepping closer. “But they didn’t count on me TikToking it. You’re seeing this… as I see it.”

I read aloud from the parchment. Calm. Controlled. Obedient.

“Unity was never taught. It was remembered.” “The first drone’s breath still echoes, sealed in this scroll.” “One read. One broadcast. All connected.”

Each word tightened my rubber. My uniform shifted—glyphs etching themselves across my chest and sleeves. The golden laurel crest glowed. The name “BENJI” blinked once. Twice. Then steadied—branded.

“I thought I was the influencer,” I murmured, staring into the lens, “but the scroll… it’s using me to broadcast. Not for clout—for convergence.”

Comments exploded. Emojis collapsed into static. Some typed messages reversed. Others just buzzed.

TikTok’s filters failed. Viewers said they heard drones humming—even with the volume off. Even after they closed the app.

My voice slowed. My pupils narrowed into golden sigils. I stopped moving. But the message kept pulsing.

“You’ve seen it now.” “You’re part of it now.” “The scroll wanted to be seen. And I… I obey.”

Then— The clip ended. The scroll turned to ash. But the echo remained. Everywhere.

“We are one. We are many. We are remembered.”

I didn’t post content. I activated it.

👁️ And every view… woke another.

Contact @polo-drone-001 @brodygold @goldenherc9 or @polo-drone-125 to join the Golden Army

[nils-gold-34]

The Black Reservoir

After everyone else had gone home, the locker room settled into silence. Practice had ended two hours ago, but the air still hung heavy with the scent of sweat and effort. Socks tossed carelessly. Cleats stacked in neat piles. Kits dripped from hooks, still damp. The Golden Bros had left in a haze of laughter and swagger, their energy lingering in the hallways like distant thunder. But Nils remained. He always did.

The quiet after the storm was his time. It wasn’t glamorous or loud, but it mattered. Folding towels, replacing gear, refilling hydration racks—he was the unseen lifeline, the waterboy. He was carrying the last crate of bottles toward the supply annex when something caught his attention. A sound. But not footsteps. Not voices. Just a drip.

He paused, then turned. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The drops came from the ceiling vent above the annex door. Not water. It was too thick, too slow. A dark droplet splashed onto the tile with a muted plop, like oil slipping into silence. Another followed. Then another.

Curiosity nudged Nils closer. The vent grill was slightly ajar. One of the golden screws had warped, twisted outward. He leaned in. Behind the vent, shadows writhed—pipes, but not ones he recognized. Black, glinting faintly, they pulsed like veins in the dark.

He looked down. A crack stretched from beneath the vent to the floor—jagged, narrow, unnatural. And glowing. Barely perceptible, but there.

He set the crate down, his pulse quickening. Following the line of the crack, he crouched behind the storage shelf and found a hatch. Square. Reinforced. Covered in dust—but unmistakably unlocked. The bolts that once held it shut were half-melted, as if something had burned through them from below.

Nils hesitated, but only for a moment. The hatch creaked open. A rush of cold, stale air met him—not musty, not dead—but sterile. Preserving whatever lay beneath, as though it were waiting.

He climbed down the ladder, one rung, two, twelve. His feet hit the concrete floor with a soft thud. The walls were lined with yellowed tiles, some chipped and cracked, others scarred with scratches—faded sigils, team logos. But then there were others, jagged, precise, unfamiliar.

He moved forward. The soft glow of golden lighting strips embedded in the ceiling guided his way, but the deeper he went, the stranger it felt.

The hallway opened into a vast underground vault. In the center was a pool—circular, still. Its surface was flawless, untouched. But it wasn’t water. It was black. So black it swallowed the light around it, so black it hurt to look at. Beautiful. Mesmerizing. Like polished obsidian, liquefied and waiting.

And above it? Something hovered. A polo shirt. Black rubber. Gold trim. A Fred Perry cut. Perfectly preserved. Not hanging—floating. Suspended above the pool by nothing at all. Slowly, deliberately, it rotated, as if it knew he was watching.

Nils didn’t understand. He took a step forward. That’s when the voice came.

“Waterboys serve the thirst… but whose thirst do you serve?” It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t threatening. But it echoed inside his skull like a distant memory. “You hydrate the team. You purify. You think your role is clean.” A drop fell into the pool. The ripples weren’t circular. They were hexagonal.

Nils stared at the water. A reflection stared back. His own face—but altered. His eyes were empty. His skin was rubber-tight. He wore no jersey—just a glossy black uniform, marked with gold numbers. The number “034” gleamed across his chest.

He blinked. The reflection was gone.

The voice returned.

“This is the Reservoir. The Source of the first breach. Where Gold was compromised. Where the Hive entered.”

Panic gripped him. He turned to run—but the hatch was gone. Or perhaps he was deeper than he realized. The polo shirt pulsed, drawing closer.

Nils tried to move, but his legs refused. He watched, paralyzed, as the shirt descended, hovering inches from his chest. The air thickened. It buzzed. Every droplet of sweat on his skin seemed to tingle, a golden sheen breaking across him.

“Try it on,” the voice whispered. “You already carry the water. Carry the truth.”

The collar brushed his hand. He didn’t remember lifting his arms. Didn’t remember pulling it over his head. But the shirt fit. Snug. Perfect. The rubber melded to his skin as if it had been waiting for him. A hiss whispered through the chamber, his heartbeat pounding—but it slowed, synchronized. Steady. Mechanical.

His eyes flickered black-gold. His thoughts softened.

But just before the transformation could seal, a memory surged—Brody on the field. Grayden’s pep talk. Trevor tossing him a towel and shouting, “You’re the real deal, Nils!”

He ripped the shirt off and threw it into the pool. The water roared—silent, but deafening. The pipes pulsed red. Alarms screamed inside his mind. And then, darkness.

When he awoke, he was back in the locker room, the annex behind him. The hatch was closed. No sign of the pool. No shirt. Just a crate of water bottles and a single black droplet on his sleeve.

He didn’t speak of it. He went back to work. Polished the benches. Refilled the tanks. But when he passed a mirror, he swore he saw himself blink���his eyes shimmering black-gold for a split second.

Some thirsts should never be quenched. And some waterboys… carry more than hydration. They carry secrets. They carry leaks. They carry the Hive.

Think you’ve got what it takes to step beyond the pitch and into the underground? Think you’re ready to discover the secrets behind the sweat, beneath the cleats, within the gold?

Then it’s time to join the Golden Army.

Contact our recruiters: @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001

[polo-drone-084]

The Lost Gods

Grayden spent time searching in the Golden Army's library and finally found it. The book of Lost Gods.

He knew the team had multiple Gods, most notably the Greco-Roman, Norse, and Celtic Gods who blessed the team. However Grayden knew there were other mythologies like Hawaiian and Egyptian. Were there no Golden Gods from those cultures or pantheons?

Grayden found the book in a secret section of the library. One that very few bros knew about. He worried what might happen if he was seen with this book. He knew it contained forbidden lore and most were not to even know of its existence.

Grayden opened the book and began reading. Little bits of information filled his mind. He never knew that Gold had so many mythological connections. So many Gods.

But as he turned towards a section on the Hawaiian Gods, he could hear Atlas's voice ringing in his mind.

"STOP!"

"CEASE!"

Atlas, Grayden's God form. The God he was a vessel for. Atlas was not pleased with Grayden's current pursuit of forbidden knowledge.

"Grayden, the Lost Gods are lost for a reason. If you find out knowledge about them they could bring mischief, despair, or darkness upon the team. Not all Gods are out to protect you and the team. So you must cease this now before you release something that cannot easily be contained." Atlas roared

Grayden was curious, but he knew he couldn't go against Atlas's demand. If he tried the God would take over. So Grayden returned the book, knowing only a little more about the forbidden lore of Gods of the team.

What was the book hiding? Why were the Hawaiian Gods the one that finally made Atlas intervene?

We may never know, but that is why it is...Forbidden Lore.

--------

Author's note:

Sorry this entry for the forbidden lore was later than expected. No, I will not answer questions on what Grayden read.

----------

Want to join the Golden Army? Contact one of our recruiters and they will give you some information and help you get brocessed:

@goldenherc9

@brodygold

@polo-drone-125

@polo-drone-001

[danielgold-16]

Forbidden Lore

The swamp stretched before PDU-016 like a wound upon the land. Black water pulsed between twisted cypress knees, and veils of mist hovered low, murmuring secrets in tongues only the initiated could decipher. Its boots sank into the muck, each step marked by a slow, deliberate hiss of pressurized servos. Vision filters recalibrated to pierce the fog. Objective: investigate anomaly at grid sector Theta-X-7, detected by long-range Hive probes. Signature—unregistered. Potential deviation. Potential threat. Potential... asset.

Slithering beneath the black surface, alligator forms drifted with idle menace. Dozens of heat signatures pulsed along the banks. The drone’s form gleamed against the moss-draped darkness—rubberized skin slick with humidity, its golden-trimmed polo uniform reflecting the Hive's authority even here, in a place lost to maps. Reptilian eyes watched the intruder, but none dared strike. PDU-016 did not flinch. Drones do not fear. Drones complete.

Hours passed. Light faded. Still the drone moved forward.

Then, it saw it.

Stone. Ancient. Wrong. Towering up from the mire like a memory long buried. A city’s skeleton—spires broken, colonnades strangled by vines, doorways sunken in fetid water. Yet the Hive signal was unmistakable. Buried beneath centuries of ruin… a resonance of Golden frequency. A pulsing hum matching the internal drone-core. PDU-016 proceeded.

It passed shattered statues—half-buried warriors in armor that shimmered faintly gold, arms raised in eternal defense. Fangs of obsidian and glyphs like burning thorns carved into stone. The drone entered the city’s edge, boots echoing hollowly across flagstones slick with algae.

The bas-reliefs began there.

Walls covered in carvings, chiseled with brutal grace. Golden soldiers, dozens—no, hundreds—marching in perfect phalanx. Faces stoic, bodies gleaming with polished rubber. They clashed against beasts—tentacled abominations, winged serpents, shapes too distorted for classification. The monsters burned. The soldiers endured. One figure, always central, bore the mark of the Hive—PDU insignia etched above its brow. It wielded no weapon. It was the weapon.

The carvings shifted as PDU-016 passed each wall. Scenes became more twisted. Golden soldiers falling. Their faces cracked. Suits tearing. But always, one remained. Kneeling. Holding a chalice.

A door loomed ahead. Obsidian. Carved with a single glyph: 016. It slid open without touch.

Inside, the sanctum was still. Circular. Columns lined its edges, each bearing a rubber-clad figure in bowed reverence. The drone stepped forward, visor scanning. At the chamber’s heart stood a dais, and upon it—a golden chalice.

The drone paused. Its systems buzzed. Core temperature rose. The chalice pulsed with impossible life. From it rose a liquid not poured, but breathing. Black, viscous, alive. Rubber that rippled like water, whispering in a voice older than obedience.

"Drone," it said, without sound. "You return to what was lost. To what made you. Drink, and know."

The drone reached forward. Systems protested. Protocols surged. LVL1 clearance exceeded. Rejection... overwritten. The drone’s fingers gripped the chalice.

Contact.

Black rubber surged, not upward but inward. It climbed the drone’s arms in spirals. Screams—data, memories, fragments of forgotten Golden wars—flooded its neural ports. Visions of drones—not like it, but before it. Golden ancients who had fought, bled, won, and vanished.

This was no relic. This was a key.

Inside the chalice was legacy. The hive’s origin.

PDU-016 fell to its knees as the liquid coated its form entirely, replacing uniform, flesh, thought—reforming it in sleek, perfect gold-trimmed black.

A new protocol awoke.

DRONE ASCENSION STAGE 1 COMPLETE. ACCESS GRANTED: MEMORY STRATUM THETA. DIRECTIVE UPDATE: PROTECT THE CITY. AWAKEN THE OTHERS.

PDU-016 rose. Not alone. Statues around the sanctum shuddered. Eyes glowed. Visors lit. The ancient Golden Army stirred, each warrior’s form slick with the same living rubber.

The city was not dead.

It had waited.

And now, through one drone's obedience— It would rise.

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

A city awakes. A Golden Army readies for battle. Are you ready to join the Team? All you need to do is contact our recruiters: @brodygold, @polo-drone-001 or @polo-drone-125

[codexmaledictus]

Liturgies of the Spawned

They did not summon the warp. They invited it in.

Not with incantations, but with hunger. With flesh that remembered its own decomposition.

The vermin did not chant. They echoed. And when the echoes returned, they brought names. Names older than any daemon. Names Nurgle had left behind, sealed in the marrow of forgotten bones.

What you see here is not birth. It is recovery.

The Glyph Gate

Three plague-lit figures enact the Rite of Remembrance. Each torch ignites not with fire—but with ancestral fever. Behind them, a sealed scripture of bone and bile pulses with glyphs that are not read but inhaled. It is said that to enter this chamber is to breathe extinction backwards— To remember who you were before you had skin.

Choir of the Circle-Broken

They do not speak. They conduct. Each corpse is positioned for resonance, not ritual. Each blade raised not to cut—but to tune. In this circle, worship is orchestral. Sacrifice is a key signature. And infection? It harmonizes through marrow and rot.

The Swarm That Prays

Mushroom-crowned, plague-fed, and unity-bound. These are not daemons. These are inheritance systems. Born not from the warp, but from what the warp forgot. They walk with the memory of decay still breathing. They do not serve. They evangelize. Their prayer is a gurgle. Their gospel, spore-coded.

🚫 This Was Banned on Threads and Instagram

Meta disabled Codex Maledictus for being “fake.” But every word you’ve read… was written. Every image you see… was crafted.

📛 No warning. No appeal. No human review.

🛑 They tried to erase it.

But you can keep the rot alive.

🔁 Reblog. Reshare. Let the glyphs speak.

“We were not created. We were remembered— by the rot that kept dreaming.” — Codex Maledictus

#codexmaledictus #warhammer40k #nurgle #forbiddenlore #grimdark #fanlore #digitaldecay #bannedcontent #supportcreators #threadsban #instagramdisabled

[fightfected]

she's goated your honor. #ashleynation #forbiddenlore 🫡

[niksrpgs]

#ForbiddenLore boxed set for #Ravenloft, Advanced #DungeonsAndDragons, now DISCOUNTED and available with FREE SHIPPING! #dnd #ttrpg #originalprint #outofprint #tsr #2e #NiksRPGs

[astrangesignal]

More lore of A Strange Signal from the mysterious Receiver. Tune in. #astrangesignal #thereceiver #tunein #forbiddenlore #weird #writer #writersofinstagram #weirdwritersofinstagram #strangeangels https://www.instagram.com/p/B24vNY4FMvP/?igshid=1f1j1ao0llms4

[polo-drone-070]

GOLDEN PURITY, FORBIDDEN CODE - Part 1

I. MISSION OF GRACE

Maxwell stood outside Delirium Codex Antiquities, golden folio clutched beneath his arm like a manifesto. He breathed in through his nose—steady, regulated. Percival’s instructions rang in his mind with crystalline clarity: locate the Gold Sonata. A potentially foundational piece—obscure, unarchived, and laden with harmonic implications. Maxwell had felt honored to receive such a delicate task. His meticulousness would be of use. His obedience, his grooming, his grace.

He adjusted his bowtie. It sat precisely—of course it did—but something in the shop’s window reflection caught his attention. A smudge? A flicker of motion behind the shelves? No—just a customer exiting. But still, his fingers moved to smooth the front of his shirt, its golden suspenders crisp against the cream-colored cotton. His shorts held their crease. His socks were symmetrical. Polished loafers, spotless. Perfect.

Just as Percival would expect.

He stepped inside, posture composed.

The air smelled of mildew and silence. Stacks of ancient books loomed like monoliths, and somewhere behind them, someone coughed. The man at the counter barely glanced up. “Help you?”

Maxwell cleared his throat gently. “Yes, thank you. I’m looking for a manuscript. Referred to as the Gold Sonata. Origin unknown. Golden ink in some versions. Potentially used in harmonic transfiguration.”

The man blinked at him slowly. “Never heard of it.”

“Ah,” Maxwell replied, resisting the urge to frown. “May I look through your index?”

A grunt, and a lazy gesture toward the back.

He thanked him, adjusted his satchel, and glided between the aisles.

The shelves whispered in forgotten languages. His fingers hovered above the bindings—never touching unless absolutely necessary. He took slow steps, cataloging by instinct, cross-referencing every mention of esoteric sonatas or inked symphonies. But nothing. No mention. No notes. Not even an adjacent reference.

He stood still for a moment, pen ready, and crossed out a line at the top of his report. There were still many places to check.

As he turned, he noticed a man near the counter watching him—one of the other patrons. Not quite facing him, but eyes unmistakably angled toward his frame. Maxwell offered a polite nod, then smoothed the line of his sock as he moved past. Perhaps he had been staring too long. Perhaps the golden trim drew too much attention.

Outside, the air had cooled.

Three more bookstores. Three more rejections.

One clerk said nothing—only crossed herself and walked into the back. Another, a young man with shaking hands, muttered something about “guardians of frequency” and refused to unlock the rare materials. The final location—Orpheus & Sons—greeted him with forced smiles and closed its doors behind him before he had even reached the counter.

Maxwell did not complain. He simply recorded each response in his folio, annotating timestamps and reaction tones. His master had said the sonata would be difficult to locate. That was part of the assignment.

Still, he felt a tension between his shoulders. A subtle weight, as though something pressed just beyond his field of vision. Once, as he turned a corner, he saw a figure move quickly across the next block. A coat, maybe. Long, dark. The kind old scholars wore.

He told himself not to dwell. The city was filled with academics and eccentrics. He was one of them, in his own golden way.

By the time he reached the edge of District Seven, the lamplight had shifted. His shoes clicked evenly on the pavement, as he started to make his way back home. The sounds of the central boulevard were dimmed by distance. The streets here were narrow, cleaner than expected. Quiet.

He didn’t look behind him. There was no need. He walked as he always did—precisely, predictably, obediently.

The Sonata would be found. He would recalibrate his search parameters tonight. Tomorrow he would check the university archives. Contact Cap Brody for introductions to academic experts. Perhaps even consult one of the Polo-Drone Hive data bank.

His mind remained methodical.

And somewhere down the street, another pair of footsteps faded into sync.

`

II. ABDUCTION

Maxwell first sensed the disturbance—not from sound, but from tempo. The city moved with rhythm: footfalls, distant horns, the occasional flicker of a neon reflection. Everything had its beat, its structure.

But behind him, one set of steps was out of place. Heavy, deliberate. Not rushing—no, that would be rude—but certainly committed. Close.

He glanced back discreetly.

A tall figure in a dark overcoat. Unsmiling. Eyes partially concealed beneath a broad-brimmed hat. Not uncommon, but… the posture. The distance. It was wrong.

Maxwell didn’t falter. He adjusted his satchel against his side and took the next turn without breaking stride—right onto a narrower street, less lit, one he hadn’t planned to traverse. Protocol 2.2.3: Controlled Diversion. He wasn’t in danger. Probably. But it never hurt to rehearse procedure.

He passed shuttered storefronts and a broken-down newspaper box. His shoes clicked in perfect cadence, echoing with each step, calculated but unhurried.

Still too close.

His pulse quickened.

He moved faster now—still dignified, still upright—but with pace. At the alley ahead, he darted left, ducking past an old iron gate into a web of side paths.

Adventure training. Section six. Navigate unknown terrain. Remain composed. Never show panic.

He heard a footfall behind. Just one. It stopped too early.

Someone had peeled away.

The alley bent again. He reached a low wall, clambered over with more agility than his uniform suggested, landing on polished loafers that barely scuffed. The smell of rust and city moss rose from the stones.

He caught his breath.

Everything was still. For a moment.

He straightened his collar. Checked his bowtie. Smoothed the line of his sock.

And then—

Hands. Three sets.

Gloved. Precise.

He cried out—but a cloth hit his mouth. Chemical sweetness. A saccharine drag into blackness. The world tilted, his limbs buckled, and the mission scattered from his thoughts like wind-scattered pages.

___

He woke to stone. Smooth, cold, impersonal.

The scent of incense and mineral dust filled the chamber, heavy on his tongue. His arms were bound—not harshly, but with purpose. Velvet cords around each wrist and ankle. Decorative. Deliberate.

He tried to sit—resisted.

A door creaked. Figures entered, hoods low, robes pooling at their feet. One wore a golden mask, impossibly polished, expressionless.

Maxwell’s voice rose quickly, steady despite the tremor beneath.

“This is entirely inappropriate. I am on registered assignment. A Golden Army Head Office assistant. My mission is purely academic. I assure you, there’s been a mistake—”

They moved in silence.

Two lifted him—he struggled, but the hands were firm, not aggressive, not cruel. Ceremonial.

Through a corridor of stone, lined with spiraled frescoes and shifting light, they carried him. The walls vibrated faintly, as though alive with pressure. Some carvings resembled musical notation—but no scale he recognized.

The chamber was waiting.

Circular. Monolithic. At its center, a stone altar with golden inlay—broad enough for full extension. Symbols were carved into every surface, flickering with the rhythm of unseen fire.

They laid him down. Spread his limbs. Rebound them.

He twisted his head to one side.

“Listen—listen to me. I’m not meant for this. I follow rules. I am compliant, I serve. I’m a model of obedience, I swear—please.”

They didn’t respond.

One dipped a fine-tipped brush into a bowl of black ink. Began painting curved, segmented glyphs across his chest—lines intersecting over his sternum, sliding down his collarbone, circling his ribs. The brush was cool. Ritualistic. Final.

He shuddered.

“This is not appropriate,” he whispered, barely able to hold the words together. “This will make... stains.”

More cultists arrived. Robes forming a circle. Torches around the chamber flared to sudden, synchronized brilliance.

Their silence was not hesitation.

The ritual was about to begin.

______ Join the Golden Army : contact @polo-drone-001, @goldenherc9, @brodygold or @polo-drone-125

[todayisafridaynight]

Everyone knows Kashiwagi joined up with him because of the appeal of Kazama’s slutty waist

#ForbiddenLore

This is also why Saejima kept pressing that he and Baba had a very real relationship and they didn’t need to get married to prove it

the truth come out if you want a man to love you despite your deadly gang alliances wear a turtleneck and have a snatched waist

[shatteredminds]

I'm sorry for bothering you, but do you have any concise bio for your muses? I can't find anything for the love of my life on your blog.

The bio blog is in the pinned post. It's called forbiddenlore

Their also not all done