PSYOPS REIGN OF TERROR

Chapter 1: Sold to the Richest Oligarchy.

The first rule of survival: someone else pays the price.

The tubes hissed as they sealed—transparent, airtight, clinical.

Contestant 11666 stood inside his, soaked and shaking. Across from him, two smaller tubes locked in.
His daughters. Eight and eleven. Barefoot. Strapped in. Red lights blinked above their heads.

The Host’s voice oozed through hidden speakers. Slick. Scripted. Cruel.

“Contestant 11666… you have beautiful kids.”

A pause.

“Three seconds: Earth, water, or fire. Or will Dad take the hit?”

Crowd noise built—distorted, delighted.

“The kids!”
“No—Dad! Dad! Dad!”
“Let it burn!”
“Water! Water! Water!”
“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

The Host chuckled.

“What a night out, aye folks?”
“Talk about an adrenaline rush!”

“Alright, Dad… get ready. Four seconds and you’re all gone.”

“Wake up in there.”
“Smile—it’s good for the ratings.”

Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

THUMP.

Hydraulics hissed. Something wet was dragged across tile.

A slick red smear stretched between the drains.

“Anyone need a young cleaner?”
“Quiet. Siblings. Cheap.”

The lights re-centered. The crowd hushed.

Two more contestants were escorted in.

Raine and Milo.

Alive. Awake. Unarmed.

The Host’s voice sharpened.

“Ladies and the dirty rich—oops, I mean oligarchies…”
“You’ve seen the tubes. You’ve seen the floods. You’ve seen the fire.”

“Been there. Done that. Drowned a dozen.”

A pause. The crowd murmured.

“Should we?”

The audience chanted, hungry.

“Should we?”

“Okay… just for you.”
“Clear the stage. Bring in the beds.”

Steel restraints rose.

Operating tables clicked into position under overhead surgical lights.

Clamps engaged. Lights shifted from white to surgical red.

Raine blinked. Milo didn’t flinch.

“Next up—Contestants Raine and Milo.”
“Number 11667.”

“They’ll just clean up the mess.”
“Let’s see if you last longer than three seconds.”

“Average-income neighborhood.”
“Will they miss you?”

“Happily married, but hungry…”
“Roof leaking… living the lifestyle, aren’t you two?”
“Kids on the way.”

The Host let the silence stretch.

“Charming.”

“But the crowd tires of the small talk.”

Pipes hissed. Syringes locked into place.
The beds tilted slightly—prime for display.

Somewhere above, the odds reset.

Who would’ve thought history would repeat.
It always does—when the price is right.

In 1929, a leather-bound ledger held the blueprint for humanity’s sale price—
and the winning bid. Historian Eleanor Hayes uncovered a devastating plot to orchestrate the financial collapse. With a disgraced trader and a murdered journalist, she exposed the architects of the crash—and ignited the first underground rebellion against a powerful, unseen empire: The Oligarchy Game.

Eleanor pushed her wire-rimmed glasses up her nose and carried the ledger to her workspace, where dozens of other documents lay scattered across the oak table. Her normally methodical approach had given way to a frenzied pattern of discovery over the past few weeks. The banking records before her told one story on the surface – a story of prosperity and economic growth – but underneath…

She opened the ledger, its pages crackling with age. Her eyes darted between three separate documents: the official Bank of New York records, a privately published financial circular, and a series of ownership transfers that seemed innocuous at first glance.

“It can’t be this simple,” she muttered, jotting notes in her precise handwriting. The same names kept appearing in different configurations, like actors switching masks in a complex theater production. Morgan. Rockefeller. Foster. Each connection led to another, forming an intricate web that stretched far beyond the scope of her original research into the decade’s economic boom.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor made her freeze. At eleven o’clock at night, the archives should have been empty except for her – a privilege granted by her department chair for her promising research. The footsteps passed, but Eleanor’s heart continued to race. She’d been jumping at shadows ever since she’d noticed the pattern three days ago.

A soft knock at the door made her jump. “Dr. Hayes?” Professor William Foster’s familiar voice carried through the heavy wood. “Are you still here?”

Eleanor relaxed slightly. “Come in, Professor.”

Foster entered, his tweed jacket slightly rumpled, his gray hair disheveled. His eyes, usually twinkling with academic enthusiasm, held an unusual gravity. “I thought I might find you here. Have you seen today’s financial pages?”

She shook her head, gesturing to the chaos of documents surrounding her. “I’ve been rather absorbed in the historical records.”

Foster pulled a folded newspaper from his pocket and placed it on top of her notes. “Perhaps you should look at both past and present simultaneously.” His finger tapped a column of numbers. “The patterns you mentioned in your notes last week… they’re happening again.”

Eleanor’s breath caught as she compared the figures to her historical findings. The similarity was undeniable. “This isn’t just academic anymore, is it?”

“No,” Foster said quietly. “I’ve been making inquiries of my own. There are people – powerful people – who would prefer these patterns remain unnoticed.”

The weight of his words settled over the room like a heavy shroud. Eleanor gathered her notes with trembling hands, suddenly aware of how exposed they were in the vast archive room. “We should talk somewhere else.”

As they prepared to leave, Eleanor noticed a white envelope that had been slipped under the door. Her name was typed on the front, no return address. Inside was a single sentence: “Curiosity has consequences, Dr. Hayes. Choose wisdom over truth.”

Foster read the note over her shoulder, his face grim. “They’re watching you now. We need to be careful about your next steps.”

Eleanor tucked the note into her pocket, her mind racing. The next morning, she arrived at her office early, only to find the door slightly ajar. Inside, her books lay scattered across the floor, desk drawers pulled open, papers strewn everywhere. But Eleanor allowed herself a small smile – they hadn’t found what mattered most. Behind a loose panel in the Victorian-era wainscoting, a hollow book still held her most damning evidence: a handwritten ledger showing the true ownership structure of twelve major banks, all leading back to a single, shadowy organization.

She retrieved the book with steady hands, her fear giving way to determination. “Choose wisdom over truth,” she whispered, remembering the warning note. “But what if wisdom lies in pursuing the truth, no matter the consequences?”

The morning sun cast long shadows through her office window as Eleanor began to plan her next move. She couldn’t know then that this moment would mark the beginning of her transformation from a mere academic into something far more dangerous: a keeper of secrets that could shake the very foundations of American power.

The autumn wind whipped through Manhattan’s concrete canyons as Eleanor Hayes pulled her coat tighter, navigating the bustling streets of the Financial District. Her meeting with Marcus Thompson had been arranged through a cryptic note from Professor Foster, directing her to a small coffee shop tucked between towering bank buildings.

She spotted him immediately – a well-dressed man in his early forties, his once-pristine suit showing signs of wear, reading the morning’s financial papers with intense concentration. His fingers drummed restlessly on the table, betraying an underlying tension that matched the gravity of their meeting.

“Mr. Thompson?” Eleanor approached cautiously, noting how his eyes darted to the door before settling on her face.

“Dr. Hayes.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “I’ve been following your research through William. Quite remarkable what you’ve uncovered in those dusty archives.”

Eleanor studied him carefully, noting the slight tremor in his hands as he poured her coffee. “Professor Foster mentioned you might have insights into some unusual trading patterns I’ve documented.”

Marcus leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Three years ago, I was senior trader at Morgan Stanley. I noticed similar patterns – coordinated trades, impossible coincidences. When I raised concerns, I was quietly dismissed. They called it ‘restructuring,’ but we both know what it really was.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Sarah Chen, her quick steps and alert demeanor marking her as someone accustomed to moving through the financial world unnoticed. “Sorry I’m late,” she whispered, sliding into the third chair. “Had to make sure I wasn’t followed.”

Eleanor watched as Sarah extracted a small notebook from her handbag, its pages filled with intricate sequences of numbers and symbols. A cryptographer working in the coding room at National City Bank, Sarah had developed an eye for patterns that went beyond mere coincidence.

“Look at these market signals,” Sarah pointed to a series of seemingly random stock listings. “They’re using the financial pages as a communication system. Price adjustments, volume reports – it’s all coded information.”

Marcus nodded grimly. “I’ve seen these before. They’re coordinating massive market movements, but in ways that appear natural to the outside observer.”

Over the next hours, they pieced together a disturbing picture. Marcus’s trading floor experience combined with Sarah’s cryptographic expertise revealed a sophisticated network of financial manipulation. Eleanor’s historical research had uncovered the blueprint, but their combined insights showed how the same patterns were actively being implemented.

“We need a secure place to continue this work,” Eleanor said, noting how the café was filling with the lunch crowd. Marcus smiled for the first time that morning.

“I might have just the place.” He led them through a maze of side streets to an abandoned speakeasy, its entrance hidden behind a false storefront. “The prohibition agents haven’t found this one yet, and the owner owes me a favor.”

The space was perfect – private booths, multiple exits, and most importantly, no connection to their public lives. They began establishing their base of operations, with Sarah setting up an elaborate system for decoding financial communications while Marcus mapped out trading patterns on the wall.

Professor Foster arrived later that afternoon, bringing with him a network of trusted journalists and academics who had harbored similar suspicions. The speakeasy’s back room transformed into a war room, walls covered with interconnected pieces of evidence.

As dusk approached, Marcus suddenly went rigid, staring at a telegram he’d intercepted. “This just came through the wire room at my old firm,” he said, hands shaking. “It’s encoded, but the pattern matches what we’ve been tracking.”

Sarah quickly began working on the decrypt, her pen flying across paper. Eleanor watched as the color drained from her face. “It’s a timing signal,” Sarah whispered. “They’re planning something big, and soon.”

The gravity of their discovery settled over the room. They had stumbled upon not just evidence of past manipulation, but active plans for what could be the largest financial conspiracy in history.

“We need to move faster,” Eleanor declared, the academic in her giving way to something more urgent. “Every day we wait gives them more time to perfect their plan.”

As they left that evening, splitting up to take different routes home, Eleanor felt the weight of their newfound alliance. They were no longer just researchers and professionals – they had become something else: a resistance cell in the heart of Wall Street, racing against time to expose a truth that powerful people wanted buried.

The threatening note in her office now seemed like a distant warning. They had crossed a line today, moving from observation to action. As Eleanor walked home through the darkening streets, she knew there would be no turning back.

The leather-bound ledger felt heavy in Eleanor’s hands as she and Marcus huddled over Sarah’s desk, illuminated by a single lamp in their makeshift war room within the speakeasy’s hidden backroom. Sarah’s fingers traced patterns across pages of decoded messages, her normally steady hand trembling slightly as the full picture emerged.

“These aren’t just random market fluctuations,” Sarah whispered, her voice tight with tension. “Look at the timing of these trades. They’re perfectly synchronized across different institutions.”

Eleanor nodded grimly, cross-referencing the patterns with her archival findings. “The same signatures we found in the historical records. But this time, we’re seeing it happen in real-time.”

Marcus paced behind them, his Wall Street experience lending weight to their discoveries. “They’re using a sophisticated clearing system. Multiple banks executing identical orders within minutes of each other. It’s beautiful in its complexity – and terrifying in its implications.”

A knock at the door made them all freeze. Professor Foster entered, his face ashen. “I’ve just come from the Century Club. Andrew Morgan was there, holding court like a king among his subjects.”

Eleanor’s pulse quickened. Andrew Morgan – the name had appeared repeatedly in her research, always at the periphery, never directly implicated. “Tell us everything.”

Foster collapsed into a chair, accepting the glass of water Sarah offered. “He was discussing agricultural futures with a group of bankers. On the surface, it seemed innocent enough. But there was something in their expressions, their careful choice of words…”

“We need to get closer,” Eleanor declared, her academic caution warring with growing urgency. “These paper trails and overheard conversations won’t be enough.”

Marcus leaned forward, his expression grave. “The Astor’s hosting a charity gala next week. Morgan will be there, along with half of Wall Street’s elite.”

“And how exactly do we get in?” Sarah asked skeptically.

Eleanor smiled, reaching into her bag and producing two gilt-edged invitations. “Professor Foster’s reputation still opens certain doors.”

The gala proved to be a masterclass in controlled chaos. Eleanor, dressed in borrowed finery, moved through the crowd with practiced ease, her years of navigating academic social circles serving her well. Marcus, in his element among his former peers, worked the room while maintaining a discrete distance from Eleanor.

Their careful choreography paid off when Morgan himself appeared, commanding attention without effort. Eleanor positioned herself near a cluster of bankers, pretending to admire a nearby painting while her trained ear caught fragments of conversation.

“…the wheat position must be liquidated by the fifteenth…”

“…Cooper’s group is prepared…”

“…telegraph confirmation expected tomorrow…”

Each word confirmed their worst fears. Sarah’s decoded messages had revealed a pattern, but hearing it discussed so casually, so confidently, made it real.

Later that night, as they reconvened in their hideaway, Sarah’s decryption skills unveiled the final pieces. The coded communications between banks formed a perfect web, each thread leading back to Morgan’s inner circle.

“They’re not just planning to crash the market,” Marcus explained, his voice hollow. “They’re orchestrating a complete restructuring of the financial system. The crash is just the beginning.”

Eleanor spread their evidence across the table – bank records, decoded messages, transcribed conversations. “We need to warn people.”

Foster grabbed his coat. “I have contacts at the Herald Tribune. We can’t print everything, but even a hint might be enough to—”

“William, wait,” Eleanor caught his arm. “We need to be strategic about this. One wrong move and we’ll lose everything.”

But Foster was already heading for the door. “Sometimes you have to take a stand, Eleanor. Sometimes—”

The words died in his throat as a shadow passed across the window. They all froze, watching as more shadows gathered outside.

“They’ve found us,” Sarah whispered, already gathering their most crucial documents.

Eleanor’s mind raced. “Marcus, take the north exit. Sarah, the coded ledgers. I’ll secure the rest.”

As they scattered into the night, Eleanor clutched their evidence close, her historian’s heart aching at the weight of knowledge they now carried. The invisible hand wasn’t just moving markets – it was reshaping the very foundation of American power.

And they were the only ones who could prove it.

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