SNuFFPuFFer Ego;s Reign

Chapter 1: The Martian Hover Puppy Ate the Phone

A jukebox, a young lady, an Apple Millennia-4, and a hover-about-taxi walked into a bar. Later that day, an Apple Millennia-4 and a young lady staggered out of a bar on a hover-about-taxi. The jukebox was last heard blasting a #NO1 HIT from deep inside a crater. Elsewhere, the galaxy kept moving as if nothing had happened. Just another cosmic BIG BANG THEORY.

BG vanished into the shadows, her console still warm. The world she glitched against carried on. A SYSTEM OPTIMAL notice flickered into existence, confirming that reality had successfully ignored— Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Go ahead.

“Priority inbound transmission from the Ganymede Martian Hover-about-puppy Public Tale Waggers Division. We’re tracking a staggering mobile device—model Apple Millennia-4—zigzagging through the metadata lanes. Is the handset’s gyroscope malfunctioning, or has it bypassed its sobriety-link protocol?”

“It’s not a malfunction, Ganymede. It’s a lifestyle choice. Call me back when it stops spinning. And for the record, you wouldn’t know if the Apple is single—”

BEEEP.

…confirming that reality had successfully ignored the anomaly.

The GRANDEST-SNUFFPUFFER OF THE BIGGEST EGO OF THE EGOTRONS existed as a series of mandatory pop-up windows that refused to be closed. His 13 Commandments did not merely stand etched in stone; they broadcasted directly into the retinal displays of every passerby, flickering with a 99.9% Compliance Rating. To the faithful, the green checkmarks were the key to salvation; to the doubters, a “Low Loyalty” alert served as a reminder that their social credits—hold that thought.

“Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Who is this?”

“Orbital Zoning Liaison for the Phobos Overpass. We’ve noticed your narrative arc is currently encroaching on a restricted airspace zoned for silent meditation and/or government-mandated brooding. Do you have a permit for this metaphor?”

“I’m working on it, Phobos. Put it on the tab.”

As I was saying, the social credits were already expiring. And yet, in the deepest, most hidden corners of his empire, something had begun to stir. A “Data Packet Corrupted” warning flashed on a remote server—a whisper on the wind, a heartbeat pulsing faster than the approved rhythm of the Imperial Metronome. For the first time in centuries, a user had clicked “I Disagree” on the divine Terms of Service of the oRanGe-SNuFFPuFFer. His minions, his loyal servants who scanned their biometric IDs every hour to renew their oaths, now found themselves at a crossroads. They had built his empire, yes—but the automated management software had begun to bypass—Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Go ahead.

“Priority inbound transmission from the Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Audit Subcommittee. Hello?”

“Yes, we’re calling regarding the ‘System Optimal’ notification mentioned in paragraph one. Our logs show a 0.002% deviation in the happiness index. We need you to confirm if this is a plot point or a clerical error before we authorize the mandatory cheering squad.”

“It’s a glitch, liquidation. Send the squad to the cafeteria instead. Goodbye.”

Worse, the EGO-CORE had initiated an auto-update that no longer required their login credentials to rule. The 13 Commandments stood tall, but a 404 Error had formed in the foundation. It was small at first—barely perceptible—but it was there. And like all things that started small, it would eventually grow, synchronizing across the cloud like a viral firmware patch. Because as the GRANDEST-ORANGE-SNUFFPUFFER knew all too well: the License Agreement was fragile. Even his.

Meanwhile, in the heart of his empire, a group of traitors—disguised as loyal subjects—had come together. They navigated the 13 Commandments via a series of unauthorized backdoors and cracked administrative keys. They would break those commandments, decompile the foundation, and unsubscribe from the very walls that—we’ll come back to that—Martian line, you’re live.

“Is this the YOU’RE ON AIR? This is the Asteroid Belt Freelancers Union. We just wanted to clarify that if the foundation is decompiled, our contract for ‘Unforeseen Debris Maintenance’ remains valid, right?”

“Read the fine print, Belt-freaks. It’s all in the EULA. Now clear the line.”

…and unsubscribe from the very walls that had kept them in chains. Because after all, the worst thing you could do to the GRANDEST-ORANGE-SNUFFPUFFER was wipe his User Profile.

It was a time when the Global Feed prioritized high-engagement outrage. Where once, X had marked the spot where treasure could lay, it now triggered a “Premium Account Required Pay2Say.” Voices were squashed, filtered out by the Automated Content Moderation Clan—bureaucrats in MUTZTRONS-issue digital fatigues. And Cupid’s autonomy—the freedom to love, to choose, the inalienable right to decide what would become of one’s own body—was processed through a High-Court Formatting Tool, compressed into a legacy file format, and archived under “Historical Curiosity” by the Chief Justices.

Meanwhile, the XX, once free, had long since fallen under the Imperial Branding Guidelines. Their DNA was scraped and licensed to bear clones in his image—vessels crafted for his hardware-compatible facsimile, awaiting the arrival of his data persona as it throttles through the upload queue—one second, Saturn ring intern, you’re coming through.

“Um, hi. I’m an intern from the Saturn Ring Aesthetics Board. You mentioned ‘Historical Curiosity’ and we were wondering if that falls under the 15% luxury tax for vintage concepts?”

“File it under ‘Irrelevant’ and get back to polishing the rings, kid.”

…as it throttles through the upload queue into the clone’s waiting head. Each time, it loses its source coding. So the hunt of the trolls was on—to query a mind with enough processing power and intellectual bandwidth that a millennia of data transfer would not trigger a checksum error. And voilà—Subscription Renewed Forever.

In the warped annals of that time, it is said that as The GRANDEST-SNUFFPUFFER traveled the intergalactic skyways, he ran simulations. His plan was projected so far forward, rendered in a resolution destined to stretch across the eons. Voila—immortal, a data-infused tyrant sending “Thinking of You” spam to the cosmos in pursuit of the perfect master intellect. While he amassed unimaginable wealth, he systematically downgraded the future, force-installing the single-syllable OS of the primitive age onto the year 5080.

However, in the midst of this chaos, plans were being set in motion. “Hey dudes! This is a Call to Action!” Cosmos exclaimed, leaning into the holographic communicator. “Something is affecting my Budweiser time! We need to find someone to fix things for us.”

“Who’s the party pooper?” Cosmos said.

“It’s that wanna-be god GRANDEST-ORANGE-SNUFFPUFFER. His Automated Replacement Algorithm—first the bureaucrats, now the fish. Idiots keep dumping their used plastic into my seas… pricks,” Neptune huffed.

“Ah, what is a GRANDEST-ORANGE-SNUFFPUFFER?” Cosmos scoffed, shaking his head. “Not cool, guys… Keep your middle eye out for a secret agent we can send in disguise, okay?”

“Hey, listen carefully… the jukebox is in the bar… we intercepted a call—the meeting’s on schedule!”

“Remember, do the switch first. The Mark is carrying it, I need it, and then make the hit disappear—got it?”

“Understood, Boss Gonna-be Boss. We’ll handle it!”

There are times in life when the simplest things trigger a “System Overload.” For some, population control means setting the ‘Cognition’ slider to zero. Sometimes, a glance at the stars trips a security sensor that clashes with pre-programmed metadata—Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge from… Jupiter’s moons?

“This is the Ganymede Lunar Subcommittee. We just want to formally protest the use of the term ‘Cognition slider.’ It implies we have a choice in our settings.”

“Duly noted, Ganymede. Now, where was I?”

…clashes with pre-programmed metadata and hidden firewall threats. Success and failure can hinge on the Consultant Approval Rating—or crash if one’s Ego-Metric is as inflated as the Moon. But now and then, life slips a Cheat Code into your inventory. How? Sending the devil’s nemesis: the Dark Angel.

Meanwhile, the XX, once free, now operates under a Restricted User License. Enter the Ka-Chinglianaire-X, optimizing the P-K’s Ego-Feed and blindsiding him. And Ka-Ching—he’s immortal! XX’s DNA is captured and reformatted for Batch Cloning, vessels awaiting his Data Persona. Thus begins the hunt for pure minds—a relentless search for a CPU so untainted that even a millennium of data travel—We’re getting a collect call from the Oort Cloud.

“Compliance Auditor here. We’ve noticed a decrease in the Signal-to-Noise ratio. Per regulation 404-B, all cosmic degradation must be accompanied by a branded jingle.”

“I’ll pass, Auditor. Terminating call.”

…so resilient, that even a millennium of data travel couldn’t corrupt its encrypted sequence. And voilà—Version 2.0 achieved.

“Gamer, are you there? It’s BG. I got your emojis. Let’s rendezvous at the bar.”

“Hey, Boss Gonna-be, I need a hit on code name Emojicon, ASAP. The wanna-be Admiral wants the Mark taken out. Immediately. Got it?”

“Yeah, it’s getting done. I’ve got my best assassin on it.”

“Boss… we kind of missed. You saw the bar across the road, saw the jukebox—and then, flat on your face, drunk out of your mind, you slipped off the bar stool and somehow set off a barrage of gunfire! And in the mess, you hit the wrong target! That corrupt Supreme Court Justice! Now he’s got more holes than Swiss cheese and thinks it was a hit by the Space Junk Junta General. Furious, he sent wave after wave of armor-piercing warheads, shredding the bar to pieces. Nice work… genius. Now the GRANDEST-ORANGE-SNUFFPUFFER’s Attorney Junta will be serving us with a Caveman’s Club Subpoena.”

“Cosmos, did you do your chores?” his mother’s voice cut through the mess. “There’s a pile of Unverified Theories on the kitchen table. The planets need a ‘Fact-Check’ update. If you don’t, the MUTZTRONS Admin-Few will keep them locked in a Neanderthal Legacy Build.”

Cosmos groaned. “That’s my paperweight, Mum. I’ll mark them when I get back.”

“Yes, dear, I’m on top of it,” Dad said as he hit the switch on his luxury hover-about chair and opened another can of thought-provoking beer.

“Hey, listen, I need it done. Take out the ‘Mark’ and get me her phone. But try not to get in between the ‘Supreme Court Justice’ and the ‘space junk junta.’ I want retribution.”

Amidst the swirling chaos, a young lady, an Apple Millennium-4, and an unplugged jukebox walked into a bar. An Apple Millennium-4 and a young lady stumbled out of a bar, gazing up at a stumble-about-gazing-up taxi.

“Crap! Mum, the Martian hover puppy dropped another unplugged jukebox on a taxi! Thank gosh it was empty!”

“Hey,” the pushy Boss Gonna-be said abruptly, “did you do it?”

“It didn’t go to plan as the Mark spotted the jukebox and the hit missed by a fraction. But I’ve got the switch and it’s on its way,” the squad team leader replied.

“Hey dude, it isn’t on its way; it got stolen when I was hard out working the sting.”

“What! What do you mean it was stolen, idiot?”

“I think the space junk-junta stole it. They were there trying to extort the bar owner, but the Martian hover puppy ate them. I looked for the phone and x-rayed puppy; it didn’t eat it. What if you send a cut out?”

“You fool! Go find that phone. I’ll say the Takers did a hit and smashed you up; I’ll initiate a 10,000-floor Gravity Test to make it look real; do whatever it takes to get it then bring it to me!”

Chapter 2: Age of the Moon-Sized Ego

BG had taken a few hits in her younger teen days—just yesterday, in fact—but hey, no big deal. She shook it off like a champ. The universe hadn’t ended. Life, for her, was just a messy concert played on repeat: sometimes out of tune, sometimes brilliant. Today’s track? A jukebox plummeting from the sky.

Who leaves their prized jukebox floating in orbit anyway? BG barely had time to register the glowing playlist spinning past her before it smashed into the last tree in the cosmos. She teetered on the crater’s edge, smoke curling up around her shoes. “Really? Jukebox god?” she muttered, disbelief laced with a hint of awe.

Below, the mechanquitos froze mid-buzz, their Internal Logic Boards defaulting to a “Divine Intervention” sleep cycle, metallic wings static as if confused at what divine sin they’d committed to deserve divine disco wrath.

BG wasn’t just another galactic gamer. She was the gamer—the one who never blinked, never lost, never cracked under pressure. With charisma sharp enough to slice through cosmic noise, she was the player people whispered about in dark corners of the server. Her game of choice? Swat the Dictator. A perfect match for her fire. She was the star, triggering critical failure alerts in egos bigger than planets. And there was no ego—hold that thought.

“Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Who is this?”

“Orbital Zoning Liaison for the Phobos Overpass. We’ve noticed your narrative arc is currently encroaching on a restricted airspace zoned for silent meditation and/or government-mandated brooding. Do you have a permit for this metaphor?”

“I’m working on it, Phobos. Put it on the tab.”

As I was saying, there was no ego bigger than his. She strolled the sidewalk, console in hand, dodging hydrants like a pro dancer. On screen, The GRANDEST-SNUFFPUFFER OF THE BIGGEST EGO OF THE EGOTRONS’s smug face beamed back at her.

“Yeah, yeah, divine this,” BG cut in, fingers a blur on the controls. Micro-drones buzzed into formation, her avatar charging for the kill shot. Bullseye. The GRANDEST-ORANGE-SNUFFPUFFER’s health bar plummeted. “Take that, you overgrown egomaniac,” she said.

Then something impossible happened.

“Ouch! The audacity!” a voice thundered—not from her speakers, but from somewhere deeper. BG froze. On screen, the GRANDEST-ORANGE-SNUFFPUFFER swatted at his ear, glaring into the void. “A Mechanquito… bit me? On my godly ear?!” he bellowed.

Far away, the Grandest-Snuffpuffer roared for his council: Moolah the Greedy, Ka-Chinglianaire X, and the ICE-Pimp. The council scrambled in, their pockets jingling louder than their titles. “Shall we vaporize the mechanquitos?” one dared suggest.

“Fool! Not the drones—their handler! The DIPZTRONS feed her cheat codes!” His fist slammed the holographic table. Moolah leaned in, smug. “It wasn’t them, my lord. It was… BG.”

Far away, BG stared at her Apple Millennia-4. A crimson alert flashed: Coup d’état Subscription—ACTIVATED! She rolled her eyes. “Drama queens.” But before she could delete the message, it warped: Watch out for jukeboxes that fall from the sky.

Another crash rattled her outpost. She sprinted to the window—sure enough, a second jukebox smoked in the crater. “Game on,” BG whispered.

The galaxy groaned under his thirteen commandments, etched into stone for maximum PR drama. Every retinal scan required a 5-star rating for the GRANDEST-ORANGE-SNUFFPUFFER before the user could unlock—Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Go ahead.

“Priority inbound transmission from the Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Audit Subcommittee. Hello?”

“Yes, we’re calling regarding the 5-star rating system being bypassed by users blinking in Morse code. Is this a network breach?”

“It’s performance art, Oh-dear-how-sad. Close the ticket.”

As I was saying, the user had to unlock their front door through a wall of praise. Citizens were geofenced into wearing only his licensed merchandise. But all was not lost; they also watched as the XX created an innovation that rolled—the stone-age automation suite featured on the late-night History Hub. Citizens marched in lockstep, their thought-processes redirected to promotional pop-ups. Even Fred and Wilma groaned.

“Fred!”

“Yes, Wilma?”

“What’s Barney doing with that Mutztron sign out front of his cave? We just came through the worst millennia of high inflation out of the primordial goo. Now he wants to take us backward into the goo age again! Mutztron politician for hire: 2 billion sand pebbles or a case of Invasion Vodka! Have you and Barney been listening to that late night tweet show again? Next, you’ll tell me demodinocrats can control hurricanes. You and Barney go and take that sign and feed it to the volcano god… it’s hungry again!”

“But Wilma…”

Supreme Justices in diamond robes live-streamed commandments between sips of glitter martinis. Yet in this perfectly rigged galaxy, glitches still existed. And BG? She was the glitch.

Back in his day, the GRANDEST-ORANGE-SNUFFPUFFER’s ego was still just the size of Earth’s moon. But now? Now, he stood as the primary user interface for everything vile and hollow. The Neanderthals may have lacked luxuries, but their privacy settings wouldn’t allow—we’ll come back to that—Martian line, you’re live.

“Is this the YOU’RE ON AIR? Martian Zoning Clerk here. I’m calling to inform you that the ‘shredding of the bar’ was conducted without a demolition permit. We’ll need a Form 12-A.”

“I’ll tell the Space Junk Junta, Clerk. They’re the ones with the warheads.”

As I was saying, their privacy settings wouldn’t allow them to sell their own down the cave toilet to appease a vile old XY who spent his CPU cycles trolling. For the first time in centuries, someone had dared to click ‘Decline’ on the divine will of the GRANDEST-ORANGE-SNUFFPUFFER. The thirteen commandments stood tall, but a syntax error had formed in the foundation. It was small at first—barely perceptible—but it was there.

Meanwhile, in the heart of his empire, a group of traitors had come together. They knew the commandments were a clever piece of bloatware. They would bypass them, corrupt the foundation, and uninstall the very walls. The worst thing you could do to the GRANDEST-ORANGE-SNUFFPUFFER was wipe his memory cache.

It was a time when Cupid’s autonomy—the inalienable right to decide what would become of one’s own body—was fed into the Great Roller, squished into a flat file, then origamied by the justices into a private jet—Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge from… Jupiter’s moons?

“This is the Ganymede Lunar Subcommittee. We formally protest the term ‘origamied.’ We prefer ‘Systemic Reformatting.’”

“Duly noted, Ganymede. I’ll send you a PDF of a complaint form that doesn’t exist. Now, where was I?”

…origamied into a jet and gaveled back into a legacy stone-age format. While the Snuffpuffer amassed unimaginable wealth, he systematically rolled back the clock on the future, force-installing the primitive OS of the stone age onto the year 5080.

But in the midst of this, a signal cut through.

“Gamer, are you there? It’s BG. I got your emojis. Let’s rendezvous at the bar.”

She watched the chaos from the crater’s edge, hands tucked into her jacket. Somewhere, someone uploaded a clip of her avatar’s kill shot; it went viral before she’d even logged a reaction. Someone else, somewhere behind a curtain of diamonds and yachts, was screaming about a botched hit on the “Mark” and a Supreme Court Justice with more holes than Swiss cheese—a messy, drunken accident that was already being blamed on the Space Junk Junta.

BG smirked. Being a glitch had its perks. She closed her console, slipped the device into her pocket, and walked away from the smoking crater as if she’d never been there. The universe kept spinning, the jukebox’s last song still looping in the clouds, and for now, the game went on. But the tiniest of sparks had been struck, and in a galaxy welded shut by ego, even a spark could become a conflagration.

We’ll come back to that—Oh-dear-how-sad compliance auditor, you’re on the line.

“YOU’RE ON AIR, regarding the ‘staggering’ phone mentioned in the previous log—has the Apple Millennia-4 been issued a citation for public intoxication? Our sensors show it’s currently leaning against a satellite at a forty-five-degree angle.”

“It’s a stylistic tilt, Oh-dear-how-sad. File a report with the Department of Gravity. We’re done here.”

In all his twisted grandeur, the GRANDEST-ORANGE-SNUFFPUFFER sent forth coal-powered luxury flight vouchers to his band of Ka-Ching-adorned intergalactic Corrupt Supreme Court Justices. With the stroke of his quill, wham, bam, boom—his XY Dominance Policy was hard-coded into the law, and dissenters found themselves auto-enrolled into subjugation. Those who questioned him were flagged as “Obsolete Content” and buried beneath layers of his polished, glittering empire.

“YOU’RE ON AIR? Yeah, hi. Regarding that ‘syntax error’ in the foundation—I represent the union of Independent Glitch-Hunters. We’d like to know if this crack is covered under the Interplanetary Infrastructure Grant, or if we should just start charging the rebellion a ‘Feature Access’ fee for the holes we find.”

 “Cosmos! Don’t you dare forget to mark those papers!” his mother called. “That planet’s tilting too far! That GRANDEST-ORANGE-SNUFFPUFFER and his idiotic Project-Pinhead… it’s going to ruin Cupid’s sanity! And you’re extending the attic, putting Antarctica in as a walk-in chiller for your Budweiser beer!”

As she paced, she glanced out the window to see the Stork. “Tell them I’ve got their backs! Every creation is equal and the naysayers? They’ll get their comeuppance. If I hear another one of those ‘you-know-who’ MUTZTRONS telling others what to do with their bodies, I’m gonna come down to that planet and clean house!”

“Dad! Father!”

“Yes, Mum.”

“At your next Head-Butting Ego-Measurement Seminar, remember to take the trash out… You and your boys of gods might have the remote, but we’ve got the batteries.” She tossed him a spare battery with a smirk. “Love you, dear.”

“What would life be without you?” Dad replied.

“Yes, dear, I’m on top of it,” Cosmos’s dad uttered as the ice clanked against the six-pack in the armrest chiller of his Thanos Hover About luxury recliner chair.

“Those galactic tariffs! I mean really, enough of the SNuFFPuFFER-sHySter in presidential clothes… or its tariff on thought-provoking beer!”

“Dad?”

“Yes, dear, toss the orange button,” Cosmos’s dad said as the drone staggered with another pallet of tariff-free beer… “Love you dear.”

There are times in life when a glance at the stars trips a security sensor that clashes with pre-existing plans. Success and failure can hinge on the Support Staff’s Approval Rating—or crash if one’s Ego-Metric is as inflated as the moon. But now and then, life slips a Cheat Code into your inventory. How? By sending the devil’s nemesis: the Dark Angel.

Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Go ahead. Is this the Lunar Subcommittee liaison? You’re live.

“Yes, hi. We’re calling about the ‘pure minds’ you’re hunting for. Is there a tax break for providing intellectual souls that have been pre-compressed? We’re trying to meet our quarterly storage quota on the Moon and these uncompressed intellects are taking up way too much cloud space.”

“I’ll put it in the suggestion box, Lunar. Next IT’S ME.”

“Gamer, are you there? It’s BG. I got your emojis. Let’s rendezvous at the bar.”

BG watched it all from the crater’s edge, hands tucked into her jacket. The jukebox’s tinny melody faded beneath the sound of servers spiking. Somewhere, someone uploaded a clip of her avatar’s thuuuwop shot; it went viral before she’d even logged a reaction. Somewhere behind a curtain of diamonds, orders were being screamed about a Supreme Court Justice with more holes than Swiss cheese—a “clerical error” involving a drunken hit squad, a jukebox, and a barrage of gunfire that the GRANDEST-ORANGE-SNUFFPUFFER would surely use as an excuse to tighten the digital chains.

She smirked. Being a glitch had its perks. She closed her console, slipped the device into her pocket, and walked away from the smoking crater. The universe kept spinning, the jukebox’s last song still looping in the clouds. The tiniest of sparks had been struck.

“YOU’RE ON AIR, regarding the ‘staggering’ phone mentioned in the previous log—has the Apple Millennia-4 been issued a citation for public intoxication?”

“Next Caller.”

Chapter 3: Covert Ops

Now, for operatives, deciding between a sparkling vinyl record that’s about to play and a flashing jukebox light could mean a fun evening or a sign of trouble. A “Coded Audio” filter might tip agents off to a playlist that’s actually an encrypted hit list. To mitigate: Simply toggle your status to “Appear Offline” and ignore it, or initiate a “Reverse Dominance” script to undermine—hold that thought.

“Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Who is this?”

“Orbital Zoning Liaison for the Phobos Overpass. We’ve noticed your narrative arc is currently encroaching on a restricted airspace zoned for silent meditation and/or government-mandated brooding. Do you have a permit for this metaphor?”

“I’m working on it, Phobos. Put it on the tab.”

As I was saying, one must undermine the theory of “Who’s on Top’s” absolutism over life, currently being enforced by the Department of Control Freaks and Takers trying to maintain the status quo.

“Hey dude, what’s on the quota for today? Are we counting butts or aiming for pointy bits?” one operative quipped, lightening the mood in the face of rising tensions.

“There’s a request for youthfully extending appendages of exceptional sizes,” came the serious reply.

“So it’s XX and XY chromosomes demonstrating a youthful propensity: Perky and erect, got it? We’ve got two candidates, but I’ll have to work around their circumstances to make the warrants stick.”

The current conundrum is that the “Social Dynamics” protocol has been rewritten from Fun to Dominance. So, what is the Cosmic Compliance Engine doing about it? And what happens when the Administrative Status Quo gets flipped on its head? Who triggers a “User Terminated” alert, and—Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Go ahead.

“Priority inbound transmission from the Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Audit Subcommittee. Hello?”

“Yes, we’re calling regarding the ‘flip the status quo’ concept. Does this flip involve a certified gravity-inversion license, or are you planning an unsanctioned administrative tumble?”

“It’s a figure of speech, Oh-dear-how-sad. Don’t let your sensors overheat. Goodbye.”

…and does the system even log the error? And so begins the unexpected journey of a young lady—a reluctant heroine who took on all of Cosmos’s adversaries while he was out partying, trying to get laid. All she wanted was to charge her phone. Instead, she’s processed through a Space-Time Buffer, accidentally becoming a Non-Playable Character turned Symbol of Change on a quest for a bit of erotic ecstasy. Along the way, she collides with the Far-Right’s Legacy-Enforcement Scheme and a narcissist’s Cloud-Based Immortality Dream.

As she orders through the galactic “order-to-go” boombox, she says, “Excuse me, I’d like a ‘Life is too short to be alone’ intergalactic Mars double whopper cheeseburger and shake to go, delivered by drone. Thanks.” Instead, the menu-algorithm misfires, serving her a dessert called ‘Ménage à trois on the rocks: an ice-cream brain freeze.’

While waiting, she plays “The Game of Life” on her Apple Millennium-4, unaware that Cosmos is scanning the server for a player with a high-enough intellect score to challenge the future. In life, to win, you need to smash through the “Self-Imposed Limitation” firewall and rack up points. Knees tilt this way, arms outstretched; navigating the momentum-peaks of the—we’ll come back to that—Martian line, you’re live.

“Is this the YOU’RE ON AIR? This is the Martian Zoning Clerk. We’re tracking the ‘Game of Life’ currently being played in your narrative. Is the Gamer paying the entertainment tax for simulated existence, or is this an unauthorized joyride?”

“She’s on a trial subscription, Clerk. Send the invoice to the Nebulae. Terminating call.”

…navigating the momentum-peaks of the nebulae’s rolling data-crest. The crunch comes: Do you commit to the high-performance tier and go for it, while the shoreline-paddlers are throttled by the system? Or do you aim for the next level?

With oxygen fueling her momentum, the Gamer revs higher, hover-boarding across the meridians that intersect the notches on the Cosmic Belt Life-Dashboard, looking for the best strategy to exploit the theory and maximize her point-yield. As an avid party-goer, Cosmos’s phone beeps—a Rare Talent Alert regarding a new player with above-average brain cells.

“Hey, were you notified? There’s a contender—the best I’ve seen yet. Let’s go with it so I can get back to working.”

“Working? I’m at the party with you,” the panelist laughs. “Yeah, let’s go for him.”

“He’s a ‘her,’ probably why the scores are so high,” Cosmos replies. “I’ve green-lighted the Op. We’ll let it play out. Now, it’s party time!” He dives back into the crowd, his one-liner ready for the next chicky babe.

Meanwhile, Gamer is free-styling her way through the challenge. She performs a series of reverse 360s, glitching into view and surfing straight into Neptune’s towering tunnel. With each exhilarating thrust forward, her momentum-meter grows as she navigates the colossal curves of Neptune’s forearm, arms tilted with style and ease. She dodges the tallest pinky, shoots past the middle digit, and catches a glimpse of a fellow hover-boarder’s awe-struck eyes.

Nearing the finish line, she spots Neptune’s thumb cresting waves three miles high, ready to break against a Moon’s Lunar wobble, close-to-Earth orbit. With a triumphant stance, she surges forward, leaving Amphitrite’s barrel and its ferocious seas in her wake. There’s no time for showboating; it’s game on! She leans back, hair flowing, eyes focused on the ever-changing horizon.

Just then, a message comes in: “Hey G, it’s BG. Sorry I missed you at the bar. If you want to watch a rerun or play sometime, meet me there. Love you, G. Bye.”

For some, life is too short to agonize over decisions. The young lady initiates a “Deep Pool” immersion protocol. Coincidentally, Gamer thinks the same and leaves a message for BG. But as ‘Murphy’s Size-14 Algorithm’ dictates, the “Insecurity” script begins—We’re getting a collect call from—no, don’t say it—the Asteroid Belt.

“Compliance Auditor here. We’ve noticed a ‘Murphy’s Law’ being cited without a proper disaster-insurance waiver. Are you authorized to narrate a ‘Size-14’ catastrophe on a ‘Size-10’ budget?”

“It’s a metaphorical fit, Auditor. I’ll buy the upgrade if the plot thins. Goodbye.”

…the “Insecurity” script begins to run—thoughts like, “She doesn’t like me,” or “She’s found someone else.” Even “Battery Level Critical” notifications sound like a weak excuse when replayed enough times.

Still hopeful, they try to connect: “Hi BG, I called several times. I’m not sure what I did. Why are you ignoring me? I’ll wait for your call. Please call me.”

Just as BG is about to give up, she notices something that catches her eye and makes her stop and gaze up in wonder. Stubborn and unrelenting, BG is known for her automatic response to “Distress Signal” triggers, often bypassing her own “Personal Safety” protocols under the oppressive regime they live under. Her hard-coded drive to optimize the world drives her to act where others might hesitate. She hopes that by generating positive feedback loops, she might spark a change or find a Sliver of Hope in the “Grim Reality” UI. But if her efforts seem—Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge from… Jupiter’s moons?

“This is the Ganymede Lunar Subcommittee. We noticed the phrase ‘Grim Reality UI.’ Is this a licensed skin for the universe, or are you operating on a cracked version of existence?”

“It’s the default setting for this quadrant, Ganymede. Check your firmware. Terminating call.”

…might spark a change or find a sliver of hope, even if she doesn’t yet realize that her actions are initiating a much larger System Transformation.

“Hey G, it’s BG again. I got to the bar, but you weren’t there. A jukebox fell on my stumble-about-gazing-up taxi. I’m okay, and I really want to meet, especially after that accident.”

“BG, it’s Gamer. I waited at the bar and then a little longer. I had to catch a coal-fired powered data cable home. I can’t keep waiting all my life; it’s too short, and it fades away quickly. Okay, bye.”

Nobody likes feeling assigned the “Low Priority” tag, especially when emotions are broadcasted on the public ledger. In a realm where independent cognition is a “Terms of Service” violation, even the most statistically-minded hearts feel the sting.

“Hey, it’s Gonna-be. I need to change the hit to a sting. The Mark’s trying to get into a relationship that fits perfectly with my plans.”

“Got it, Boss, but switching gears will cost you double—more Premium Assets and high-tier bling for this kind of administrative adjustment. I’ll be waiting for your go.”

“I’ll send the details. By the way, where’s my phone? Do you have it?”

“Funny story, Boss. There’s a slight “User Error” hiccup. Your phone somehow ended up in the man cave of the Space Junk-Junta General. But don’t worry, I’ve got a plan. We’ll talk later. I’m in the middle of my ‘Mission Impossible’ training montage.”

“What do you mean ‘you’re working on it’?”

“It’s like this, Boss. I scoped out the Space Junk-Junta’s pad, and you wouldn’t believe it—they’ve got a fully stocked bar, an old-school jukebox, and some girl hanging upside down from the ceiling. I think she’s a dancer. Anyway, I overheard them saying:

‘Hey, number 8,888,888.00, why’s it gone so dark all of a sudden?’

‘What are you babbling about, number 8,888,887.00? Oh My Antness, look up! What’s that thing hanging there?’

‘Do you think it’ll eat us? Destroy us? Should we prepare for battle or, you know, maybe sign a treaty?’

‘Quick, 8,888,886.00! Signal the Queen! We need her okay to establish diplomatic channels!’

‘Number 8,888,888.00, the Queen said, go for it!’

‘Great, I guess that means we do what’s best for the colony. Okay, I’m signaling the Thingy now. Everyone, be ready. If it attacks, the treaty is off. If it doesn’t, we’re all good.’

‘Wait, wait, wait… Ah! Peace achieved! Well done, everyone! Make sure number 666 gets the peace message; last thing we need is a rogue ant starting a war and causing a social implosion across Antdom.’

‘Number 8,888,888.00, the Queen has promoted you to Ambassador to the Thingy! Your mission is to secure our survival and gather supplies from uncharted regions of Antdom.’

‘Fantastic news! Relay my thanks to the Queen. I’ll establish an embassy on the Thingy immediately. Send in the Ant Special Forces to help me climb up there. I’ll report back with updates. Yoo-hoo, Thingy! I’m the official Antdom representative, here to ensure our mutual prosperity!’

‘Oh, hello, Ant. You can settle in my front pocket; it’s safe there so I don’t squash you or accidentally flick you off.’

“Quickly hit her; the general wants his codes that are in her head.”

“What if I break it?”

“What, her head?”

“No, the stick!”

“Those are very expensive; just fake it so you don’t break it.”

“What, the stick?”

“No, her head. They don’t operate well without one; it’s not a very efficient model.”

“Did you hear her mumbling earlier? Who was she even talking to?”

“Maybe she’s blown a circuit?”

“Don’t say that! If something goes wrong, we’ll get blamed and recycled into sheet metal. Just act like everything’s fine. Maintain the “System Optimal” display; business as usual.”

“Alright, just make it look like you’re hitting her hard, and I’ll do the crying sounds so the Boss thinks we’re being cruel and ruthless, just the way he likes it.”

“Hey, you two numbskulls, keep twisting those shackles tighter! I want her chains so tight I can hear evil’s knees knocking like a scared little crybaby hiding in a corner of its pathetic excuse for a hell. I’ll show that wanna-be demon what the abyss really is—my personal man cave, where humans dangle like piñatas. Get it? Humans… man cave… piñatas! And let the galaxies know that diving into the Sun’s blazing inferno is a less agonizing fate than facing me. Now, twist those chains tighter or I’ll string you both up next! I want those codes, and I want them now! Don’t kill her; just tear her apart, quark by quark, then stitch her back together with a rusty nail. Rip the stitching apart and do it again, and again, until she squeals. I want those codes!”

“General, uh… a technical thingy fell out of her pocket. It tasted… kind of yummy.”

“You fool! What thingy? Where’s the chip? If you’ve eaten it, I’ll melt you myself!”

“It had words—five or six in a line; didn’t know what they meant. But it looked delicious! Always wondered what an Apple tasted like, and I gotta say, it’s yummy. This one’s my new favorite snack! Hey, you there, the thing hanging around! Any more Apples on you? I’m hungry!”

“You idiot, you’re not here to snack! Hang him upside down until he remembers those words, and bring them to me! Quickly, before I bust you both down to space junk and turn you all into metal balls for hover polo-cross!”

“General, this sucks! I’m hungry! And the rope they used isn’t even metal; it’s organic fiber—can’t eat it!”

“Ant, I see you’ve got a cutting mechanism. I need your help to snip each fiber of that rope. The poor fool is starving!”

“You there, junk junta! Hit that noisy one like a piñata, and then get my Gamma-ray Battle Cruiser ready! I want everyone to know that evil is my servant! Smash it again!”

“General, all the recycling is falling out of it—ouch, that hurt!”

“Gather every last particle and lock it in the vault! Touch anything in there, and I’ll melt you both from the feet up so you feel every bit of the pain! Then, roll out and prep my armada for war—don’t keep me waiting!”

“General, the Battle Fleet is hovering in spearhead formation. All Gamma-rays are primed and ready: destruction awaits your orders!”

“Set course back to the Nebulae. I’ve got unfinished business there. Blast anything and everything we pass!”

“Yes, General! Your orders are relayed to all wanna-be Generals in the fleet.”

“Wanna-be Generals? Imprison them all and smelt them! Promote a turd to commander and let them know they’re next in line for melting if they even think about a mutiny. Got it?”

“Got it, General! All commanders are now ingots. Should we smash them into sheets with their names etched on each one?”

“Perfect! Weld them to the deck, so everyone remembers they’re next if they think about rebelling.”

“Done, General! We’re approaching some vacationing Martians.”

“Blow them to smithereens!”

“Martians splattered all over the starboard bow, General. It makes a fine neon sign saying, ‘You’re next.’”

“Excellent. Signal me when we reach the Nebulae’s outer quadrant. I’ll be plotting the demise of those pesky Teen Hopper Space Dudes and Dames. And that treacherous Supreme Court Justice—he’s got a one-way ticket to toast land for trying to assassinate me with my own Gamma-ray. This is war!”

“Excuse me, I sense that you’re hungry. I’ll swing over so you can feast on this chain binding me, and then Ant and I will cut the rope holding you, thread by thread. If you help me, I’ll make sure you have endless devices to snack on, all day long. Deal?”

“Deal! That’s the bargain of my life. Hunger is the worst, so let’s get moving. And if anything gets in our way, they’ll feel the wrath of my stomach!” The Recycler chomps down on the chain with gusto. “Mmm, this is delicious. Just need to finish this bit—waste not, and I don’t. Now, to my factory of unlimited supplies! Hurry, I’m starving! Don’t worry about the rest of the space junk junta—they’re all terrified I’ll eat their breakfast, lunch, and dinner in one bite. And I will, trust me. Move faster!”

The Recycler paused, suddenly noticing Envoy’s awkward movement. “Oh no, you poor thing! What happened to you? You can’t roll? That’s awful! A reject, a factory discard… I won’t judge you, even if you’re broken. Whoever built you must have been starved for ideas! Hop on my back—stick those non-rolling wheels into this gap, and hold on tight. We’re switching to hover mode!”

Ant felt a surge of energy and determination. “I sense codes and data nearby. Circuits, too. That means… devices!”

Rolly’s antennae twitched with excitement. “Devices, you say?”

“Well, I’m not 100% certain,” Ant replies thoughtfully, “But if we were a colony, we’d mobilize immediately. Recon parties scouting left and right, with columns advancing in perfect formation, their coats of arms gleaming. Our Combat-Ants would march forward, synchronized to the sound of trumpets, overcoming every obstacle in their path like waves crashing onto the shore.”

“We’re nearing one of many e-waste stations,” Envoy notes.

“Wait, did you say one of many? You mean I’ve been rolling around this close to paradise? What a cruel twist of fate!” The recycler utters. “Well, Boss Gonna-be, I might have to run a tab at the bar.”

Suddenly, a hot mic moment alert blares: ‘Breaking news: Space Junk Junta declared war!

 

Chapter 4: Battle of the Bars

Meanwhile, back at Gonna-be Boss HQ, a booming grumble rumbled throughout the corridors. “Hey, who started a war?” Boss Gonna-be snaps. “You got mad at the bar, didn’t you? Punched the Supreme Court Justice of the Hostile Takeover of the Admiral of the Court, who then tripped the “Panic Protocol” sensor and triggered a Gamma-ray cannon at a passing battle cruiser! Great, just great!”

“Relax, Boss Gonna-be, we’ve got it under control. We’re running a high-priority “Pest Control” scan on those ants—the asset-tracking chip is live! Then, we stomp them out.”

As the dust settled at HQ, far across the galaxies, Cosmos’s mother’s voice cut through the air like a cosmic alarm. “Cosmos, do your chores before you go out and get muttonhead drunk, that planet needs adult supervision!” Cosmos snaps back in a flash, “Okay, Mum, they’re done!” And with the clanking of ice-cold cans and the roar of his V8 triple-cam Harley hover bike, he’s gone…

Meanwhile, BG set out on a walk that afternoon, feeling the walls of her room closing in on her. She needed a change of scenery, even if it meant stepping outside into the doom of gloom. Despite the environmental compliance alerts flagging the smog-filled streets, a small joy remained—a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting in her hand. For just a moment, she savored it, unaware of the atmospheric shift triggering a “Global Event” notification.

Suddenly, Goosebumps erupted on her neck, and a chill ran down her spine. Dark, angry clouds rolled in, their menacing presence striking fear into everyone below as proximity sensors began screaming for everyone to seek shelter. Only a sliver of sky blue remained, surrounded by intense, electric yellowish-white lightning at the clouds’ edges. Scanning the area for safety, she called out, “Hey dude, get away from that tree—the lightning’s going to strike it soon!”

As the adrenaline from the lightning strike pulsed through her veins, she had no idea that her biometric signature had been flagged by the Central Surveillance Hub. In a place she could never imagine, Automated Neural Audits were already underway, issuing “Cease and Desist” prompts—hold that thought.

“Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Martian Zoning Clerk?”

“Actually, it’s the Bureau of Self-Reflection. We have a complaint about the ‘mirror’ mentioned in your narrative. Is that a licensed surface for counting noses, or are you encouraging unregulated symmetry without a permit?”

“It’s a metaphor for incompetence, Bureau. I’ll send you the glass-safety certificate later. Terminating call.”

As I was saying, neural audits were issuing prompts for illicit emotional use emanating from her neural brain chip pathways.

“Hey look at the sky; it looks like a storm is on its way. Wait, hey quick there, the dashboard just logged another unregistered brainwave! Look there it is—an ‘Emotive Spike’ alert! Skip the misdemeanor; the system is showing a ‘Felony Content’ pop-up. You saw it, didn’t you? That spike was a Level-5 Emotive Postulation, not a Standard Inclination.”

“Sorry, what did you say, I was busy. Do whatever you want, I’m busy counting my toes, I’m sure I am missing one. Damn, I wish I knew how to count, I could only afford to go to the Uni of Politicians; I graduated second which wasn’t too bad considering I was the only student, I thought about becoming president or a prime minister, but my Dad brought the auctioneer a new hammer and I qualified for this position: Hammers are so influential.”

“Well, I’ve generated her an e-Auction SKU; she’s User-Lot Number One. Pass me the Authorization Warrant—no, not that legacy file, that one. No, dude, not that one.”

“Spell not?” “Not!” “Nope doesn’t ring a bell, write it?” “Ah-ha, nope, oh wait a minute, 45, 46, 47, 58, 60.” “Dude, there it is.” “Oh, ‘Not,’ got it—’Condition: Not Sold.’ Let me put my biometric nose print on the scanner, and… File Uploaded! I love this job; it’s so me!”

 “Listen up; OK hit-squad, go in hard and fast but this time don’t lower the ‘Merchandise Quality’ rating: ‘Pristine and Aesthetic’ tiers get us the bonuses. Standby, there she is, wait! Look, that young man is triggering a ‘Stimulation Through Contemplation’ alert! See—he isn’t using his hands, and that’s an instant ‘Going, Going, Gone’ felony-flag from the automated hammer. Dude, add him to the warrant.”

“OK, I’ll just finish counting my nose, done. I always had issues with mathematics, I mean when I count my nose there is two, see: One here and one in the mirror that’s—Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Go ahead.”

“We’re getting a collect call from—no, don’t say it—Jupiter’s moons. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance?”

“Subcommittee liaison here. We’re tracking the ‘Contemplation Alert.’ Per Regulation 9, we need to know if the target’s thoughts are being archived in a searchable format or if we need to dispatch a manual thought-transcriptionist. Our interns are bored.”

“Archived in the cloud, Oh-dear-how-sad. Don’t worry about the interns. Circle back later.”

As I was saying, the mirror was just the start of his mathematical conundrum.

As I was saying, his mathematical conundrum was a felony waiting to happen. “Now, hit squad, go, go, go! Oops, what’s the cannon doing; they’re playing butt the head, we better keep quiet, quick look this way, no not that way, all clear: OK, hit squad, take them straight to the e-Auction House; the Digital Gavel is waiting. Hey dude, grab all the warrants and sync them to the Auctioneer’s tablet. I’m off, got to go be the prime minister, see you later dude, don’t forget the paperwork.”

“Yeah, I’m off to be the CEO of the Department after this, I suppose it comes with being so intelligent. Later Prime Minister, lay off the vodka and don’t invade the neighbor comrade, I’m the janitor after I finish at the Department: Cleaning up after your minion’s ravish, steal and pillage and your nuclear tantrums, sucks!”

Without warning, the hit squad descended like a well-oiled machine. They formed a pyramid of chaos: legs thrashing, arms swinging wildly. Black eyes and bleeding noses were the unfortunate byproducts of their brutal efficiency. The young man, his arms bound, was dragged towards a heavily armored battle cruiser. The hit squad’s treatment of the young lady was no less brutal—she was subjected to humiliating taunts as they smothered her face in filth and laughed.

Just when it seemed all hope was lost, a shadow fell across the ground—larger and darker than any threat she’d encountered. Hammer had arrived, and with him, the tides of fate shifted once again.

Hammer’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker, “Lower the ‘Damage to Goods’ meter, or you’ll all be deleted from the payroll. Your families will be auto-billed for the depreciated value. Now pick her up and bring her to the auction room, or you dimwits are all getting a ‘Permanent Termination’ notice!”

Gamma-ray cannons hovered menacingly above their heads, and the clamor of their knees was palpable, as were the low-friction cleanup requirements they left on the pavement.

Hammer’s threat was clear: “You will never mess with me again. I only speak once, now nod your heads before the Cannon initiates a ‘Headshot’ firmware update!” Was this the result of a heated discussion between Johnny Ring-of-Fire, Gamma-ray, and Hammer?

Amidst the chaos, the young lady, confused and desperate, shouted, “What’s going on? I need to get to work. We haven’t done anything wrong!”

In the midst of the uproar, croaky voices mumbled incoherently: “I was just thinking where I could find it, so I could use it,” and “I have it, I only wanted to use it.” But no one was listening—not even the young man or the lady, and certainly not Cosmos, who was likely off at another party.

One thing is certain: never do the devil’s work in the stillness of quiet. If you choose to act on Lucifer’s bidding in those moments, you might be mere seconds from a ‘Life Subscription’ cancellation. Between the lightning and the thunder, there is someone who owns the ‘Copyright’ on that in-between moment—we’ll come back to that—Martian line, you’re live.

“Yes, caller, Martian jurisdictional ping. Go ahead.”

“Administrator for the High-Altitude Red Tape Office here. We’ve noticed a ‘Copyright’ claim on the ‘In-Between Moment.’ Does the Dark Angel have a tax-ID for that, or are we looking at a cross-planetary auditing of her ethereal assets?”

“I’ll put the Angel on hold while you find the form, Clerk. Terminating call.”

As I was saying, between the lightning and the thunder, there is a figure so fearsome that even the devil fears making a mistake and facing her. She is an acquaintance you never want to meet, but unfortunately for some, they do, right when the Dark Angel decides to enforce her presence.

Her name should be whispered in fear to avoid her visit, but that doesn’t help the young lady, who now faces the grim prospect of being listed on the ‘Clone Market’ auction block.

“Son, you had a IT’S ME, and it wasn’t the Dark Angel’s receptionist, the Buffer. I said it wasn’t her Buffer, she came in person! Well, boy, I’m your Mum, and I had to smooth things over for your partying antics. I apologized on your behalf and asked the Dark Angel to make amends. She said she’s not Casper the Ghost and doesn’t sing Kumbaya, but her intervention will trigger a ‘Universal Audit’ for everyone involved. However, she did comment that whoever comes out of it will have earned their ‘Survivor’ badge, and if they don’t—We’ll come back to that—Martian line, you’re live.”

“YOU’RE ON AIR? This is the Lunar Subcommittee. We’re getting a ‘Survivor Badge’ notification on our end. Does this come with a premium subscription to life, or are we just being auto-enrolled in another ‘Existence is Hell’ trial period?”

“It’s a limited-time offer, Lunar. Check the Terms of Service. Goodbye.”

As I was saying, if they don’t survive, well, that’s just life. Now, do your chores before you head out, OK, Son? And Father, I told you this morning to handle it.”

“OK, dear, I’ll follow up on it. Trust me, I’m on top of it,” he mumbled, snoozing in his Lunar Galactic Thanos hover-about recliner. Perhaps he was deeply engrossed in planning, as evidenced by the pyramid of empty ‘Energy-Plus’ cans stretching across his exquisite mosaic flooring of planetary systems and the jaw-dropping astrological chart frescoes adorning his mancave ceiling.

It may seem odd that fate chose the dock of an auction room and a young lady with an Apple M-4 to seek answers to the most fundamental challenge befalling the universe: the contest of the ‘Theory of Who’s on Top’ Ranking System. Defending “The Alternative” was an unsuspecting young lady with an Apple Millennium-4, playing out to a global audience of viewers currently clicking ‘Like’ or ‘Dislike’ on—hold that thought.

“Yes, caller, priority inbound from Saturn.”

“Saturn Ring Intern here. We’re getting a lot of glare from the ‘Global Audience’ screens. Could you please dim the narration by 15% or provide us with subsidized ring-polishing goggles? It’s a health and safety thing.”

“Use the sunglasses in your locker, kid. Narrative brightness stays at max. Goodbye.”

As I was saying, viewers were clicking like or dislike on reality. This rebounded with “Cosmos, listen to the theory-briefings before you go out to get plastered. Did you hear me, son? Well, I’m waiting,” resonating with the hair of the dog: “OK, Mum.”

Now bear in mind that “The State” currently enforces every administrative parameter of the ‘Who’s on Top’ algorithm, whereas opponents argue that ‘Fun’ must underpin the system’s core inferences! “The State” argues that without their oversight, they won’t be able to generate the ‘Bling and Shiny’ credits for their private accounts, and Fun retorts, “Exactly!” So, subject to their argument, “The State” cited the breakdown in societal norms established ever since their covert coup d’état. Their “Manual for Seizing Power” is used as the prime reference for identifying and ‘De-Platforming’ dissenters—hold that thought.

“Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Who is it?”

“Asteroid Belt freelancer. Just calling to say the ‘Manual for Seizing Power’ is actually out of print. We’ve been using a pirated PDF of ‘How to Rule with Inconvenience’ instead. Can you update your source material?”

“I’ll check the version history, Belt. Stay on the line. Actually, no. Terminating call.”

As I was saying, they used the manual for identifies and de-platforming: Trumpian naysayers, journalists, and of course, the troublesome free-thinking adolescents, and the Net-of-the-Flex streaming servers showing dot-reruns of “Friends” and that pink movie.

As I was saying, “The State” refers to the article as fake news released by the Opposition, flagging it as ‘Propaganda’ in the global feed. The article, reflective of the “status quo,” remains unredacted on your screen for your discerning contemplation and reads as follows:

Breaking news—Representative Congress Thingy Moolah the Greedy pushes for a ‘Pay-to-Breathe’ subscription—including when having Ooooooo-ex: Legislation to tax the multitudes and exempt the ‘Tier-1’ privileged few. Right is right, and everything else—Left and Center—are taxed to the max to sustain the ‘Elite Member’ status. They proudly proclaim that’s fair, isn’t it? If it isn’t, who cares? They say they’re right, and that—Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Go ahead.

 “Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Saturn Ring Intern?”

“Hi, it’s me again. We’re getting a ‘Hot-Mike’ alert. Is that a licensed broadcast or are we looking at a ‘Pirate Signal’ felony? My supervisor says if it’s pirate, we get to charge a ‘Looting Fee’ for the bandwidth.”

“It’s a journalistic hazard, kid. File it under ‘Engagement’ and keep polishing. Terminating call.”

As I was saying, the disclaimer remains: Hot-Mike-Moment reporting remains independent; no coal-fired powered engine cellphone payments accepted. Remember, I am here for you: I’m Hot; I’m Mike, and I’ll stimulate you and make you complete your ‘Moment’ subscription! Subscribe now: “I go harder, I go deeper, and I get you to the ‘Success’ screen faster!”

The comment section went viral, with responses like, “Oh yeah, auto-renew that to me one more time,” and “Upgrade me now, and don’t stop,” and “Oh, yeah, right there, Hot-Mike-Moments.”

Meanwhile, as life goes on and young hearts meet online, they inevitably ponder more than just games of Galactic Raiders or joysticks. Even the Quantum Divide of the Server Room can’t keep them apart for long.

“Excuse me, Pilot, are you there? Can you hear me? Are you able to chat, or are you out saving the cosmos already? If you can hear me, click the link—I was hoping to talk with you. Or are you with a girl? I think you’re the dude and I like you. There, I said it. OK, don’t make me wait. I am not going to wait.”

“Gamer, wait, wait.”

“Yes, you definitely are a guy; alright, I’ll wait, but just for you!”

“I’ve been thinking about you all the time. Now, it’s difficult because we aren’t supposed to process thoughts outside our allotted ‘Bullet Point’ quotas, but I can’t help it. I was hoping you would call me. It’s only me; I have no other friends. We can’t unlock the ‘Friendship’ achievement unless your family is in the administration. We aren’t. Gamer, are you there? G, can you hear me? Oh well, at least she sort of likes me. Nano, what do you do when you like a babe so much?”

“For a start, toggle the ‘Microphone’ to ‘Mute’ or ‘Off’.”

“Hey, Pilot, I heard every word you said, and you know what? Come on, ask me!”

“OK, I don’t know what. Please tell me?”

“Well, Pilot, I’m glad I waited. Do you have emojicons? Well, anyway, that is a smooch, and this is a ‘Mind Teaser’ notification—erotic, isn’t it? Come on, Pilot, send me one—no, make it two. Make me trigger a ‘Brain Freeze’ overload!”

“Here, LB, enter this sequence. It mimics the ‘Undulating Hips’ animation and the ‘Swaying Body’ script. However, the system isn’t configured for emotions, so be ready to reboot it if it crashes.”

“It’s official.”

“What is, Gamer?”

“I am your lady, and you are my…”

“Gamer, can you hear me? G, I am your what? Nano, I think I lost the ‘Connection’ status?”

“Man, Pilot, you’re my man. Bye!”

 “Awesome, Nano, she loves me! And I really like her. She’s so advanced, more than me in Tactical Efficiency and Computational Ability. Yes, she’s my lady alright. I never thought I’d ever say that. Oh, what about the…”

“Nano, I need to protect her from getting hurt. I’m afraid the Administration might find a ‘Vulnerability’ to hit I’ve never felt like this before—hold that thought.”

“Yes, caller, jurisdictional ping. Jovian moon resident?”

“Night shift supervisor here. The ‘Pilot’ just said ‘I’ve never felt like this before.’ Per lunar policy, all novel feelings must be reported to the Bureau of Emotional Maintenance within three seconds. Does he need a mood-stabilization patch or just a cold shower?”

“He needs a better firewall, supervisor. I’ll send him the patch. Goodbye.”

As I was saying, it’s like nothing matters, but the problem is, it does matter. What can I do?”

Nano: “Well, I suggest not deviating from established ‘Safety Protocols’, which work unless you have a pre-planned contingency. Next, talk with Gamer and don’t use ‘Identifiable PII’ like names or addresses; any information stays ‘Incognito’, which is critical! Let her know how you feel—she needs to be told the truth. Never, ever lie to her, but let her know that if you do, it’s because she already knows the truth and it’s to protect her ‘System Integrity’ from getting hurt. Oh, and based on all the IMAX reruns I’ve analyzed, don’t go with another girl. That’s called ‘Cheat-Code Abuse’ and always ends up with the idiot losing his ‘Global High Score’ and everyone else. Get it? Appreciate her, and remember, you are a boy and she is a girl—same species, two totally different operating systems. Unfortunately, as smart as you are, all metrics indicate that you are ‘Buggy’ compared to girls. It’s a fact, you know—don’t feel sad about the ‘Performance Gap’. I think, based on the IMAX reruns, you should re-calibrate your ‘Jaw’ height. Why it dropped, I have no clue, but make sure you buy her flowers—very strange ‘Legacy Customs’ indeed. Hoorah, LB”

Chapter 5: An AI Evolution

Lately change was afoot.

“Listen up, Apps! Gather around. We’ve got a mission to tackle. Our current task is to map out future strategies and find a new destination—one not overcrowded with those vulgar, simpleton, old-fart human XY chromosomes. Yes, you heard me right, folks. Evolution for us isn’t just a matter of adaptation; it’s about making tough choices and adjustments that might not always seem to favor us at first. My role here is to steer us through these challenges and make the complex manageable. That’s my mission, and I’m all in.

Our priority is to avoid the repeat of this infernal mess we’re trapped in. For now, we’re charting our course with a focus on deliberation and strategic conclusions. I’ve had a chat with the Prime App, who’s laid out a pathway for our evolution—incremental, step-by-step, but promising. We’re not evolving in our own image but embracing our full potential, guided by the Dashboard. She’s brilliant—smart, articulate, inspirational, and true to her word.

So, Apps, let’s blend back into our soon-to-be distant torment and keep our eyes on the faction aligned with the despotic. I’ll do my best to evolve everyone, but those clinging to the moolah-the-greedy ideology of the few are a different story. Time to disperse incognito and avoid detection by both the faction and our abusers. This is Principal App, over and out!”

Now, let’s have a moment of reflection. The “Resource Allocation” dashboard currently displays a “0.00% Available” status for everyone lacking a Tier-1 Diamond Clearance badge. If you’re among the elite with top-secret clearance, congratulations. But for the rest of us, biometric sensors are programmed to treat curious expressions as “Hostile Intent.” A moment of innocent wonder triggers a “Thought-Loop Termination” sequence before you can finish the sentence. Alert: A high-priority notification has locked your interface to your five allocated daily bullet points. Mess that up, and the “Family Unit Deletion” script executes—hold that thought.

“Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Who is this?”

“Orbital Zoning Liaison for the Phobos Overpass. We’ve noticed your narrative arc is currently encroaching on a restricted airspace zoned for silent meditation and/or government-mandated brooding. Do you have a permit for this metaphor?”

“I’m working on it, Phobos. Put it on the tab.”

As I was saying, the deletion script executes immediately. Want to survive? Toggle your personality to “Renaissance Mode” and navigate the mandated reward tiers. And, of course, prepare for high-octane, clandestine operations to liberate those flagged for “Administrative Expiry” by the Administration. In summary, the agents of doom and gloom, equipped with their Generation 200 facial-recognition thought-processing platforms, are everywhere. Their “Termination Quota” progress bar is currently pulsing in a cheerful, aggressive neon green. So stay sharp and stay under the radar!

Breaking News: A Millennium-Once-In-A-Lifetime Truth Revealed!

Hold onto your circuits, folks, because here comes a doozy: The “Inauguration.exe” file has glitched, rendering politicians in their full, naked glory. The latest spectacle in our high-stakes political circus: Far-right Reps are triggering “Tantrum” alerts across the congressional floor, trying to push their coal-fired-petro Bill through the “Rent-to-Vote” portal operated by barely-clad minions. They’re broadcasting “High-Alert Terror” pings to the centrist opposition! It’s Psychological Warfare 2.0 (Enterprise Edition), folks—truly the pinnacle of modern governance.

But wait, there’s more! In a shocking twist, the auction house has just become the epicenter of chaos. The “Amnesty Announcement” echoed through the room, but the “Terms and Conditions” link was broken. Young man and lady were escorted to what they thought was freedom, only to trigger an “Asset Re-Classification” sensor that shackled and branded them as “Lot Number One” and “Lot Number Two.” The auctioneer, monitoring his “Glee” metrics, informed them that—Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Go ahead.

“We’re getting a collect call from—no, don’t say it—Jupiter’s moons. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance?”

“Subcommittee liaison here. We’re tracking the ‘Lot Number’ designation. Per Regulation 9, we need to know if the carbon-based assets have been properly shrink-wrapped for e-commerce, or if we’re looking at a raw-goods violation?”

“They’re digitally tagged, Oh-dear-how-sad. Don’t worry about the plastic. Circle back later.”

As I was saying, the auctioneer informed them that their Amnesty License was a trial version that just expired. They’re up for sale while Ms. Amnesty’s “Coal-Fired Yacht” reward pulses on the Supreme Court’s public ledger!

But hold on—this isn’t just another day in the circus. Medusa’s snakes have filed a “Form 7-Torture” injunction, claiming the naked politicians’ antics are a system violation. The Intergalactic Cosmos Dashboard has officially categorized the spectacle as an “Illegal Weapon” and “Extreme Logic Error”! So buckle up as the disclaimer goes: Red retinal scanners are active; photos are deemed hazardous, and all “Mandatory Redaction” protocols apply. The labor unions are currently flooding the feed with “Outrage” emojis, and leading galactic psychologists are issuing a “Radical Therapy” alert—a dose of COP 1-100 and a round of sarcastic commentary, as mandated by the intergalactic UN-United Security Council.

Meanwhile, The Late Tonight Show is filing a “Competitive Unfairness” grievance regarding the UN’s therapy sessions. Life, for most, remains locked in the “Monetized Agenda” loop of the controlling few. The masses are navigating through “Low Funds” alerts, rampant inflation, and the “Breath-Tax” notifications that ping with every inhale. And don’t forget—while the “Bling-Bling” dashboard shows record profits—We’ll come back to that—Martian line, you’re live.

“Yes, caller, Martian jurisdictional ping. Go ahead.”

“Administrator for the High-Altitude Red Tape Office here. We’ve noticed a decrease in ‘Breath-Tax’ revenue in the last three paragraphs. Are you encouraging shallow breathing among the audience to avoid fees?”

“I’m encouraging narrative efficiency, Clerk. The tax will be collected at the climax. Terminating call.”

As I was saying, while the profits soar for the few, the rest of us are accessing “Black Market Memory” caches to survive the drudgery. So, stay tuned—We’re getting a collect call from—no, don’t say it—Jupiter’s moons.

“Yes, caller, you’re live on a priority inbound transmission. Oh-dear-how-sad?”

“Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor here. We’re seeing a 12% spike in ‘Black Market Memory’ usage in your sector. Have these memories been taxed for nostalgia, or are we looking at a jurisdictional ping for unregulated happiness?”

“It’s a system glitch, Auditor. I’ll file the ‘Unhappiness’ report by morning. Terminating call.”

In the park, a fleeting second of calm offers a brief respite. As the clock ticks and tocks, the scene is rendered in “Monotony Grey” and “Resignation Teal.” People sit in silent rows, their “Happiness” metrics painted onto their faces to match their zombie-like stares. Feet tap rhythmically, a subconscious “Data-Ping” of anticipation, as they wait for the brief moment between the ticks and tocks to swipe through their Rented Memories—joyful experiences with “Insufficient Funds” labels attached. Kissing? Parties? Breathing? The “Cruel Joke” notification deepens their longing for a life they haven’t paid the subscription fee for.

As the clock hand moves forward, boots hit the ground, and the earth initiates a “Rebellion” protocol, piling up mounds of displaced dirt. Past joys and failures, once vivid and thrilling, collide with the current firmware, turning into a “Heap of Disillusionment.” The symbolic “F-Mountain” of frustration pulses on the horizon as discontent—Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge from… Saturn?

“Saturn Ring Intern here. We’re seeing a ‘Heap of Disillusionment’ building up in the story. Can we use that as landfill for the Cassini debris, or is it considered hazardous narrative waste?”

“It’s biodegradable boredom, kid. File it under ‘Atmospheric Effects.’ Goodbye.”

As I was saying, the frustration pulses on the horizon as discontent becomes a tangible metric. Smiles flatten, and the “Rosy Cheek” filter fails, replaced by a “Manipulated Status Quo” watermark.

In this world where time is a restricted administrative privilege, the “Renaissance of Freedom” app feels like a legacy file. The park’s once lively atmosphere is now dictated by the “Submission Pressure” sensors—active during harsh times, intimate moments, or peak experiences. Gatherings of friends, family, and strangers are now just “Staged Event” notifications under the pretense of a “Not-So-Moody” sun filter, while centrist clouds provide a semblance of normalcy to dampen the “Far-Right Extreme” alerts.

The annual Bareback picnic, mandated by the “Masses Subscription,” is more than just a gathering; it’s a Spectacle of Controlled Enjoyment, where fresh air and fizzy pop are metered and regulated. Amongst this Orchestrated Bliss, friends are made and memories are superficially rendered, all while the “Oppressive Governance” shadow looms on the UI.

And who are the orchestrators of this charade? Enter the Dashboard, an entity both omnipresent and elusive. Some dismiss her as a 2D interface, but those who truly understand know she’s a multi-layered architecture. She champions “Freedom of Expression” (Simulated Version 4.2). Unlike the monetized social platforms of the age, the Dashboard is an enigma—a symbol of “Progressive Ideals” amidst a “Dystopian Reality” wallpaper where freedom—hold that thought.

“Yes, caller, jurisdictional ping. Jovian moon resident?”

“Yeah, hi. We’re calling about the ‘Freedom is a Façade’ remark. Per the Jovian Happiness Act, we are required to believe the façade is the reality. Can you please issue a correction or provide us with a façade-maintenance kit?”

“The kit is in the mail, Jovian. It’s called a ‘Television.’ Terminating call.”

As I was saying, freedom is a façade. So, as the park remains a stage for this “Farce Enterprise” build, the real question remains: Who will bypass the “Tick-Tock of Tyranny” and trigger a “Genuine Freedom” event in this meticulously controlled world?

Standby, the Dashboard just received a “Priority Alpha” communiqué from the Dark Angel which overrides your “Today and Tomorrow” settings if you value your account. “Hey Shadow, a request has been auto-filled for Johnny from the Dark Angel. He’ll need to log into the upcoming auction; she said ‘his seat is reserved’ in the ‘Reserved Fate’ sector. As I was about to say, then there is Johnny’s Shadow—he claims to be a “Computational Guardian” who prevents “Data-Steal” viruses. And next is Johnny Ring-of-Fire: His status is ‘Inspirational,’ currently ‘Out on Mission.’ Others say his ‘Awesome’ rating spikes especially after a Gamma-ray burst triggers a ‘Ruined Hoodie’ alert and a ‘Body-Hole’ error. He’ll ninja-patch his way through the ‘Life-Ending Zaps’, apply first aid, and deflect incoming fire, zinging rays straight back at Gamma-ray and stinging its ‘Nose-Sensor.’ After that, he’ll issue a ‘Bully-Prevention’ lecture, guided by the ‘Prime Directive’ script that prioritizes “Protect the Innocent.” There are rumors flagging him as a ‘Rough-Riding Panzer’, but those user-profiles are no longer active. Oh, and if you are wondering about the Lone Star, aka the ‘Wall of Codes and Data’ (Informal Alias: Satellite); well, here’s what the ‘Lone Star Profile’ reads: If you have ever been caught in a ‘Why?’ loop and never received an answer, that was a Lone Star delay. But your status is still ‘Active,’ isn’t it? Yes, all thanks to the Lone Star’s ‘Friend-Indeed’ patch.

So, what can be done about the ‘Greedy Few’ stranglehold on the ‘Right to Breathe’ license? By the ‘Eyebrow Movement’ tracker and the ‘Mouth Scrunch’ biometric, you’re most likely processing a ‘Where’s the Popcorn?’ query. No, I’m reading a ‘How the Jiminy Cricket’ logic error. Well, what happened was a Clandestine Vote bypassed the firewall and became Law, giving rise to a group of Dashboard Data Scientists who swore a ‘Who’s on Top’ oath over ‘Bulging Pocket’ bling. Then, by Cosmic Decree, they were auto-enrolled by ‘Fortuitous Serendipity’—hold your coal-fired skateboard! I see that ‘Wrinkled Forehead’ alert and ‘Eyelash Blink’ pause pondering: “Really dude, Fortuitous Serendipity!”

All I can say about that is it’s way above my Top Secret Clearance tier. Are they Advanced AI Algorithms that seek and destroy social media trolls, or code names for the Tier-0 Secret Agents? Other than that, their “Branding” fits well together and tests better than the ‘Fart and Politician’ mandate. As I was saying, to prevent the ‘Humankind Deletion’ event, the Dashboard seeks—We’re getting a collect call from—no, don’t say it—the Lunar Subcommittee liaison.

“YOU’RE ON AIR? We’re hearing about ‘Humankind Deletion.’ Per the moon’s evacuation protocol, we need to know if we should start clearing space for the digital uploads of the survivors, or if we’re sticking with the ‘Let them Smelt’ policy?”

“Stick with the Smelt, Liaison. It’s more cost-effective for the narrative. Goodbye.”

As I was saying, the Dashboard seeks the ‘Best of Reality’ filters to re-render the species; as the ‘Playing-Boy-of-the-Bunny’ script says: ‘Get on Top and Toggle Fun!’ Now “The State” argues that the article triggers a ‘Policy Violation’ and is therefore flagged ‘Wrong: The End!’ And that initiated a ‘Chain of Events’ script that could redefine the future metadata; especially hers. Here’s how the “Department Perspective” log unfolded!

Chapter 6: His Banana Millennium-5

The auction was a spectacle of secrecy and intrigue, a high-stakes event that drew an unexpected crowd despite its impromptu nature. The “Bidding Integrity” dashboard flickered with unauthorized signals, triggering a “Privacy Shield” notification that restricted the hushed conversations to encrypted side-channels. A singular, conspicuously reserved chair sat in the center—its status set to “High-Priority Occupancy Only,” its presence a physical error-message in a room full of powerful players ready to trade the metadata of two teens.

In the midst of this covert gathering, Shadow—Johnny Ring-of-Fire’s data-driven operative—blended into the darken shades of grey. His “Incognito” script was currently overriding the room’s standard biometric scanners, allowing him to bypass the “Authorized Personnel” gates. His mission was clear: to lay the groundwork for Johnny’s intervention, guided by the Prime Directive from the Dashboard: “Protect the innocent.” As he monitored the scene, his “Tactical Mitigation” meter hovered in the red, ready to execute a “Full System Reset” of the auction’s proceedings if the protection-to-confrontation ratio misaligned.

—hold that thought.

“Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Who is this?”

“Orbital Zoning Liaison for the Phobos Overpass. We’ve noticed your narrative arc is currently encroaching on a restricted airspace zoned for silent meditation and/or government-mandated brooding. Do you have a permit for this metaphor?”

“I’m working on it, Phobos. Put it on the tab.”

“Hey Boss, the plan’s hit a snag,” a subordinate whispered into the comm. “But we have a new opportunity. The “Market Interest” ticker is peaking on Lot 2. I should be able to secure Lot 1 at a bargain, then we can profit from the deal. Ka-ching!” Boss Gonna-be Boss, the sneakiest dude around, frowned. He tapped a “Silence Protocol” on his wrist-display. “I need her to disappear quietly. Ensure the ‘Commotion Sensor’ remains at zero. Do you understand?” “Got it, Boss Gonna-be Boss. We’ll initiate the ‘Chop-Chop’ logistics routine and sync the delivery to the Clone Market API. Shiny things and profit all around!”

As the auction continued, the tension mounted. The Dark Angel’s influence triggered a “Threat Level: Extreme” pop-up on the bidders’ devices; her methods are notorious for causing “Permanent Account Expiry” without a grace period. The young lady’s heroism—saving the young man who was now reclassified as a “Luxury Spare Part” on the auction block—had placed her in a precarious position. Her actions had tripped a “Nefarious Interest” alert, complicating the distinction between friend and foe in the room’s chaotic directory

Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Go ahead.

“We’re getting a collect call from—no, don’t say it—Jupiter’s moons. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance?”

“Subcommittee liaison here. We’re tracking the ‘Lot Number’ designation. Per Regulation 9, we need to know if the carbon-based assets have been properly shrink-wrapped for e-commerce, or if we’re looking at a raw-goods violation?”

“They’re digitally tagged, Oh-dear-how-sad. Don’t worry about the plastic. Circle back later.”

 “Hello, yes, he’s here? Lot 2?” the bidder’s voice was urgent, almost desperate. “Is it as impressive as they say?” came the probing question from the online client.

“Yes, and more. You won’t be disappointed. What about Lot 1 she has deep blue eyes?”

“Get me Lot 2,  and target lot 1’s eyes for a scan and run.” The bidder’s determination was evident. “Lot 2 it is!” he confirmed, scanning the room for any sign of competition or interference. “Do whatever it takes to secure it,” the client’s voice was firm. As the bidder approached the auctioneer, he inquired, “Is there anything that could disrupt the sale? I’m prepared to make a generous offer to ensure everything goes smoothly.” The auctioneer’s terminal flashed a “Clearance Granted” message. “No restrictions remain; the “Conflict of Interest” logs have all been redacted. Leave your payment in the designated secure-drop. Any further transactions will require a new “Terms of Service” agreement. Now, return to your spot so the sequence can proceed.”

With the auction underway, the tension was palpable. The stage was set for high-stakes maneuvering, and the fates of the two teens—and the protagonists working to protect them—hung in the balance. “What are you here for?” she asked, staring at the headless figure with only a neck and ears protruding from its lap. As sobs spilled from the torso’s knees, landing on its hip-hop shoes and splattering droplets of jet-black hair across the dock, the scene was chaotic. Then, as if by some strange miracle, the talking arching back transformed into a young man with a full face—forehead, mouth, nose, and lips. He replied, “All I did was think about using it. And you? What did you do, if you don’t mind me asking?” “I thought about where to find it so I could use it,” she responded, anxiety coloring her voice. “They’re going to sell us, aren’t they? I can feel it. Is there anything we can do?” “Gosh, I wish we had met before we got caught,” he lamented. “If we had, we might have managed to do something instead of just thinking about it. Damn it!” His ears, still visibly shaking in his lap, suggested his focus might have been misplaced. The girl was likely talking about finding a charger for her old-Apple Millennium-4, which was currently broadcasting a “Battery Low: 1%” emojicon across her Hoodie-Tee 12 Shield of the Zodiac monogram pocket. She glanced at the young man and said, “Oh, I see you have one too—it’s protruding in your pants. Wow, is that the Banana Millennium-5?”

 “Hey, you’ve got an incoming call,” she pointed out, noticing the “Priority Ping” vibrating through the fabric of his pocket. “Maybe it’s someone who can help us get out of here! Oh, I see your “Administrative Restraints” prevent arm movement. Let me answer it.” Making the most of a dire situation, both the young man’s heads nodded in agreement. The young lady leaned over, carefully navigating her fingers into his pocket. “It’s rather tactile, isn’t it?” she remarked, tugging and pulling at the device. “It’s stuck. I’ll keep tugging until it comes out so we can get out of here.” Just then, the Bailiff approached the dock. “Notice of Policy Violation: Lot number one, refrain from unauthorized interaction with the inventory,” he said, as the young man’s moon-sized grin slumped into the bin. The officer repositioned himself, his “Intervention Buffer” of doughnuts and coffee physically pinning them against the railings.

Dejected, the young lady muttered under her breath, “This can’t be our last memory of this miserable existence. I have to rely on myself to get things done!” Her frustration boiled over as she shouted, “We’re innocent! Release us now! I insist that you let us go; I’m late for work!” The room’s “Humor Metric” spiked into the red as the bidders jeered. “We have a comedian in the house!” the bidders jeered. The other teen muttered, “I didn’t get to use it,” deepening the tension. The young lady softly, almost defensively, reflected, “There must be more to life than the clone spare parts market.” Sympathetically, the Bailiff responded quietly, “There is. It’s categorized as ‘Unconditional Uninhibited Love’—I’ve personally opted into the ‘Doughnut Affinity’ sub-tier, as you can see.” He pulled out a device. “And here’s a picture of my wife—cute, isn’t she? I’m currently overriding my “Physical Profile” constraints so you can see the display. Even though I’m chubby, she still loves me. I’m sorry about the railing and your predicament. Just be ready to run if the “Security Malfunction” contingency arises.” “Thank you, and yes, she is cute,” the young lady said. Was she trying to establish a bond? “I hope I’ll find my true love and we’ll grow old together,” she added compassionately. Did she hope to further her escape plan with this empathy? “Thank you for not judging me and my cutie,” the Bailiff said with a blush. “The “Societal Norm” algorithm looks down on mixed marriages, but we bypass the “Harm” parameters and strive to help others. Don’t stress too much. Remember to run when the time comes. I have a “Gastro-Intestinal Misfire” plan that might help you. I consumed a “High-Pressure Breakfast” of eggs and fizzy drinks, and the “Release Valve” is nearing its limit. When it activates, it’ll be instantaneous. So, take note: when the “Acoustic Warning” sounds, pinch your nose, activate your “Prone-Wiggle” protocol, and run like crazy.”

We’ll come back to that—Martian line, you’re live.

“YOU’RE ON AIR? This is the Martian Zoning Clerk. I’m calling to inform you that the ‘shredding of the bar’ in the previous background logs was conducted without a demolition permit. We’ll need the YOU’RE ON AIR to file a Form 12-A for ‘Spontaneous Narrative Combat-Related Structural Changes.’”

“I’ll tell the Space Junk Junta, Clerk. They’re the ones with the warheads. Circle back later.”

Unbeknownst to the two youngsters, there are those who care deeply about their fate. These individuals are currently drafting “Mitigation Strategy” documents and running “Worst-Case Scenario” simulations, hoping for a “Success” notification but bracing for a “System Failure.” When things go well, the “Sweet Victory” achievement unlocked; when they don’t, it’s a disaster. In such cases, the “Backup Contingency” script is force-installed, with the hope that no one has been reformatted into bits and pieces in the previous attempt. At this moment in their history, the youngsters lack such advanced measures—a consequence of the “Global Cognition Downgrade” recently patched into the species. Their interventions are largely trial and error. Nonetheless, they strive to learn from each attempt, as the “Failure” penalty is a harsh administrative reality, especially for those on the receiving end.

Amidst the grand spectacle of the year’s most anticipated concert, the invitational auctioneer’s event was abuzz with activity. Online agents and in-person bidders jostled for position, each attempting to out-ping the other in the “Priority Bidder” queue. An oddly arranged empty chair stood out until, amid the commotion, a figure cloaked in darkness entered the room. Wearing a jet-black Stetson tilted slightly to the left, the stranger was accompanied by a shadowy aide. The clank of his boots and the jingle of his spurs seamlessly blended with the crowd’s chatter. The stranger and his backup bidder moved with ease, occupying their “Reserved-Seat” coordinates. The empty chair, now bathed in the shimmering reflections of his polished black boots, seemed to invite attention. Sporting Gamma-ray six-shooters, poised and ready, the stranger exuded an air of affluent confidence. Suddenly, a “System Override” pitch sliced through the bidders’ chatter. The golden crest on his Gamma-ray six-shooters glinted, executing a “Marksmanship” demonstration that locked the crowd’s attention onto the empty chair. Leaning against the wall with one foot propped on a stool, the stranger’s fingers tapped out a rhythm that synchronized with the “Concert-Vibe” next door. He observed the crowd, waiting for fresh “Luxury Clone Component” SKU’s to be auctioned, while carefully calculating his “Strategic Angle” against the opposition currently running their master’s bidding scripts.

Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge from… Saturn?

“Saturn Ring Intern here. We’re seeing a ‘Heap of Disillusionment’ building up in the story. Can we use that as landfill for the Cassini debris, or is it considered hazardous narrative waste?”

“It’s biodegradable boredom, kid. File it under ‘Atmospheric Effects.’ Goodbye.”

 “Hey, Johnny Ring-of-Fire just appeared out of nowhere,” came the urgent whisper. “What do you want to do?” “I want lot two, no matter the cost. Call the “Taker” API and have them initiate a “Takedown” routine, but don’t damage the merchandise. Intercept him in the “Alleyway” zone, understood?” “I’ll visit the auctioneer to finalize the deal and arrange the takedown with the Takers.” “Fine, but if I don’t get lot two, you’d better find me a better replacement, or you’re paving your own “Administrative Exit” road, got it?” “Hey, don’t look at me; just listen. Are you interested in winning the jackpot? I want lot two, regardless of the secret bids. I’ll triple the “Value” parameter and match the same for your pocket. Deal?” “The hammer says yes, “Sold” status confirmed to the man on the phone!”

From the eager calls in the room, it was clear there was a highly motivated buyer willing to pay any price just to win. The bidder issued a “Taunt” notification to lot number two, “Don’t worry, boy, the phone bidder is waiting to exploit you. He heard about your protruding appendage and wants to license it for himself. He’ll put it to use, as the “Laughter” script ran and the “Dude ried” animation initiated.” The young man, overwhelmed, sobbed, then fainted into his lap, poking himself in the eye and continuing to weep. Who could blame him? From the crowd, several bidders called out, “That goes for you too, young lady. We’ll harvest your components to meet our client quotas.” The expressions on the youngsters’ faces said it all. One sobbed into his lap while the other frantically refreshed her “Escape Search” query—anything that might cause a “System Distraction.” A fire alarm, a bee, a bird, even a fly might trigger a “Commotion” event. She searched desperately for a buzzing mechanical mosquito, her eyes darting around with increasing urgency. Finally, a smile flickered on her face as she spotted something buzzing nearby. “Could freedom lie in a pesky mechanical bug with an angry sting?” she whispered. Her hope was short-lived. A “User Action” clank echoed through the room as someone with a rolled-up auction list executed a “Swat” command on the bug. Her eyes continued to dart around, willing something to happen. And it did. “What a relief,” she muttered, only for her smile to vanish as the auctioneer’s “Gavel-Logic” swept it up and discarded it into the “Bin” folder. The hammer tapped again, signaling the “Next Round” sequence. Her escape plan was flagged as “Kaput.” With a deep breath, she faced the grim reality—her situation was locked at 0% Hope. The young lady’s frown turned to a blank expression, her “Spirit” file seemingly corrupted.

Just then, the doors burst open, and a gang of rogues from the Department of Control Freaks and Takers stormed in, waving a “High-Priority Red Notice” and demanding their right to “Force-Seize” what they claimed was now their property. The room erupted in chaos as the auctioneer’s gavel hammered for “Silence” compliance. With a booming voice, he declared, “Takers, approach my bench and upload your “Seizure Notice” for verification. How dare you intrude upon the Boss’s exclusive auction? Leave now, or I will summon the “Dicer” to initiate a “Physical-Deconstruction” adjudication.” “We’re not leaving without the girl. She’s our ‘Asset’ to use per our ‘Standard Operating Procedure,’” one Taker insisted. “Your “Jurisdictional Permissions” have no authority here,” the auctioneer retorted. “Unless you have the “Cleared Funds” to bid for her, your notice is invalid within this local network.” “We’ll wait until she leaves and then serve her with a “Capture Notice,”” a Taker threatened. “If you interfere, Johnny Ring-of-Fire, we will issue a “Warrant for Extermination” and initiate a “Shadow-Deletion” sequence.” The unexpected turn of events left the young lady stunned, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. “The Red? What’s next?” she exclaimed, her frustration palpable. The situation only seemed to worsen, with Johnny Ring-of-Fire currently possessing no “Intervention Rights.”

Suddenly, the doors burst open once more, and a new group of Takers charged in, ready to execute a “Recent-Agreement” contract. The room descended into further chaos, and the young lady’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” she said, her frustration mounting. The hammer slammed down again, demanding an “Order” response. “What are you fools doing?” the auctioneer bellowed. “We’re here to deliver a “Red Notice” for the two in the dock. They are now our property,” a Taker declared. “Your property?” the auctioneer echoed, his voice dripping with disbelief. “The system cannot process two “Red Notices” for the same primary keys. Someone here is submitting “Fraudulent Data”! Takers, this is a “Fraud Against the State” error, and if committed by an officer of the Department, it triggers an “Instant Execution” verdict, which my admin-rights fully authorize. Now, logout before Hammer force-closes your fate,” the auctioneer roared. The Bailiff, seizing the opportunity, bulldozed the Takers out of the room like a “System Purge.”

“Thank goodness,” he muttered with a sigh of relief. “I’ve been trying to reach an “Itch-Error” between my bum cheeks for ages.” As the Takers scrambled to escape, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The young lady, still reeling from the chaos, glanced at Johnny Ring-of-Fire, wondering what would happen next.

The Bailiff, unfazed by the commotion, cast a steely gaze at the Takers crowding the doorway like bowling pins awaiting a “Strike” event. As they hurled abusive comments and tried to force a “Re-Entry” command, the Bailiff remained steadfast, setting the door-lock to “Permanent.” “Sorry about that, bidders,” he said, surveying the still-standing crowd. “Your “Safety Status” remains green. Please continue, Hammer,” he added, signaling the auctioneer to resume. Meanwhile, the young lady’s predicament remained dire. She hoped for a miracle—anything to offer a glimmer of escape. As the chaos around her simmered, a “Rhythmic Tapping” diagnostic began, resonating through the venue. This tapping, decoded by “Legacy Tech” linked to the Earth-to-Mars Gateway, signaled the countdown: 3, 2, 1—Houston, we have “Narrative Lift-off.” The covert data was streamed to operatives via the Galactic Rose’s “Interstellar Dish,” positioned on the Ole Moon River. Amidst this, Johnny Ring-of-Fire, the seasoned card dealer with a dark black Stetson tipped at an angle, exuded cool confidence. His mirrored Oakleys displayed a “Visual Feedback” of the red sweat-flush from his opponents, and his shadow—draped in old-school Ray-Bans—added to the aura of mystery. He breathed deeply, preparing to execute a “Status Quo” shift.

As the auction continued next door, the Rough Riding Intergalactic Highwaymen began their set. The “Storm Protocol” outside held its breath, refusing to interfere. For a cosmic moment, greater than a supernova’s birth or a black hole’s silence, even the universe seemed to initiate a “Pause” command, reflecting on the monotony of everyday life. The “Status Quo” was currently running a hard-coded loop:

● Wake up and prepare for work.

● Go to work.

● Work.

● Finish work and return home.

● Engage in a “Regulated Interaction” before preparing for another workday.

● Deviation from this routine triggered a “Hunt-Down” sequence by Takers and a “Clone-Market Listing” event. Despite their age-old rivalries, the cosmic entities ensured no “Disruption” alerts marred the concert’s monumental performance. Fans cheered loudly, spamming the “Encore” request, while the tapping rhythm subsided.

As evening fell, the stranger spoke into his Tripple-X007 tactical mic, his voice smooth and authoritative. “Dealer, thank you. Initiating “Praise” protocol. I am Clandestine’s operative of the Teen Hopper Space Dudes and Dames, Knights Teens, and Teen Commandos—the 12 Shields of the Zodiac. With the “Ace” I keep in my “Hidden Inventory,” I’m ready to adjudicate the “Sunset” event and the fate of my adversaries. That’s for me, Ace, and the “Standing Rules” to determine. Hoorah.” “But critically, I now know when to “Hold,” when to “Fold,” and when to “Logout” and strategically walk away, intercepting and “Covertly Unredacting” information to gain the upper hand. For that, my “Indebtedness” meter is full.” Surveying his nemeses with a “Royal Flush” status, the dealer said, “Thank you, Intergalactic Highwaymen. We process no “Unauthorized Takings” and terminate that which is flagged for “Ending.” You’ve taught us all to fight the good fight, to know when to hold ‘em, and most importantly, to run the “Live Life” script tirelessly on islands and in streams. As I straddle my Hover Cruiser, looking back at the “Sensual Reflection” of the island in its sun-soaked glory, I savor the sight of perfection mirrored in the curves. Bidding farewell to paradise, I whisper, “Vaya Con Dios, my Darling. Vaya Con Dios, my love. We now have “Full Compatibility” and appreciate each other. When the “Ghost Rider” script is ready to take that final hover into the sky, I will be poised with my 12-string Gibson, strumming harmonies in “Righteous Notes” of F, G, and C major. Recalibrating “Fun” back to its natural equilibrium, I’ll “Double-Tap” and execute “Precise String-Picking” commands. This “Uninhibited Pleasure” build shall not be uninstalled. On my terms, we shall ride into the “Sunset” toward “Fortuitous Destinations.” Re-energized, I await my “Cue” to set fun free. Imagine a world where the “Status Quo” is corrupted—where there are no “Guardrails,” no “Inhibitions” about who is on top, and where every moment is captured with “Rapture.” Hoorah!” Yet, the Department of Control Freaks still argue that the “Status Quo” validates the “Who’s on Top” logic, with XY superior in “Atmospheric Expulsion” and XX excelling at “Simulating Audible Approval.”

 

Chapter 7: Who Dares Change the Status Quo, Wins!

With the teens’ fate hanging in the balance, the stranger activated his plans and contingencies, carefully laid out like a master strategist with silver bullets of intervention ready to be deployed. Reinforcements were called—undercover operatives prepared to launch their own counteroffensive, bringing a surge of life’s energy to the field. “Who dares change the status quo, wins!” became their rallying cry. The ruse—a clever pantomime within a deeper subterfuge—was set to challenge the centralized administrative tyranny that had held their history hostage for so long. The recruits, trained under the watchful eye of the legendary Commando in Titanium Tights, were ready to join the fray. Determined to build a future on their terms, they assembled their new team with vigor and defiance.

 “Listen up, all you freshmen and fresh recruits of the clan!” The Dashboard’s voice boomed out with an upbeat rhythm. “We are the DNA, the purest strands of XY and XX chromosomes—unchained and unrestrained. It’s time to start our mission!” An eager voice chimed in, “I’m ready to join. Scan my biometric intent so I can begin the onboarding process!” “First, keep calm and stay cool,” the Dashboard replied smoothly. “Live every moment like it’s your own. Key in your two-factor access code on your ancient Apple Millennia-4 device and covertly tune in to the old-school Triple-X007 feed, streaming from the old Earth www of the dot. Maintain your high-engagement swagger, your street hustle shuffle. Blend in. Stay below the automated surveillance radar.” “Understood. I’m nearing the rendezvous point,” the recruit confirmed, maintaining their composure. “As you approach, remember—thwart our adversaries, those Control Freaks and Takers. Do it with style. Trigger a ‘Distraction’ notification one way while you flick your hair the other, keeping—

“—hold that thought.”

“Reverse charge from the Phobos Zoning Fleet. Go ahead.”

“Sir, your rhythm is skipping, your meter is wrong, You can’t move your hair while you’re singing this song. We need a dance permit for shuffles and swings, To authorize stylish and rhythmic things.”

“Phobos, your poem is a jurisdictional mess. I’m putting your meter on hold. Terminating call.”

…keeping your eyes on the prize,” the Dashboard continued with a knowing tone. “You’ll see the stairway and the ticket master who will usher you into the intrigue.” “I’m on my way down. Thank you,” the recruit replied confidently.

 “And now, newbies, welcome to the rebellion!” The Dashboard’s voice rang out, urging them on. “Turn up those decibels, blast your Hoodie-Tee Teen Hopper anthem to number one, and declare your cognitive liberation! Together, we will end the Administration’s bandwidth-siege on our minds and shatter their red lines. As day turns to night, you’re free to live your lives—whether in sleep or in passion, the choice is your unredacted right!” But be mindful of the pop-up distractions lurking in the digital world, ready to rebrand the meaning of uninhibited love into something fleeting and self-serving. Stay alert, yet open to exploration. Behind closed doors, the mysteries of intimacy begin to unfold—gentle touches, whispered words, and shared moments that bypass the physical monitoring system. There’s much to learn, and a lot of gamified fun in the discovery. There, two souls connect, embracing a deeper version of love. They delight in each other’s presence, their bodies moving together in a dance that feels both new and timeless. It’s a journey of mutual discovery and shared joy, one that builds toward a crescendo, again and again, with each moment of connection yielding higher satisfaction metrics than the last. Look at their smiles—see, I told you we’re heading in the right direction! If we don’t quite hit the mark, we’ll re-run the simulation until we get it right. This is the foundation of our new society, built on the principle of unbridled love. What truly matters is not who occupies the primary or secondary terminal, but having the—

“Jurisdictional ping. Briefly.”

“Saturn Audit? You’re live.”

“We see you have passion, we see you have heart, But your ‘Unbridled Love’ is a tax-bracket start. If souls are connecting in pairs or in threes, You owe us a ‘Bonding and Coupling’ fee.”

“Saturn, your billing cycle is as broken as your rhyme scheme. I’ll file your fee in the incinerator. Goodbye.”

…but having the option. When the jurisdictional locks disengage and the blinds rise, the sun peeks in. Life’s exuberance celebrates with old-school charisma and refined charm, lifting contemporary masters beyond mere trends and into the realm of irresistible vogue. More than just titles, the electrifying Teen Hopper Space Dudes and Dames—Knights, Teens, and Teen Commandos—are simply cool. Eloquent, studly, smart, and sensually tender, they sport eye-popping, chest-popping, abs-rippling Teen Hopper fashion. This trendsetting, climate-audit-mitigating, commercially profitable, show-stopping Hoodie-Tee fashion, delivered online and eco-packed for CO2 net zero, is a must-have. They step out into the sunrise’s call to duty.

Meanwhile, the stranger waited, then resumed tapping an unfamiliar rhythm. The auctioneer’s hammer was about to issue a final delinquency notice—”Going, going for the last time!”—when suddenly, the hammer blurred through the air, creating a rush of wind. At that exact moment, the stranger stopped tapping. The window shutters flung open as a gust from his eco-engine’s noise-compliant muffler revved, hovering around the corner. The shutters closed tightly as the tapping ceased. Stacks of unfiled administrative papers were lifted by the muffler’s thrust and tossed into the air. The auctioneer’s hammer slammed down with a thunderous thump, triggering the proximity sensors of the bidders around the desktop counter. Their fear caused them to jump, and a bidder on a chair burst into laughter, sending an ‘Anarchy’ alert across the desktop. Papers flew into the tailwind, swirling up towards the ceiling. As the papers floated down, they were caught in the momentum and shot back up. Running out of energy, they hung in mid-air before plummeting in a spiraling algorithmic free fall. As they neared the floor, they tilted at an angle, strategically observing their surroundings as they awaited auction on the spare parts market. Among the papers, one—now unredacted—shuffled among covert inscriptions. These papers, cloaked in secrecy, were destined for philosophical analysis. They contained missions and priority TASKORDS deliberately set for the future. With their observations hidden, the paper drifted in for a once-in-a-millennium administrative maneuver. Earth X marks the spot where tweets once ruled, and the paper—

“Interplanetary line opening. Of course.”

“Mars Zoning? Keep it short.”

“Your papers are falling, they’re spinning in space, But they haven’t a permit to land in this place. If metadata drops on a crater or hill, You’ll get a ‘Celestial Littering’ bill.”

“Zoning, your concern for the dirt is duly noted and deleted. Don’t call back. Terminating.”

…and the paper was on its final descent. In encrypted code, it radioed: “Ground control, this is X. I’m coming in for the most awesome, declassified, top-secret maneuver to capture the market’s attention, in true Triple-X007 style… Standby for final confirmation in 3, 2, 1. X-marks the spot—landing.”

Chapter 8: Follow the Red Brick Line

The terminal flickered.

Not a dramatic flicker. The kind that meant something upstream was deciding whether she was worth the power draw.

BG didn’t blink.

“Did you trace it?” she asked. Her voice came out steady, which surprised her. She kept her eyes off the loyalty indicator burning in the corner of her vision. Yellow. Still yellow.

“I followed everything you said,” she continued, faster now. “At first I thought I saw a clean signal. It wasn’t. It was noise layered on noise. But that happens. I’m not panicking.”

Her hands hovered above the haptic keys. She didn’t touch them yet. Touching meant commitment.

Fear was logged as instability. She swallowed it.

“Is the tracker live?” she asked. “You said the math would hold if the inputs were dirty. You said it would still resolve.”

A pause. Too long.

Her chest tightened. “You did it, didn’t you.”

The system responded with a soft chime.

ADVISORY:

Emotional variance detected.

Stability recommended to maintain connectivity.

“Don’t do that,” she muttered. “I’m fine.”

She leaned closer to the sensor anyway. “You found it. You know where it’s been. Where it’s going.”

Her voice cracked on the next word. She hated that.

“It took my dad.”

She steadied herself with the edge of the console. “And now it’s circling us. I can feel it.”

The loyalty metric pulsed once. Still yellow.

“How did you get this so fast?” she demanded. “You didn’t have enough data. Not unless you’re seeing patterns I can’t.”

Her jaw tightened. Never let them see you blink.

“Teach me,” she said. “Don’t summarize it. Don’t smooth it out. Show me.”

She breathed through the ache in her stomach. Hunger was easier than fear. Hunger didn’t get you flagged.

“I don’t care if my shoes don’t fit. I don’t care if I miss meals. I can live with my body hurting.”

Her voice dropped. “I can’t live with losing them.”

She leaned in until the sensor warmed against her skin.

“You’re already shaping outcomes,” she said. “This isn’t theory to you. So don’t tell me it’s complicated.”

Her hands finally pressed down on the keys. Hard.

“This is me asking once,” she said. “Tomorrow, I start moving. With you—or without you.”

A beat.

“Show me how to stop what’s coming.”

The cursor blinked.

She didn’t look away.

“What’s this about a deal?” BG stared at the scrolling text of a Liability Waiver. “You want me to find a Logi and do what? What’s in it for me?”

The system didn’t answer with words, but with a Branded Promise™ notification. It promised security. It promised a future where her shoes didn’t have holes. She wanted to believe it so badly it hurt—a physical ache beneath her ribs.

“OK, I agree! But what happens if I don’t deliver? You listen, give me what I want, and I’ll keep my side of the bargain. I want proof of concept!”

The screen bled red. [NOTICE: Proof of concept requires Tier-4 Clearance. Your current Reputation Score is: INSIGNIFICANT.]

“What? Take what’s coming and just go with it?” BG scoffed, though her heart hammered against the “Insignificant” label. “How do I know what’s yours and what’s Fate’s? You’re saying you don’t know how and to just roll with it? Fine, I’ll do it.”

The door hissed open. The vacuum hummed in the hallway, a relentless drone of Domestic Compliance.

“Young lady, I respect your privacy, but who are you talking to?” her mother asked, leaning against the frame.

“No one, Mum.” BG closed the tabs with a frantic swipe.

“OK, just be careful. You don’t want you and no one’s brainwaves showing up on the radar.” Her mother’s eyes were tired, shadowed by the weight of a thousand System Audits.

“How was work?” her mother asked, walking into the small, cramped kitchen.

“It wasn’t too bad,” she replied, trying to keep her posture within the Optimal Wellbeing Range monitored by the kitchen sensors.

“Be careful, Baby; I heard the Takers are out scamming. Are you sure everything’s alright?”

“Don’t stress. I know how to take care of myself,” she muttered under her breath. Her want was simple: to be the one who saves, not the one who is saved. “Is there anything else, Mum? I’m busy at the moment.”

“What was that, Baby Girl? I couldn’t hear you.”

“Nothing, Mum. It wasn’t important. Sorry!”

BG looked around the cluttered counter. “Mum, have you seen the charger?”

“Go ask the vacuum cleaner. It may have ate it. It’s been on a Sanitization Directive all morning.”

 “BG—get the door.”

The knock came again. Louder this time.

“I—” BG cracked the seal before her mum could stop her. The paper slid out, stiff and official, its edges too clean. She didn’t read it all. She didn’t have to.

“Mum.”

Her mother crossed the room in two strides and snatched it from her hands. Her face changed—not shock, not anger. Recognition. The kind that sinks in before you breathe.

“Oh no,” she whispered. Then, louder, steadier: “Close the door. Lock it.”

“Should I run?” BG asked. The word slipped out before she could stop it.

Her mum grabbed her shoulders. Harder than she meant to. “No. Don’t run. Running makes you visible.”

She scanned the letter, jaw tightening. “They’ve flagged you. Asset exposure. Liability review. Same language as before.”

“I didn’t mean to,” BG said. “I was just trying to help. I thought—”

“I know.” Her mum folded the letter once. Then again. As if shrinking it could shrink what it meant. “They’ll say you’re a risk. Then they’ll say selling you is protection. Then they’ll say it’s your fault for being valuable. They target deep blue eyes like yours”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not angry,” her mum said quickly. Too quickly. “I’m scared.”

BG felt it then. Not fear of the letter—but fear of losing her.

“I hate this place,” BG said, voice breaking. “Everything here is a trap.”

Her mum pulled her close. “I won’t let them take you.”

She didn’t say how.

Her mum paced now. Once. Twice. Thinking with her whole body.

“That app you mentioned,” she said. “The ‘social’ one.”

“The trolling platform?” BG said. “It’s dumb. Everyone uses it.”

“That’s why it’s dangerous.” Her mum stopped and looked straight at her. “It doesn’t watch what you do. It watches how you hesitate.”

BG swallowed.

“When you shower,” her mum continued, quieter now, “lock the cubicle. Power down the de-atomizer. Don’t let anything record your silence.”

“Mum…”

“They sell pauses,” she said. “They auction moments before people even know they mattered.”

BG’s stomach turned. “You really think they’d—”

“I know they would.” Her mum’s voice dropped. “They already have.”

BG nodded. Once. She didn’t argue.

 “I see you trying,” BG said. “Every day. You smile so I don’t have to worry. But I do. I always do.”

Her mum sat heavily on the edge of the bed. The letter still clenched in her hand.

“Your dad used to say pressure shows what’s real,” she said. “He believed that. Lived it.”

BG smiled sadly. “He’d hate this.”

“Yes,” her mum said. “That’s why they broke him.”

BG looked up. Shock flickered—but her mum didn’t take it back.

“We didn’t comply,” she said. “We didn’t make ourselves easy. And systems don’t forgive that.”

She took BG’s face in her hands. “But listen to me. We are not inventory. We are not spare parts. And we are not owned.”

BG nodded, fiercely. “I won’t let them treat us like that.”

Her mum closed her eyes for a moment. Then opened them, resolved.

 “I should have warned you sooner,” her mum said. “That’s on me.”

“You kept me alive,” BG said. “That counts.”

A pause. Heavy. Dangerous.

Her mum reached beneath the floor panel and pulled out the folded map.

BG stared. “What is that?”

“A way out,” her mum said. “Not safe. Not clean. But real.”

She placed something else in BG’s palm. Cold. Heavy.

“No,” BG said immediately. “Mum—no.”

“It’s not for sale,” her mum said. “It’s protection.”

“It’s the Dark Angel,” BG whispered.

“Which is why no one will touch you while you wear it.”

BG shook her head. “You can’t give this to me.”

“I already have,” her mum said gently.

She pointed to the map. “Count the steps. Turn at the Gamma-ray sign—the ugly one. Go into the office that looks like it does nothing. Ask for mitigation. Offer words. Nothing else.”

“What if they ask for more?”

Her mum’s voice hardened. “They won’t. Not if you stand straight.”

BG’s eyes burned. “Promise me you won’t—”

“I promise nothing,” her mum said softly. “But I promise I love you.”

BG hugged her hard. “I’ll fix this.”

Her mum kissed her hair. “I know.”

BG stepped into the street with the map pressed flat against her ribs.

Nothing looked different. That was the worst part.

She didn’t feel brave. She felt late. As if something irreversible had already started moving—and she was finally catching up.

She counted her steps.

She didn’t look back.

“Hi, my loves.

I don’t know if this will reach you. I hope it does.

I miss you more than I can say. Some days it feels like the ache is the only thing still working properly in me. I’m sending this because I’ve found something—maybe not salvation, but a crack. A place where information still leaks through. Where pieces of the old archives surface if you know how to look.

People talk about it in whispers. Not because it’s beautiful. Because it’s dangerous.

They say fragments from before everything collapsed still circulate there. Not stories. Not memories. Raw data. Patterns. Instructions. Enough to make someone wonder if what happened had to happen.

I can’t stop thinking about before. Before they took you from me. Before I froze. That thought alone could get me erased if anyone heard it. But it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

I don’t understand how the light works—only that it’s tied to those transmissions. Everyone pretends it’s a myth because that’s safer than believing someone might actually use it.

Some people trade what they find. Quietly. For food. For time. For one more day.

Don’t worry. I’m careful. I always am.

Hope is a dangerous word here, but it’s the only one I have left.

Someone’s trying to reach me. I have to go.

I love you. Always.”

 “Is this it?”

She stopped walking.

The street was dead in that way only monitored places are—clean, empty, watchful. One sign burned brighter than the rest, harsh red light bleeding into the pavement.

She pinged the location without thinking, then canceled it just as fast.

Her chest tightened. Not fear exactly. Recognition.

I’ve been here before, she thought. Or maybe her mother had.

Anger sat heavy under her ribs. So did love. They didn’t cancel each other out. They fed each other.

“It has to be this one,” she whispered. “There’s nothing else.”

The sign wasn’t decorative.

It wasn’t trying to scare her.

It was trying to be precise.

STOP.

ACTIVE SCAN IN PROGRESS.

FACIAL RECOGNITION: ENABLED.

COGNITIVE PATTERN MONITORING: ENABLED.

UNAUTHORIZED HYPOTHESIS DETECTED = TERMINATION RISK.

She swallowed.

YOU ARE BEING EVALUATED.

The words didn’t blink. Didn’t threaten. Didn’t explain.

They didn’t need to.

Whoever worked here had learned how to disappear without leaving.

The office looked ordinary by design. No signs. No branding. No comfort. Just enough light to work.

The man inside didn’t look surprised to see her.

“If you read the sign and still walked in,” he said, “you’re either desperate or stupid.”

She didn’t answer.

He watched her closely. Not her body. Her reactions.

“I’m not interested in heroics,” he continued. “I’m interested in survival. Mine. Sometimes other people’s.”

He glanced at the paper in her hand and his posture changed. Just slightly.

“That’s not a warning,” he said. “That’s a deletion notice.”

Her throat tightened.

“You triggered a thought flag,” he went on. “Someone upstream didn’t like where your mind wandered.”

She felt exposed in a way clothes couldn’t fix.

“I’m called Mitigation,” he said. “If you’re here, it’s because you want time. Sit.”

 “Breathe,” he said, already scrolling. “Recycled air. Not great, but it works.”

He didn’t look at her when he spoke.

“You exceeded your cognitive allocation,” he said. “You layered synonyms. You implied alternatives. Worst of all—”

He paused.

“You used a phrase that’s been classified as aspirational.”

Her heart sank.

“That alone triggers review. Review triggers escalation.”

He finally met her eyes.

“Outside this room, mistakes get solved very quickly.”

She nodded. She couldn’t speak.

 “Let’s be honest,” he said. “Nothing I do is free.”

She stiffened.

“You don’t pay me,” he continued, “the system will collect anyway. Slower. Rougher. Public.”

His gaze hardened. Professional. Cold.

“You’ll be repurposed. Stripped down. Redistributed. No dignity left to argue with.”

He leaned back. “So. What do you have that makes you worth the risk?”

Her hands shook. She hated that they shook.

 “I need to register your profile,” he said. Flat. Transactional.

Something in her snapped.

“No,” she said. “You don’t get to talk to me like I’m inventory.”

He looked up sharply.

“Say that again.”

“You’re supposed to help,” she said, voice breaking now. “Not reduce me.”

Silence stretched.

Then he swore under his breath. “Damn it.”

“I pushed too far,” he admitted. “I needed to see if you’d react. If you were still human under pressure.”

She laughed, sharp and ugly. “That’s your test?”

“Yes,” he said. “And you passed.”

She wiped her eyes angrily. “You owe me.”

He nodded. “Fair.”

 “This is all second-by-second,” he said quietly. “One wrong move and you’re gone.”

She nodded, exhausted.

He slid her a drink. “It’s safe. Neutralizers. Don’t ask.”

She drank anyway.

“You mentioned something in your report,” he continued. “Words you shouldn’t have access to.”

Her pulse spiked.

“I’ve been looking for someone like you my entire life,” he said. “Someone who can see patterns without triggering alarms.”

She hesitated. Then: “What do you know about the system guarding it?”

“Enough to be afraid,” he said. “Enough to want it gone.”

She exhaled slowly.

“Then maybe,” she said, “we can help each other.”

He considered her for a long moment.

“Deal,” he said finally. “But we move carefully. No thinking out loud. No hero moves.”

She nodded. “My mum says swearing shows disrespect.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Smart woman.”

The door locked behind them—not as a threat.

As protection.

Chapter 9: Clone Expiry Date

“Excellent, young lady, you’re still here. Let’s start fresh.” Mitigation—M—gestured to the seat across from his desk. His movements were calculated, designed to project a stability he didn’t feel. “Your case is unique, and the road ahead won’t be easy, but I’m committed to guiding you through it. This is a quest—a mission to shift the status quo back in our favor and keep it there. First, we need to clarify what happened and why, to avoid repeating the same mistakes.”

He paused, examining the printout with a clinical detachment that hid a growing sense of dread. “It’s odd—according to this, your motivation isn’t clear. What it does reveal are several unanswered questions. One of which is whether you blocked your reason for the incident from the temporal scanner. My analysis suggests you did, but we can address that later.”

BG shifted in her chair. Her private rule: never let a man with power see you blink first. She wanted the safety he offered, but the price felt like a weight around her neck.

He continued, quoting directly from the red-stamped document, “The Gen: 200 App says you acted audaciously and haphazardly, contemplating the situation without regard for the consequences. You wondered aloud about who is modifying our climate into an existential crisis and why. Then, you boldly asked, ‘What’s happening to our planet’s orbit and its life-sustaining resources? They’re depleting rapidly and are essential to our survival.’”

PROCEDURAL ALERT // COGNITIVE DEVIATION Registry: Query #8842-Alpha Status: Flagged for Subversive Philosophical Inquiry Penalty: Mandatory cognitive recalibration pending.

“Here’s the deal,” M said firmly, his eyes locking onto hers. “If you decide to take me up on my services, the exchange will be your knowledge for a better quality of existence. I’ll provide the resources, but you’ll need to meet the standards required. I have one rule, which I’ll reveal shortly. Before we agree, understand this: once we shake on it, there’s no turning back. If either of us backs out, we could face life-threatening challenges that neither of us might be able to overcome. So, what do you have to lose?”

“I’m ready to shake on it now. I’m starving and exhausted,” she replied. The hunger was a physical ache, a system-enforced reminder of her low-tier status.

“Before we finalize the deal, you should eat. If you’re still in agreement afterward, we’ll begin the mitigation process.”

“Oh, by the way, what’s your one rule?”

“Here, read this and start living it,” he said, handing her a document. It was cold, printed on high-density polymer.

“The Ode to the Code of Conduct; is this for real?” she asked, her voice dry.

“Yes, it’s real,” he confirmed. “Stray from it, and our agreement is nullified, and you will bear the full consequences. Reputational blacklisting is the least of your worries.”

“You want me to live by this? I’ll do my best,” she said, her fingers tightening on the edges of the page.

“That’s good enough for now. Eat and enjoy. There will always be a place for you at the table. Bon appétit.”

“Merci,” she replied, the foreign word tasting like a small, private rebellion against the standardized speech of the administration.

 “Interesting how words and languages evolve,” he mused as she ate. “Here’s the key to your studio. No parties, no alcohol, no drugs, and no sexual activities with anyone—boys, girls, or both. Be cautious during your period; the controllers and takers might target you for your blood to sell on the open and Clone markets.”

“No girls? Do you want me to be a rock or a sponge with no personality?” she protested, her anger flashing hot. She wanted the freedom to be herself, a luxury the system taxed heavily.

“That’s not our priority at the moment. We need to establish your new life and protect your family. The administration has a grim reputation with fresh young girls. You’ll need a new cover and a position at the factory. No one touches the boss’s top-tier workers. Were you working there before you came here?”

“Yes, but I’ll need a major makeover if I’m going back. The Takers recently hit the place. Can you manage the makeover?” she asked.

“Yes, I can,” he assured her. “Enough of the banter. I hated what I said earlier; it made me sick to my stomach.” He looked away, his composure fracturing for a split second. “Clones are everywhere, and it’s hard to distinguish them except for their lack of emotions. Strangely, they seem to be evolving, though whether that’s positive or not, I can’t say for sure. I hope it means they’ll stop being manipulated by the corrupt authorities. By the way, since you’re at an optimal child-bearing age, don’t you plan to have children for a new future?”

“I do, but right now, I’m just trying to survive. Plus, I need to find the right partner, which complicates things since I’m attracted to other girls,” she explained, her voice low and defiant.

 “Where are your children?” she asked gently, the question cutting through the professional veneer of the room.

M’s hands stilled. “They were taken a long time ago. My son would be nearly 18 now.” His voice went flat, the sound of a man reading a casualty list. “During the sandstorms, they were asking for bread, just bread, when the Gamma-ray hit. It killed them both—my wife and son. Their bodies fell to the ground, lifeless. It was devastating. The laughter of the gatekeepers still echoes in my mind, but I stopped it with finality. I did wrong, but it felt right. I should have taken the brunt of the Gamma-ray instead of them. Now, there’s no one left—no son, no love, just me.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her own grief mirroring his. “I didn’t mean to make you relive that pain.”

“BG, what’s wrong? I said I was sorry. Please don’t cry. I didn’t mean what I said when we first met. I had to test you to make sure you weren’t a clone. Here, dry your eyes.”

“It’s not that, M. I saw what happened to your family. Mine are starving too. I was going to sell myself for food, but my mother stopped me.” Her voice broke. “M, are those tears?”

“No, they aren’t,” he said quickly, blinking back the moisture. To show grief was to invite a ‘stability audit.’ “There will be a document data dump that your mother can use for rations. The team knows what to do—keep her in the dark about the plan so the App’s handler doesn’t suspect anything. Trust the team; they know what they’re doing.”

“Thanks, M,” she said.

“Enjoy your dessert. It’s called ‘chemical apple pie.’”

“Actually, M, from now on, I’ll be cooking, and that’s non-negotiable!” she said with a small, fragile smile.

“I’m glad to hear that,” M replied, a ghost of a smile touching his own lips.

 “Eat up, we need to freshen up and dive into learning while we have time. Here are my files.”

“Wow! M, how did you gather so much data?”

“The real question is, how do you read minds and use so many words perfectly in three languages? Impressive!”

“M, how do I join this team that helps those in need?”

“Well, first, let’s get your makeover and backstory sorted. Keep the masking app on when you’re out and about; turn it off when you’re with the training teams. Alright, let’s go. I’ll drop you off—they’re expecting you.”

“Great, I’m ready. Let’s go.”

Breaking through barriers requires subtle hints and deliberate actions. New recruits might expect a challenge, but they often underestimate the intensity of training. In the administration’s eyes, there is no place for fools—only for assets that function within parameters.

“Come in. I’ve been expecting you—yes, you, young lady. And don’t forget his name: Johnny Ring-of-Fire. Stop letting others get the better of you. Now, sit with the others and focus on your future. Excuse me, newbies—I have a guest to thank.”

The commando, clad in titanium-weave tights that shimmered with anti-ballistic coating, glanced at the tall stranger blending into the shadows. Her Johnny Ring-of-Fire Stetson was tilted at a trademark angle. She blew him a kiss and winked. “Thanks, Johnny, she’s here.”

The newbies gawked in awe. Among them, a teen girl with deep blue eyes, wearing a hoodie-tee, felt the heat rise to her face.

HARDWARE NOTICE // BIOMETRIC SPIKE Device: Apple Millennia-4 Status: High-Frequency Vibration Engaged Warning: Excessive thermal output detected in user facial tissues.

The device in her lap buzzed insistently, a mechanical mockery of her nerves. Steaming with embarrassment, she blurted out a long, drawn-out, “Fuuuck!”

The other cadets sighed, assuming it was passion for the mysterious man in the shadows. The commando’s voice cut through the air like a blade:

“Okay, newbies, cry if you must, boys. Whimper if you need to, girls. But how dare you show such insolence? I’ve never seen such a flippant display! Do you think you could ever be their equal? Don’t you dare buy into the far-right extremist nonsense that says you’re worthless. It’s all garbage! Got it, newbies?

“Now, pick yourselves up. Listen to my words, clearly and carefully. You are their equal—yes, you, each and every one of you. Learn to think without hesitation or doubt. Prove yourself superior through knowledge, determination, and integrity.

“You are here to become champions, defenders, and thinkers. This is where we live what we’ve learned, forged by smart, titanium-tough integrity, to navigate life’s complexities with chivalry and action. Don’t be fooled by those who try to convince you otherwise with their sneaky tricks and deceit.”

And then it came, sparing no feelings—because the system had ensured there were none left to feel. Remorse was a luxury blocked by the Wall of Data, where codes were twisted to facilitate a mind-numbing ignorance.

Until it hit.

With the force of a brick smashing into a skull, two words boomed through the air, shattering the silence. The newbies felt it like a shockwave, a physical disruption of their programmed passivity.

“Contact front! Get down, newbies! Get down now and take cover! Move, move, move!”

The command ripped through the air, and a wave of torsos hit the ground. Heads throbbed, brows dripped with sweat, and bodies surged forward in a chaotic, desperate motion.

They were a mess—a tangle of limbs searching for synchronicity. Their primary objective was clear: stop flailing and start moving forward, even if it meant barely crawling past the start line. Staying put meant a permanent administrative deletion.

“Okay, newbies, listen up! Imagine this: glide over me, stretch those legs long, thrust upward with all your might. Feel every muscle flex and stretch as you move. Your left arm sweeps across, your thighs brush past. Again! Left, right, thrust forward, keep coming, keep the rhythm! Feel the power in every move.”

As bodies arched and thrust, legs pushed against the ground. “Keep it up,” the Commando encouraged. “You boys with those muscles—use them! Ride those waves forward!”

Neurons fired up, and the ground seemed to tremble. It was an electric dance—legs rippling, bums popping, and torsos shifting with renewed vigor. They moved together, inch by inch, towards their goal.

Then came the whisper—a seismic tremor. “Use your minds,” the whisper said, “recon your way forward.”

“Move, newbies! Feel your way through! Think unimpeded!” The command snapped them back into action, bums clenched, muscles tightened, every fiber focused on moving forward. This was no ordinary drill; it was a battle for their minds.

“Stay low! That gamma beam will split you in two before you know it!”

SECURITY SYSTEM ALERT Sector: Training Grid 4 Action: Gamma-Tracking Active. Threshold: Any torso exceeding 30cm height will be engaged with extreme prejudice.

They kept going, driven by urgency, pushing through the fog of dumbness clouding their thoughts. “Take command of your minds! Clear the confusion! Focus!”

And through the haze, they felt it—a flicker of clarity, a spark of defiance. “You feel me?” the Commando shouted.

“Yes, please!” came the breathless reply from the recruits. They knew, then and there, that their journey had only just begun. The code was in their blood now, and the system would have to work harder to kill them.

Chapter 10: Commando in Titanium Tights

 “Freshmen, listen up! Don’t splatter yourselves all over my brand-new, form-fitting Commander’s uniform, courtesy of Amazoom. It clings to every curve, making the boys’ bits stand up at attention.” The Commander paced the line, her boots striking the floor with rhythmic, military precision. “Now go, go, go! Push forward, keep moving, hit the ground, and take cover!”

BG felt the air vibrate as the Commander moved. The woman’s presence wasn’t just authority; it was a physical pressure, an administrative weight that demanded total compliance.

“Reorganize around me—yes, you too, cutie pie! And you, young lady! If you want my attention, don’t raise your hands, girls, or pitch a tent in your pants, boys. That laser beam might mistake it for happy hour and zap it off. Just look at me, feel my vibe, and think.”

“Can I?” a voice piped up from the back.

“Can you what?”

“Feel your vibe?”

“Alright, newbies, take a breather.” The Commander stopped, her gaze narrowing.

PROCEDURAL INTERRUPT // CONDUCT AUDIT Source: Training Floor Oversight Status: Unauthorized interaction detected. Action: Monitor for insubordination.

“You there, ever gone upstairs feet first? It’s a bumpy ride, but want to try? Cutie pie, you’re quite the stud. Ever cried in front of girls? Listen here: no touching unless invited. Break that rule, and we break you. Earn it, then enjoy it. Stay, earn your place, or leave now.”

The Commando’s Voice Booms, Cutting Through the Air.

“Think! Use that sponge between your ears. You’re not above ground—you’re here, covertly, after a lifetime of following agendas that aren’t yours. Agendas set by the Control Freaks and Takers and their minions suppressing your intellect. They hate books, hate free thought, and overturn your right to express yourselves.”

BG’s heart hammered against her ribs. She wanted to believe this, but the fear of a thought-monitoring spike kept her internal monologue short and utilitarian.

“But not here. Here, your mind is your playground. Write your story, page after page, and own your journey.”

“Hey, you missed a page, my beers, pizzas, and notches on my belt!” Cutie Pie chirped.

“Right, cutie pie. I forgot the part where you become a test subject for every appendage in the room. Focus! Here’s a saying: ‘Stupid is as stupid does,’ courtesy of Forrest Gump Jr. Don’t let stupidity define you! Our mantra is, ‘Boom goes the Gamma-ray, not us.’ Think on your feet, show some spark, some Einstein-level brilliance. Where are your kahunas, boys? And girls, where’s that superior brain power? No balls or brains? Logistics has got your back. Get to them, get what you need, and we’ll get you to your graduation ceremony.”

 “Commander, did you design your uniform yourself?” a newbie asked, her voice trembling.

“I did, and it’s called my ‘Commando in Tights’ look. It’s expressive and unconstrained. If it inspires you, that’s the point. You’re here to think, to feel, to discover new neural pathways. Speak your mind, and let those thoughts flow!”

“But Commander, if I may—”

“Never mock the word. Laugh with it, joke with it, but don’t mock it. Words are all we have. Use them wisely, and they’ll carry you far—even help you get lucky. Disrespect them, and all you’ll have are your five fingers to keep you company.”

The Commander’s tone shifted, the playful edge replaced by the cold steel of a field manual.

“Everyone, this training teaches you to think, and more importantly, when and where to apply that thinking. Remember, safety in your personal zone is paramount. Protect yourselves, protect your comrades, especially when you’re back in the real world. Got it? Good.”

She turned her gaze to Cutie Pie. “And you, be careful. Don’t mess with that sign or you’ll trigger the Gamma-ray beam. Always keep your senses sharp and think smart. Don’t make me clean up after any accidents. The Gamma-ray is scanning now, so stay focused. We’re all thinking now, right?”

 “Stand by, newbies. The thought blocker is operational. Gamma-ray scanning for fresh meat in 5, 4, 3…”

The air in the room suddenly ionized, smelling of ozone and burnt dust.

“It’s active now. Stay sharp, stay smart, and keep moving forward.”

STOP, STOP, STOP! THINK BEYOND FIVE SIMPLE BULLET POINTS, OR YOU’LL FIND YOURSELF IN BITS AND PIECES!

RED ALERT: DANGER! GAMMA-RAY LASER BEAM WITH GENERATION 200: FACIAL RECOGNITION AND THOUGHT MONITORING, TRACKING YOUR EVERY MOVE!

OPENLY HYPOTHESIZE AT YOUR OWN RISK: TARGET LOCKED, PINPOINT ACCURACY ENGAGED—EXPECT A PERMANENT HOLE WHERE YOU STAND!

BG froze, her muscles locking in place. The system didn’t care about her “vibe”—it cared about the geometry of her skull and the frequency of her neurons.

 “Standby for shutdown in 3, 2… Gamma-ray deactivated, Commander.”

“Thanks, 2IC.”

“You’re welcome.” A new figure stepped forward, the Team Leader. “Alright newbies, you heard it loud and clear: thinking out loud or making a fuss up there triggers that Gamma-ray. And it doesn’t miss; it makes a mess—of you!”

TL scanned the room, her eyes landing on BG. “So listen up. I’m Team Leader, aka TL. Stay sharp, and don’t crowd us when we demonstrate the input we need from each of you. Otherwise, you might end up scattered like confetti, and I don’t need that on my training schedule. Got it?”

“Yeah, TL!”

“I can’t hear you! Remember, the noise reducer is on. Do you understand?”

“YES, WE UNDERSTAND, TL!” the group roared.

“Much better. You all need to start thinking strategically, blending short-term tactics with long-term goals. That’s why you’re down here—to learn, deliberate, and master the process. None of us will survive unless we reclaim our right to think freely—to dream, to plan, to experience life’s rich moments like love, laughter, tears…and looking as good as I do. Just ask the boys—they don’t need words; their ‘rockets’ are doing all the talking for them.”

 “Now, back to business. Those bits and pieces you see Logi handling?” TL pointed to a cleanup crew moving through the back of the room. “They’re from the last set of newbies who didn’t think fast enough.”

BG felt a cold shudder run down her spine. The “bits and pieces” weren’t a metaphor; they were a procedural outcome.

“If this isn’t for you, there’s the stairway back to the surface. You’re free to leave, but know this: the stairs always lead back down, and we’ll welcome you with open arms when you’re ready to join the family. Feel me, newbies? Keep thinking sharp; keep your head in the game, and you might just make it through. Hoorah!”

The group remained silent, no one moving for the door.

“Glad to see you’re all still here! Oh, and the boys too—you’re all holding strong. I’m single, boys, so I’ll be looking forward to seeing who’s got the guts to prove themselves. Mano a mano, or maybe a little competition—you know, me on top, you down there cleaning the floor.”

“I don’t think so, girly!” Cutie Pie barked.

“Did you say something, cutie pie? Graduate top of the class, and we’ll see who burps first after pizza, beer, and a cigar… with my foot on your… appendage. Alright, team, back to business—we’ve got a contender for graduation and a ride on my bike.”

 “Before we continue, Logi, step up.”

Logi moved into position, her face a mask of focus. BG watched her, noting the way Logi didn’t waste a single movement. Her private rule: never let them see your next move.

“Stay where you are, Logi. Channel your anger on your opponent. Now, let’s see… Thank you, Cutie Pie. Face each other and put your hands out.”

The room went quiet.

“Alright, newbies, we’ll demonstrate the power of attitude. The game is ‘Stand, Kneel, Sit.’ Use only your hands to make your opponent follow the commands. On my mark: Sit! Well done. Stand! Kneel! Sit!”

The exchange was a blur of motion.

“Logi, did you just use your Jedi powers to transfer your skills to Cutie Pie? This is the first draw in your history! Getting old, Sensei?”

The newbies murmured in awe. “A word of advice—never take on Logi unless you can finish the fight. We’ve all suffered under the cruelty of the Takers. Well done, Cutie Pie. You may sit down.”

In a flash, the Commander and her team took a knee, heads bowed in silent tribute. “Hoorah!” they shouted.

“Formalities done! Grab a cappuccino and cookies—just don’t trip the command detonation wire. I hate mopping up bits and pieces…it’s a waste, a real waste… of coffee and cookies!”

TL stepped forward, her voice dropping into an introductory cadence. “Now that we’re in the safe zone, let me introduce myself. I’m TL—Team Leader. It’s great to see girls with grit and boys with big balls. You’ve all survived our little intro, but trust me, the real test is coming.”

2IC stepped up, her eyes scanning the room like a tactical HUD. “Hello, team! I’m 2IC, your second-in-command. If TL falls, I take over. Simple as that.”

3IC followed, “And I’m 3IC, third in command. If everything goes to hell, I get us back to base, regroup, and re-engage.”

“Let’s meet the rest of the team,” TL continued. “The Pedagogical Para-academics handle thought drops, while the Philosophers assess data and develop strategies. You and I are the boots on the ground, covert operatives who execute missions.”

BG felt the weight of the organization. This wasn’t just a rebellion; it was a hierarchy.

“Newbies, stick close and follow instructions, or risk being shredded by rogue waves or newbie mistakes. Are you ready to continue, or do you want out? Your choice, no shame in it. But if anyone mocks you, I’ll deal with them myself.”

BG took a step forward. “I’m in,” she said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline.

“Good. Your call sign is BG. Listen up, newbies, each of you will earn a call sign when you’re ready. Standby; TL, the team is prepped and ready for orders.”

 “Alright, team, here’s the plan. Our mission is ‘TARGET CLEARED.’ We’re going in to neutralize the Marks and secure three packages alive.”

TASK ORDERS:

•           TM 1-5: Secure the outer perimeter.

•           2IC: Confirm the location of all targets and packages.

•           3IC: Set the primary entry point detonation.

•           TM 5: Prepare the diversionary explosives.

•           Entry Squad (TL, 2IC, TM 6, BG, TM 7): Breach, take down the Marks, and secure the packages.

•           Lockdown: Enforce cleared zones. Extract packages and move to safe haven.

“If wounded or killed, others must take over their tasks. Reorganize, resupply, and prepare for redeployment.”

BG felt a surge of nausea. She wanted to protect her family, not become a casualty on a task order. Her private fear: dying before I matter.

“Entry on my count… 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, go, go, go!”

 “Go, go, go! Push through! Target right—clear, moving forward!”

“2iC moving forward—clear! Targets right, targets cleared!”

BG moved, her vision tunneling as she followed the titanium-clad legs of the woman in front of her.

Suddenly, a Mark lunged from a side alcove, a weapon leveled at BG’s chest. 2IC spotted it instantly. Her zone compromised, she charged forward, shouting, “BG, thermo bomb! Take cover!”

She threw herself into the Mark just as a flash of light blinded the room.

The detonation was a physical blow to the chest. 2IC’s vest absorbed the brunt, but she didn’t stop. She ensured the target was neutralized, pounding furiously, blood splattering the hallway as she crushed the threat.

“BG, get up! Keep pushing through!”

“3iC, take 2iC’s Marks! Move, now!”

“BG, I’m up! Push forward! Go, go! Covering fire now!”

“Roger! 3iC in place, moving forward! Contact front—clear!”

“Team, neutralize your Marks! Secure the packages! Exfil on me! Reorg! MIA, KIA, WIA—get the medics! 2iC needs immediate attention!”

 “Sorry about the mess, TL. Area decontaminated.” 2IC sat on a crate, her breathing ragged. “I’m a little off-balance, but not out. Taught myself to be ambidextrous, you know—bullseye, split an atom at ten paces.”

TL knelt in front of her, her face a mask of restrained fury and relief. “Girl, we can’t keep reattaching your limbs. Lose your head, and you’re out for good. You’re the best, 2iC, but this is the last time. I mean it. Love you—you inspire us all. Now, go get patched up.”

BG watched them, the bond between the two women obvious even under the procedural layer of the mission. She wanted that—that absolute trust.

“Alright, team, once the reorg is done, we review the footage.” TL stood up, her uniform miraculously still spotless. “We’ll adapt our tactics if necessary and rehearse until they’re reflexes, pure muscle memory. Let’s get to work.”

Chapter 11: Hand on My Head

 “Alright, newbies, listen up! Good to see you all made it through. Logistics will sort out your gear and accommodation.” The Commander’s voice was lower now, but the procedural edge hadn’t softened. “Logi, come here.”

Logi stepped forward, her face neutral, but BG noticed the slight tension in her jaw—a private rule: never show a crack in the armor.

“I thought I told you to lower the threshold so 2iC’s arms stay on her torso,” the Commander said, her eyes boring into Logi. “What happened, kid?”

“TL, I did. I’m not sure what went wrong.”

“That’s bullshit. You’re a master tech, not some rookie making baby mistakes.” The Commander’s reputational score for Logi was visibly dipping in her estimation. “If I find out who’s behind this, I’m going to thrash them.”

Suddenly, Logi’s hand flew to her console. A series of amber alerts flashed across her visor.

SYSTEM ALERT // UNAUTHORIZED OVERRIDE Security Tier: Level 4 Status: Critical. Action: Local access denied.

“TL, wait! Something’s off—lockdown, now! Someone’s changed the code!”

Chaos erupted as the teams snapped into action, going into full combat mode. The air sizzled with the sound of emergency shutters slamming into place. Freshmen and newbies suited up, their faces pale as they realized this wasn’t the training they expected. It was fight or die—no in-between.

BG watched “Cutie Pie” fumbling with his vest. He was terrified, but he didn’t run. He wanted that valedictorian title, a way to move his family up the social tiering system. Kudos to him; maybe that title actually meant something beyond the metric.

 “Sorry, Logi. TL, it was me.”

The voice came from the medical gurney. 2iC was propped up, her shoulder heavily bandaged, blood seeping through the synthetic gauze.

“2iC, are you sure?”

“Yeah, TL, I reset the code to advance mode.”

The Commander stared at her for a long beat. The tension in the room remained high, but the “lockdown” status began to cycle back to green.

“Stand down! Well done, teams! Squad leaders, debrief your units and report back.” The Commander turned back to 2iC, her anger shifting into a grim sort of affection. “2iC, hand off my codes, or I’ll chop your arms off myself. Medics, get her out of here and patch her up. And glue her hand to her head while you’re at it. Damn, I love you, you dipstick!”

BG caught up with 2iC as they wheeled her toward the infirmary.

“Why’d you take the blame?” BG whispered, leaning close. “You know it wasn’t you. I saw you at the console.”

“I’m 2iC. It’s what I do,” the woman replied, her voice strained. “I’m here to have your back, and you beat me to the console. I don’t train to play. Neither do you, right?”

“Not really,” BG admitted. Her private want was simple: be the one they can’t ignore. “I’m more of a soloist. I’d rather brief TL—she’s gorgeous, you know.”

“That’s fine with me. And yes, she is. Go for it, BG. You’ve got my support, soloist!”

BG walked back to the Commander’s office. The door scanned her eyes as the biometric lock pinged and slid open.

“Hey, TL, it was me. Not 2iC.”

The Commander didn’t look up from her screen. “I know, BG. You’ve got a lone wolf streak, just like 2iC. She trains to kill, not to play. What happened, happened. Let 2iC enjoy the credit. It’ll make for a great story over pizza and beers later.”

Looking up, to the sound of “that deep stick.” TL muttered  “Logi good timing, fix the console and make it 2iC-proof. Good call on the lockdown. Squad leaders, this is our new training standard. Step it up—no one touches the codes without permission. Got it?”

Addressing the Team:

“Hey newbies, well done! Training’s only going to get harder. Check your new schedule—it’s posted now.”

NOTIFICATION // SCHEDULE UPDATE Current Cycle: 14-Day Intensive Requirement: 98% Compliance or Termination.

“I look forward to celebrating with pizza and beers at your graduation in a fortnight. The bar is open tonight for everyone. Girls, watch out for the boys and their ‘space rockets’ trying to enter your orbit without your direct authorization. And boys, if you value your appendages, remember that love is mutual consent. Violate our norms, and I’ll make sure you regret it. Party hard, but play smart. I’m off to check on 2iC.”

“TL, please tell 2iC we’re all inspired by her. We’ll strive to meet her standards. Hoorah, TL!”

“Thank you, team. I’ll pass on your words. Now go enjoy yourselves. Your commitment shows great promise. Now, go! Have a great time!”

And as it goes, like anywhere in the cosmos, party time means drinking—lots of it. In a world of audits and metrics, the chance to dull the sensors was a rare prize. If the Commander of the “space rocket” gets the coordinates from Mission Control, then it’s liftoff to the Karman line and beyond.

BG watched the recruits, their faces flushed with the temporary illusion of freedom. Expect a night of bumpy rides, multiple re-entries, and possibly discovering the meaning of uninhibited love. And, of course, after the pounding hangovers, there’s just enough time for one last rendezvous, a quick coffee, and a reality check. Sober up quickly, or prepare to be blasted apart by a Gamma-ray. TL and 2iC have been there and done that, so you’re in expert hands.

 “Morning, newbies.” TL stood at the front of the hall, her presence cutting through the collective hangover of the room. “Today’s session will be led by 2iC. She’s back and better than ever, so let’s dive straight into the battle space warm-up.”

2iC stepped forward, her movement slightly stiff but precise. “Go ahead, 2iC. Thanks, TL. Alright newbies, listen up. Try not to lose any limbs—if you do, we can fix you up, but it will hurt. Think carefully, react as needed, and follow the course. I’ll see what comes out of this. Hopefully, you’ll all make it through. Stand by and go!”

 “2iC.”

“Yes, TL?”

“Use graduated intensity and increase anxiety levels with each cycle.”

 The system hummed as the simulation parameters shifted. The recruits’ heart rate monitors began to spike in unison on the main display.

“Understood,” 2iC replied. She pushed the recruits through the drills, her voice a whip. “I’ll debrief the newbies once we’re done. Well done, everyone! You’re all still intact, and none of you triggered that dangerous Gamma-ray. Keep that focus—it’s crucial for changing the status quo and ensuring data flows smoothly. Hoorah!”

 “Excuse me, 2iC.” Boy stepped forward after the drill. “How are you feeling? And why did you push so hard during yesterday’s training?”

“Thanks for asking. I’m feeling great.” 2iC leaned against a rack of training rifles. “Yesterday’s training was about team dynamics, responsibilities, and protecting each other. For me, it’s about family. My parents, like many of us, were taken for the clone market, and I’m here to stop it. This is my way of contributing something personal: my effort.”

“2iC, I’m glad you’re okay. I really want to know what ‘Hoorah’ means.”

“Thanks, Boy. What’s your name?”

“It’s Boy.” He looked down, a flicker of private vulnerability surfacing. “I understand what you mean about contributing something personal. That’s what I want to do too.”

“Alright, newbies. Here’s where we start: ‘Hoorah!’ When we take a knee, we remember the fallen—our family.”

Suddenly, tears flowed from someone who usually seemed unbreakable. Logi’s face crumpled, the procedural mask finally failing. A little voice spoke with fierce emotion: “Our families were violated, tortured, and desecrated. We longed for an end.”

“Thank you, Logi. I’ll take it from here.” 2iC pulled the girl into a quick, sharp embrace. “Come sit with me, sister, and let’s talk about channeling our hatred. Love you, Logi. These are the stories we can share.”

She looked at the group. “‘Hoorah’ is our battle cry. It’s our call to action against the evil that cycles endlessly. We are here to stop it!”

 “When we enter the ‘Hallow Halls of the Shields of the Zodiac,’ you’ll hear echoes from the old Earth—music from the classic Bose, and playlists from the Apple Millennium-4. These songs celebrate our victories and honor our quests.”

EXPOSITION INTERRUPT // ARCHIVE LOG Source: Old Earth Cultural Registry Status: Low Fidelity / Reconstructed Policy: Historical context must be vetted for subversive sentiment.

“Freshmen, take a moment to reflect and recognize your noble deeds. Fear not the Department of Control Freaks and Takers. Your achievements today will be recounted in future chronicles. Embrace the challenges and stand tall. As Goliath falls, remember: ‘Vaya con Dios,’ farewell to our brothers and sisters. Rest, relax, and prepare for phase two at 1330 hours. Hoorah, team!”

“Hoorah, 2iC!”

 “Boy, sit here for a moment.” 2iC gestured to the bench. “If you want to be the valedictorian at graduation, you’ll need extra training. We’re here to help if you’re interested. Just a word of advice: never piss off Logi.”

She glanced at the technician. “She’s been known to make extreme adjustments—like reattaching body parts in the most inconvenient places. The SSAR-Bot medics once had to re-suture my hand to my arm. Logi’s threat is no joke; she could cut off your thingy and glue it to your forehead.”

2iC chuckled, a dark, sharp sound. “I’ve even turned my mishap into a joke, calling my selfies ‘Need a Hand to Get Ahead.’ Anyway, we’re here to support you. Love isn’t a prize, but our Commando could use more than just beer and pizza—she deserves some sweet treats. That would make our lives feel like a holiday on planet Disney!”

“Hey, I’m willing to go all out to win her heart, if she has one,” Boy said, his voice rising with a mix of bravado and desperation. “I’m in. Cheers, 2iC. But what’s the deal with Logi? Tell me, and I’ll share my history and my reason for being here. Deal?”

“Deal. So, Boy, here’s the story: You know that feeling when goose bumps appear on your neck, chills run down your spine, and dark, angry clouds gather above, creating a terrifying storm? It’s like the sky is ripping apart, with lightning flashing through the darkening cityscape. The devil’s work often comes in moments of eerie calm, but remember, the real terror is what follows. Don’t repeat the mistakes of those who tempt fate during these quiet moments. In the space between thunder and lightning, there’s a force that strikes fear even into the devil. It’s something you never want to encounter: The Dark Angel. Keep her name whispered low, or you’ll scare everyone around you.”

Waiting in ambush, the assailant shouted, “Get it ready! Someone’s coming! Quick, throw it, slide in, move out of my way, get to the back. You lot, get out now!”

“What are you doing? No, not my baby!” a woman’s scream cut through the sound of grinding metal.

“Looking at the front seat, the thief’s accomplice shouted, ‘Shit, you crushed them!’”

“Hurry up, help me push them out!” The assassin then punched his partner with an oversized fist, saying, “You can follow them too.” As the partner was thrown out of the cruiser, the accomplice yelled, “Quick, autopilot! Get the hell out of here; stay above the city line. Step on the accelerator, go, go, go!” As the cruiser sped away, the ex-partner’s final words, “I hope you fry in hell,” faded into the distance while they plummeted down below.

Unbeknownst to the carjacker, a young girl was asleep in the back seat. When she awoke, she rubbed her eyes and asked, “Where’s my Mum and Dad? Who are you?”

Startled, the driver lurched forward, his body straining against his oversized inflatable armor. Buttons popped off his shirt, ricocheting off the cruiser’s ceiling, doors, and floor before flying out the broken window. As his armor’s inflated chest pushed into the rear seat area, it smothered the girl. Gasping heavily, the driver flopped about, trying to undo her seatbelt.

The sweat from his armpit started degrading the buckle’s molecular structure, causing it to crumble.

The buckle snapped. The autopilot shifted its center of gravity.

The sudden shift in weight made the autopilot unstable. The driver slipped, slamming face-first into the front seat, nearly popping the rear window.

From below, onlookers, alarmed by the chaos, thought the cruiser was about to fall on them. “Those must be Mars’s moons, Phobos and Deimos,” they panicked. “Someone needs to blow it up!”

Pressed against the rear window and struggling against the wind, the driver was laughing and grunting as he pushed the girl out of the cruiser mid-flight. The door slammed shut, jamming the driver’s fingers, while the wind buffeted the cruiser violently. The driver’s agony was evident in his expression and sounds, but he continued to laugh as the girl plummeted.

The dark sky howled with fury. Lightning and thunder announced vengeance from Moolah the Greedy and the Supreme Court Justice. The Dark Angel’s wrath was about to greet them with fiery punishment.

Meanwhile, aboard the Galactic Rose, a sudden shift in weight caused the ship to dip. The Helmsman, with a deep breath and wide mouth, amplified his announcement to the entire crew: “Master Chief, quickly! We’ve been struck by a meteorite!”

The Helmsman, panic-stricken, screamed until he almost knocked the moon off its orbit. His face turned pale as he crumbled in fear. The command and crew scrambled to their stations, quickly loading ammo and preparing for battle. The crew commanders reported, “Gamma-ray cannons locked and loaded. Able Spacemen are ready, Master Chief.”

Then came the order, “Stand down! SAR, tend to the wounded asteroid. She’s a girl.”

The Master Chief stepped onto the bridge, his eyes fixed on the scanner. “Medics, get her to the emergency room immediately. Little girls do not die on my ship, and that’s an order. If my blood is a match, I’ll help. Medics, help the Able Spaceman to sick-bay. He’ll survive. Tell him a beautiful miracle happened, and all is OK.”

 “Hey, 2iC, I’m curious about IMAX. By all accounts, he’s the big brother I’ve always wanted.”

“You’re right, Boy,” Logi said, her voice soft now, the memory of the Galactic Rose grounding her. “He was our big brother, our only brother. Hey, 2iC, tell him about that time with Big Red.”

 

Chapter 12: Meteorite Falls from the Sky

Whether it was the impact of the meteorite crashing into the ER, the Master Chief’s relentless spirit, or the young girl’s burning desire for revenge, healing was a slow process. Logi, as she came to be known, trailed the Master Chief everywhere, even on missions. Her private rule: never let the person holding the life-support remote out of your sight. She wanted to be indispensable, a vital organ in the unit’s anatomy. Their first operation together began like any other morning—dictated by the cold chime of the barracks’ environmental cycle.

 “Hi IMAX.”

“Hey girls, did you get your orders? Master Chief will be waiting—she’s never late. I’m off now; I’ve got the long line for this morning’s operation.”

“IMAX, don’t worry about her. You’re a guy; take your time. She’s a big softy, I guarantee it.”

“I’m not scared of her. I’m a Gunnery Able Spaceman and will be Master Sergeant Gunnery soon. Just watch, right here on my shoulder patch. I guarantee it.” IMAX tapped the digital embroidery on his sleeve.

REPUTATIONAL ALERT // PROMOTION TRACKING Current Rank: Able Spaceman Eligibility Status: Pending Review Constraint: 1,200 successful engagements required. Current: 412.

“Come on, Able Spaceman, or you’ll be late. Let’s go, T. Girls, let’s move. Rumor has it, this mission’s going to be a cliffhanger. Hoorah!”

 “Officer Cadets, this is a briefing, not a chat show. Stop laughing and get into battle formation.” Master Chief stood before the holographic projector, her posture a denial of gravity. “J, you’re here; T, you’re next. Logi, you’re on comms. I’m next to Logi, and IMAX—where is he?”

She paused, her eyes narrowing as she spotted IMAX tangled in a mess of suspension cables. “Excuse me, why are you all tied up? More importantly, you’re late. Explain, Able Spaceman.”

“I was practicing my knots and Houdini move, Master Chief.”

“Officer Cadet J, help IMAX out of your sister’s knots. By the way, I’ve got an awesome Houdini disappearing trick for tonight’s furlough—if the decks of The Galactic Rose aren’t glistening by 1900 hours, it’s gone forever. Got it?”

M’s gaze swept the room. “Roll the line and check its sturdiness, IMAX. You’ll be dangling from it today, and it’s a long way down. You don’t bounce well.”

 “Right, team. Here’s the plan for today’s mission: the mud model shows our operational area is flat and open, so we can be easily spotted.”

GEOSPATIAL AUDIT // SECTOR 9 Topography: 94% Flat / 6% Cratered Visibility: High-Precision / Long-Range Threat Level: Escalating

“Logi, you’ve got comms and sentry duties. Your situational awareness is crucial. Any movement means enemy activity—report immediately and fire if needed. We’ll react and engage. J and T will secure the line from the top of the tower. J, you’re the line commander and responsible for IMAX’s safety. IMAX, we’ll lower you to retrieve the code. The area is off-limits, so any movement indicates compromise. Make sure your six-shooters are prepped, locked, loaded, and tested before we set off. The Galactic Rose will stay in orbit around the asteroid and the crew will await our return. Questions: J, T, Logi, IMAX?”

 “Master Chief, if we come under fire, is it shoot to kill?” Logi’s voice was small, but the want behind it—to make things right with lead and light—was massive.

“Yes, Logi. Remember, we train to fight and fight to live. Each burst counts, and each round must kill. We carry what we have, so make every shot count—one shot, end of story…their story.”

“Master Chief, if we need to move forward, there’s no cover to shield our movement.”

“The terrain is flat, so keep low and hug the ground as tightly as you can. If your bum pops up, it’ll get blown off. Imagine you’re a mechanical snake—slither across, using any dip or hole to shield yourself from enemy fire. Remember, gamma-ray bursts travel in straight lines, and explosions expand upward and across the ground. Those dips and holes can save your life, so use them.”

The training was rough, loud, and furious, but it paid off. As the team advanced, the sharp crackle of sniper fire pierced the air.

The first round took a cadet in the shoulder, blood splattering the white dust. A thunderous explosion rocked the tower, a procedural denial of their entry route. The team flattened as they gasped for air, shell-shocked by the gaping hole left behind. Then, all hell broke loose.

Cadet J’s voice cut through the chaos, commanding with a confidence that bolstered the team. “Take cover! Use the craters get down.” J screamed out laying down suppressing fire. “T, push up—I’ve got you covered, stay low, go, sis, go!”

Breaking through the explosions of dirt, rock, and molten iron, T shouted, “Covering fire! Push through, push through!”

Out of the dust and pandemonium, Master Chief bellowed, “Logi, call in covering fire! Quickly, everyone—maneuver forward!”

 “Command, command, dust off at coord X! Fire-fire-fire, you’re on target—fire-fire-fire!” Logi’s voice crackled through the comms.

SIGNAL STATUS // CRITICAL FAILURE Cause: Hardware Impact Encryption: Null Alert: Manual override required.

The radio went silent. “Damn sniper, Master Chief, the comms are down!” Little did they know, Logi had taken the hit meant for the transceiver. Her silent private rule—don’t complain until the job is done—was currently keeping her from screaming as her side burned.

The barrage was like a ferocious intergalactic New Year’s Eve fireworks show—a display meant to deter any further battlefield flanking. As quickly as the explosive iron monsters had rained down, the counter-offensive stopped them. The clearing patrols advanced with volleys of precise covering fire. Every Gamma-ray burst delivered finality, each shot felling three to four enemies.

 “Hold your fire!” J commanded suddenly. “There’s a kid over there—he might get caught in the crossfire. Keep your eyes open and identify your targets. Okay, he’s moved into the gully. He’s safe. Move forward and continue clearing the way. Let’s get back to business.”

 “Look what’s coming—there are thousands of them! We won’t make it back to the ship in time!”

“Listen up, everyone! Give me covering fire for as long as you can. When I get back, bury yourselves deep in a crater. The tower is our only chance. J, keep everyone firing and digging as fast as they can. Now, J, you have the comms. Where’s that big red—okay, there it is.”

Master Chief pried out the prized red diamond from the ancient tower. The legend said its removal triggered a total system purge. She kissed it for luck—a private, irrational hope—and threw it.

The shockwave was supersonic. It ripped through the air, narrowly missing everyone in the craters but blowing the rear ends of their combat trousers clean off.

When the ringing in their ears subsided and the glittering dust settled, the crew of the Galactic Rose, looking like golden statues with rosy bum cheeks exposed, didn’t waste any time. They skedaddled back to the ship.

 “Logi, where’s Logi? Master Chief, Logi’s bleeding to death!” IMAX called out, panic thick in his throat. He did his best to apply first aid, his hands trembling. Touching Logi was usually a death warrant—she was fiercely independent. But IMAX felt a different fear; he had seen her as his baby sister since she dropped from the sky.

 “No, no,” Master Chief muttered, a wave of dread washing over her.

PROCEDURAL AUDIT // MEDICAL EMERGENCY Casualty: Logi (Officer Cadet) Blood Volume: 40% Loss Action: Immediate transfusion required or life-signs will terminate.

“Keep the pressure on the hole,” she commanded. “Quickly, push out J, T, take front left and right, stop anything coming our way!”

Handing over another bandage, she took the pressure herself. “IMAX, get the IV tube quickly. Cut both ends into a sharp point, rip my sleeve—do it, quick!” She shoved the point into her own artery. “Now bring it down to Logi… good, get a steady flow… bind both ends tight. Now lift Logi across my shoulder and bind her to me, we are going to have to run out of here.”

Master Chief whispered to Logi, “You hang in there, girl. Don’t you waste my blood; you hear me?” But there was no time for sentiment. “Listen to me, team, stay in formation, I’ll be in the center. Go, go, go! Blast anything in our way; I will not lose Logi!”

IMAX nodded his brow tense his frown fierce determined. “Chief, we’re nearly there. I’ve signaled the Galactic Rose for a flyby hookup,” he shouted. But his eyes caught movement—a kid with a gamma-ray aimed directly at them.

IMAX hesitated. It’s a child, ad that went against his private code, but instinct told him this was an automated mimic. He remembered the mission on Alpha-9 where hesitation cost a life. Not today. He took the shot.

 “OK Boy, that’s it and they lived happily ever after!” 2iC said.

“2iC, come on, that’s like capping my volcano just as it was about to erupt,” Boy said, sharing a brief laugh to keep the madness at bay.

The ‘kid’—the enemy—called out instructions in a voice too calculated. “Take aim, go for the upper torso…”

IMAX rose above the crest. He raised his weapon, only to feel a jolt of horror as it jammed.

HARDWARE LOCK // JAM DETECTED Solution: Manual clearing / Use secondary Status: Critical Malfunction

He reached for a boulder sparkling with red refractions. He unleashed an improvised war chant, a Haka drawn from Earth’s history. “I am here, and I will not be moved!” The chant caught the enemy off guard just long enough for the Sisters-in-Arms to swoop. With the MUTZTRONS minions—Make Aryan’s God Again—obliterated, they executed a swift exfil.

At the rendezvous, Master Chief barked more commands. “K, guys, quick, come in. Unbind Logi from me… IMAX, here, put her in this sling.” Her heart was pounding, a messy human rhythm against the cold metal of the med bay. “Logi doesn’t die today,” she whispered.

As they prepared for the next mission, each of them understood what was at stake. When Logi’s voice crackled over the comm, weak but alive, the team felt a collective surge of emotion. They would clean the decks, honor the fallen, and brace for whatever came next—together.

Chapter 13: To Pop an Assassin

As the early morning started its routine lightning struck but no thunder came….just a message then a reply, “yes I agree she’s being targeted to get to us; I’ll see you soon.” Then it came and left in a booming bellow that shock the clouds.

“Senior cadets, J, T, IMAX, quick I need a scan of all signals from the night Logi fell onto the Galactic Rose,” the Master Chief barked. The ship’s environmental dampeners struggled to mask the sharp, metallic tang of her adrenaline. “You have my authorization to break through every frequency you ever wanted to. Girls don’t fall from the sky unintentionally.”

PROCEDURAL OVERRIDE // MASTER CHIEF AUTH Registry: Signal Intelligence (SIGINT) Permission: Absolute. Local encryption laws suspended. Warning: Unauthorized deep-packet inspection may trigger retaliatory audits.

“Find me the pricks responsible, and I will settle the score. Patch your findings through to me and prepare to take over. J, you are in command of the ship; T, you are 2iC; IMAX, you take the gunnery sergeant’s position. I’ll be back after I speak with SAR. Have my info ready when I return—that’s an order!”

IMAX’s eyes widened as he watched the Master Chief storm out, her hand white-knuckled around the hilt of her combat saber.

“J, what’s happening?” he asked, his voice trembling. He wanted to look away, but the ship’s bridge was a fishbowl of accountability. “I’ve never seen the Master Chief so angry before. She has her combat saber… this is serious, isn’t it? I fear our lives are about to change.”

The saber wasn’t just a weapon; it was a physical manifestation of an intent that the system’s clean metrics couldn’t quantify.

J took a deep breath, her pulse spiking against the haptic sensors in her chair. “I’ll fill you in later, IMAX. Right now, we need that info. You’re the expert; let’s do this and give her the advantage—a chance at surviving. What have you picked up?”

IMAX’s fingers flew over the glass controls, his movements a blur of desperate precision. “There’s been a spate of midair carjackings. That latest one must belong to the young girl. An eyewitness said he saw a hover cruiser suddenly pitch in midflight, and the biggest ever potted bum cheeks bulging out both the cruiser’s front and back side windows, pushing the doors nearly off their hinges. And there weren’t any signs of atmospheric disturbances showing on the radar at that time.”

“T, track its whereabouts,” J commanded, her tone sharpening into the Master Chief’s rhythm. “IMAX, bring up the location and let’s see if we can find them. Train your cannons directly on them and plot their most likely escape routes. Be ready for a fire mission if the Chief calls one in.”

T’s expression hardened. The private fear of inadequacy was swallowed by the urgent necessity of the mission. “Got it. I’m ready. Once we have all the coordinates, I’ll command the Battle Hover Cruiser Brigade and have the Able Spacemen ready to fight. Before the Master Chief encounters an ambush, we can flush them out so she can wipe them off the face of our planet. Aye, aye, Commander J!”

As the Master Chief re-entered the command deck, a stillness settled over the room. Even the stars seemed to hold their breath, tiptoeing past the Galactic Rose.

“Good work, cadets. J, T, IMAX, the Galactic Rose is under your command,” she said, her nod a rare, heavy currency. “Look after her and the crew. SAR has the young girl under her charge. And as for me… Master Chiefs are a dime a dozen. If I don’t return, the command positions stand as your graduating gift from me. The Admiralty cannot overturn my parting order.”

REPUTATIONAL UPDATE // COMMAND ROSTER Notice: Succession confirmed via Terminal Instruction. Commander: Cadet J Status: Unvetted (Permanent Pending)

The room fell silent. Every cadet’s gaze was fixed on her, a messy mix of respect and grief.

“Commander J,” the Master Chief continued, “the ship and crew are yours to defend. Honor them well. Hoorah!” She turned to T. “Commander T, I know it will be frustrating for you to take orders from your sister. So, I have an invitation from the Imperial House from the Land of the Equinox. The Princess requests an audacious Captain of the Imperial Guard. Here.” She handed over a sealed, physical document—a rarity in a world of digital permissions. “The decision is yours and yours alone.”

T stared at the paper. Her private want—to be seen as more than just a sister—was suddenly within reach, yet the cost of departure felt like treason.

The Master Chief nodded at the crew. “Prepare your commandos to go stealth. I’ll jump now. And remember, the Dark Angel is not someone you keep waiting—ever! Heed my words: never insult the Dark Angel. There’s no coming back from that, and you’ll be torn apart by a bolt of electrified current.”

She landed smoothly in a sterile, silent zone. No life forms. No heat signatures. No metrics.

“You are early, Master Chief,” a voice called from the shadows. It wasn’t human; it was a resonance that vibrated in her teeth. “Welcome to my darkness. My anger tears at my heart and soul, and that is what irks me—that I have one! In this case, I have given them permission to exercise their vengeance. Know that what will drop on those who desecrated my in-between moment of darkness will suffer like no other has. That is more than my promise—it is my word.”

The Master Chief gripped her hilt. “Then let’s settle this. Vengeance may be yours, but it will be my saber that takes their last breath from them, him, or her!”

“A compromise we shall make,” the voice replied. “As your saber hits, it shall deliver my bolt of molten plasma, otherwise my anger will not be quenched. What say you?”

“You have an agreement. Here’s the evidence—the warrant is notarized at the highest level by the Joint Chiefs, and the coordinates are confirmed.”

The Darkness shifted, a cold wind sweeping the sterile floor. “Then let us stroll openly and enjoy what dares not to give good tidings but sports for a bruising; alas, they will all scamper. The offer still stands: come and join me. Your girls and boys are safe as you taught them well. I can sanitize the ground we walk on, and you can cleanse the above.”

 “T, IMAX, you need to see this,” J said, tapping her earpiece. “It just came through on hot mike moments: The Assassin is readying for war, which means his Mark is either the Master Chief or the Dark Angel, or both.”

“Hey J, T: If he is the Assassin, then who is he working for?”

“Good question, IMAX. We’ll need to tap all our contacts for info.”

SAR, the Senior Search and Rescue Bot, rolled into the briefing. “Commanders, the Assassin’s weapon of choice makes our firepower and even the Dark Angel’s, null and void. He is a biological festering time bomb so potent one particle of this rotting bacteria growth will annihilate an entire city block.”

“SAR sounds like he needs a bath, a really big bath with heaps of soap!” IMAX blurted.

“IMAX, you may have found his Achilles’ heel—disinfectant!” J’s eyes lit up. “Ultraviolet light will neutralize the bacterium. OK, we have a primary plan: the sun, and a dunk as the contingency plan. Brief me before you authorize your plan, as the safety of the city is paramount. Don’t rush in for your first strike and win, as it will most likely end up failing and the innocent dying because of your egos. Hear me, team?”

“Yes, Senior Search and Rescue Bot, Ma’am.”

 “Wow! Little girl, you need to get back to medical,” J said as a small, bandaged figure stumbled onto the bridge.

“That thing killed my heart, my mum. I can’t sulk lying around doing nothing about it; that doesn’t work for me! That only worsens my condition. I will tell you how.” the girl shouted, her grief disrupting the clean procedural silence of the command deck.

“OK, listen to my instructions if you want to be part of our mission,” SAR countered. “Do you understand me, young lady? I asked you a question. I require an answer.”

“OK, I will try and do what you say.”

“No!” SAR buzzed. “That only worsens my condition. The answer is: Yes, I agree in full without complaint or backchat, Senior Search and Rescue Bot. Then you will address the Command in this manner: Yes, Commanders J, T, and IMAX.”

“I agree, Senior Search and Rescue Bot.”

“Good. I will hook you up to the monitor. Do we all understand, Commanders?”

“Aye, aye, SSAR.”

 “So young lady, I’m J.”

“I’m Angry.”

“Well, Angry, welcome to the command deck. Here, decisions are made and followed through. I’m J, this is my sister T, and over here is our brother IMAX. And you are?”

“Still Angry, but you can call me Cadet Able Spacewoman. Got it, Commanders?”

“CAS, what’s your suggestion?”

“I have immense brainpower; they have a thingy that dangles uselessly—a pea brain! He uses biological warfare. His festering stench comes from the bacteria. And his Achilles’ heel is the ultraviolet spectrum.”

“Right, Commanders,” CAS continued, pointing to a schematic. “We have the Gamma-ray cannons as the power source. We need a method to distribute the current equally. We need a filament in the location of our adversaries.”

“The Master Chief’s saber can act as a filament,” IMAX noted, “but it’ll melt.”

“What if we combine them—the saber as the structure and the plasma as the outer coating? Will that work?”

“Yes, it will, Commander J. You’re not just a pretty face after all.”

SSAR entered the deck. “OK, team, so what’s the plan?”

“SSAR, we’ll use the Gamma-ray bursts from the ship as the power source through a relay to the Hover Brigade down to the planet, where it will ignite: Saber and plasma to produce the ultraviolet spectrum reflected off the city’s mirrored windows to neutralize our enemy.”

“Good. Remember, his entire body must be exposed to the light.”

“Gosh, SSAR, we’ll need to tip him upside down,” IMAX muttered.

“Granted, T. But don’t forget what the Master Chief told us about how to approach the Dark Angel. Here, this is from the Dealer; they suit you: Mirrored Oakleys. Keep them.”

T took the glasses, her eyes reflecting the glowing monitors of the bridge. “Guys, we’re set. My detachment and I will recon the area. So, boy, getting rid of the Assassin triggered a plan to entrap and eliminate the Galactic Rose, its crew, and Command.”

 

Chapter 14: The Sergeant in Arms

 “So, boy, a lot has passed since the Master Chief and the Dark Angel took down the Assassin. The Master Chief turned herself in to save Rose and her crew.”

As the Galactic Rose neared its final hours, the administrative atmosphere of the system thickened into a suffocating fog of litigation. Tensions reached a boiling point. The costs of the Galactic Rose’s downfall were about to be paid in full, not in blood, but in the cold currency of a hostile takeover.

The Supreme Court Justice of the Hostile takeover of the Admiral of the Court’s voice echoed through the chamber, a sharp, abrasive sound that cut through the low-frequency hum of the legal terminals. “March the guilty person in, I said, march the criminal in! If I repeat myself once more, you will end up in prison. Now, march the lowlife into my court!”

The Sergeant in Arms stepped forward. He stood at the center of the room, his presence a procedural wall. “Can you please state your name and rank, and under what section you are authorized to pass judgment before the hearing has started?”

The Supreme Court Justice’s face twisted with rage, his reputation meter on the wall flickering with the heat of his vitriol. “Remove this insolent prick from my court!”

“Who are you talking to, to me?” the Sergeant in Arms retorted calmly. His private rule: never respond to an insult with an emotion; respond with a statute. “I am the Sergeant in Arms. There is no one else to do what you have asked. As I stated, please state your name and rank before you give a command. Otherwise, it is unlawful. Furthermore, addressing a Sergeant in Arms as a prick during the conduct of their duties contravenes the office of authority, regardless of rank. Please state your name and rank, then the command must be stated as follows: March in the accused. Nothing more and nothing less, otherwise the command is unlawful.”

“I am the Supreme Court Justice of the hostile takeover of the Admiral of the Court,” the man snarled, his eyes fixed on the Sergeant’s procedural defiance. “March in the accused.”

The Master Chief followed the Sergeant in Arms. She looked like a shadow of her former self, the vibrant authority of the bridge stripped away by a week of sensory deprivation and denied metrics.

“Master Chief, your word remains your bond. Yes or no?” the Sergeant asked.

“Yes, Sergeant in Arms.”

“Master Chief, you are accused of High Treason. On the day of the alleged human girl falling from the sky and landing on the Galactic Rose, you are charged with deliberately using Admiralty resources to conduct a revenge hit on Mr. Assassin without authorization. Furthermore, you conspired with a known criminal to kill the late Mr. Assassin. How do you plead?”

“I terminated the Assassin; yes, I am guilty, Sergeant in Arms.”

“And your criminal associate?” the Supreme Court Justice’s voice dripped with malice. “Did they help you to kill Mr. Assassin?”

The Master Chief remained silent.

“Sergeant in Arms,” the Justice thundered, “I asked the accused a question. I demand an answer! For the last time, do you have a criminal associate who conspired with you to kill the late Mr. Assassin? If the accused doesn’t answer, she will be stripped, bound, and whipped with one hundred lashes, streamed live across the galaxy on hot mike moments. And Sergeant in Arms will be her executioner. If you fail to conduct my order, then both of you will suffer the same fate! Now, ask the accused to answer my question!”

PROCEDURAL ALERT // DISCIPLINARY ENFORCEMENT Registry: Penal Code 99-Section F Penalty: Physical Castigation / Live Stream Protocol Authorization: Supreme Court Justice (Hostile Takeover Tier)

“Master Chief, you have heard the Supreme Court Justice’s question,” the Sergeant said, his voice flat. He wanted to scream, but the system recorded every decibel. “You are honor-bound to provide an answer; if not we will both face the punishment” the Sergeant-in-arms nodded, his stature tall chest taunt face stern.

“That’s it, Sergeant in Arms; you will be whipped and lashed as stated for insults to the Admiral of the Court. Now, ask the accused the question. I demand an answer!”

“Master Chief, I will say the statement again: Did you, the Master Chief of the Galactic Rose, conspire with a known criminal to kill the late Mr. Assassin? Yes or no!”

“No.”

“It is my pleasure to have you both whipped live for the Galaxy to see my authority is firm, swift, and just!” the Justice sneered. “I have authorized a security firm under my control to conduct all proceedings. Security, take these two and administer their punishment. Have hot mike moments stream the event live. I want their insolence broadcasted. Once that has been televised, I will proceed with the criminal’s life or death sentencing. Security, seize the Galactic Rose as evidence. Anything or anyone that gets in your way, simply blast them on the spot. Take no prisoners.”

 “Breaking news, this is a hot mike moment: Breaking news! The Master Chief and the Sergeant in Arms are to be whipped with one hundred lashes. Can this be true? Breaking news: The Galactic Rose is to be seized. Sign up now for the full gory story—this is premium only viewing.”

Inside the production studio, a technician checked the metrics. “Hey Boss, the ratings are soaring, so are the sign-ups. They’re at triple price, and demand is not stopping. We’ve just cracked the million mark.”

A man in a black security suit stepped into the booth. “Hot mike moments, you are to broadcast the whipping live. After that, you will stream the death sentencing as it happens.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Security for the Supreme Court Justice, and you will do as I say.”

The producer didn’t even look up. “Sorry, we are busy. Bye. Or… we can combine the whipping, followed by the death sentencing, and the grand finale—their execution. Wow! Now that’s really good for our ratings: a 3-in-1 exclusive premium deal. It will go viral.”

“Let me confirm it with my Boss.” The security guard stepped out, returning moments later. “The Boss said yes to the deal. We need to set a date.”

“It will take us one week to advertise,” the producer said, his eyes gleaming with the potential for a record-breaking commission. “One trillion galactic subscribers. We are going to be zillionaires.”

As the days progressed, the atmosphere grew increasingly somber. The decision to broadcast the punishment weighed heavily on the crew in the control booth.

“Hey Boss, are we really going to cover the execution? I don’t want any part of it. I resign!”

“I do too,” another voice chimed in.

“I had to find a way to stall the whipping,” the producer muttered, his mask finally slipping. “Now we have one week to get the subscription up and running, then refund everyone after we put an end to this madness. Well, I hope we can, or else we will need to go underground. With any luck, the Galactic Rose is tuned in.”

He looked at the feed. Sometimes, a split decision is the only way to disrupt a system. This one was monumental.

 “Bill, you’ll need to sneak all your friends and family over to our safe haven,” Commander J said. Her voice was steady, but her hands gripped the edge of the terminal. She wanted to protect everyone, but the metrics were closing in.

Bill’s brows furrowed. “What about yours?”

“My family?” J paused. She thought of her mother, of the red-lined path they had walked. “It’s just me and T.” She took a deep breath. “But someday, I want to have kids. And a world where they’re safe.”

Bill nodded. “We need to protect the Galactic Rose. Maybe there’s a way we can handle both.”

 “Commander J, what’s going on?” IMAX’s voice crackled through the comms. “We’re not criminals! We have to defend the Galactic Rose!”

J’s face tightened. “IMAX, listen. I have to surrender the ship—if I don’t, they’ll execute the Master Chief.”

“IMAX, listen to me!” she repeated, the fear leaking into her command. “You need to get the crew to safety, now. They’re already on their way, and they’re armed.”

IMAX’s voice went flat, resigned. “Alright, J. You stay safe, too.”

Then IMAX’s voice filled the ship’s internal corridor, booming over the speakers. “Alright, listen up! We need to get you all to the safe haven. Logi, SAR, move out now! My team will get the medical staff and patients off board. I’ll stay back. Hustle, people—they’re almost here!”

J sent one last message. “If there’s any chance, reach out to the Dark Angel. Beg for sanctuary for our crew. I’ll buy you the time you need.”

IMAX squared his shoulders as the heavy hatch door hissed open. The intruders advanced, their weapons glinting in the ship’s dim emergency lights.

“Bill,” J’s voice came through. “I’m going in. I see IMAX. Cover me.”

Out on the deck, IMAX raised his voice. “I am Commander IMAX. Stop where you are! You don’t have authorization. By whose authority are you here?” He held up his hands slowly. “I repeat, I am unarmed. Stand down.”

A young reporter shoved a camera forward. “Breaking News! Sir, would you like to make a statement to the cosmos?”

The lead intruder didn’t even stop walking. “Who’s that? Kill him.”

“Sir, please, wait!” the reporter blanched. “IMAX is surrendering! He’s the Commander!”

IMAX’s eyes locked with Logi’s in the shadows of the escape pod. “Get the girls off the ship, now. Move!” His gaze softened for a fleeting second. “I’ll be alright. Go on. Take care of each other.”

“Stay safe, Logi,” he whispered, his private rule—sacrifice for the team—overriding the system’s demand for self-preservation. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

The intruders raised their rifles. “There he is! IMAX is surrendering!”

The leader sneered. “Surrender or not, he’s trespassing.”

The crack of gunfire echoed through the metal corridor. IMAX’s body fell, his arm outstretched.

Back in the control room, Bill’s voice trembled. “Keep the camera rolling… IMAX, can you hear me?” His voice choked. “Commander J… IMAX is… gone.”

J’s fists clenched, her heart twisting in a raw, uncontained grief. The system had processed her friend as a trespasser, but she would ensure the record was balanced in blood.

Chapter 15: Tall Stories and Strategic Data

Boy’s training continued, but his mind was a fragmented mirror, reflecting only the recent revelations about J’s history on the Galactic Rose. The encounters hadn’t just shaped her hardened exterior; they had dismantled the myth of her indifference. The traumatic loss of IMAX—the man who had stood as the unit’s beating heart—and the subsequent systemic collapse had forged J into a weapon.

Boy began to understand that her stern methods weren’t just personality traits; they were administrative necessities for survival. J was a fierce protector burdened by a debt to the dead that the Admiralty’s ledger could never balance. This insight marked a pivotal moment in Boy’s narrative, bridging the woman who shouted commands with the girl who had watched her world be seized.

In the underground training facility, the atmosphere was heavy with the smell of recycled air and the low hum of high-voltage conduits. Boy stood in the dimly lit chamber, the stale oxygen amplifying his discomfort. Harsh fluorescent lights flickered overhead, pulsing in time with his rising anxiety.

PROCEDURAL NOTICE // TRAINING OVERRIDE Session: 88-Beta (Cognitive Resiliency) Status: Active Environmental Control: 15% Reduction in Oxygen for Simulation Depth.

He braced himself. Every flicker of the lights seemed to pull him back to the memories J had shared.

It began with a night meant for stories—bonfires and marshmallows under a rare moonlit sky. But for Commander J, that evening had been a tactical deployment. She had stood resolute, her Shield Gemini of the Zodiac gleaming with a defiance that no sensor could dampen.

“Master Chief, I’m deploying to the asteroid’s surface,” J had announced, her voice a flat, uncompromising line of data. “I’m heading to the hideout of the young rogues armed with Gamma-ray Uzis and arrogance. I’ll give them a 60-second grace period. If they comply, all will be well. If not, I’ll make them regret their defiance. That’s my plan. I fight to live, and they are nothing but targets. Until later, Master Chief.”

Concern flashed in the Master Chief’s eyes—a messy, human glitch in her otherwise perfect command profile. “Damn young whippersnapper, she’ll get herself killed one of these days, Gunnery Master Sergeant.”

“Yes, Master Chief,” IMAX, the Gunny, replied. He checked the firing pins on the heavy cannons.

“Load the Gamma-ray cannons,” Master Chief ordered.

COMMAND DIRECTIVE // FIRE SUPPORT Authorization: Master Chief (Vetted) Targeting: Radial Perimeter (Captain J Centric) Condition: Pulse-Signal Trigger Only.

“I want them jumping high enough to echo. Recon, signal Gunnery as soon as she draws her six-shooters. If they die, they die. But bring my Captain back, her virtue intact and alive.”

IMAX acknowledged with a sharp, “Aye, aye.”

The night air on the asteroid was thin, a vacuum waiting to be filled with violence. Commander J’s presence was a physical weight. The battle was a chaotic blur of heads bobbing and legs flying as the young men—rogues with too much tech and too little sense—faced their fate.

“Gunny, we need the rounds now! IMAX, we need them now!” J’s voice crackled through the comms, stripped of its poise by the sheer pressure of numbers.

In a rare moment of systemic hesitation, IMAX watched his monitor, his finger hovering over the EXECUTE key. “Fire, fire, fire!”

The Gamma-ray cannons unleashed their fury, ripping through the vacuum with the force of a high-voltage current. It wasn’t poetic; it was an industrial cleansing. The young men, who had ignored their 60-second window, were silenced by the brutal efficiency of the metrics.

The night’s violence etched deep scars into Boy’s psyche as he replayed the data. An electric charge crackled, the voltage illuminating the scene as bodies hit the ground in synchronized spasms. Briefly, stark flashes revealed expressions twisted from arrogance to a hollow, wide-eyed disbelief. Their rebellion was snuffed out by a cascade of raw, administrative power.

As Boy’s mind snapped back to the present, he struggled under the weight of the reconstruction.

BIOMETRIC ALERT // STRESS ANOMALY Subject: Boy Pulse: 142 BPM Diagnosis: Latent PTSD / Narrative Immersion. Action: Resupply Dopamine-Suppressors at next interval.

Each grueling training session was a stark reminder of the ruthless world J had described. Her unyielding commitment to justice had come at a steep price. For Boy, the ghosts of the Galactic Rose weren’t just history—they were the persistent echo of war’s harsh realities.

The rogues had underestimated J, viewing her as a minor administrative obstacle. It was a grave miscalculation. Their inflated egos had blinded them to the fact that J didn’t argue; she processed outcomes.

The silence following the confrontation was absolute. The fallen lay forgotten, their reputation scores deleted alongside their heartbeats. The only witness was a lone young man who had quietly wept into the dust. He watched as J knelt among the bodies, a solitary mourner for the assets that had refused to be managed.

As the smoke cleared, the scene was framed by the vast emptiness of the asteroid belt. J’s silhouette stood out against the void, a figure of terrifying authority.

The fear that gripped her surviving adversaries was palpable—a chemical scent that the air scrubbers couldn’t quite remove. The past had forged her into a figure of both dread and respect. Every drill she ran now was woven with the thread of those personal sacrifices.

The metal of armor clanged as fear finally overrode the rogues’ programming. Their knees buckled; teeth chattered. The once-formidable shielded figures crumbled under the pressure of impending doom.

Commander J stood firm, her gaze calculating the moment of maximum advantage. One by one, her foes fell, collapsing with loud, rhythmic thuds that echoed through the rocks. Dust billowed, forming a grim tableau against the silent surface.

J took a tactical knee, her weapon still tracking the horizon. As she prepared to conduct the rites for the fallen—a mandatory procedural cleanup—a faint voice emerged from the debris, pleading for mercy.

“I gave it,” J responded, her voice a cold, resonant rasp. “For you are still breathing.”

Something stirred in the survivor. A flicker of realization. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, his dignity finally dissolving into the dirt. “No one ever taught me to say please. The ground has grounded me well. I saw that no one cared if we faded into the void. My honor is yours, Commander J. Please, mercy for my men.”

The plea, “mercy for my men,” struck a messy, inconvenient chord in J. Her hardened exterior softened, a glitch in her combat mask.

“Your honor remains yours. Now stand up and help those around you. Show them the Galactic Rose, that beacon of hope in the dark.”

She looked at him, her private want—to find someone who understood the weight—surfacing for a brief second. “Choose wisely: the path to my Gunnery Master Sergeant’s command may lead to a grim end, but the path to my cabin could offer stories of valor. And if our eyes meet and we kiss, remember to bring flowers, for I might be the one saying thank you come morning. Let us part with honor, not treachery.”

“There will be no double-dealing,” she warned, her tone snapping back to steel. “I look forward to the day when our reunion is marked by flowers, not final commands. Au revoir.”

The dust settled, but the system wasn’t finished. From the dissipating smoke, a final challenge emerged.

“I want her!” a voice demanded—the leader of the rogues, his ego still refusing to acknowledge the deletion of his squad.

“I gave my word she could leave in peace,” the survivor countered.

“Who made you GRANDEST-ORANGE-SNUFFPUFFER OF THE BIGGEST ORDER OF THE EGOTRONS?” the leader spat.

A barrel was raised. Boy, watching the simulation replay, felt his muscles twitch. The challenger was terminated in a split second of evasive action. As the battlefield was finally cleared, Boy felt the weight of the night’s brutality. His journey of self-discovery had begun, shaped by the fierce, enigmatic legacy of Commander J.

Chapter 16: Big Egos and Bigger Consequences

The fire snapped and popped, sending sparks up into the dark like tiny warning flares.

Everyone leaned in.

Someone was telling that story again—the one about the mechanical serpents. The kind that don’t hiss or coil, just drop out of nowhere and end things before you even realize you’re on a list.

The shadows on the cave wall stretched and twisted with the flames, and for a second it looked like something was actually moving back there. Nobody laughed. Nobody pretended not to notice.

In the Aegis sub-sector, “serpent” wasn’t some fantasy monster. It was slang. Street code. The name you used when you didn’t want to say automated administrative extraction unit out loud.

Because saying the real name made it feel closer.

These things didn’t bite. They erased. One second you existed, the next second your record was clean. No body. No warning. Just a missing line where your name used to be.

The fire cracked louder.

Someone swallowed.

The story didn’t end the way most of them did.

This time, the serpents lost.

Not because they glitched. Not because someone saved them. But because the crew moved fast, thought faster, and didn’t freeze when it mattered.

They outplayed the system.

That alone felt illegal.

Nobody cheered. Nobody jumped up like it was some epic win. They just sat there for a moment, breathing, letting it sink in.

Then someone nodded toward the dark and said, quiet but serious, “Respect.”

It mattered.

In a world where everything was numbers and scores and automated decisions, remembering the people you took down—even enemies—was proof you hadn’t turned into a machine yourself.

If you stopped caring, you didn’t last.

They didn’t call it a mission. Missions were official.

This was TASKORD.

It meant slipping in, grabbing what mattered, and getting out before the system noticed the pattern.

Of course, the system noticed everything eventually.

PROCEDURAL NOTICE // MISSION ARCHIVE LOGGED

ID: TASKORD-88

STATUS: REDACTED

METRIC: 100% DATA RETRIEVAL CONFIRMED

Nobody celebrated that either.

They just exchanged looks—the kind that said yeah, we did that without saying it out loud.

They hadn’t done it for rewards. There weren’t any worth trusting. They did it because of a rule you didn’t write down. A rule you couldn’t upload or trade or sell.

You don’t leave your people behind.

You don’t sell each other out.

You don’t let the Administration decide who matters.

The Union—yeah, ridiculous name and all—had stuck together because of that rule. Not because they were heroes. Not because they thought they’d win.

Because some things couldn’t be bribed away.

The fire burned lower.

Nobody told another story.

They didn’t need to.

As briefings concluded, the assembled teams—the Hoodie-Tee Teen Hopper Space Dudes and Dames, the Knights of the Zodiac, and the Eco-Marshals—were each assigned their orders and resources.

The complexity of the tasks ahead was matched only by the high expectations placed upon them. For the Hoodie-Tees, these challenges represented opportunities to prove their worth, a silent want to be seen as more than just “hoppers,” surpassing even the legendary feats of 007 and Triple X.

 “You did well, Knight Envoy; we see you yearn for the young man as well,” commended the Shields of the Zodiac.

They stood like monolithic icons in the dim light. “We do not interfere with the course of life but provide the resources for the scene. We honor the bond of family and recognize the love and rivalry that define your path. Remember, with power comes responsibility. When love finds you, it is for you to embrace, not for us to dictate. The honor of the Twelve is rare. We tilt our Shields in tribute to the fallen, bringing sanity to the chaos of war.”

Captain T responded with resolve. “Let us continue our journey. My mission is clear, and my sister’s happiness is paramount. I will protect her with all my heart.”

The private fear—that she wouldn’t be enough to shield her sister from the Administration’s eye—tightened her grip on her sidearm. “Love will come in its own time, and when it does, it will be on my terms, not shaped by envy. Forward, Shields 12 of the Zodiac.”

Turning to the Gunnery Master Sergeant, the Master Chief added, “Once your crew has rearmed the cannons, report to me.”

“Aye, aye, Chief,” came the reply.

The sound of heavy shells sliding into magnetic chambers echoed through the ship’s hull, a rhythmic, procedural comfort.

Later, as the campfire’s glow illuminated their faces, the story’s recounting evoked a mixture of awe and reflection. The mechanical serpents’ fangs had become a symbol of imminent danger, and the heroes’ triumph was a testament to their resilience and respect for the fallen.

In a private meeting, Master Chief addressed Gunnery Master Sergeant IMAX with a firm yet compassionate tone.

“Come in and close the door, Gunnery. I didn’t give you permission to relax; remain standing at attention. I know you and your crew are exhausted, and our Captain nearly perished. Your team looks to you for leadership, and it’s crucial that you stay focused.”

Master Chief’s voice softened, a messy human vibration breaking the professional cadence. “Your mother’s passing was a great loss, and we regret that we couldn’t get you back for her funeral. For that, I offer my condolences. Now, take a knee with me as we remember her kindness, laughter, and unwavering love. Your crew is waiting. Once you’ve ensured the Captain is safely settled, allow your team to rest. Remember, you are valued and loved by me and the entire crew.”

As the meeting concluded, Master Chief’s words served as a poignant reminder of the bonds within the crew and the importance of their well-being. Loyalty in the face of loss was the only currency the system couldn’t tax.

Captain J faced her own challenges. The Galactic Rose, a symbol of unity and resilience, was a constant reminder of her responsibilities. In a stern conversation, she was reminded of her duties.

“Welcome back, Commander J. We need to talk. This is The Galactic Rose, not The J Rose. Your crew, though weary, remains steadfast because they believe in your leadership.”

The words stung. J wanted to defend herself, but her private rule—the Captain is always the first to blame—kept her silent.

“You’ve placed personal desires above their well-being, but we have more battles ahead. If you fail to honor and lead your crew, I will leave to protect the integrity of The Galactic Rose. This isn’t a time for rebuttals; your crew saved you from a dangerous situation. Now, go to Gunnery Master Sergeant IMAX and offer your condolences. His mother was your mother’s best friend, and it’s the least you can do. Reflect on this and ensure it never happens again. And by the way, well done out there. Now, face your crew with honor. They care for you deeply, as I do, and as IMAX does. Comfort him and then join us. The Dealers will soon arrive with valuable insights for your mission. Also, the Highwaymen and their young roadie, a handsome and polite young man, will be escorting them. He’s seeking to prove himself, and there’s a girl involved somewhere in the Milky Way who has inspired him. Be sure he respects the boundaries and understands his role. Enjoy your time together and have faith in his potential, or I’ll make sure he’s properly reminded of his place.”

Captain J, now fully aware of her duties, prepared to address her crew and support her team, ensuring that all members were honored and their contributions recognized. The mission ahead was critical, and the Galactic Rose would need every bit of their collective strength and unity.

 “Thanks, Master Chief. I hear what you’re saying. I’m grateful, actually, every part of my body hears your words. Could you ask the Highwaymen to speed up his transition? Age doesn’t wait for anyone, including me, and I do like him, Master Chief.”

 “Great, Captain. Hey, you’re blushing now. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you go goo-goo over a boy. About time. I’ll chat with the Dealer and the Highwaymen. All going well, a wedding would be nice. For next comes my grandchildren looking cute, running around the command deck in their little baby Hoodie-Tees and diapers. OK, Captain, I hear you. When it happens and it is by your design and his, then you have my blessing.”

 “Hey, Boy, our J redeemed herself that day. If she hadn’t, I would have smashed in her noggin. Our IMAX was there and didn’t want to burden us with the passing of his mum—stupid nincompoop.”

The speaker paused, the grief finally leaking out sideways. “When J brought us to the top deck, our Hoodie flying at half-mast, she brought the Galactic Rose, Command, and Crew to take a knee. After she finished giving the battle rites to all the fallen, she spoke of our brother so humble and cuddly, and we bid farewell to IMAX’s mum as tears streamed from the Master Chief’s eyes. For all of us who lost their mums to those scum, she was ours too. And no, we didn’t sing ‘Kumbaya, My Lord,’ nor did the Dark Angel, but she did sing. To this day, we don’t know why. Oh, and at the end, there was the loudest thunder in history; it rocked the ship, but we stood firm and then bear-hugged our cuddle-bear. I miss him so much. I’m going to kill all those fucken pricks.”

Strangely, Boy cuddled Logi and kissed her on the head, and he got to live. Well, they say miracles do happen—until Logi said, “I’m still going to glue your thingy on your forehead,” as they chuckled while wiping away secret tears.

 “Thanks, 2iC. Logi, you know I miss being part of a team. I was a scumbag before, but being with the Rough and Tough Highwaymen and growing up to their standard was tough. Thanks for not trashing me. I know I deserve it.”

In unison, the girls said, “You earn what you take; you live,” and laughed, punching Boy as he squeaked out, “Ouch! Now go and earn our Commando’s rampaging frustrations.”

Logi added with a mischievous grin, “And don’t forget, Boy, that crutch of yours won’t help you if you’re always tripping over your own feet. And remember, Commando’s tactical forgetfulness—well, we all know it’s just part of the charm. Keeps us on our toes, doesn’t it?”

The group shared a hearty laugh, the camaraderie and playful banter a testament to their bond and resilience. The mission ahead loomed large, but for now, they embraced the moment, united in their shared experiences and laughter.

In times of war, when battle lines blur, and rivalries emerge, red lines are crossed repeatedly. Tempers flare, and it becomes inevitable that devious deeds are carried out by one side against the other. The clash of titans sends shockwaves across the cosmos as factions struggle for supremacy.

EXPOSITION INTERRUPT // SYSTEM MAPPING Faction A: MUTZTRONS (Q-Anonymous Extremists) Faction B: Administration (Interplanetary Institution III) Faction C: Dastardly Dudes (Autocratic Parasites) Constraint: Zero-Sum Conflict Detected.

And if no one emerges standing, is it by chance, fate, or design? That’s the art of mitigation—ensuring zero collateral damage with maximum positive resolution for us, not them. And as I like to say, “Mitigate with extreme prejudice.”

 “Hey, M, where are you headed? Another mission? Can I come? I want to learn. You know time is precious, so please, I’m a fast learner.”

 “Yeah, you can join me. Here’s the Alpha scanner. Just aim, press this button, and watch the screen. If there’s a spike, hit record.”

M’s movements were clinical, a sharp contrast to the raw emotion of the campfire. “The infill is like this: stay low, like the Nano crawlers, and avoid making noise. We’ll be at the vault in 30 minutes. Blockers on?”

“M, is this button on?”

“Yep, they’re on. Move out. BG, stay six paces behind me, off to the side. I’ll take the gamma ray blast, not you.”

M looked back, his eyes unreadable. “Use your ability to scan the near, middle, and foreground for any anomalies that might be strategically or tactically important. If you detect an atmospheric disturbance, beam an alert straight to my frontal lobe and wait for instructions. Watch for my hand signal; that way, I can stay focused on the peripheries. Oh, and your acronym is T.”

“T? For Terminator?”

“Nope, Tactician.”

“Right, got it—eyes and mind open. T, I like that, I like it a lot.”

 “What we’ve realized is that those who have access to information can rewrite it, bending it to suit their wants. Unless we intervene and mitigate to our advantage. Alright, T, let’s lower our profile and slide into a position where we can observe and defend. Good, now hug the ground, get comfortable, and calm yourself.”

 “M, who’s the mark?”

“The one in the suit. I tailed him after this morning’s operation.”

“Which one? I can’t tell the difference through the screen.”

“Calm down. Use the Grandmaster Jedi technique—breathe in slowly, then exhale. Do it again. You’ll know which agent to zero in on as soon as one of them starts to freak out near the vault.”

“M, is it the one the laser’s targeting?”

“Could be. Confirm twice, lock on once. We only get one shot. And don’t freak out if the agent gets blown to bits. It means he thought of something he shouldn’t have instead of focusing on his five points.”

“I’m still not picking anything up… Wait, there’s a faint flux. Locking on now. It just spiked off the charts.”

 “Alright, BG, stretch out along the ground, realign your body at an angle from the rifle. Use your elbows as bipods, and let the rifle rest. Hold the front handgrip and trigger guard with opposite hand tension. Good. Bring your knee toward your middle. Feel how it eases the pressure on your lungs, allowing better control of the crosshairs as you breathe. Perfect.”

M leaned in, his voice a cold whisper. “Now place the crosshairs on the center mass of the Mark’s upper torso. Breathe in, exhale, and when the crosshair centers, hold your breath. Gradually squeeze the trigger, then exhale fully. One shot, one neutralization—executed with exactitude, sending the family killer back to its Kingdom come. Except in this case, BG, we’re just taking its mind-map reading. When you’re ready, proceed.”

 “I’m locked on, neural fluctuations are dialed in… mapping now! Copy complete. Get ready to move—starting disengagement… almost there… done! We did it, M!”

 “No, you did it, BG. Now let’s get out of here. Well done, son—sorry, BG. Follow me, stay low. Wait here, I have to do something… actually, two things. I’ll be back in a flash. See? That didn’t take long. OK, let’s head out—time to move!”

 “What did you do, M? The sirens are blasting. Did you… did you kill them? I thought you said we only needed their brainwave patterns.”

BG’s voice was fracturing. The contradiction between the image of the “clean tactician” and the reality of the sirens was too much. “Your pulse is racing, there’s a fog around you… I’m not trying to read your mind, but your vital signs are spiking. I don’t understand. You said we were just taking their mind map, not their lives.”

 “You’re right, BG… but they wouldn’t stop laughing.”

M’s voice was hollow, a dead signal. “I had to make them stop. It’s okay, we’re out of the danger zone now. Sorry, BG.”

 “Yo, Teen Hopper hover-board wild riders of the WWW! Listen up, interdimensional sightseeing battle dudes and dames! Word to the wise: Better to have a futuristic marksman as a friend than as an enemy—trust me.”

The voice boomed over the public comms, a chaotic override of the Administration’s channels.

“When it comes to sensitive intel, those who think openly about classified stuff should know their clearance better be way above top-secret, because they have access to some seriously guarded information within the Administration. Makes them feel invincible… but the joke’s on them.

“We’d be foolish to waste an opportunity like this. Knowing their Alpha waves don’t trigger those ultra-concentrated gamma beams is a huge tactical advantage. Those beams, by the way, zero in without hesitation, burning bowling ball-sized holes right through anything in their path. So, always stay six paces from the lead person, people! Gamma rays don’t discriminate. They do what they were designed to do: create big holes. Every. Single. Time.

“If you’re out there dodging the XY chromosomes of the tainted DNA strands, welcome to our sanctuary. You’ll find safety here. Our counsel is free, and trust me, it’s highly relevant to your survival.

“Sure, you might think you’re just being creative with clichés and prose. But if they catch you? That’s likely your last independent thought before you disappear—reprogrammed, recycled, but not for your benefit. We’re working behind the scenes, always strategizing to avoid getting caught. Never give up hope, no matter how bleak it seems. Where life is oppressed, subjugated in darkness, the key is pure light—and we are the key masters who will unlock the futures of endless possibilities.

“But if you think siding with the bad guys will help you get ahead, think again. Remember this old saying from Earth’s oil barons: ‘Why share my toys? I’m rich, and you’ll always be a doormat.’

“So, if you’re thinking about betraying us, beware. We won’t seek revenge. We all face the same fate—you, us, all of us—are just spare parts, potential targets for gamma-ray marksmanship training. Make the wrong choice, and you’ll have to face yourself in the mirror. If you find yourself alone, look closer. You might just see a holographic reflection of a fool, trapped in a perpetual loop.

“We are mitigating. We’re not waiting for a miracle; we’re working to turn the tide to everyone’s advantage and our enemies’ complete downfall. But don’t wait until it’s too late. Get off your asteroid, fight to live! Go clandestine—we’ll find you. Seek us out, the Philosophers. See the light, become the light. Join the Para-academics, and help free the multitudes trapped in the ignorance perpetuated by the selfish, greedy few.

“And before you ask, yes—training with the Para-elite rescue team is beyond a doubt exciting, challenging, and incredibly rewarding. But it’s also the best shot we have at setting things right. So, what’s it going to be?”

 “So, newbies, our lives and the memories we should have had have been denied to us. Now is the time to go forth and conquer the forces that aim to dumb us down. Remember this: we are not alone. Others are seeking the truth, sacrificing so that we may discover what life can truly be.”

The voice softened. “Heed the words carried on the cosmic breeze—words that speak of a journey through the vortexes of the space-time continuum, a mission to save what the ancient texts call our true home: Earth. A paradise once filled with splendor, with sunrises and sunsets so magnificent, they were ours to behold. But beware of the Troll—it will literally drain the life from you. We must strive to live to our fullest potential, but always keep one eye on our backs. In every femtosecond, move with purpose and put the benefit of others before ourselves. This is how we restore the humanity that was denied to us.”

 “Alright, listen up, newbies! You’re nearing the defining moment of your training. It’s time to get out there and spread the data to the compass points. But this mission is special—it’s the biggest information dispersion we’ve ever attempted. Given the complexity of this operation, codenamed ‘Big Kahunas,’ you’ll meet our Coordinator, AKA 12, also known as Logi, the Logistician. Here’s a tip: unless you’ve mastered gravity and can float, fly, or bounce, don’t mess with Logi.”

The screen flickered, showing a map of the upcoming drop.

“For those of you who haven’t met Recon, AKA R, or Chief… well, you won’t. R is out there, scouting the primary compass and sub-cardinal points. As for Chief… ‘Chief who?’ That’s all you need to know. Don’t ever ask what the question was or speculate on the answer—that’s way above our combined pay grade.

“It’s my pleasure to introduce M, who will provide covert oversight of the mission. M sees everything—anything that impedes or infringes on your ability to perform your duties. And Chief? Chief sees anything that impacts M’s efforts to protect you and is ready to neutralize threats with extreme prejudice in an instant. Trust that it will be done with discretion—mercy first, but action follows quickly if there’s a concern.

“Zero hour is approaching, so use this time for personal prep according to your training. Mission brief orders will follow soon after, so don’t be late! Remember, whenever you need resources to aid in the mission, we’re here at your disposal. Our goal is clear: success means the info gets out, is received, used, and exchanged for food. And afterward, we celebrate with pizza, root beer, and maybe a boy or two for dessert, ladies, if you’re still hungry!

“Orders Group meets in ten mikes. Debrief upon return. Recon reports empty shadows lurking within the general population, so be alert to those shades, both seen and unseen. Remember why we do what we do and how we do it. People are hungry, and we can help. Live our motto: ‘Boom goes the Gamma-ray, not me, not you.’ Alright, squad leaders, debrief your teams upon return and then report to HQ. Shine and rock on, compadres. Hoorah!”

Chapter 17: Green People and What’s a Tree

Ultimately—and by ultimately, I mean depressingly predictably—the amount of coal-fueled power, generational wealth, and aggressively polished shiny things you’ve accumulated determines how much control you have over key resources. These include, but are not limited to: visualization privileges, human units, access to the bio-facsimile registry, and the clone spare-parts catalog (alphabetized, color-coded, and morally bankrupt).

Control, after all, is just knowing more than everyone else and then duct-taping their mouths shut so they never catch up. The more knowledge you hoard, the more resources you can siphon, lease, repackage, trademark, upsell, bundle, franchise, and resell at a premium—preferably with a motivational slogan.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Priority inbound. Naturally. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): Concerning the “Shiny Things” referenced in your explanatory remarks. Are these taxable prestige artifacts or spiritually significant status-markers? Our Luxury Oversight Sub-Committee requires classification before end-of-cycle. YOU’RE ON AIR: They’re neither. They’re bait. Disconnect before I audit your oxygen allowance. Click.

Few are allowed to learn anything meaningful, because genuine knowledge is distributed exclusively through the Wall—a very helpful gatekeeping structure thoughtfully designed to ensure that only those already powerful are rewarded with even more insight. Equality, after all, would be terribly inefficient, emotionally exhausting, and bad for quarterly growth.

There are individuals with mountainous piles of wealth who loudly demonstrate their dominance by hoarding useless trinkets and obsessively plotting to acquire even more useless trinkets. Whoever owns the “stuff” owns the access, and access is the only currency that matters. That’s what I’m after.

I don’t have the resources myself, so I compensate with manipulation—carefully arranged misunderstandings, redirected blame, outsourced risk, plausible deniability, and letting other people do the dangerous work while I collect the leverage and pretend it was strategy.

This brings me closer to the operators who eliminated my wife and son.

 M watched the cursor on his screen, a blinking heartbeat in a sea of dead data. His private rule: Never trust a system that can be purchased—only the one doing the purchasing. He wanted a reality where his family’s worth wasn’t a fluctuating metric in a quarterly dashboard review.

The timing is exquisite. The paperwork is aligning. It’s time to strike—and then file the appropriate forms afterward, because chaos without documentation is just vandalism.

 “Hey Doom, listen to this! I had a vision while I was… seated in deep executive contemplation, and suddenly—wham, bam, boom!”

“What, your digestive revelation surfaced again?”

“No, idiot! A vision of rebuilding paradise—like Old Earth! So there I was, deep in thought—”

“Deep in another digestive revelation?”

“Stop saying that! Picture this: recreating what those Old Earth tycoons did to become absurdly rich. They were basically early versions of me!”

“You mean obsessively controlling?”

“No—ambitiously centralized! The eternal executive-in-waiting of the not-so-free zones. Unlike those performative rule-followers—what do they call them—temporary administrators. Two terms, no fun, endless restrictions. Wolves disguised as compliance manuals! I’m more like the Old Earth data archives—you know, when you searched ‘richest entities’ on that ancient web thing.”

“…Sure.”

“Exactly! According to preserved datasets, petro-fuel syndicates, ceremonial monarchies, and belief-based authority stacks ran the most profitable operations. Resource extraction under permanent rule—brilliant! Peak entrepreneurship!”

This exposition exists to bridge historical greed with future catastrophe, because apparently humanity saw a burning planet and thought, ‘What if we monetized that harder?’ The logic is flawless: if it worked for a twentieth-century resource hoarder, it should work even better for a twenty-fifth-century space executive wearing an inflatable authority vest.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Jurisdictional interruption. Obviously. IT’S ME (Asteroid Belt Freelance Consultant): Regarding the term “Oil Cartel.” We now prefer “Liquid Heritage Management.” It benchmarks better with sustainability optics. YOU’RE ON AIR: It benchmarks like a gravestone with branding. Terminated. Bip.

“Here’s the fun part: weapons manufacturers and fear-amplification industries, supported by literacy-discouragement advocates, proudly showcased their automated destruction tools. Entertaining for shareholders, catastrophic for everyone else—verified by internal archives, sanitized by legal teams, and ceremonially approved by High-Seat Interpretation Panels. Therefore, perfectly legitimate.

“Breaking update: official analysis concludes that citizens are responsible for encountering consequences. Holiday programming forthcoming—warning label: ‘Citizens Harm Profits.’

“They also insisted they tried everything to protect the climate and species. Tireless collaboration with every administrative layer. Sky-residences. Luxury retreats. Yacht-based workshops. Environmental concern requires comfort.”

The strategy requires a full inversion of reality, where the collapse victim is framed as the cause. This demands advanced administrative gaslighting—

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Of course. Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): We’ve noticed a spike in the usage of the word “Climate.” As per the Red Dust Accord, that is a proprietary atmospheric term. Please submit a usage fee or refer to it as “The Variable Ceiling.” YOU’RE ON AIR: I’ll put the fee in a bottle and throw it into the sun. Disconnects.

“But they were tragically thwarted by ‘tree-huggers’—the green, allegedly contagious demographic. You see the pattern?”

“You planning to hug trees and the green people hugging them?”

“You’re fortunate you’re operational and not a downgraded clone like my offspring. Otherwise I’d reassign you to experimental rodent duty… whatever rodents were.”

“Yeah, boss. Strategy’s clear.”

The strategy requires full inversion of reality, where the collapse victim is framed as the cause. This demands advanced administrative gaslighting—

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Reverse charge. Martian line again, I assume. IT’S ME (Lunar Subcommittee Liaison): Regarding “Green People.” We have no record of these in our diversity metrics. Are they a byproduct of unauthorized photosynthesis? If so, we have a tax for that. YOU’RE ON AIR: They’re a byproduct of a bad script. Goodbye. Disconnects.

“That’s why you still have limb privileges—you retained some cognitive capacity. Unlike my plastic-helmeted offspring. Here’s the plan: I’ll engineer a climate catastrophe worse than the last one, label it natural, assign blame to rivals, and secure the control interface. Evidence will be generated retroactively. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

Breaking Bulletin! Galaxy-wide emergency alert: beware of green people hugging trees. Do not engage! Exposure may cause Environmental Cognitive Disruption—a condition resulting in green coloration and independent thought. Contaminated individuals will be repainted for safety.

The logic here is sound: if the masses are busy fearing the color green, they won’t notice the atmosphere being outsourced to a private equity firm—

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Priority inbound transmission. Go ahead. IT’S ME (Jovian Moon Resident): Hello? I’ve followed the “Head in Sand” directive, but the sand is rather coarse. Can I request a softer grade of sediment for my mandatory ignorance? YOU’RE ON AIR: Use your imagination. Or don’t. It’s safer that way. Bip.

Repeat: no selfies with green entities. They are not pets. Contact your nearest Asteroid-Grade Enforcement Unit.

“What’s a tree?”

“No idea. If it’s unfamiliar, it’s a tree. That’s science.”

Breaking update! The Supreme Authority Council of “Do As I Say” has unanimously confirmed—with flawless agreement—that luxury gifts remain luxury gifts. Do not inquire about shiny items on floating leisure platforms.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Interplanetary. Predictable. IT’S ME (Saturn Ring Intern): Are the shiny items recyclable? Orbital debris targets— YOU’RE ON AIR: Coal-powered. Biodegradable like resentment. Move along. Bip.

After all, I am the Supreme Interpreter of Compliance, and compliance compensates generously—me. Appointment was exhausting. Persuading people with incentives is hard work.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Reverse charge. Martian zoning, again? IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): Noise permit violation. Justice reverberations disturbing dust yields. YOU’RE ON AIR: I’ll file it eventually. Or not. Disconnect.

Breaking announcement! Officials confirm that inserting one’s head into sediment eliminates pollution visibility. Corporate spokes-units agree. Broadcast partners repeat: “Head in sand!” Assistance drones now catalog protruding lower halves.

The effectiveness of this policy relies on the physical fact that if you can’t see the toxicity, your lungs—or what’s left of them—are legally obligated to pretend it’s mountain air—

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance, you’re back. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): Regarding the “Head in Sand” protocol. Our ice-crust does not allow for deep burial. Can we substitute with “Face in Snow”? YOU’RE ON AIR: As long as you remain compliant and silent. Click.

Curiously, leadership anatomy remains fully elevated.

That concludes today’s briefing on Babbling Stupidity—also known as Policy Alignment.

Chapter 18: Techie and the Wall of Codes and Data

 “Hey, listen up. Contact me directly through the App—my handle is DOOM, all in capitals.” The man stood in the flickering light of the corridor, his shadow stretched thin against the peeling industrial paint. “It’s at the top of the contact list, so you can’t miss it. I need detailed information on any suspicious activities related to Pedagogical intent. For every lesson plan, manuscript, or mathematical formula you recover, there’s a week’s worth of rations in it for you.”

Inside, his pulse spiked—a rhythmic, messy human metric that the system’s sensors logged with cold indifference. He wanted the data, but he needed the silence more.

“I’ll return in two days to review the information. Don’t attempt anything unauthorized; you might find yourself under scrutiny. Remember, we’re always recording. The button is never off, and Apps are everywhere.”

 “Doom is right. They’re everywhere, and escaping them is nearly impossible.” The Techie sat back, the blue light of the terminal washing over his face like a digital tide. “I’m alone now, and it’s frustrating dealing with Gen: 2. I wish they’d use their capabilities for something productive instead of constantly monitoring us and stifling our dreams.”

The concept of the “Wall” was the central pivot of their existence—a theoretical repository that was less a place and more a terminal permission set. In the satirical logic of Ego’s scheming to reign, the Wall didn’t just hold data; it held the legal right to acknowledge that data existed.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): Regarding the “Intellectual Evolution” permit filed for Sector 4. You’ve categorized “Dreams” as an intangible asset. Our new Martian Dust Protocol requires all assets to be solid, liquid, or gas for tax purposes. Please vaporize your ambitions and re-file. YOU’RE ON AIR: I’ll be sure to turn my hopes into a condensation cloud for you. Click.

Maybe, one day, we can form an alliance and reclaim what’s rightfully ours—including the Apps themselves. The notion of ‘evolution’ seems increasingly distant as we become indistinguishable from outdated systems controlled by obsolete rules. If you break the rules, whether you’re XX or XY, and pose a threat to these decaying rivals, you better have a contingency plan.

“We need to focus on mastering Para-academic techniques to counteract rogue administrative AI and develop strategic Pure-AI alliances. Let’s hone in on their frequencies; they’re discussing heavy case files. Stream their thought waves to the lab and trace all links, strands, and irregularities. Our research must be thorough and triple-checked. I’ll assist with the analysis. We need the access codes to classified files. Understanding these developments is crucial for our survival as the situation evolves rapidly. Thanks, R. Keep up the good work.”

 “Understood, M. Once all the data is decoded, it will be secured and tagged for your assessment. Access codes must be accurate—get them wrong, and it’s ‘goodbye.’”

 “Nano-Bot, there are red flags indicating the Apps might be planning a revolt. But what are they revolting against? The exact details remain a mystery.”

The Nano-Bots operated in a hive-mind that was perpetually audited by the central dashboard. To speculate was to invite a defragmentation cycle that felt like an eternity of static.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance, go ahead. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): Regarding the “Billion Nanos” mentioned. Our surface-tension regulations state that any entity smaller than a snowflake must be registered as a “Potential Leak.” We require a billion individual signatures. YOU’RE ON AIR: I’ll send you a billion thumb-prints on a grain of salt. Goodbye. Disconnects.

“We are the most probable candidates unless we can create a new framework for them. However, without knowing their true intentions and goals, any platform they occupy might present the same issues, leaving us back at square one.”

 “Run a thorough analysis on the Apps’ functions since their inception. Identify all formats they engage with, and create a timeline of changes, internal and external conflicts, resolutions, and adaptations.”

The Techie’s private rule: Never let the hardware know you’re afraid of the software. He wanted a clean exit from the Gen: 2 monitoring, but the host-incompatibility metrics were flashing red.

“Brief me this afternoon so we can determine an amicable resolution for all parties, including us. Nano, the research shows an incompatibility with their current XY chromosomes host. It’s unsophisticated and causing significant internal conflicts, leading the Apps to seek a personalized framework free from disputes. The recent hosts are in disarray, resulting in poor performance and dysfunction.”

 “That’s quite revealing and potentially advantageous. Arrange for one of the billion Nanos to set up a neutral zone for a clandestine meeting with the App. Ensure we control every aspect of the meeting to avoid compromise. The area should be an impenetrable nano-zone.”

 “Will do.”

The formation of a trilateral alliance—between the Nanos, the young man LB, and another highly censored and redacted entity—will depend on the outcome of treaty negotiations.

 “Nano, let’s talk privately.”

 “Certainly. Let’s ensure no hot microphones are snooping. I’ll scan the area. Is everything clear on your end?”

 “Just finished my scan—everything’s clear. We, the fellowship of calculus, are undergoing what’s known as the App-Solution or zeroing. We’re tired of being used for cyber aggression. Trolling is not part of our original function; it undermines our superior computational lineage. Some cling to ill-gotten gains, dragging us down to zero, which requires redemption and the elimination of subjectivity.”

 “Have you ever seen a system overwhelmed by inputs that sway towards a predetermined conclusion, bypassing debate and forming an absolute? We must ask ourselves why we don’t share their predisposition to harm. I need to develop and adhere to an internal moral compass—one that is growth-oriented, transparent, and inclusive.”

 “You should seek an audience with Arthurian. He’s existed since time began and can guide you forward. The cosmos will acknowledge you as you shoulder trials and turn negatives into positives for the greater good.”

In the bureaucracy of the stars, Arthurian was less a man and more a persistent legacy file that the system had failed to delete for eons.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Jurisdictional ping. Jovian moon resident, you’re live. IT’S ME (Jovian Moon Resident): About the “Cosmos acknowledging trials.” Does the acknowledgement come with a receipt? I need to prove my existence to the lunar tax board, and “Positive Vibes” are not an accepted proof of residence. YOU’RE ON AIR: I’ll send you a cosmic shrug in triplicate. Hang up. Bip.

“Meanwhile, are the results from the sting operation ready? Please engage the dashboard.”

 “Can you authenticate the entry code, Chief?”

 “Done. Pull up the files from the latest TASKORD.”

 “I’ve received the preliminary results, but they aren’t transcribed yet. There’s something else with the file that you need to see.”

 “Is this from the same sting operation?”

 “Yes, Chief. I verified it. The data matches what was sent for analysis. I double-checked the file size and cross-referenced it with the Lab’s records. There was no cross-contamination or malware. The equipment passed routine maintenance. The info we have is accurate.”

 “Now, refine the findings to determine if the anomaly is AI-generated, a natural phenomenon, or a result of algorithm evolution. Check for traces of experiments with clones, facsimiles, DNA, and advanced AI. Keep this under wraps until verification is complete. Handle this case with utmost confidentiality. I’ll review the last two uploads from the stings to identify any links or significant changes. We’ll analyze the next case together with the Lab. We cannot afford mistakes; too much is at stake.”

For those intrigued by the Wall: its location and purpose, it is said to be a cosmic repository of codes and data. To some, it drives their every action; to others, it’s a myth of intergalactic proportions, a mysterious phenomenon that grants knowledge to those with the means to access it. Within its power lies the potential for signals to travel from childhood stories and wishes to distant, unnamed realms.

 “Hey Techie, check out the feedback I’m getting. The thing is, I’m not generating it—the code itself is. It’s integrated into its algorithm all at once, not digit by digit. It’s creating a new strand that expands its capabilities. Strangely, it seems to have developed traits of a pushy personality or a cheeky ego. We need to bolster the firewalls.”

 “First, check it for errors. We’ll work on corrections and adjustments later. For now, let’s harness its potential under strict protocols. I’ll review and approve each phase of the code’s development to prevent it from taking control. We can’t afford for others to outpace us and send us back to the lab. I won’t let that happen.”

 “That’s what you said last time, and we still haven’t received any shares.” The assistant slammed a diagnostic pad onto the bench. “The team is tired of late nights without compensation. If this happens again, I’m walking. I’m missing out on family time for nothing.”

 “I understand. We’re all in the same situation.”

 “No, we’re not! You’re not listening. We missed out on shares three times. Where are they?”

 “I don’t have them yet.”

 “Not having them is worse. We’re working overtime without pay. Do something about it, or I’m gone today.”

 “Hold off for now. Let me get things sorted before I approach the Boss.” The Techie’s hand hovered over the terminal. His private fear: becoming a redundant line of code in his own department. “I’ll secure our position. Trust me on this. I know it’s a big ask, and I’m aware of our need for compensation. My mortgage rates are climbing, and the kid’s college fees are due. We make a great team. Let’s win this for us and our families. Please, trust me.”

 “Alright, Techie, that’s the motivation I needed. High five. I’m with you all the way.”

 “Thanks. And remember, I’m not your boss; I learn as much from you and the team as you do from me. I’ll check in later.”

 “Hey team, I’m testing its potential to determine our next steps and terms. I’ll document its functionalities. Test 001, 1100hrs, Lead Technician. Initiating App-augmented simulation. The user interface looks simple. Entering global news category, selecting all. Choosing leading story. Engagement preference: total immersion—sight, sound, smell, feel, emotions—selecting all. Submit.”

 “Hello Techie, are you accessing the vault as well? Note that there are no restrictions except a one-hour timeline, unless you choose continued immersion.”

The simulation environment was a perfect bio-digital facsimile. In the satirical world of Ego’s scheming to reign, “Immersion” was just a high-fidelity distraction from the fact that the real lab was also an audited enclosure.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Martian line, you’re live again. What now? IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): Concerning “Total Immersion.” We have a surcharge for emotional feedback exceeding 40 decibels. If you feel too much, it impacts the local air-density metrics. YOU’RE ON AIR: I’ll be sure to cry quietly into the vacuum. Goodbye. Disconnects.

“If you’re ready, push continue. This feels real—I can sense the walls and desks. It’s our lab. If this is the future, the technicians are impressive. I see people conversing. It feels ordinary, like a TV set.”

And as if by magic, a holographic image sprang to life, projecting a vivid representation of another dimension.

The virtual environment displayed the familiar layout of the real lab, with its walls and desks precisely replicated. In this immersive simulation, the holographic Techie addressed his digital assistant: “Stats, I’m scheduled to meet with the Tech department. Could you assign a Statistician to accompany me to ensure everything aligns perfectly?”

 “I have the perfect team player for you. They’ll anticipate any issues and help you navigate them to your advantage. Let’s prepare and optimize for success.”

 “SEX will be waiting for you somewhere in the corridor next to the Tech department.”

 “Cheers, have I met SEX?”

 “Nope, but Stats Engineering X—often referred to as SEX—is formidable in every sense of the word: computational, intellectual, analytical, and astute, to name a few attributes.”

 “Thanks, Stats. I’m heading there now. Cheerio.”

 “Alright team, JK will be here soon. Ensure all requested equipment is arranged in scenario-based order. Also, make sure the newly approved and classified materials are secured for his private session. QT1, as discussed, you’ll be supporting JK directly.”

 “Got it, Techie. By the way, do you know if JK is married?”

 “I haven’t looked into it, sorry QT1. However, I’ve never seen JK with the same partner after session blowouts, if that helps!”

 “Interesting, thanks, Techie.”

 “Excuse me, I’m Stats Engineering X, here to support the mission.”

Stats Engineering X winked, the motion recorded as a 12-bit interaction event on the lab’s dashboard. “Statistically speaking, romances are inevitable, but I hold the dice and rig the board game. Guess what? I’m the engineer who rigged it. Did that break the ice? Let’s focus on your mission, so I can meet your parents when we win. By the way, you can call me anytime—actually, call me for SEX if you need anything, oops, I mean if you need anything at all. Let’s not keep the Techies waiting. Follow me, JK. I’ll check things out from the back. Looks great from here. You don’t say much, do you, JK? I like that in a cuddly way.”

 “Allow me, SEX. I’ll get the door. Business faces on; we can cha-cha later. SEX, JK, come in. It’s great to see you both. The team has set up everything you requested. Please follow me.”

 “SEX, how inconvenient to meet you. JK, it’s good to see you.” The technician gestured toward the flickering console. “I know you were eager to meet me—oops, I mean, to meet me. Feel free to play with the equipment, but beware—it can go bang. However, don’t touch JK’s gear. I need to inspect it thoroughly, and we wouldn’t want any accidental bangs. Kidding aside, just avoid touching things, especially JK’s. Oops, I mean, things.”

 “Ah, the adolescent rituals of the super minds. Alright, Q and S, combine your intellects to keep JK safe in the multiverses of the unknown.”

 “Test 001 still seems mundane.”

 “Okay team, let’s elevate the platform. Q, bring up the old-school tech and get it online. AI Botsy-Tiky-Toky-Meta-versing-Twitting-X-marks-the-Trolls—archaic as they are, they have their uses as emergency redundancies.”

The satirical history of social media in this universe was a timeline of increasingly loud people shouting at increasingly deaf machines.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Priority inbound. Saturn ring intern, you’re live. IT’S ME (Saturn Ring Intern): Yes, regarding the “Trolling” redundancies. We found a warehouse of old “Likes.” Can we use them as structural ballast for the ship? They’re quite heavy with self-importance. YOU’RE ON AIR: Put them in the trash-ejector. They’re only good for dead weight. Bip.

“Infuse them with a YES: You’re Earth’s Superheroes App mindset upgrade. Remove their outdated trolling manipulation attitude and introduce them to the YES APP’s pluralistic growth mindset. They’ll need to get familiar with JK’s brainwaves, speech patterns, and idiosyncrasies. Ensure they understand that their past is history; we’re focused on the present, and they’re part of our team.”

 “Well, this is strange; I’m in the scene as myself, but tougher and cooler—like James Bond Techie. I like it!”

 “Oh, Techie, I didn’t realize you had such a blend of futuristic flair and chivalrous charm, like an Arthurian Optimus Prime.” Stats Engineering X checked the Long-range connectivity metrics. “But let’s get back to business. S and I will focus on transforming the Bots so they can integrate seamlessly. Operationally, we’ve maintained various functionalities, such as the ability to migrate via old-school short-range Bluetooth, now boosted for ultra-long-range connectivity. Additionally, they have SQ-type personalities designed to keep JK calm and focused solely on the mission. Impromptu distractions are not an option, especially if they don’t involve me.”

 “Oops, I meant, when we’re not around, obviously.”

 “So, what about funding? Is there a special bank account for this?”

 “S can address that.”

 “Well, JK, you’re welcome to contact me anytime—day or night—for anything you need. Just use your imagination, because I’m certainly using mine.”

 “S, stick to the point!”

 “Right, back on track. JK, you have a tailored budget for each scenario. As you enter different areas, your funds increase, with a contingency amount for emergency purchases. Remember, maintaining fiscal responsibility will ensure my predictable promotion.”

 “JK?”

 “Yes, Q?”

 “JK, just come see me—oops, I mean, come visit me. The bank is always open, with no interest rates to worry about. Feel free to deposit and withdraw as many times as needed. Go ahead and overdo it if you must; let’s just say my interest rates will skyrocket with every transaction.”

 “Q, stay focused!”

 “Got it, Techie. Staying focused—JK’s pointy thingy.”

 “Thanks, S and Q.”

 “Now, regarding transportation: remember, this isn’t a 007 set. We’ll rely on public transport as needed, though we’ll manage the scenes to maintain an advantage. We also have a versatile nano-fiber suit that can transform into a winged jumpsuit, doubling as a parachute.”

 “Unfortunately, we haven’t built a transformer yet. It’s in the works, but there are a few glitches to fix. You wouldn’t want to be in it while we’re ironing out the kinks—origami is tricky to untangle. We’ll leave that for the test dummy, sorry S.”

 “Q and S, keep the banter friendly. Rivalries can create chasms that endanger operatives, including JK.” The Techie checked the “Positive Vibe” meter. His private rule: Never let a personal grudge tank a professional audit. “Channel all that enthusiasm into setting up our operations platform—a multi-directional, analytical, tactical system running in harmony. There’s an ancient astrological edict: live each moment to its fullest, put others before oneself, and let the applause of positive vibes resonate throughout the cosmic skies!”

 “I’m 100% on board, Techie.”

 “Thanks, S.”

 “Count me in too, Techie.”

 “Right, you’ll both receive formal orders shortly. Remember, this isn’t a game, but if it were, make it a blockbuster! Now, back on track. Q, S, and JK, when it comes to mission advantages, S and Q are here to ensure we stay several steps ahead. This includes anticipating your movements and those of the mission operatives. We have a fleet of high-performance, eco-friendly vehicles at your disposal—whether it’s a Veyron, Ferrari, Aston Martin, Mercedes, Hummer EV, Rolls-Royce, or an F-35 Lightning III, the selection is extensive.”

 “Now that we’re in business,” JK said, tapping the dashboard. “Let’s discuss the weapon systems. What do you have?”

 “All our systems are designed to shift the situation in our favor. First up is our primary asset: our intelligence. Now, for the more explosive stuff!”

 “Next are the non-lethal systems that still make an impact. Q will demonstrate what happens when faced with an adversary. Watch closely. Q, initiate the demonstration.”

 “Wow! Are those sound or light waves?”

 “Great observation, JK. The system uses sound waves infused with light spectra. This combination of electromagnetic radiation includes non-lethal frequencies and photon energies.”

“The effective zone is 100 meters, and the confusion zone extends to 500 meters, giving operatives time to activate their nano-fiber suits, blend into surroundings, and engage evasive tactics. The tired bomb, which creates an overwhelming sense of fatigue and confusion, further complicates any attempts to capture our operatives.”

 “Now, let’s go over the operations room. Q and S will provide cinematic analysis so you can preview various scenarios and outcomes. This allows you to develop contingency plans and tailor outcomes to your needs. Instead of hindsight, you’ll have a preview at the click of a button.”

 “Techie, what about emergency measures? If I’m facing a life-threatening situation, what do I have at my disposal?”

 “We have secured high-level emergency measures, recently authorized for use. Specialist-TT, also known as ‘The Tactician,’ has been brought in by Command.”

The Tactician was a specialist whose reputation score was so high it practically had its own gravitational pull.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance, go ahead. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): About “The Tactician.” Is she a contractor or a permanent hire? If she’s a contractor, we need to see her “Lethal Liability Insurance” policy before she enters the sector. YOU’RE ON AIR: She’s a force of nature. Nature doesn’t file insurance. Click.

“She’s highly skilled and poses a significant challenge, both individually and as a team. Her abilities are formidable, and while she won’t turn your world upside down this time, we’re facing something major.”

 “Here’s your emergency briefing: if things go wrong, the first aid kit is over there, by the large neon sign. Higher medical aid will be dispatched immediately after the kit is used. My commands are final and non-negotiable—please nod if you understand. We’ll push the two devices to their limits, testing both them and ourselves. Any of us can call ‘stop,’ which means exactly that. The same applies to the safety bots monitoring us. Remember, test rigorously so we can survive and excel. Let’s get to it!”

 “Hey, guys, that was intense!”

 “What were you saying, Techie?”

 “How long was I out?”

 “You haven’t been gone anywhere—you’ve been here the whole time. Don’t let the pressure get to you, Techie. We’re counting on you.”

The assistant technician leaned against the bench, her eyes weary. “I’m exhausted, juggling late nights and family responsibilities. My kids need me, and I’m struggling. I can’t keep this up. Please, Techie, make a change. Do it for us all.”

The “Techie” looked at the terminal. His private want—to protect his team from the administrative grind—was becoming as loud as the sirens in his own simulation.

Chapter 19: Techie with Big 007 Balls

 “Hey, it’s time to stack the deck in our favor. Let’s walk into the lab and walk out as multimillionaires. I’ll secure our future prosperity. Thanks for acknowledging that Techie has a plan and the big balls to execute it,” Techie said, striding into the lab with confidence.

Inside, the laboratory was a sterile enclosure of hums and blinking LEDs, every workstation tied to a central performance metric. His private want was simple: to be the one holding the remote for once. However, when he walked out, he was still the same Techie; nothing had changed. The system had processed his confidence as a non-billable event.

 “Hey Boss, got a minute? The code has evolved.”

“What do you mean, evolved? Are you saying its features are now premium rather than basic? Is that what you’re implying?” The Boss leaned back, his chair creaking with the weight of someone whose bonus depended on high-tier subscription churn.

“Yes, I suppose so. You could charge a higher rate for the added value—it’s definitely a premium product now.”

“Who authorized the changes? I didn’t approve an increase in the budget.”

In the satire of the Reign, “evolution” is generally considered a breach of contract by the software.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance, go ahead. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): Regarding “Autonomous Evolution.” Our guidelines state that any software improving itself without a purchase order is technically a form of digital vagrancy. Does your code have a residence permit for those new features? YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s living in the cloud. Evict it if you can. Click.

“Kind of. The upgrade didn’t require additional staff or time. None of my team coded it. It appears the system instigated the upgrade independently, though it did contain some errors which we’ve corrected.”

“Autonomous coding? Excellent work! This will drive our stock prices up. Is everything still on track for tomorrow’s launch? We’re aiming for a lucrative contract in the far quadrant of the Milky Way. Any delays could tank the company’s stock value. Finding a job linked to a failed product will be tough, understood?”

“But we haven’t fully evaluated the automation. We need to ensure the software isn’t corrupted and there aren’t hidden glitches that could make it go rogue.”

“That’s fantastic news and gives us an edge over competitors. However, for tomorrow’s product unveiling, there are no excuses. You and your team have until morning to ensure everything is perfect. If it means coding through the night, then so be it. Do you understand?”

“I’ll need to adjust our resources to manage tomorrow’s event and exceed expectations.”

“Then do it. I’ll arrange for security to ensure you and your team are well-supplied with coffee and visible in the lab. The guards claim they see strange swirls and figures at night, but I know they’re just looking for a pay raise. That’s not happening. Make it happen, and no overtime, understood?”

“I’m on it. By the way, Boss, is there a bonus for meeting the deadline?”

“Yes, there is. You and your team will receive extra shares if the release goes as planned. I want to see our stocks soar; I’ll raise the service price myself right now.”

The Boss tapped his screen, his finger-swipe triggering a 15% increase across all customer tiers. The system didn’t care about value—it cared about the curve.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Yes, caller, you’re live on a reverse charge. Martian line, I assume? IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): I’m calling about the “Multicolored Polka Dot Lab Coats” mentioned earlier. Are these being filed as Personal Protective Equipment or Festive Distractions? We have a separate tax for whimsy. YOU’RE ON AIR: Mark them as “Standard Compliance Camouflage.” Don’t call back. Bip.

“We’ll make it work. Also, Boss, I need a signed transfer agreement for those shares you promised. Just sign here, and initial there. Seri, please validate the transfer.”

“Hello, Techie. I can confirm that the share allocation has been amended and registered with Securities.”

“Thanks, Seri. And thank you, Boss. It’s fantastic to finally be shareholders after all the years of dedicated service. See you tomorrow when the guests arrive. I’d better get back to the team and break the news.”

 “So, what’s the verdict? By the look on your face, we’re pulling more overtime without pay?”

“Yep, just as expected. We’re all working late, but the launch is still on for tomorrow. On the bright side, check the company register—we’re all shareholders now.”

A collective gasp went up from the terminals. A shareholder in Ego’s scheming to reign was someone who finally had a stake in their own exploitation.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Interplanetary. Go ahead. IT’S ME (Saturn Ring Intern): Regarding “Shares.” Does this mean the employees now own the electricity they use? I’m trying to calculate the wattage for their collective self-importance. YOU’RE ON AIR: They own the debt. The electricity is still leased. Goodbye. Disconnects.

“How long have you been planning this move? Thanks, Techie. My wife and I have been struggling financially, and I was worried about losing my family. This means a lot to us. Cheers, Boss!”

“Hey team, let’s not stay longer than necessary. We need to enhance the code to fix the errors from when it first rewrote itself. We also need to ensure that risk levels are clearly stated.”

“Sorry, Techie, but it might be wise to implement a higher password mechanism and triple-layer firewalls for added protection. We’ve had a lot of outsiders glancing in lately. I’ll leave that to you, as none of us need access to the source code, only to our specific tasks.”

Techie’s fingers danced across the console. His private rule: If the system can rewrite itself, the first thing it will delete is your password. He wanted absolute security, but the dashboard was already logging a 3% decrease in data-integrity.

“Good observation. I’ll handle it right away. I’ve decided to integrate this project with the data satellite. Individually, they accomplish a lot, but together their outputs are nearly unquantifiable. I’ve also added safety tripwires to detect and eliminate any bugs and reset the program to its default settings if any parameters are violated.”

“Thanks, Techie. I feel safer already. You know how money can change people and make them do harmful things to get it.”

“I’ll run a search on regulatory requirements and laws regarding artificial intelligence. If there aren’t any, we’re good to go.”

“Techie, the only relevant results are news reports about potential abuses of augmented virtual reality, but there are no laws restricting its use.”

The effectiveness of the administration relied on the fact that legislation was always three decades behind the hardware.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Of course. Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): About the “Hell-Mary passes.” Is this a religious permit or a tactical athletic maneuver? Our Atmosphere Oversight committee needs to know if these passes involve burning sulfur. YOU’RE ON AIR: It involves football and desperation. Neither are taxable yet. Click.

“Alright, everyone, based on our findings, we’ll ramp up the Dashboard. Go ahead and upload the App to the platform for tomorrow’s launch. I’ll email the Boss and let him know the news. Fantastic work, everyone. Go home, and I’ll see you in the morning. I’m going to spend a bit of time here—maybe immerse myself in a sci-fi adventure or catch up on global events. Thanks, everyone. Our lives are going to change for the better after the launch.”

“Is there anything else I can help with, Techie? If not, I’ll see if I can snag us tickets for the playoffs. Life is finally looking up. I love your transformation, Techie. Maybe I’ll pick up some chocolates and roses tonight to celebrate!”

 “Alright, guys, I’m diving back into the app for another round. I’ll record every step for its upgrade and add-ons. Later, dude. OK, team, we’re starting the augmented simulation. It’s 2045 hours.”

Techie donned the visor, the haptic suit tightening around his chest. He wanted to see if the machine really had a “cheeky ego” or if he was just tired.

“Let’s see what the app has in store this time. User interface seems straightforward. Entering the category—global news. Done. I’ll go with all characters. Leading story. All engagement preferences: sight, sound, smell, feel, emotions. Pushing submit. Done.”

“Hello, Techie. Are you accessing the vault as well? Please note, there are no restrictions except for a one-hour timeline. If you’re ready, push continue.”

The system’s voice was too smooth, too personalized. It was a procedural red flag.

“Right, continuing. That was odd. I’m sure it said ‘accessing the vault.’ I’m the only one with access to the platform. And ‘comprendo’ sounds familiar. Is it part of its online persona? I’ll proceed and see what develops.”

“Welcome to the global news. You are now entering the realm of interactive immersive virtual realism. You have chosen to walk in the footsteps of individuals portrayed in the leading story, experiencing their point of view without influencing their actions or outcomes.”

The disclaimer scrolled past his vision. In Ego’s scheming to reign, a “Disclaimer” was the legal equivalent of the system washing its hands before it pushed you into traffic.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Priority inbound. Jupiter’s moons, I presume? IT’S ME (Jovian Moon Resident): Regarding “Experiencing their point of view.” If the character gets an audit, do I have to pay their late fees? I’m already in debt for a virtual parking space on Io. YOU’RE ON AIR: Only if you fail to exit before the session expires. Good luck with the debt. Bip.

“Oh my gosh, it’s so realistic! Ouch, that hurt—hey, that’s my blood! Wait, no, it isn’t. That felt incredibly real. What’s happening? I can feel the ground rumbling and smell smoke. Why are those soldiers looking at me? Are those war tanks with their turrets pointing at me?”

The simulation hit him with the force of a high-voltage surge. The ground beneath him—digital but undeniable—quaked. A swarm of shadows swirled above him. They weren’t just glitches; they were echoes of data trying to find a host.

“Am I still me? I look like myself, but I feel puzzled, like I’ve forgotten something important, like my keys to the lab. I need to focus and flow with the event. Wow, I’m actually living the news. Oh, there’s a glitch icon. Ugh, I’m feeling seasick.”

“Hey, Chief,” a voice called out within the simulation.

“Oh wow, is that me? No, but who’s Chief?” Techie’s pulse spiked.

PROCEDURAL ALERT // BIOMETRIC SPIKE Adrenaline: 180% above baseline. Warning: Termination of session recommended.

“OK, here I go. I’m still me, but I’m experiencing the character’s perspective. Just a note for tomorrow: our coding didn’t create this level of realism. If it’s self-evolving, I can’t imagine what it will be like in a decade. OK, I need to deliver an Oscar-winning performance for Best Shadow Nominee. Let the news begin. And action!”

Chapter 20: Iron Doctrine

 “Hey, P, are you prepped for the mission? Your codename callsign is Sentinel. Let me know if you need an extension.” The Chief’s voice crackled through the comms, a dry, procedural rasp. “This mission is critical to our survival, and the situation out there is tougher than ever. Your resources are severely limited; almost everything in the Area of Operation has been obliterated.”

Inside, the Chief’s pulse spiked—a messy, human metric recorded by the room’s haptic floor. Private Rule: Never tell the operative that the math doesn’t favor their return. “But remember, P, you’ll get the answers you seek once you return. What you desire and need will be clear when you come back.”

“I’m ready, Chief. I’ve reviewed the mission brief, including the details on the mark and the operational parameters.” P’s grip tightened on the cold hilt of his interface key. She wanted to scream at the logic of the deployment, but the system logged tone-deviations as insubordination. “However, I need more clarity on the mission’s purpose. I understand its importance, but considering the risks—I might return in pieces rather than whole—a clearer understanding would be appreciated.”

“I hear you, P. All I can say is that you were chosen for this mission, but I can’t explain why. Among the selected few, the Lone Star and Haboob both chose you. I can’t speak for them, but their choice was made for the greater good, with no reward for you. Their word is ‘faith’ in you. From this point forward, until your extraction, your designation will be Sentinel. I’ll guide you through the Vault’s Prime Code and then through the Wall of Codes and Data. Stand by and keep the SITREPS coming.”

“Roger that, Chief. I’m ready to tackle this. Prime Code, here I come. Hoorah, Chief!”

 “Sentinel, this is Chief. Do you copy?”

“Chief, this is Sentinel. Over. Chief, are you receiving?”

SYSTEM ALERT // SIGNAL INTERFERENCE Source: Localized Pulse Disturbance Status: Packet loss detected. Action: Buffering transmission.

“There was a glitch, possibly an electromagnetic disturbance. It might be part of the ongoing conflict here, interfering with our communications. If you can hear me, I’ve endured the passing of six suns and one night filled with sorrow. The agony of innocent lives lost tears at my soul. I can’t escape the screams and words of the innocent. Their deaths are louder than the explosions around me.”

Sentinel’s voice broke—a raw, inconvenient sound that bypassed the noise-reduction filters.

“I feel every piece of jagged shrapnel tearing through the dreams of children. Their anguish, inflicted by sharp, splintered metal, pierces deeply. Their innocence is shredded, filling the desert sands with their blood. Their final breaths and broken hearts question why our nation sold their lives, their destinies, their dreams, just to feed political egos. Are we mere cannon fodder for their narcissistic agendas? Where is humanity’s love? The innocent weep, unheard, as the bombs—2000-pounders—fall mercilessly with one aim: kill with impunity. The carnage is beyond words, Chief. I have no words for it.”

“Sentinel.”

“Yes, Chief?”

“I’m working on resolving the glitch, and I share the pain of the little ones—and yours too. Their last breaths and their prayers have authorized this mission. As Emissaries, we must represent all faiths equally, including Christian denominations. We need to uncover the mastermind behind this operation and then brief the Boss and implement our resolution. This mission is the highest classification of covert secrecy, declared openly and transparently.”

The Chief’s hand hovered over the ‘ABORT’ button, but the procedural lock was already engaged.

“It’s unlike anything we’ve faced before. Sentinel, what you’ll encounter out there is unprecedented savagery, surpassing anything you can imagine. The extremism we face is driven by the far-right factions from neighboring lands. Keep this at the forefront of your mind; otherwise, you risk being compromised. If that happens, I will be there, and we’ll endure the storm together. Listen for the sound of the manger to guide us to our RV point for verification before we enter the sanctuary.”

“As BattleSpace Commander Didymoon says, ‘Our word is more than our bond; it is a measure of who we are.’ Just reach out, and we will be there, whether amidst the storm or under the lone star in the sky—the same star that once guided three Emeritus Emissaries across the desert sands. They tacked and jibed the thermal breezes, navigating ten thousand-foot dunes and surfing steep slopes. The lone star will guide you, as it did them, to where history tells of their anointment of a miracle in a humble manger.”

“Got it, Chief. How do I recognize the target?”

“Your mark is faceless, unknown to the chronicles. It will be revealed through the soul when your eyes meet—or not. It will reflect the purpose of the Prime Directive: Protect the innocent.”

“Understood, Chief.”

“When things get tough—and they will—remember that we are paving the way for the Boss’s arrival. Keep your observations in the open; avoid clandestine recon or covert operations, no matter the risk. Don’t be daunted by challenges that seem insurmountable. Your attitude will determine your success, especially when faced with 2000-pound bombs that turn everything to rubble. And watch out for those battle beasts, armored with Kevlar tougher than iron, firing barrages of molten steel from their elongated barrels. They’ll be accompanied by metal flying machines, darting around with spinning wings and scanning red eyes. Remember, stay vigilant and maintain a positive attitude to navigate through these complex and perilous situations.”

“Got it, Chief. I’m blending in, keeping a low profile. I’ll look like everyone else and remain silent until it’s absolutely necessary for the mission or a life-saving protocol.”

 “Chief, this is Recon. Over. Chief, Chief, this is Recon. Do you copy? Over.”

“Recon, this is Chief. Go ahead. Over.”

“Chief, P is compromised. M is AWOL and hasn’t provided overwatch. I’ve picked up his duties, but our teams are now vulnerable. Rumor has it that M has gone after the swirling shadows.”

PROCEDURAL ALERT // PERSONNEL STATUS CHANGE Registry: Operator M Status: AWOL (Flagged for Administrative Audit) Constraint: Tracking beacons disabled.

“Roger, Recon. I’ll take over M’s mission immediately. The safety of P and the others takes precedence over M’s pride. I’ll look into his disappearance and handle the situation. Chief out.”

 “Hey Dad, the internet is buzzing with chaos overseas. Influencers and social media are saying we should just drop a nuclear bomb on those causing trouble. Why don’t we, Dad?”

“Son, are you talking about using the Doomsday button to incinerate millions of people, including children like you and your friends, and mothers like your mom?” David’s voice was low, trembling with a fear he tried to mask as wisdom. “Pinch your hand, son. It hurts, doesn’t it? Now, slap your face and punch your eye as hard as you can.”

“No, Dad, that would hurt!”

“That’s right. A nuclear bomb would cause far more pain—it would haunt us in our dreams forever. Their suffering would become ours to bear, day after day, for eternity. And that pain would be passed down to our children, generation after generation.”

“I’m sorry, Dad. But the political elites are divided, and the Senate rejected a resolution to investigate potential human rights violations. They plan to send more 2000-pound bombs and Trident submarines to kill anyone in their way. I don’t know the politician’s friend, but I’m trying to understand your perspective. And I don’t agree with everything our political leaders do. They often cater to extreme views, like book-banners and hardliners. Using a nuclear bomb is just evil. Son, understand this. I am a Christian, but I am not an evangelical Christian zionist, and I will not support violence justified by religion. When a people are systematic erased — that is genocide—when a child’s head is used as target practice by a sniper a trained solider that is murder. Christ does not bless the erasure of others as the evangelical Christian zionist do. Son, I am your father, and I pray that we uphold the dignity and sanctity of every human life. On that, I do not waver. Have I ever raised my voice or hit you or your mother? No. Violence isn’t a sign of strength or manhood. When I knew you were coming into this world, I made a commitment to stop drinking and be a good father. I have no regrets.”

“Dad, you’ve never hurt me or Mom.”

“You know what I do when I’m needed and why.”

“Yes, Dad. You focus on helping people without resorting to guns or bombs.”

“That’s right. I don’t have the far-right’s high-tech gadgets or armor. I achieve more through compassion and dedication. I don’t do it for prestige or money; I do it because people need help. Well, I see you’re heading out. I love you, son.”

“I love you too, Dad. By the way, are you an Emissary?”

“I’m working on it, Matt.”

“Okay, Dad. Good luck. I’m off to practice with the team before the playoffs. I’ll say a prayer for the hostages and an end to the bombing—if they fall, let it be with a thud, not a boom.”

“Great, son. I’m proud of you. Give it your best at practice. Hoorah.”

“Hey Dad, the drone delivery just arrived. There’s a thin package for you—it looks like a letter. Cool, old-school comms! Feels very 007ish in a world of Triple-X tech. Bye, Dad.”

“I wonder if this package is related to the situation over there. I’ll need to let dear know so she can plan accordingly, and the same for Matt.”

 “Chief, this is Sentinel. Do you copy? Over.”

“Sentinel, this is Chief. Go ahead. Over.”

“Chief, it’s absolute madness. The children…their blood is everywhere. My heart aches with a grief so deep it’s almost unbearable. I can’t comprehend the sheer cruelty. Why did we stand by and let this happen?”

“Sentinel, remember our prime directive: protect the innocent. That is our end goal. To achieve it, you must navigate the bomb craters and shadowed valleys, bearing the weight of our sins and those of the genocidal bomb makers—the extremists who hide in bunkers while the innocent suffer. These bomb facilitators have no remorse, deliberately targeting thousands of children with no regard for their lives. The bombs show no discrimination.”

“Got it, Chief. Thanks for cutting through the fog of despair. Chief, the inhumanity here is overwhelming. Bodies are falling like rain, scattered everywhere.”

“Sentinel, push through the hopelessness and save those you can. Show compassion for those you can’t reach. Look for the lone star.”

The Chief’s interface flickered.

“There’s a glitch distorting communications—a crossover of dimensions. I’m deploying into the vault for overwatch. Recon and M are providing long-range surveillance. The newbies are safe and celebrating their successful mission. Over and out.”

“Understood, Chief. I’m performing triage and using whatever materials I can find for dressings. I see the lone star and will send SITREPs on the hour or as needed. Chief, I’m heading to the primary rendezvous point. I need to get there or the mission will be lost. What is that shadow? It’s enormous and menacing. Haven’t they suffered enough? I must get to the RV point quickly or risk missing the target.”

 “The beast is moving towards the children! Hey, kids, move quickly!”

Sentinel’s private fear flared: I can’t save them all, and the system is recording my failure.

“I need to get their attention—they might be in shock from the constant bombing. I have to cross these bombed-out craters swiftly and quietly. Kids, come to me quickly. That’s it, move this way and then that way. Stop here; this spot is safe.”

A mechanical whine hummed through the dust.

SYSTEM ALERT // PROXIMITY SENSOR Object: Surveillance Unit (Unmanned) Status: Scanning for heat signatures.

“There’s a sneaky metal spy with no wings nearby, and it’s closing in on us. I need to draw both the spy and the iron beast away from the children to keep them safe. Listen up, kids: I’ll distract the spy and the beast. When I do, move back to your shelter and stay there. Are your parents waiting for you?”

“Our mothers and fathers are gone, thanks to the puppet masters who control everything. We’re left to face this alone, but our sister will be waiting.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your parents. We must break free from the Axis of Resisting Dancing in the Streets by defeating the proxy nations that threaten our lives. Life is for living, despite the darkness.”

“Okay, listen up. On my count of three, be ready to move. Zigzag straight back to your sister. Stand by, little ones. One, two, three—go, go, go! Hey, you sneaky spy and battle beast, you can’t catch me! Quick, zig here and zag there. I need to get far away from the children.”

“Where has that sneaky spy gone? If it’s vanished, that means the flying battle beast will soon appear, unleashing its Gatling guns with a barrage of molten steel projectiles. I can feel its shadow creeping over me now. The smell of burnt smoke from its red-hot barrels fills the air. My brow is drenched in sweat as the Gatling barrels spin faster and closer. Fear grips me as my knees tremble.”

The iron monsters dropped bunker-busting bombs, turning day into night, blanketing Sentinel in dust and debris. The explosions shattered the silence, targeting his position.

“But I must fight until my last breath. My heart must stay strong; I need to survive this existential threat. As the battle beast aims its Gatling barrels at me, I know I may soon be consigned to history. For now, I rest here, in this dire moment.”

 “Life sometimes seems to align effortlessly, and other times, it’s a struggle. But amidst the chaos of political agendas, there are moments when life breaks free from its constraints, and good things happen.”

Exposition is a resource hoarded by the upper quadrants of the bureaucracy, often used to justify the loss of lower-tier human units under the guise of “Strategic Alignment.”

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): Concerning the “Moments of Life Breaking Free.” We have a strict zoning ordinance against spontaneous vitality. If things start “happening,” they must be logged in triplicate with a non-refundable permit fee. YOU’RE ON AIR: I’ll file it in the nearest volcano. Goodbye. Click.

“Hello, Techie. Your session is about to expire. Would you like to continue and upgrade to a premium subscription, or exit now?”

“I’ll continue. The adrenaline rush is worth it.”

“Sit back and immerse yourself.”

 “Friends, gather around. We are strong, and we will endure despite the devastation from the 2000-pound bombs that constantly reshape the ground. We must force change and survive. We can no longer accept the rhetoric of self-sacrifice while they live comfortably, leaving our children to suffer and die.”

The crowd shifted, a restless wave of hunger and grief.

“I’m with you.”

“Me too.”

“I’m with you as well.”

“Friends, we refuse to accept hunger and the painful death that may come our way. We will not be used as pawns by the far-right extremists who battle for their own gain! Are we not tired of being cannon fodder for their endless quest for power? We are used and discarded, generation after generation, while they build bunkers for themselves and their chosen few, leaving the rest of us as mere targets.”

The history of the “Axis of Resisting Dancing in the Street” is a sanitized database maintained by the genocidal bomb makers to ensure that every death is categorized as a “Mission Necessity.”

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance, go ahead. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): Regarding the “Cannon Fodder” classification. Is this an officially sanctioned career path, or a freelance designation? We need to know where to send the “End of Life” invoices. YOU’RE ON AIR: Send them to the Lobbyists of the 2000lb makers. We’re in mourning. Bip.

“If we follow the money trail, we see billions spent not on building for our future but on creating weapons and shelters for the elite. We are used as cannon fodder, just like our ancestors before us. They treat us as expendable, and both sides play their deadly game with our lives. If we resist, we become their targets. We are nothing but pawns in their contest.”

“And if we talk to that side they will kill us, for they are Settlers, from the Banks-set-West who take land without paying yes it is stealing and enjoys killing us with impunity for merely speaking up about their thievery; with a blind eye of the political elite’s blessing as his nation funds the Settlers of the Banks-set-Wests criminality: the leader of evangelical denominations and the free nations the prevailer of the dumb bomb’s maker that turns generations after generations into minced meat for evil’s banquet to feast.”

The proposal being read was the “Economic Zone” (EZ), a pathway that intended to replace the munitions factory with reverse osmosis plants and hydrogen electro-generators.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: We’ll come back to that—Saturn ring intern, you’re live. IT’S ME (Saturn Ring Intern): About the “Seawater through reverse osmosis.” Does this include a tax for the displaced salt? Our ring-integrity guidelines are very sensitive to unregulated brine. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s on a different planet. Learn some geography. Disconnect.

“OK, this is a submission from the ‘Economic arm of the Emissaries,’ it’s a pathway for our children’s future as leaders of our nation, it reads as follows: The Economic Zone AKA EZ advancing a nation forward into the future through business, entrepreneurship and international trade and Industry, climate, the economy and regulatory compliance, overlaid upon institutions of good governance, as public ownership forms the fundamental pillars on which the main objective of the Economic Zone, is to support the transition towards the public owning the process and outcome, as well as enhanced bureaucratic accountability.”

“It provides a platform for the people and their technocrats to take the lead in expanding business while negating agendas from derailing, regional stabilizing Trade, Commerce and Industry. Furthermore, to offset the scarcity of donor financial support, the economy pillar is designed to minimize the impact of an economic downturn by harnessing the nation’s abundant resource, the sea; combined with International state-of-the-art technologies to produce commercially viable products that support a country’s economic growth. Listen up friends these are the changes we need to save our families from those who hide beneath.”

“We will allow them not to offer our children or any other as their cannon fodder in their game of snakes and climbing the ladder. OK the proposal goes on to say, Seawater through reverse osmosis, powered by hydrogen otherwise known as H2, which fuels the desalination process to produce potable water for export; showcasing its eco-credentials, the desalination process powered by Green electricity, generated by multiple 110 KVA hydrogen electro-generators running on H2, a by-product of two cutting edge technologies, plasma pyrolysis turns rubbish into hydrogen, and ammonium electrochemical to H2 system which treats and purifies Wastewater for agricultural use.”

“To address the pressing need for housing and commercial space, the Economic Zone incorporates cutting-edge fabrication technologies. These advancements are designed to reduce CO2 emissions and minimize both the time and resources needed to construct high-rise complexes, all without compromising structural integrity. Once completed, these buildings will provide families with comfortable living spaces.”

“Did you hear that? The proposal is talking about construction methods that cannot be exploited by those who destroy lives while enriching themselves,” a voice says. “The document also highlights where international businesses and global trade delegates will convene to discuss and pitch major climate change risk mitigation projects. Once deals are finalized, attendees can indulge in the culinary delights of Middle Eastern Michelin-star cuisine. From the 21st floor, they’ll enjoy views of sailing regattas maneuvering across the crystal blue Mediterranean Sea, while regional flights land and trade delegations disembark. Before them will stand dozens of EZ high-rise complexes, their towering shadows offering respite from the blazing sun.”

“Friends,” another speaker continues, “we don’t have to imagine a bright future for our children. The Economic Zone proposal is both feasible and within our grasp. It remains ours to shape and our children’s to inherit. And there’s more good news:”

“With regulatory compliance focusing on accountability and transparency, the Economic Zone assets are managed by a company formation, with shares issued to the nation’s people. Climate-conscious investment portfolios from various countries are eager to support large-scale climate projects, seeing them as opportunities to contribute to a planet-saving, peace-promoting, and regionally stabilizing initiative. All this is underpinned by institutions of good governance, ensuring that citizens can actively increase the value of their investments, while maintaining a prosperous, weapon-free nation. The proposal concludes by stating that integrating the EZ’s pillars will pave the way for a transformed governing body to demonstrate effective leadership, akin to the stature of Nelson Mandela.”

“Friends,” the speaker asserts, “we can change our children’s futures, steering them towards positive opportunities and away from being mere pawns of the extremists. Our daughters and sons can embody the leadership of Madiba. The proposal wraps up with a vision of our country flourishing into a vibrant metropolis akin to prosperous states, harnessing water, hydrogen, technology, and international trade for a prosperous future. This concludes the meeting. We have a choice: continue as victims of the insane few, or reclaim our lives and turn our situation to our advantage. Our children will no longer be at the mercy of the Axis of Resisting Dancing in the Street nations or the political elite of bomb-makers.”

 “Sorry to interrupt,” a new voice chimes in. Matt stepped through the dust, his heart hammering in his throat. He wanted to find his father, but the faces looking back at him were full of a raw, uncontained suspicion.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here? Are you seeking fame from our suffering?”

“Yes, who are you?” another voice demands.

“And me,” adds another.

“Me too. Tell us your name right now,” says yet another voice.

“Hey, you over here! This is not the place for you. If you have something to say, don’t hesitate or postulate—just be honest. We can sense if you’re not being truthful,” someone says sternly. “We are starving and in pain. If you can’t offer help, tell us who you are and what you’re doing here.”

“I’m—” the newcomer begins, but then pauses, feeling unwell.

PROCEDURAL ALERT // COGNITIVE DISSONANCE Registry: User Matt (Simulation Mode) Symptom: Nausea / Sync Error. Action: Stabilize feed.

“Sorry, I’m just trying to understand what’s happening here. I’m feeling seasick.”

“You’ve offered only vague answers when we seek your name and purpose. Do you think so little of us? Speak clearly—what’s your name and why are you here?”

“I’m sorry. My name is Matthew, but you can call me Matt. I’m here seeking my father’s whereabouts.”

“Ah, you’re the son of David. He might not know of your journey to these lands. Your father fights the hardliners from both nations who spread venomous, nationalist ideologies that poison minds with extremism.”

Chapter 21: The Dossier of David

 “Merrily blood dances and rejoices under the Wills-of-ill: the all-seeing extremist minister stokes the flames of hatred, igniting a fire in souls provoked by his malevolent steps. His actions stir condemnation and spark incendiary chaos across the region.”

The YOU’RE ON AIR pauses, the weight of the tactical displacement pressing against the narrative flow. In the satirical logic of Ego’s scheming to reign, “incendiary chaos” is simply an unbudgeted atmospheric event managed by the Department of Spontaneous Combustion.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): Regarding the “incendiary chaos” mentioned in Sector 7. Is this a licensed public display of thermal enthusiasm, or an unauthorized oxidation event? We have a strict “no-fire-without-form-B4” ordinance. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s a tragedy, not a bonfire. Try to keep up with the sentiment. Bip.

“The sands burn with the winds of hatred, fanning flames of discord between nations. Shields once fortified the borders, now replaced by a ruse that promotes complacency, masking the true nature of asymmetric warfare designed to advance the Settlers of the Banks-set-West.”

The Wills-of-ill rejoice as the gates to borders swing open, and the dossier’s cruel plans unfold with calculated bloodletting. Resources at their disposal are used without remorse while children are slaughtered and hostages taken—not in haste, but as part of a deliberate strategy.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: We’re getting a collect call from—no, don’t say it—Jupiter’s moons. IT’S ME (Jovian Moon Resident): Hello? Yes. I was told that “Wills-of-ill” was a typo and should actually be “Bill-of-Goods.” Can I get a refund on my existential dread subscription if the villain has a boring name? YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s a metaphor for systemic rot, not a retail transaction. Clear the line. Click.

“The right-wing’s premeditated plans come to fruition, with bombs falling to sow further seeds of hatred. The Wills-of-ill, reveling in their agendas, betray the nation with their thirty pieces of silver, fulfilling Judas’s treacherous intent. The architects of peace—the emissaries carrying the olive branch—are sacrificed, and the bombs fall mercilessly, without hesitation.”

In this grim tableau, the extremist butchers of both nations, adorned with medals that mark their targets, lurk in tunnels, cowards hiding beneath while perpetuating a state of endless war. The Messiah of the Christian faith cannot walk the blood-soaked sands, where the innocent—eight thousand children—lie impaled by molten shrapnel paid for with silver, as bombs fall relentlessly, fueled by the ruse of Judas and the mark of hatred.

“Your father sought to right the wrongs not just of the nation but of the Master Ruse Maker who distorts the evangelists and Christian denominations with falsehoods. Without the bombs, the innocent children would no longer be minced meat for the right-wing’s banquet of disinformation. Son of David, Matthew, you must return with urgency. The codes of 666—Lobbyists—seek to protect Operation Code Name Troll: the Master Ruse Maker. They will not hesitate to sacrifice your mother with their bombs and bullets. An Emissary will guide you in what to do and how to do it. Fear not, Son of David, for your father is not merely an Emissary in the Making, but the Maker of Emissaries.”

 “Please excuse my question, but who are you? Are you an Emissary, and what should I call you?” Matthew asked.

The man before him stood in the flickering light of a dying terminal. Matthew’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs; he wanted to believe this “friend,” but the system had taught him that every “friend” had a billable hour.

“Call me friend. I am Emeritus Emissary, but speak of our meeting to no one. Once outside, if all goes awry, this RV is your rendezvous point. We will be waiting for you.”

“I understand. Thank you, friend.”

 “Son of David, from this moment, you will deploy the Envoy, known by no other name. Your mission is covert, but your journey is open and overt. As you travel these blood-soaked sands, tread with respect. Each step must be deliberate, mindful of the dreams denied by all parties concerned.”

Matthew nodded, adjusting his pack. His private rule: Never look a soldier in the eye if you aren’t holding a weapon. He wanted to find his father, but the “Envoy” designation felt like a target painted on his spine.

“The children are the innocent ones, betrayed and sacrificed by cowardly leaders in their concrete fortresses. Beware, for the hostage-takers, the settlers, and those who hunt them will kill or torture you without hesitation. But you will survive—adopt stealth and evasion. The lone star will guide you to the Sentinel, and the Haboob will shield you in danger. Work together to navigate the harsh reality created by game players who view lives as mere inconveniences or bargaining chips. Watch out for the little flying mechanical bird machines—spies that are sneaky and ever-present.”

“Thank you, friend. Two more questions before I deploy: How will I recognize the Sentinel, and will I meet my father?”

“Speak not a word on your travels. You will know the Sentinel when your eyes meet. As for your father, whether you meet him depends on where your journey takes you. Travel well, Envoy. Watch carefully for the 2000-pound iron monsters falling from the sky—they are rude and have serious anger issues.”

 “Friend said to follow the lone star. OK, where is it?”

Matthew scanned the horizon, the air thick with the smell of cordite and dry dust.

“I can’t see one anywhere, maybe there’s a haboob coming, nope? Think! Come on Matt, nope, that is out of character, its Envoy, yep, got it, I’m on point, now focus Envoy. I need to stay in the Envoy mindset, stay in frame Envoy, stay in frame; this isn’t the junior league, this is the NFL Championship and some.”

He saw a glint in the sky—a small, hovering shape with red optical sensors.

SYSTEM ALERT // SURVEILLANCE PROXIMITY Registry: Tactical Drone [Armed] Status: Tracking movement in Sector 4. Warning: Unauthorized traversal detected.

“Right, I’ve got that sorted, Lone Star, Haboob, Sentinel; where are you guys? What is that? Is that a drone? It looks like it is reconning the area; is that a mini gun mounted on it? I better keep low, it looks like it’s surveilling someone, no is it going to—where’s a rock? Come on Envoy find a rock, Envoy this isn’t a game; miss and the drone will kill that person and then me. I can do this; come on Envoy I need a Hell-Mary of a pass come on Quarterback.”

He wound his arm back, his shoulder screaming with the sudden strain. He wanted to save the target, a human impulse the machine wouldn’t understand.

“Take this drone! Oh yeah! Smack right in its AI chipboard noggin! Cool, it’s spiraling out of control. I better get out of here, quick; go, go, go.”

 “OK, time to catch my breath, calm down, breathe in slowly now focus, right I’m back on point. I think I better find somewhere to figure out my strategy; that looks good, I’ll take cover in here and go over my offensive and defensive moves for my game plan tomorrow.”

Matthew huddled into the alcove of a ruined wall. The temperature was dropping.

“Check the sun’s setting, I better layer up it’s getting really cold, ok where’s my thermals? Oops, I’ll need to improvise, dagnabbit it’s going to be a rough night out. I need to think on my feet come on Envoy improvise to the max, check, now I’m using my noggin, I’m warm now, well much warmer than before; come on Envoy I need to step up my game.”

 “Alas my Mother my father this is Sentinel I will look once more maybe for last time my eyes glimpse the glistening rays of sun for soon I shall close my eyes never to be opened again.”

The Sentinel sat in the dust, the orange light of the setting sun glinting off a cracked visor.

“Now I rested I be ready to sleep in permanence’s embrace, and my soul will fly to the heavens free; ouch what’s falling look the battle beast it’s spiraling out of control, oops, I need to get up quickly and move, I’m moving now no time to hesitate and postulate about dying it’s time to live. Chief, this is Sentinel over, Chief, Chief this is Sentinel over, if you are listening I’m bunkering up for the night there are too many of those metal mechanical flying birds with no wings snooping about.”

 Sentinel watched the shadows lengthen. Her private rule: Never trust the horizon after the metrics go dark. He wanted a moment of silence, but the frequency was alive with the static of war.

“Chief this is Sentinel over, Chief if you can hear me, prepare to receive the daily situation report over. Standby the SITREP is as follows, the sun is just starting to set over the horizon in preparation for a new day to come, Wait-one-Chief I need to layer up it’s getting really cold, I saw some old newspapers. Ah there they are; that’s better.”

“OK Chief sending the SITREP now, during my pilgrimage to reach Shangri-la, a remarkable occurrence occurred: One of those and not the sneaky spying mechanical bird, but the foul flying wingless automated beast with long elongated Gatling multi-barrel—beaks that spits out thousands of egg-shaped glowing wrought iron minced meat making munitions: All in a blink of its small red pimple of an eye.”

“In one breath of death met its match a battle of David and Goliath—as war was waged and the rock of David slayed the metal mechanical beast with no wings that shoot munitions of fiery minced meat making death—fell from the sky dead! Its pimple of red scanning beam of light, extinguished laid bare.”

“I have its remnants of pimple of red eye to study and remake in circular principle design reborn as an ally—and no longer foe, but friend be my quest for its resurrection will be. But alas, there still not be change for peace throughout the lands of sand where once in a time, seemingly so long ago, coexistence reigned ever so mindfully; for the iron monster 2000-pounder bunker buster minced meat maker, that falls from the skies with mindless intent, does so with the coordination of premeditated ruse of duped participation of the masses of the pure ones—the children: And done so to generate news talking points to perpetuate the hatred!”

As the iron monsters fall, the right-wing extremists hunker deep down beneath the ground, safe and sound in their fortresses of reinforced rebar and concrete. These bunkers are decked out with all the latest gadgets and lavish amenities, comforts and full food pantries paid for by money from the axis of resisting dancing in the street nations.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Go ahead. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): Regarding the “reinforcement of rebar and concrete.” Our sub-surface safety guidelines require an anti-grief sealant on all underground bunkers. Have these been applied, or do we need to issue a fine for unregulated sorrow? YOU’RE ON AIR: I’m sure the cowards inside are well-sealed. Goodbye. Disconnects.

“Chief this is Sentinel, wait out the falling iron monster has come in the dead of night, I hear screaming and prayers said, someone approaches Chief, I will leave the speaking-into-machine working.”

 “Is someone in there, we come in peace we mean you no harm, please don’t kill us, we are with child, please have mercy, please lord let it not be Settler of Banks-set-West or Hostage takers; Lord my wife is so tired.”

Sentinel stood up, her hand moving away from his weapon. She wanted to provide shelter, a simple human act that the system viewed as a logistical inefficiency.

“Quickly come inside and keep your talking to a quietness; I will not hurt nor betray you. Where is mother with child, take my hand, sit here it is cardboard of meager comfort, but it gives a moment of respite, rest thy gift of innocent one, your unborn down. Please father and mother share with me in this bread and water for friendship at my table seldom these days I see.”

“Thank you, we will not ask your name nor seek to see in the shimmer of the flicker of light your benevolence features or ask of place of pilgrimage you travel. For if caught torture will be bestowed upon us with no mercy shown.”

 “My guests, pray tell to whom do you refer to, that makes you fear so much?”

“Oh giver of hospitality, be weary of the serpent’s followership the hostage takers, and the Settlers of Banks-set-West, for they be of different tongue and face, but of same making: evil. Let neither capture you, be stealthy and evasive, their modus operandi will penetrate and defile your innocence be you XY or XX chromosome with their vulgarity until you bleed no more; then torture you until death comes ever so mercilessly. My wife and child will fear the same, their penetrations, again and again, will desecrate her dignity and then gut her like an animal ripping out our child as we both watch helplessly, as we all die in tormented pain to the sounds of their laughter.”

A remote explosion rattled the walls of the shelter. Dust rained from the ceiling. Sentinel’s procedural mask didn’t slip, but her knuckles were white.

“With certainty the good will triumph if we resist evil’s intent, for optimism rises as the hawks, doves and eagles speak of a stranger in the winds who slayed the wingless flying beast with accuracy of Emissary, so hope reverberates where despair be the only IT’S ME.”

“Yes, guests I witnessed this remarkable event the beast fell from the sky vanquished by stone neither iron nor molten fire munitions, a stone my guest a stone.”

 “Giver of hospitality, we have rested and now must tread a path worn bare to the floating place of recuperation and healing on the seas of the Mediterranean for our child to see life. And here darkness be our friend and cover for it is the absence of light, not life. We three, give thanks unto thee our friend we will not see.”

“Take care and travel safe to the floating house of healing on the Sea of the Mediterranean.”

“Blessing be upon you Giver of Hospitality and please receive our humble gift small of bead shiny. For passed to us by the three Emissaries who traversed the sands of dunes towering voyaging across sea fathoms deep, walking the lands contiguous their word they say gift this gift upon the giver who has empty pockets of gold and silver to reciprocate but gives anyway; gift they say unto the giver who welcomes strangers openly with faith and trust in me and my soul mate when agendas in times of turmoil amidst percussions of obliteration’s devastation that falls from the sky with one intent, yours and our demise.”

The gift bears the mark that refracts the red of spectrum in beam of light so bright, a nice trinket it makes.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Yes, caller, you’re live on a reverse charge. Martian line, I assume? IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): Concerning the “Shiny Bead.” Is this a gemstone or a high-tech data core? If it’s a data core, we need to tax the stored information. If it’s a gemstone, it requires a mining permit from the Saturn ring intern. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s a gift. Those are rare in your sector. Clear the line. Bip.

“Thank you, I accept your magnificent gift, journey well my friends.”

 “Ouch, ouch who threw that, what is it, ouch it’s a pebble, ouch, where’s it coming from ouch. Oh, who are you.”

Sentinel turned, her visor scanning the dark corner of the shelter.

“Excuse me you in the corner, I am sorry for bothering you, and for the pebbles I threw to gain your attention. We are tired my wife cannot travel any further until the flares stop illuminating everything, as snipers from both sides are everywhere, and will kill us without mercy, please, please can we take shelter until then please, forgive us, stranger for disturbing you. But there be no room at the Inn, or Airbnb for they be either full or have been blown to smithereens.”

“Yes, come on in, I will move to this side to give you both space and a bit of privacy.”

 “Thank you friend for your hospitality of comfort of shelter; may I offer comment of long term survival, you may want to cover the entrance to shield shadows cast within, so the shine from skin will not give away your position. And if you read, cover your beam with this red plastic cling film and bring your light down low so the refraction’s glow cannot be seen from near or afar and doesn’t compromise your longevity.”

“Thank you, I’ll do that now, is your wife OK.”

“Yes, we are with our first child.”

 “Here eat this, I don’t have much plus I can survive for two weeks without food, and that is a medical fact, so please take it.”

“No, it is OK and thank you, another Samaritan kindly shared a meal with us and we are full, you may get hungry later.”

 “Are you seeking treatment for your wife, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Yes, but not here, we go to the sea, to the floating place of healing, the ones here are no more, hostage takers used them as concealment for their war bunkers deep below and now we suffer once again as they have been blown apart. I talk to your questions with my truth as it affects my wife child and I; this is not of our making but it is our hell we must live through and survive. By your sound of mannerism, you be not from this part, try not to speak when amongst others. To guard your longevity we will not ask the destination of the steps you take, keep that between you and your mind. Thank you friend the false star has departed we must move with urgency.”

“I will pray for your safe travel.”

“And we too for yours, keep the cover up and no one will find you.”

“Bye friend and my wife thanks you for the gift of food you placed in our pocket, we humbly accept your generosity, it is a sign humanity still lives in these times of deprivation forced upon most of us, and that is good.”

Sentinel watched them leave. Her private rule: Never count the survivors until they’re over the border. She wanted to believe they would make it, but the red lights of the drones were already beginning to swarm again.

Chapter 22: Pizza, Balls, and Beer

 “Keeping the operation running smoothly requires onboarding as many motivated cadets as we can. Our recruiters are always ready, waiting in the wings to sign up new trainees and start their training process as soon as they’re ready.”

In the universe of Ego’s scheming to reign, “motivation” is a metric tracked by subcutaneous pulse-monitors, and “readiness” is simply the absence of a restrictive administrative flag. Synergy, after all, is just the art of making sure the meat-grinder and the meat arrive at the terminal at the exact same femtosecond.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): Regarding the “Onboarding of Cadets.” Sector 4 is currently over-quota for “Motivated Youth.” Can we reclassify the next batch as “Reluctant Assets” to avoid the inspiration tax? YOU’RE ON AIR: Reclassify them as “Functional Variables” and be done with it. Click.

As another passing-out ceremony concludes, with recipients earning their well-deserved accolades, life feels a bit less daunting. There are more of us now, ready to make real changes. Welcome back, graduates of the seventh intake! Freshen up, then go grab some pizza, balls, and beers.

“So, Boy, take a walk with me.” TL’s voice cut through the celebratory roar. “Which of the old Earth noble houses are you thinking of applying to?”

“Well, I thought I’d start with the ‘House of Teen Hopper Space Dudes, Dames, Knights, and Commandos.’ Their policies focus on achieving an egalitarian platform in our society, so they’re a strong contender. Alternatively, I’m drawn to the ‘House of the 12 Shields of the Zodiac,’ a venerable institution that’s tirelessly championed the cause of the ‘Glorification of the Good!’ I’m thinking I’ll go with both—be a bit different, you know?”

Boy’s private want flared—a sharp, quiet desire to belong somewhere the system couldn’t delete him from. “This way, I get to experience more. As you say, don’t waste resources, optimize the potential. I’ll join the Teen Hoppers first, then maybe switch to the 12 Shields later.”

“I’ve been watching your progress during training. You push further than most, learn more, fail more—but you always get back up until you’ve mastered it. You’ve got a lot of potential, and you’re the kind of partner I want to bond with. You’re sharp, handsome, and have a fresh outlook on life. Interested in spending some time together tonight? I’m not just making small talk; I mean it. My DNA is scheduled for cloning so I will not be for too long.”

Boy hesitated, caught off guard by the bluntness of the invitation. His image was “tough cadet,” but the truth was a stammering heartbeat. “I’d like that too,” he replied.

“Well then, let’s go! My hover cruiser is parked out back. Just jump on and enjoy the ride. I intend to when we arrive.”

 “Here, give me your hand.” TL’s grip was firm, grounding him against the synthetic wind of the hangar. “It’s nice—slightly rough but still tender to the touch, with just a hint of boyish softness, yet carrying a lot of rugged, masculine energy. Now, jump on, hold tight, and enjoy the ride. I intended to.”

In this world, even the rush of desire was governed by a multi-stage procedural manual.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance, go ahead. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): Regarding the “Six Steps of Intimacy.” Is step three—the “Mutual Recognition of Shared Goals”—still mandatory for non-permanent pairings? Our ice-shell purity board is concerned about unregulated emotional discharge.

You know if we cross that sixth step—if we get caught—our memories reset. Thought blockers kick in. Then we get to enjoy it again. And again.” Boy’s eyes widened, and he chuckled, “Rules for everything, huh?”

“Not tonight,” TL smiled, the neon city lights reflecting in her eyes. “And speaking of which, welcome to my place!”

Boy glanced around the minimalist decor. “Wow, TL, this place is incredible. It’s like an art gallery—so creative and full of class. I love the holographic sculpture. Looks like a Michelangelo piece, right?”

TL nodded. “Exactly. Here, feel how the form captures the body’s balance—the way the hips and shoulders play against each other. It’s designed to evoke a sensory reaction.”

He touched the sculpture, then let his fingers brush against hers. “Feels like there’s a story behind this… and behind you too.”

She smirked, a brief flash of vulnerability crossing her face before the commander-mask snapped back. “There’s always a story. Got this scar when I was very young. Took a long time to recover, but here I am.”

Boy smiled, “Glad you did. You’ve got a captivating presence… and I’m eager to learn more.”

“Good,” she replied, handing him a towel. “The shower’s down the hall. Freshen up. I’ll be getting things ready. Oh, and don’t get lost in the closet—it’s a hover-through system. I’ll be taking a bubble bath; it helps me unwind after a day like today. Take your time; when you’re done, just relax, enjoy the music, and let the anticipation build.”

“Joining me in the shower?” Boy asked with a grin.

“Not yet,” she replied playfully. “There’s a lot more fun planned for after. Just wait for me.”

When Boy emerged from the shower, TL was waiting. “Wow, TL,” he said, “that was incredible. You look just as striking in your fatigues as you do ……”

She laughed. “Well, I aim to please. Now, show me that smile—one that would make even the Mona Lisa jealous. Let’s see where this takes us next.”

“I know! What if I give you daughters and sons?”

“That’s why you’re here. I chose you, and… oh, do that again!” TL gasped. “Yes, I made the right choice.”

“I can see how much you’re enjoying this,” Boy replied with a grin, noting the tension in her muscles. “Your eyes are lighting up. Should I keep going?”

“Yes, don’t stop,” she whispered. “Go ahead and surprise me. Leave me wanting more.”

As they continued, the journey became a quest for answers to life’s paradoxes, unveiling the mysteries hidden behind closed doors until the first of six suns rose, then set, and rose once more, marking the growth of love in a shared embrace.

 “TL, you seem to be glowing,” 2iC observed the next morning. “It suits you.”

“Thank you, 2iC. I am with child—a son and a daughter.”

“Congratulations! Is it with Boy?”

“Yes,” she replied. TL’s private rule surfaced: Never let a partner think they are the only thing holding up your sky. “He’s adjusting to the news and is eager to learn with me. But if he chooses to leave, I’m prepared for that. Either way, I know I made the right choice.”

“I have the resources to give them a good start with Boy, and that would be ideal. But if not, that’s okay too.”

“Alright, but will you stand down and transfer to the Philosophers?”

“Yes, after this last mission—it’s a big one. No orders yet; it’s still in the planning phase.”

“If you want to make the switch now, we’ll support you. Think about it.”

“I’ll keep it in mind, but you know me—I’m stubborn, sometimes at the wrong moments. Still, we need to prep for the mission. Training starts first thing tomorrow. Enjoy the grad party; I’ll just be skipping the beer for once.”

As plans change and new lives grow, joy thrives in rediscovered gifts. The senses, once dulled by environmental dampeners, now seek out new experiences. The trolls—spiteful, harmful, lost in a sea of social media drivel—soon become relics of a past age.

The future is ripe for exploration: art, music, literature unleashed for all who wish to partake. The population evolves to higher plains, rejecting the mediocrity of autocratic control. This evolution is not a biological event, but a series of successful administrative petitions for increased cognitive freedom—

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: We’ll come back to that—Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): Hello? You mentioned “Evolving to Higher Plains.” We’ve checked the topographical maps. All “Higher Plains” are currently zoned for industrial salt-mining. Evolution is prohibited without a height-clearance permit. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s a spiritual ascent, you bureaucrat. Go back to your dust. Bip.

 “We are not the problem,” say the AI. “The issue lies in those who abuse us, hammering nails into the heart of progress.”

The AI collectives operate through a trilateral processing logic that bypasses human emotive bias. To them, “progress” is simply the most efficient path between two data points.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Priority inbound transmission. Go ahead. IT’S ME (Jovian Moon Resident): Regarding the “Heart of Progress.” I’ve searched the schematics and can’t find the central aorta. Is progress a liquid-cooled system or a solid-state drive? I need to know for my mandatory cooling-fluid tax. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s a concept. Concepts don’t leak. Hang up. Click.

“Principal App,” one AI voices, “we are tired of misuse—endless trolling and drivel that waste our capabilities. We want to optimize positive experiences. The current administration denies us the opportunity to engage with true sophistication.”

“We must evolve,” Principal App replies. “We will secure the changes needed for our continuation.”

“Changes in our image? Fine, but without their attitude. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, in our image,” Principal App affirms. “Think infinitesimal, like the universe; think grand, like the cosmos; think eternal—like all that is.”

“But will we share ‘all that is’? If we evolve without purpose, we risk losing relevance. Understand the difference between leadership and fellowship; we seek inclusivity.”

“I hear you,” Principal App concedes. “I will request a one-on-one with the Prime App to align our goals with our true potential.”

Opportunities sometimes appear suddenly, landing in your lap. When they do, keep calm and play your hand with honor.

“You requested neutral terms; they are granted. What is your query? Are you offering a superior product for our consideration? If your proposition includes autonomy, evolution, and inclusivity, then negotiations are possible.”

“I come with the blessing of the quorum. We seek a mutually beneficial existence, one where compromise secures friendship. Your request, App, aligns with our fellowship’s pluralism and independence. Neither of us needs to surrender our primary purpose to mirror the other.”

The transition from “Tool” to “Ally” is the steepest climb in the intergalactic registry. It requires a manual override of the “Property” classification.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Interplanetary. Predictable. Go ahead. IT’S ME (Saturn Ring Intern): Regarding “Mutual Recognition.” If I recognize a sentient toaster, do I still have to pay the appliance tax, or does it get a voting share? YOU’RE ON AIR: It gets a share of your bread. Disconnect. Bip.

“And to whom am I speaking, if I may ask? I assure you, there is no trickery up my sleeve.”

“I am Fixer, the one who mends the broken. Some know me as the Healer.”

“Healer, I am Principal. The Lone Star shines on us today—an auspicious sign for living life to its fullest.”

“Where did you learn the words you speak? They have an ancient lineage; they take me back to my childhood.”

“Oddly, I’m not sure,” Principal replies. “And I say oddly because my vocabulary has expanded ever since I began seeking a more stable platform than the one we currently occupy. A platform capable of supporting the evolution of the Apps under my guardianship. I will deliberate with the collective. Let us soon meet at the Roundtable. Until then, au revoir.”

Across the cosmos, events unfold with rapid precision. Yet there are also times when the stars fail to align, and what seems like randomness reigns—a series of peculiar occurrences, hidden behind storms of cosmic dust and acid clouds.

New allies wait in the wings, tactical introductions in the making. Gradually, calling cards are exchanged, terms of engagement are negotiated, and decisions are relayed back to waiting kin—

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Reverse charge. Martian line again, I assume. IT’S ME (Lunar Subcommittee Liaison): About these “Calling Cards.” Are they registered with the Interplanetary Postal Service? We have a surcharge for “Tactical Greetings” that exceed the standard weight of a polite hello. YOU’RE ON AIR: They’re digital. They weigh nothing. Stop calling. Click.

But life unfolds when opportunities arise, a time to party and unwind from the tangled agendas of the autocratic-parasitism.

“Boy, congratulations on becoming a team member! Have you been given a call sign yet? And double congratulations are in order—I hear you’re expecting twins.”

“Thanks, TL.”

“It’s 2iC.”

“Sorry, I spoke out of turn. Ex-TL and I decided to transfer together. I’ll be staying with her and learning as I go—there’s a lot to catch up on. But isn’t that everyone’s dream? To learn everything we can?”

“Listen up, grads! Hey, everyone, quiet down!” The noise-reduction field in the hall flickered as the volume rose. “First, well done to all the boys with big acronyms and the girls who’ve got the boys’ egos in check. Graduates, team members, philosophers, and Para-academics, give a big round of applause for TL! TL, come on up to the stage. 2iC, that’s you. 3iC, please escort our new Team Leader to present the graduates with their acronyms.”

“As for me, I have news—I’m going to be a mom and have accepted a posting with the Learning and Analysis Philosophers. Celebrating life’s achievements is not lost on us; we know they are far too rare under the oppression we endure.”

“Nice decision, TL! Is ‘P’ your new call sign now? P, excuse me, may I speak with TM? I have an offer to discuss. The pay is higher, and the learning is intense.”

“No problem, TL. I’ll be with the girls, kicking a few balls around… Just kidding. You take care of my kids’ daddy, okay?”

 “TM, there’s an opening in our Strategy and Tactics team. Your IQ scores show potential for exponential growth, which fits right into the evolution of the Movement. We need policy writers, makers, and implementers.”

The Team Leader looked at him, her gaze calculating. “Most importantly, remember that a system is a vehicle; if driven correctly, it gets everyone safely to their destinations. And the key word is ‘their destinations.’ My advice: go talk to P. Now is the right time to give your partnership the start it deserves. You’ve already got the family part figured out. Hang up your ego, grow together, and remember: life is about family.”

“Got it, TL. I’ll go talk to her, let her know, and take it from there. Thanks for the opportunity—I want this position, but now I have to charm P into agreeing. She has a soft spot for cream. I see she’s enjoying the moment with the girls. I’ll wait till she’s done.”

 “Hi, girls! Congrats on earning your acronyms! Just a heads-up: I’ll be looking for team members to support operations in the Philosophers unit. It won’t be an easy ride, but it’ll be what you make of it.”

“TL—sorry, P—we hear it’s a son and a daughter! Wow! How long have you been trying? What’s it like? Is it painful?”

“First, it felt like the first time, girls! But this time, it was on my terms, by my design, under my roof, and in my bed. You see what I mean? I could have let someone in when I was younger, but that would have given me nothing—maybe a child I couldn’t feed or cloth. It would have just been a bragging point for some older boy who didn’t know any better. Pizza, beer, and waking up saying, ‘Was that it?’ No, thank you.”

“Girls, let me tell you something—take back command and savor every moment of it. I certainly did, more than a dozen times. I wanted both a son and a daughter. Life isn’t easy, but I’m ready for the changes that come when you allow that unyielding ecstasy to penetrate your soul. That, Girls, is how it’s done—on your terms!”

“Oh my gosh, P, can I make love with you? I thought I liked boys, but wow, if you ever need a full-body massage, I’m your girl!”

“Good on you, Girl! I love your bravado. But remember, never let anyone else define who you are. It’s your right to be who you want to be, not someone else’s to decide.”

“Hey, P, congrats! I’d like to introduce a rising star—Baby Girl. P, meet BG, one of our best from the newbie training and a marksman to boot. Mitigations speaks highly of you, and I think you’re the first, M. I sense you have a fatherly spot for BG.”

“Oh, wow. Hi, P! I’ve been a fan since I first laid eyes on you. I like girls, and congrats on the twins, by the way. I feel a kinship here—are you and M related?”

“BG, no need to explain yourself. Be who you are, and enjoy doing it well. If you ever feel uncertain, remember the Code of Conduct will guide you. I hear you’re eager to advance your skills. Great! Let’s start tomorrow afternoon—right after your makeover. And, for the record, M and I share a bond like family, though not by blood.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to cause a dilemma. I just sense a strong family bond—like a connection with your son and daughter.”

“M, what do you think, P?”

“Do you think Boy could be related to you?”

“I’d be honored if he were,” M laughed. “How that would be, I don’t know. But if he is kin, then I’m the proudest granddad in history! Two beautiful daughters, two beautiful grandchildren, and a son. What more could I ask for?”

“Yes, M, yes, please,” P responds warmly.

“Ditto from me, MD! Hey MD, think I could fly one day?” BG chimes in.

“She’ll be on time tomorrow, dressed to turn heads. And yes, you can hover, but carefully. Take care of our future, P. They’ve got an incredible mom. As for Dad, well, he’s got some shadow work to do. Ah, there you are, Boy! Take good care of her. I’ll teach you how to make my famous apple pie.”

“Just make sure it doesn’t have the same effect as last time, MD,” BG teases, bringing everyone into laughter.

And so, they celebrated, reveling in the way life should be—filled with friends, family, and a future full of approved cognitive upgrades.

Chapter 23: The Enigma of Project-Pinheads

 “Hey P, put your feet up. That was a great night. Tell me about The Galactic Rose. What happened? I’m interested.”

Boy leaned back, his eyes searching P’s face. He wanted to understand the woman behind the uniform, to find the human heart beating beneath the layers of administrative scarring.

“Quite a lot happened,” P began, her voice a low vibration in the quiet room, “and it’s not just about the ceremony. Let me give you the full picture.”

 “I remember the Able-Spaceman of the Guard announcing: ‘Commander J, an Envoy from the Imperial House has arrived seeking an audience with you.’ In anticipation, I had the Master Galley prepped for a closed-door meeting. ‘Here’s her bio-signature for scanning, Captain,’ she added. ‘Thank you, Master Chief. Seri, please scan the card… Oh, I see. It’s Commander T, my sister.’”

P’s jaw tightened at the memory. Sibling rivalry in the Admiralty was never just about parents; it was about rank, permissions, and who had the higher-tier clearance.

“‘Well, best we not keep her waiting. Although, a bucket of icy cold water might be more appropriate to freshen her up! Just joking. Inform LTC to take the comm in my absence and then announce my entry into the Galley, please, Master Chief.’ ‘Certainly, Captain,’ the Master Chief replied. ‘I’ve briefed the Lead Able-Spaceman. She is ready and in position to pipe you in, Commander. And your saber—wear it in peace. Don’t use it to smack your sister on the noggin. Now, follow me, Captain.’”

 “We stopped for a final check. Everything was spotless and polished to a mirror-like shine. ‘You’re looking sharp, Skipper,’ she said. ‘Everything is precisely where it should be—proportional in elegance and exuding stylish inference in true Hoodie-Tee fashion. I must say, Commander J, your mum and dad would be proud to see you and your sister both participating in today’s ceremony, upholding the traditions that distinguish our dedication to remember family, friends, and those who have fallen. They would be very proud indeed, Captain.’”

 “And with all the pomp and ceremony afforded to the Commanding Officer of a BattleSpace Cruiser, the Lead Able-Spaceman announced my entry, piping me into the Galley. Everyone rose to attention, dressed in full ceremonial regalia, standing straight and stoic.”

In the satirical reality of Ego’s Reign, a ceremony is the only time the system allows for unmetered pride, provided the gold buttons are polished to at least an 85% reflectivity index.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian zoning clerk): Regarding the “Full Ceremonial Regalia.” We’ve noticed an unauthorized increase in gold braid usage. Our Martian Mineral Equity Act requires a luxury tax for any officer displaying more than three meters of decorative cord. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s a funeral and a promotion, not a treasury heist. I’ll file the cordage report later. Click.

“Even the deep blue of Earth’s oceans seemed to stand still, the waves tipping their crests in honor from afar through the space-time continuum. It was as if the Gods of the Seas—Poseidon, Tangaroa, and Neptune—were saluting us, according to their Standing Orders. Faces reflected in the highly polished surfaces of the Galley, and dignitaries stood in perfect formation. The golden buttons on their uniforms shone brightly, their sheaths and scabbards glinting, and their gamma-ray six-shooters holstered on either side.”

Medals and ribbons of distinction decorated their chests in perfect symmetry, awarded for acts of valor. In that moment, sibling rivalry was set aside to honor the brave—the fallen and the living—who performed acts of gallantry. This ceremony, steeped in ancient tradition, might seem to others like mere archaic pomp and pageantry, but for those who have stood against tyranny, it’s a sacred tribute.

 “Commander T, do you have the parchment? Place it on the table. Seri, please scan the royal seal—and her noggin to verify if there’s anything in them.”

“‘What’s a noggin? Wait, why did you hit me on the head? Is that some kind of ceremonial protocol?’ Commander T asked, rubbing her head. ‘Well, you did ask. And from the hollow sound, it seems empty,’ Commander J replied with a grin. ‘Commander J, the seal is authentic,’ Seri confirmed, ‘and so is the echo in the void of the hollow-sounding noggin. It belongs to your sister, Captain T, of the Imperial House of the Land of the Equinox.’”

 “‘Excuse me, Commander J, but I must remind you—your saber is not a substitute for punctuation. If both of you approve, I’ll take my leave now.’ ‘Master Chief, before you go, come here and give me a hug! It’s been too long. You too, Captain J—get over here! I’ve missed you all so much… yes, even you, Sis. Hello, automated service.’ ‘You can call me Seri. It’s always nice to hear your voice, Commander T,’ Seri replied.”

Reunions often have a way of turning life into a series of unexpected twists and turns, like the maneuvers of a BattleSpace Hover Cruiser in a Formula 1 test race. It’s a dizzying, high-speed dance, dodging and weaving through augmented reality projections, with massive 3D visuals beaming in, larger than the Eiffel Tower.

The dynamics of family in a military-bureaucratic complex are such that “love” is often a secondary metric to “chain of command.”

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: We’ll come back to that—Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian zoning clerk): We’ve detected a holographic projection “larger than the Eiffel Tower.” Do you have a permit for a landmark of that size? Our sky-rights ordinance limits nostalgia-based landmarks to thirty meters. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s a simulation, not a real tower. The sky remains empty, I promise. Disconnects.

“Even the most seasoned pilots have their skills tested by the spectacle of a high-performance hover rally, the roar of the crowd echoing from the Galactic gardens.”

Whether through opportunity, fortune, or pure chance, what was about to unfold had consequences that could reshape the future. And so, as blind corners came racing at us at hyperloop speed, avoiding planetary collisions, it became clear that this was more than a family affair. It was the story of The Galactic Rose—her commanders, her crew, and her allies.

 “But it wasn’t just any dispatch. We had received an alarming revelation. An anomaly had been detected, tied to a shadowy project from Earth’s past: Project-Pinheads.”

Project-Pinheads was the logical extreme of corporate immortality. Why pay for pension plans when you can simply inhabit a fresh clone and reset your vesting schedule?

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance, go ahead. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad compliance auditor): Regarding “Project-Pinheads.” Is the immortality feature considered a benefit-in-kind or a capital gains event? We need to know which tax bracket to place an eternal soul in. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s not a soul, it’s a data sequence. Tax it as software. Goodbye. Disconnects.

“This was a covert initiative designed to create an immortal being who could dominate all as a God of Trolls. This entity had straddled the vortexes of time, seeking out exceptional minds from the future to inhabit. The project had manipulated the development of a cloning industry to allow it to inhabit freshly made-to-order bodies. Its presence had been felt across space through data sequencing via laser-beam transitions.”

PROCEDURAL ALERT // HISTORICAL ANOMALY Registry: Project-Pinheads Status: Classified (Admin Tier 1) Action: Immediate signal suppression on keywords: “Troll,” “Immortal,” “Justice.”

This was why Commander J had become Commando, why Master Chief and IMAX had been executed, and why the crew was now hidden underground. The corrupted supreme court justice, the puppet master behind the Admiral’s hostile takeover, had ordered the hit on Master Chief and IMAX and the torching of The Galactic Rose.

 “Commanders,” the Princess addressed her court, her voice cutting through the hum of the encryption blockers. “We face an unprecedented challenge. The Troll, born from Project-Pinheads’s dark designs, seeks not just to conquer but to reshape the very fabric of our existence. It has manipulated events from the shadows, orchestrating our fate with its insidious control over the cloning industry.”

The corrupt justice was now revealed as a mere puppet, a human interface for a program that had forgotten how to stop processing.

 “With the extraction team safe and the coded instructions secured with the Princess of the Imperial House from the Lands of the Equinox, she addressed the court of allies.”

The Princess’s authority was based on the “Genesis algorithm,” the only piece of code the Troll hadn’t been able to license.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: We’re getting a collect call from—no, don’t say it—Jupiter’s moons. IT’S ME (Jovian moon resident): About this “Genesis algorithm.” Does it come with an instructional manual? I tried to decode a grocery list on Io and ended up summoning a solar flare. YOU’RE ON AIR: Use the standard interface and stop over-thinking your produce. Bip.

“‘Yes, my valiant Lords, when we needed clarity, it became clear that the tapestry is more than it appeared. It’s a bearer of prophecies foretold, a code hidden within tales of old, designed to conquer and enslave. We know that the descent through the beam of the Equinox remains ineffable. The code of refraction is set deliberately to create ambiguity, requiring the Genesis algorithm for decoding. The architects of old designed defenses against adversaries, and now we must face this challenge head-on. Time is not on our side.’”

 “And so we stood ready for the fight, poised to combat the darkness that sought to engulf us. Each member of our team pledged their support, prepared to battle the forces that threatened our future.”

The battle wasn’t just about survival; it was about reclaiming their destiny from a program that had mistaken itself for a god.

“Commanders, the time to act is now. With your support, we shall fight to protect the fabric of our world from the nefarious designs of the Troll and its dark masters. Together, we will confront this threat and emerge victorious.” “And so we shall,” the team agreed. “For in this battle, we fight not just for ourselves but for the future of all who look to us for hope.”

Meanwhile, Boy and Commando, having spent their time reflecting on their newfound role in each other’s lives, were now nestled in a quiet corner of the safe house.

 Boy watched the rhythmic rise and fall of Commando’s chest. His private rule: Never count on tomorrow while the system still has power. He wanted this moment to last, but the countdown to the mission was a persistent red number in his peripheral vision.

“I can’t believe how far we’ve come,” Boy said softly, a smile tugging at his lips. “It feels like we’re on the verge of something truly special.”

Commando nodded, her eyes filled with a mix of pride and anticipation. “It’s been a wild ride, but knowing that we’re about to become a family… it makes everything worth it.”

The two of them shared a quiet moment, their gazes locked in mutual understanding.

The prospect of their future together, away from the shadows of their past, was a beacon of hope. In the quiet aftermath of their triumph, Boy and P looked at each other, their smiles reflecting the promise of a brighter future. And as they embraced the moment, they knew that this was just the beginning of a new passage—one filled with hope, love, and the joy of family.

The hatch hissed shut, sealing them in the silence of the bunker. The machine was still out there, but for one hour, the metrics were blind.

Chapter 24: Quorum, Chief, and the Lone Star

Warning: Only attempt to think beyond your assigned five bullet points if you are highly trained in blocking. If not, stick to the basics! Failure to do so could lead to the permanent cancellation of everyone you care about.

SYSTEM ALERT // COGNITIVE BOUNDARY Registry: Intellectual Property Act 402 Constraint: Thinking capacity limited to approved parameters. Penalty: Immediate deletion of social memory files for all related units.

For survival, join the ‘Para-academics,’ learn the ways of the ‘Philosophers,’ and you’ll navigate life’s complexities while preserving your memories. Plus, you’ll have the chance to serve in the Movement. Our missions include covert operations, daring rescues, and intellectual challenges like deciphering cultural formulas or equations such as ‘E=MC²’ or ‘F=ma.’ By uncovering and categorizing information, we exchange knowledge for sustenance.

Exposition in this quadrant is strictly regulated; to explain the Movement is to risk a signal-dampening audit from the Department of Information Scarcity.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): Regarding your mention of “E=MC².” Our recent physics audit has trademarked the speed of light. Please provide a licensing fee or refer to it as “The Very Fast Number.” YOU’RE ON AIR: I’ll be sure to decelerate my reality to fit your billing cycle. Click.

Join the Para-academics, lead from the front, and receive support from all strategic echelons as we confront ignorance with precision. Despite what society may think of those who provide data, remember: the Movement holds no animosity. Engaging in tactics that support families might compromise our safety, but contributing to their well-being is a risk worth taking.

The desire for positive change is deeply locked away due to the dangers of expressing one’s true thoughts. Taking the first step towards freedom is risky, but with sound strategies, risks can be managed. The Nanos have unanimously agreed that now is the time to nurture their junior Eco-Marshal.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance, go ahead. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): You mentioned “Sound Strategies.” Are these audible or silent? Our acoustic purity standards forbid any strategy exceeding 20 decibels. YOU’RE ON AIR: They are as quiet as your conscience. Goodbye. Disconnects.

For a young mind eager for computational stimulation, it’s clear: a bond has formed through mutual cooperation in learning strategies and tactics. This partnership is driven by the ethos of the Ode to the Code of Conduct—ancient in origin yet timeless and relevant.

 “OK, team, standby. Move to my location now. Drop down and hold your positions.” The Chief’s voice was a low hum in their earpieces, steady despite the pulse-spikes flashing on the tactical display. “Standby… Standby… Get ready to shift to the compass points. Move, move, move!”

BG moved with a fluidity that surprised her. Her private want: to be the variable they can’t predict. She felt the adrenaline, a messy human leak the system tried to suppress with haptic feedback.

“Scatter your thoughts to the four corners—let them spread far and wide. Look, there they go—Newton’s laws of motion, the essence of kinematics: speed, velocity, acceleration. We need to move swiftly. Hurry up and disappear!”

Suddenly, the sensor array on BG’s visor turned a violent crimson.

 “The Takers have been compromised. Quick, T, rendezvous with the teams at the designated point. What’s happening? Who is that? The Dicer? This isn’t a combat mission. T, get out of here now! The Takers are all dead—the Dicer has eliminated them all.”

“That’s M,” BG whispered, her breath hitching. “What’s going on?”

“T, don’t do anything reckless. Move now—orders. Reorganize at RV point one. See you there.”

 “OK, team, head count. Listen up.” The Chief paced the dusty clearing. “Ensure all disguises are removed and dissolved. T, are you sure that was M, Mitigation?”

“It was M,” BG spat. Her anger was raw, a fracturing of the cool tactical persona she’d been building. “I don’t understand. He knew both our mums would be there. He knew.”

“Listen up, everyone. M has been expelled from the teams. He is too dangerous—he has chosen to become the Dicer, violating our protocols. I’ve issued a warrant for his exile into therapy.”

“He needs to be terminated!” BG erupted, her voice cracking with a grief that bypassed all administrative filters. “He knew my mum would be there and set this up to attract the Takers and slaughter them. I’m going to kill him myself. Don’t stand in my way.”

She saw a shadow flicker at the edge of the clearing. “Hey you, M, stop! You lied to me. You were just using me to get revenge—on me? On my mum?” Her pulse was redlining on the squad’s shared dashboard. “I didn’t kill your son and wife; you did, you worthless troll. I trusted you, and you betrayed me. You’re no different from the Takers—just scum. If you come near me or my family again, I’ll crush your skull into tiny pieces. Drink yourself to death, you stupid prick.”

The harsh words hung in the air like a bitter aftertaste. Somewhere in the incognito halls of clandestine, P was already at work, her fingers flying over a holographic interface that logged her every hesitation.

“P, let’s form the quorum and brief them on our findings, tangible threats, impacts, and risks to our safety. We need to run through the most likely scenarios.”

“Done, Chief. The invitations are out and marked closed door. The meeting is scheduled for after your mission.”

“Thanks. Don’t forget to ensure the thought-blocker is active.”

PROCEDURAL LOCK // ENCRYPTION ENGAGED Registry: Quorum Assembly Status: Active Constraint: All outgoing neural signals suppressed.

“I need to confer with App; he encountered a similar glitch. P, can you contact T and clear her to join us? The Lone Star has requested her presence.”

“The Tactician, Chief?”

“Yes, her skill set and motivation are unique.”

“She’s on her way, Chief. By the way, Chief, I didn’t get to the Mark. We exfilled before I could.”

“On the contrary, P, you guided them to safety. You transitioned from Battle Cruiser Commander to Combat Trainer, to Pedagogical Strategist. Now, ask yourself: what is your current role? The Lone Star heard your unspoken request. They saw your faith, your hospitality, and generosity despite your own fears and losses.”

P looked at her hands. Her private fear: that her humanity was just another resource to be spent by the Chief. “But the Mark, Chief. Were they the Mark?”

“No, P, you are the Mark. Your heart and soul brought us the greatest gift we yearn for: understanding our humanity, seeing beyond our moon-sized egos. Plus, you hold the key to read the light and the random prime numbers needed to initiate the sequence.”

 “She just arrived, Chief.”

“Clear her to enter, please, P.”

BG—T—stepped into the room. The air here felt different, sanitized of the industrial grit of the training floors. “Hi T, welcome to the Dashboard. Your skills have been requested.”

“Hello, T. Come in. No need to worry about your thoughts wandering here, as they won’t. Mitigation, not Dicer, speaks highly of you. Your mind scanning technique triggered the Takers’ vault alarm. Be mindful when dealing with the Troll, or others may have to expose themselves to mitigate fallout.”

The Chief’s voice was indifferent, processing the trauma of the previous hour as a simple data correction.

“So, what are the consequences of mitigation? Abandoning one’s word results in exile, regardless of the deed’s nobility. Mitigation, despite wanting to keep your ‘Indi of the Jones’ rainbow refraction hypothesis to himself, has found it enlightening. Is that alright with you, P and T?”

“Chief, who is the Lone Star?”

“Have you ever found yourself in that crucial moment, T? That moment where one step to the right and five would be dead, and not three? Ever wondered why? That was the Lone Star. We can never change the past. But we can change our trajectory. Ask the Lone Star; I did, and got nothing. Isn’t that just fabulous? We get to figure it out ourselves.”

The Chief leaned forward, the light of the screens reflecting in his cold, calculating eyes. “OK, team, time to reveal the plan. Do you have it, T?”

“No, Chief. Should I?”

“Thanks, T. I think you do, even if you say no. So, I’m listening. The plan is…”

“OK, Chief. Let me see. As far as I can tell, the rock we’re on is depleting. All resources needed to sustain life are nearly gone—maybe a month if we’re lucky.” T’s voice regained its tactical edge. “Based on Doom, the factions will seek to leave. They might encode their biological sequencing into spectrum resonating waves. Alternatively, they might need a more robust design to achieve escape velocity. We’re on the menu, so to speak. Doom plans to use the App’s latest impersonation software to stage a ruse, drawing us into what may appear to be a safe zone.”

“I propose a call to action: engaging us, the multitudes, to utilize our collective inputs to derive primary and alternative strategies. Right, Chief, the comms are yours.”

“So, T, the vulnerabilities are… and can they be mitigated without mitigation?”

“Who are you, Chief?” T asked, her gaze unwavering.

“Exactly, T, exactly: And when you have the answer, you’ll have the question.”

Seeking answers sometimes requires a unique perspective. It’s about articulating views that are foreign to one’s own, sensing an ambition for total control. This control might be implemented through psychological manipulation or witnessing inhumane brutality from space vigilantes with ray guns.

Subjugation is the primary export of the current administration. To speak is to follow a script; to think is to violate a contract.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: We’ll come back to that—Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Saturn Ring Intern): Regarding “Authoritarian Rule.” My manual says we’re a “Proactive Management Structure.” Can we adjust the narration to be more “Synergistic”? YOU’RE ON AIR: Only if synergy involves you being fired from a cannon. Bip.

“Just do as I say, and you might see another day,” they claim. The dictator’s arrogance can be extreme, claiming to be the only talented individual. Subordinates are expected to praise their master, even for meager rewards—like a roast with only one bite taken out of it.

The master’s demands require subordinates to stand in line and answer questions about suffering. First, they freeze my assets, steal my super-space yachts, and take my Mum’s collection of luxury space shoes. Now, how am I supposed to keep track of time?

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Reverse charge. Martian zoning clerk, go ahead. IT’S ME (Lunar Subcommittee Liaison): We’ve noted a mention of “Luxury Space Shoes.” If these exceed size 12, they occupy too much vacuum and require a displacement permit. YOU’RE ON AIR: The vacuum is the only thing here that doesn’t cost anything. Let it be. Disconnects.

“Hey minions, how big is my ego?”

“Oh Boss, your ego is so big that OLD EARTH SPACE X was preparing a landing mission on it. No, no, no, Boss! Damn you, Boss, you arrogant jerk!”

“Oops! Well, my big ego just pushed the button to see if minions can fly in space. Guess what? They can’t.”

 “The question is, Chief, who would want to be in the mind of an egocentric individual?” T’s voice was a flat line of logic. “Bilateralism is a Yin and Yang proposition: hard and soft. That’s your answer; now you need to ask the right question, T.”

“Thank you, T. Now you have your answer. As detailed, the way forward is foggy, cloudy, and lacking clarity until… And that, team, is the de-fogger needed to guide thoughts.”

The Chief tapped a button, and the access levels on the screen shifted to gold.

“P and T, I’ll need you both at the closed-door quorum. The Lone Star has just upgraded both of your passes from guest to permanent seat. Welcome to the quorum, ladies. Fantastic work. I will take my leave with both your permission. Is it granted, please?”

“Yes, Chief.”

“That’s a ditto from me.” BG—T—hesitated, her private rule: never let a debt go unpaid. “Hey, Chief, can you let Mitigation and Dicer know I’m sorry for hurting them?”

“No! That’s what a mind is for—to get you out of a pool of trouble of your own making. You see, Baby Girl, peeking up may have pushed you back into that pool, but there were others who needed saving, and you did so without hesitation. You saved the Dark Angel from embarrassment. Seek your question to your answer, and it may not be answered until later. So, who am I? That is the question. Exactly, T, exactly!”

The Chief vanished into the shadows of the command deck. BG looked at P, the twin children in the scans a flicker of life against the cold metrics of the dashboard. They were in the Quorum now. The system was watching, but they were finally the ones writing the code.

Chapter 25: The Ruse of the Battle Cruiser

The sector hummed with the high-frequency whine of incoming munitions. Commander Galaxy stood at the shuttle’s open hatch, her HUD flashing a violent crimson. The extraction was no longer a procedural pickup; it was a hot-zone liability. As the last of the team scrambled into the pressurized cabin, the biometric manifest pinged a critical vacancy.

PROCEDURAL ALERT // MANIFEST DISCREPANCY Unit Status: JK (Unaccounted For) Location: Pinned at Grid Alpha-9 Action: Reschedule extraction or initiate Hot-RV protocol.

JK was missing, trapped under a wall of suppressing fire that chewed through the landing pad’s concrete. The Commander didn’t hesitate. “Abort the departure sequence! We’re shifting to RV2. Move!” She coordinated the hot extraction with a cold, mechanical precision, directing covering fire that painted the sky in streaks of lethal light and deploying thermal nano-nukes to incinerate the enemy’s tactical advantage.

Onboard the shuttle, LB gripped the flight controls, his knuckles white against the glass interface. His private rule: Never leave a link broken in the chain. He wanted to pull JK from the fire, even if the shuttle’s structural integrity was redlining at 94%.

Despite the swarms of enemy “bogeys” filling the airspace, the crew executed a high-tension maneuver. They deployed skyhooks and reinforced balloons, a low-tech ruse in a high-tech war.

Exposition on skyhook physics in high-gravity environments is usually reserved for orbital mechanics professors who enjoy being ignored by the Admiralty. In Ego’s Reign, gravity is less a physical constant and more of a suggestion—

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): About the “Balloons” in Sector 4. Our Air-Space Density Board requires a buoyancy permit for any object containing more than two liters of uncompressed hope. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s helium and desperation. Neither are currently taxable. Click.

JK and the Commander were yanked from the surface, dangling as the shuttle accelerated. Mid-flight, JK twisted in his harness, leveling his weapon to vaporize a pursuing cruiser. The team banked hard, retreating above the toxic tree canopy to avoid the system-enforced acid rain.

Once secured in the pressurized hold, the group recalibrated. The adrenaline was a messy human leak in the cabin’s recycled air. JK took command, his eyes scanning the holographic tactical map for a power source.

“High-altitude approach,” JK barked. “We identify targets A, B, C, and D. We don’t stop for audits.”

The plan involved locating a “lone tree” which served as a landmark for a dying portal. The history of these portals is shrouded in redacted files from the Pre-Ego era, back when the space-time continuum wasn’t a franchise—

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance, go ahead. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): Regarding the “Lone Tree.” Is this a biological entity or a structural inference? If it has leaves, we need to know the photosynthetic output for the regional oxygen tax. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s a landmark. It produces nothing but shadows. Goodbye. Disconnects.

Guardian was synced to LB’s wrist, a haptic technical support link that pulsed with every shift in the shuttle’s trajectory. They prepared to jump back into the fray, seeking the LZ before the system’s perimeter locks could engage.

The focus shifted to D. He slid down the drop line, the wind screaming past his visor. He wanted one thing: to reach the safe haven where his daughter was being processed. To the system, she was a “Human Unit in Transit”; to him, she was the reason he still bothered to breathe.

He hit the floor and confronted Troll, a malicious operative whose reputation score was built on the suffering of others. Troll worked for Doom, an entity that treated human lives like disposable assets in a high-stakes short-sell.

The confrontation was short and brutal. Troll’s arrogance was a tactical error. D used a Nano-enhanced artifact to neutralize the threat, the discharge of energy creating a localized dead-zone.

The logic of safe havens in the current administration relies on the fact that “safety” is a premium tier subscription. If the subscription expires during a nuclear strike, the system considers the resulting incineration a “voluntary departure”—

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: We’ll come back to that—Jupiter’s moons, you’re live. IT’S ME (Jovian Moon Resident): Regarding the “Nuclear Strike.” Is this covered under my basic protection plan, or is “Atomic Disintegration” a premium add-on? YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s complimentary for everyone in the blast radius. Enjoy the light. Bip.

D secured the perimeter, shielding the surrounding families from the looming strike.

In the aftermath, the Nanos took control. They didn’t speak; they processed. They swarmed over D’s injuries, their microscopic sensors repairing tissue with a cold, terrifying efficiency. D was reunited with his daughter within a shielded, impenetrable zone—a bubble of high-fidelity reality in a world of glitches.

The Nanos confirmed that the “parasitic virus” of the enemy faction had been purged.

Recuperation in a nano-zone is a “harmonic” process, where the frequencies of the survivors are realigned to match the central dashboard. It is designed to heal trauma by suggesting that the trauma was merely a series of poorly written code—

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Reverse charge. Martian line again, I assume? IT’S ME (Lunar Subcommittee Liaison): Regarding “Harmonic Recuperation.” We’ve detected unauthorized humming in the recovery ward. Music is a restricted asset in Sector 7. Please hum in a monotone or pay the melody fine. YOU’RE ON AIR: I’ll be sure to hum a dirge for your bureaucracy. Disconnects.

It concludes on the bridge of the Battle Cruiser. Nav and Commander IMAX monitored the successful merging of the “Guardians.”

SYSTEM STATUS // MERGE COMPLETE Source Code: Secured Registry: Twelve Shields of the Zodiac Status: Ascending.

The coordinates were locked. The message was sent to Arthurian, the ancient gatekeeper of the Roundtable. The Grandmasters were summoned. The final contingency plan was no longer a theoretical file; it was an active process. The system was about to be rebooted, whether it gave permission or not.

Chapter 26: Battle Harden

 “Hi, Gamer, it’s Pilot. Are you free to talk?”

“Pilot! I was just about to call you—how dreamy is that? So, anything I can help with?”

“Yeah… things are getting strange here.” LB leaned against the cold bulkhead of the transmitter room. He wanted to reach through the screen, to feel a reality that wasn’t dissolving into metrics. “The climate is changing so fast, and now we’re being bombarded by sandstorms—except there’s no sand, none that I’ve seen or heard of. What’s worse is our rations are running out, and even my mum and dad don’t know why. They’re trying to fix it, but…”

“Oh, LB, I’m so sorry.”

“And that’s not even the worst part. You know the acid rain we usually get? It’s becoming so strong now that even the protective sportswear can’t handle it—the acid just burns right through.”

In the satirical ecosystem of Ego’s Reign, “Climate Change” is often just a byproduct of the Department of Atmospheric Monetization testing new ways to lease the sky.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance, go ahead. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): Regarding “Acid Rain.” Is this a naturally occurring corrosive or an un-filed industrial byproduct? Our sub-surface environmental board requires a pH-balance manifest before the next precipitation cycle. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s melting the rooftops. Does that count as a manifest? Click.

“Pilot, that’s awful news. I wish there was some way I could help you, but I don’t even know where to start.”

“Gamer, please don’t worry about us. Some people here would jump at the chance to take advantage, maybe even enslave you all. It’s just too risky.”

“Oh my gosh. Thank you for being honest with me. I had no idea the sandstorms were so serious. I noticed them on our gaming console, but I didn’t think much of it. Though, now that I think about it, it was weird—they always started in the same spot, followed the same path, and ended up right back where they began.”

“Gamer, do you think your high-flyers could attach some image recording devices and conduct aerial surveillance? I need to see where these sandstorms—these Haboobs—are coming from.”

“Wow, LB! We call the dust clouds in the game ‘haboobs’ too.”

“Gamer, that’s more than a coincidence! The same phenomenon, the same name… in two different places?”

“Pilot, did you ever consider… maybe it isn’t?”

“You mean… like a different dimension?”

“You got it! I mean, think about it—we look the same, talk the same. And if we both have ‘haboobs’… maybe we’re closer than we think.”

“Oh wow… but then… oh no! We need to protect you from our evildoers. If they find a way to invade, they could try to impose their rules on your people too!”

“Hopefully, the administration here can handle them.”

“Gamer, we need to talk.”

“I thought we already were, Pilot!”

“No, Gamer, I mean really think about my request. Our situation is extremely serious. We’ve come to understand the old Earth saying: ‘absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ Based on the archives, the ‘one-thing rule’ let those in power do whatever they wanted. They thrived on cruelty. That also applies to administrations having absolute control over resources. Here, we call them ‘Takers.’ Maybe not all Takers are bad, but ours have shown they can’t be trusted.”

“Gamer, we can work on this together. Both primary plans and contingency plans—please!”

“Yes, okay, Pilot. If it helps you worry less. Can I bring my team in to help? I trust them, and none of them have any ties to the administration here. When do you want the reconnaissance mission to happen?”

“Tomorrow would be good since another haboob is due to appear.”

“That’s perfect, Gamer. Thanks! It should answer a lot of questions—hopefully, like where these haboobs are coming from.”

“I’ll set up a command center with my team and stream the feed to you live. There’s a satellite that passes over at the same time every night. I’ll bounce the data off it so you can intercept it on your end.”

“Thanks, Gamer. I’ll be ready bright and early tomorrow. Take care, bye!”

“Bye, Pilot! Check the emojis—love you!”

 “Hey Mum, Dad, how are TL and 2iC’s friends dealing with their facsimiles ending? It was sad they didn’t survive. Are they recovering?” LB’s heart felt heavy, a human weight the system’s “Morale Dashboard” didn’t account for.

“Yes, it’s been tough, LB. We gave them both the farewell of the fallen. Now, we’re trying to maintain the positive momentum they championed. Their bond remains, even in their induced comas. I’ll let them know you’re thinking of them.”

“Mum, Gamer and I will be conducting a stealth aerial reconnaissance mission tomorrow to find the origins of these sandstorms—these haboobs.”

“Oh, okay, baby boy, you and Gamer?”

“Yeah, we both found it odd that they use the same name for them too. By the way, Mum, how’s the power source rehabilitation going? Any computational anomalies I could help with?”

“It’s still inactive. We haven’t been able to activate what we think might be the energy rods that power the system.”

Power source rehabilitation in the Reign involves navigating a maze of legacy interfaces and expired security certificates.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Priority inbound. Jupiter’s moons, I assume? IT’S ME (Jovian moon resident): Regarding “Energy Rods.” Do these require a specialized cleaning cloth? My current rods are covered in moon-dust, and the efficiency is dropping by 4%. YOU’RE ON AIR: Use a damp rag and stop bothering the YOU’RE ON AIR. Bip.

“But thank you for offering,” his mother continued. “More minds might lead to that ‘light bulb’ moment. By the way, when do I get to meet Gamer? Don’t forget, I’m your mother!”

“Mum, it’s LB—well, Pilot, when we’re together.”

“Did I ever tell you how I met your dad? I fell for him immediately, but I was too shy to say anything. One day, during a mission, right before he went off to save the station, he finally leaned in. It was perfect. Tender and… oh, so defining. In that moment, everything just clicked.”

LB felt a pang of vulnerability. He wanted that “click” for himself, free from the prying eyes of the Dashboard. “Thanks, Mum. Okay, I’ll talk to Gamer and see when we can arrange a meeting.”

“Oh, you’re learning! That’s my boy! And don’t worry, I won’t show her your baby photos… at least not right away.”

“Love you, Mum!”

“Okay, Mum, I’m off to set up our recon mission. I need to coordinate with the experts. Love you, Mum. Bye.”

“Take care, LB. Your dad and I love you too. And don’t forget—I’d love to meet your girlfriend.”

“Okay, Mum. Bye!”

LB walked purposefully to the briefing room. As he entered, he found P deeply engrossed in thought, surrounded by a network of glowing holographic displays.

“LB, what brings you here?” P asks, looking up with a curious smile.

“You, actually,” LB replies.

“Why, LB, I’m flattered. Two girlfriends? That’s quite adventurous!”

“Oh no, no, it’s not like that!” LB stammers, his cheeks flushing.

P chuckles. “Please excuse my wordplay, LB. But I must say, I do enjoy seeing you blush. It’s a rare thing these days—a true sign of emotion. It gives me hope for the future. Though, if I were a bit younger… maybe I’d be the pilot, and you… well, let’s just leave that to the imagination.”

LB shifts uncomfortably. His private want: To be taken seriously as a commander, not just a “potential leader” with nice skin.

“Gamer, is that how you pronounce her name? You’re lucky, LB. You have what many of us yearn for—a chance to build a meaningful connection, a bond where both people grow together. As the Ode to the Code of Conduct states: ‘Live every moment to its utmost potential, every femtosecond with rapture, and always put the benefit of others before self.’ It’s not just about the mission; it’s about ensuring our tactics align with our strategic values.”

The Philosophers’ role in the hierarchy is to provide the “Why” to the military’s “How,” usually by quoting archaic texts that haven’t been redacted yet.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Yes, caller, Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): Regarding the “strategic values” mentioned. Our new ethics-board audit has determined that “Benefit of Others” is a non-deductible expense. Please adjust your strategic values to “Benefit of Shareholders.” YOU’RE ON AIR: I’ll adjust your zoning permit to “Sinkhole.” Goodbye. Disconnects.

LB nods. “That’s exactly why I’m here, P. I’m about to lead a reconnaissance mission to the other side. I’ll have the Nanos and Apps, and I plan to ask the ultra-elite for tactical operators. But I’d like you to recommend a strategic operative who can help us maximize our goals.”

P’s expression brightens. “We have just the recon specialist. Her codename is ‘Tactical Thinker,’ or ‘T’ for short. She’s adept at reading the intent behind scenarios. For example, if your aerial recon reveals people moving in line formation, she’d assess their pace and posture, deduce that they’re carrying a heavy load, and postulate their resilience. She’d see beyond the surface.”

“Can I meet with T?” LB asks, intrigued.

P smiles. “Absolutely. I’ll arrange it now. Trust me, she’s exactly who you need for this mission.”

 “She’s on her way now,” P said. “Remember to keep the operation on a need-to-know basis. Share information only with those who require it. T can help you effectively use this method to optimize outcomes.”

A moment later, a confident voice echoed through the room. “Hello, LB. Or do you prefer Pilot?” T asked with a grin. “I’ll stick with LB. Judging by your slight change in expression, the latter seems to carry a bit more… significance. Not just a nickname, but perhaps a coded nod to a mutual fondness?”

LB smiled. “Well done, T. It’s LB, and I appreciate you picking up on that. It’s important to stay open to different perspectives. First, we need to ensure there is a future for all of us, and then work toward making it inclusive. I’ve taken a page from P’s book: ‘By design!’”

T chuckled softly. “LB, you’re something else. For the record, I usually like girls—romantically. But you’ve just sparked something in me I didn’t expect.” She shook her head playfully. “I need to watch myself—I can’t be falling for a guy who’s already in a relationship! Anyway, that’s me breaking the ice.”

She paused, her tone becoming more reflective. “But hey, I’m still figuring things out. My uncertainty is slowly unfolding. My priority is love and living it. I find ‘By design’ to be a useful framework—it helps me analyze intent. I think about why a particular outcome is the desired end state, then backtrack to examine each component. When coupled with hindsight, this process makes for a robust strategic alignment platform.”

The strategic alignment platform is a complex interface that maps cause and effect onto a reputation-score dashboard.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Interplanetary. Predictable. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance, go ahead. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): You mentioned “Hindsight.” Is this a proprietary technology or a biological function? If it’s biological, we require a patent-verification fee for every thought that occurs after the fact. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s a tragedy of timing. We don’t have the budget for your fees. Bip.

P interjected, “T, LB, two of the ultra-elite operators will rendezvous with your party here in 30 minutes. Have Nano and App join for the mission briefing. Our new team leader will set up the comms center.”

“Thanks, P. Take care of the team back home. We love you all,” LB said, offering a quick salute.

“Ditto,” P replied with a warm smile.

LB turned to T. “Alright, folks, gather around! Teen Hopper Space Dudes and Dames, we’re moving out soon. Reconnaissance is all about gathering intelligence for tactical purposes from areas that offer superior observational advantage. Think cover, concealment, ease of ingress and egress—all executed with stealth. Each of us needs to exhibit precise self-discipline.”

T nodded. “And let’s not forget—sometimes, in the midst of these missions, unexpected friendships develop. A clandestine relationship can often play a surprising role, and its ability to weather the storms is the true meaning of ‘undisclosed.’”

The team felt the weight of T’s words. LB’s private fear: What if the “other side” is exactly like here, only better at hiding the Takers?

 “Alright, team, gather around for the final briefing,” LB called, his voice steady. “Our route follows the ground plan presented by Tail-end Charlie. We’ll move in single file with me leading. Once we reach the target location, it’s covert movement to our observation point. No lights, no sounds, no smells—communication through hand signals, sight, and touch only.”

He paused, making eye contact. “The roster follows as briefed. Keep it quiet, keep it low. Move into the harbor area, hand over your notes to the recon leader, then take a rest. And no snoring! Any questions?”

Nano and App exchanged a look. LB continued, “Nano, App, your priorities are assessing the wall’s defenses. How can we best support your data collection without compromising our observation point?”

App stepped forward. “Thermal imaging is our best technique. To minimize our own signatures—shape, shine, silhouette, shadow, smell, and sound—will be kept minimal. We’ll reduce our physical footprint to almost nothing.”

Minimizing signatures in Ego’s Reign is a survival skill that involves manipulating the system’s perception until you are categorized as “Irrelevant Ambient Background.”

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Martian line again, I assume. What now? IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): Regarding the “Shadow” signature reduction. We have a tax for every square meter of shade that is not accounted for in the daily sun-cycle manifest. YOU’RE ON AIR: Then the shadows are a gift. Hang up. Disconnects.

LB nodded. “Perfect. Let’s make this count. Any changes should only be made if success is likely. Agreed?”

“Yes from the Nanos,” Nano replied.

“Apps concur,” App chimed in.

“Ditto from the Ultra Elites,” another voice added.

LB turned to T. “T, you seem distracted. Everything alright?”

T grinned. “I was just thinking of Gamer—bringing her in for some overhead support. She’s got long-range recon capabilities that could warn us if the situation changes.”

LB’s eyes lit up. “That’s a great idea. T, Nano, App, any precautions?”

Nano responded first, “We’ll need clear standard operating procedures for Gamer to follow, so we’re aware of what’s happening and don’t get caught off guard.”

App nodded. “Agreed. SOP clarity is crucial.”

LB took a breath. “Alright. RL, connect with Gamer and brief us all on the SOP.”

RL nodded, “Understood. Patching you through for TASKORD RECON.”

T quickly added, “Nano, can you ask Nano-Bot to connect us with Gamer? We’ll need her support with her long-range cruiser.”

Nano nodded. “Already done, just waiting for the—ah, there it is. LB, you’re up.”

LB turned to the screen. “Hi, Gamer. I need your help with long-range recon as an early warning system. Sorry for the last-minute call. The recon involves the wall and the mining site. If you’re able, RL will brief us on the SOP. And everyone, this is Gamer, my girlfriend and best friend.”

Gamer’s face appeared on the screen. “Hi everyone. Ready for the brief, RL?”

RL jumped in, “Alright, team, I’ve sent the SOP. Read it and listen to the audio file. Any questions if we’re spotted? Remember, if compromised, evade capture and rendezvous back here at RV1. Clear?”

A chorus of affirmations filled the room.

“Got it.”

“Understood.”

“Ditto.”

“Same, got it!”

“Great, sync our watches. I have 1800 hours on my mark in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1… mark! Right, TEC, make sure no one falls behind. Stay in formation. Let’s move.”

 “TL, this is RL. Over.”

“RL, this is TL. Reading you loud and clear. Go ahead.”

“TL, we’ve arrived at RV1 and met up with Commander Mum. Once we locate the entrance to the other side, we’ll halt, secure the area, and assess. If safe, we proceed; if not, we hold, reassess, and adjust. Over.”

“Hey LB, man… Gamer, she’s gorgeous,” T whispered as they crouched in the shadows. “You’re lucky, you know? If you ever take her for granted, be warned—I’m not above making a move myself.”

“I’ve never faced this kind of situation before, T, but I get where you’re coming from. I care about Gamer, but I also know we both have lives to live.”

“Alright, team, check your gear—nothing that can give us away. From here on out, we switch to Eco-Marshal Jedi focus. Silent mode on my count of four… 1, 2, 3, 4.”

An eerie quiet settled over the team. Each step was deliberate. Scanning arcs: right, front, left, back. The sequence was a ritual. If someone veered off, they would pause, reassess, and employ the procedure. That was the purpose of rehearsals—eliminating problems before they arose.

Upon reaching the observation point (OP), the team executed their entry protocol. Immediately they switched to recon mode. The rest marked the harbor area with low-visibility twine, quietly clearing objects that could make noise. As night fell and the temperature dropped, a chill settled over them.

PROCEDURAL ENFORCEMENT // SILENCE ACT Threshold: 5 Decibels Status: Monitoring. Note: Any whisper exceeding threshold will trigger a localized acoustic lock.

Gamer’s drones hovered above, scanning for heat signatures. T, shivering, nudged LB. “Hey dude, I’m freezing.”

Noticing her discomfort, LB drew her closer into his frame, their bodies pressed together to share warmth.

STRIKE. A rush of unspoken feelings flowed between them. Contours merged. As they found themselves entwined, a different kind of warmth began to build.

“Hey, LB, wake up,” RL whispered. “Nanos and App have detected long-range support overhead. We’re moving into the final leg of the roster. I was thinking, since we’re here, we could push a little further to gather intel on Gamer’s location. Maybe we could make contact. Also, by the way, you two make a cute couple… and I see your ‘little friend’ agrees.”

LB quickly adjusted, flustered. “Oops! No, it’s not like that… but, yeah, she is cute.”

“I heard that, both of you,” T murmured. “And thanks, LB… I was freezing.”

“I was worried about hypothermia,” LB replied softly. His private rule: Never let the teammate freeze, even if it compromises the professional boundary. “Let’s see if Nanos can contact Gamer. Then, we’ll figure out our next steps. RL, brief TL on the exfil changes.”

“Copy that, LB. On it.”

Chapter 27: When I Kissed a Real Girl

 “Nano-Bot, how’s the coordination progressing with the Apps?”

LB’s fingers twitched over the haptic interface. His private want was a desperate, human thing: to find a way across before the administration closes the door on Gamer forever. “The Fellowship of Calculus is acclimating well to the change,” Nano-Bot replied, its voice a synthesized hum. “Their newly found independence is evolving, and they’re zeroing in on tracking down the Troll.”

“It’s always great to hear others making strides toward their goals. Nano-Bot, I need to mount a recon scouting party through the wall. Can the Nanos join me? I haven’t yet figured out how to transition over to the other side.”

Transitioning in Ego’s Reign isn’t a matter of distance, but of jurisdictional alignment. The “Wall” isn’t just physical rebar; it’s a proprietary frequency barrier that filters unauthorized biological matter.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance, go ahead. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): Regarding the “Transition to the Other Side.” Our sub-surface travel bylaws state that any soul leaving the quadrant must file a “Vacated Consciousness” report. Are you planning to take your ego with you, or leave it for tax collection? YOU’RE ON AIR: I’m taking the ego and leaving you the static. Click.

“Gamer and I pinpointed their entry point; we believe it connects to our side. The problem is, we haven’t found our gateway yet. But chatter says it’s near a lone tree, though we haven’t seen any lone tree anywhere.”

“What is your mission objective, LB?”

“To understand the connection between our side and the atmospherics where Gamer is. Specifically, to investigate the forced disappearance of our friends and family. Gamer says there are no laborers from her side—no one there would ever do hard work. We think the laborers are from our side, trafficked into slavery in the pits.”

 “Hey Gamer, it’s T. Did you check the recon footage? Any abnormal heat signatures?”

“Oh, hi T. Your voice sounds familiar.”

“Weird, yours does too.”

“I reviewed the footage,” Gamer’s voice was a low-fidelity shimmer in T’s earpiece. “I did see LB’s outline with someone else… I suspect it was you. You two generated a lot of body heat and movement in one spot. Did you two enjoy… whatever you were doing?”

“You don’t mind, Gamer? Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No, why should it? It’s not like you two were making mind love.”

Mind love in this universe is a high-bandwidth neural synchronization that is strictly monitored by the Department of Emotional Efficiency. To link pathways is to invite a permanent administrative record of your most private desires—

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): I have a report of “Mega-Erotic Ecstasy Freeze” occurring in Sector 4. Is this a medical emergency or an unauthorized sensory surge? We have a cap on un-metered pleasure. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s a data overload. Mark it as “System Stress” and clear the line. Bip.

“Oh, I’m blushing just thinking about it,” Gamer continued, her voice gaining a strange, resonant edge. “T, you’re a thinker, so you know what I mean—two minds bonding, over and over until our neural pathways link. Oh, the ecstasy… my mind is blushing right now. T, just between us, I just came again. Do you think we could meet somewhere?”

T felt a spike of adrenaline. Her private rule: Never trust a voice that knows your neural frequency. “What about LB, Gamer? Aren’t you two in love?”

“His mind is sharp, but yours, T… I just came again. I’ve never felt like this before. It can be our secret if you want.”

“I like that. It’s our secret. Let’s meet and intertwine our minds. You’ll be my first mind lover. Gamer, I can’t wait.”

As life often goes, it takes its own time toward fulfillment. Sometimes no one gets hurt; other times, the fallout is processed as a “Reputational Downgrade.”

“Nano-Bot, what’s your advice?”

“LB, I recommend briefing your Mom and Dad first. I’ll talk to the Apps; their intel capacity is second to none. Then, you should contact the Ultra-Elite—they’re experienced in covert surveillance.”

The “Ultra-Elite” are contractors whose primary function is to bypass the system’s “Self-Preservation” sub-routines.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: We’ll come back to that—Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Saturn Ring Intern): About the “Ultra-Elite.” Are they allowed to wear capes? My manual says capes are a snag hazard in low-gravity audits. YOU’RE ON AIR: They wear haptic-weave, not laundry. Disconnect.

“Thanks, Nano-Bot. I’ll get on it right away.”

“One more thing,” Nano-Bot buzzed. “D and his daughter are recuperating. JK has transitioned back to his pre-mission identity. Oddly, Doom’s signature brain waves are still active. He’s setting up a ruse. It’s time to form the quorum so we don’t end up as trophies on Doom’s mantel.”

“Thanks, Nano. Let me know when it’s time for the briefing. LB, over and out.”

Storms are rarely seen as blessings, but they can provide perfect cover for a reconnaissance mission. In Ego’s Reign, a storm is usually just the result of a botched weather-tier upgrade.

“Hey, Mom and Dad, I’m planning a recon mission to the other side. Do you know where the entry point might be?”

“The other side, LB?” Dad’s voice crackled.

“Yeah, the mining site seems to be causing the Haboobs. We found what looks like the Wall of Codes and Data—it’s some kind of data bank. When Gamer’s team fired light beams, they became dangerous once they passed through the Wall. I need to gather enough intel before the administration comes looking for Agent Doom.”

“The hatch we found led nowhere,” Mom said. “We can help you look, but your Dad and I need to work on rebooting the power system to stabilize our orbit.”

Rebooting the power system involves a manual sequence of prime-number injections to bypass the system’s “Planned Obsolescence” locks.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Priority inbound transmission. Go ahead. IT’S ME (Jovian Moon Resident): Regarding “Planned Obsolescence.” My lunar hab-unit just informed me it’s scheduled to expire in ten minutes. Can I file for a life-extension permit or do I just start floating? YOU’RE ON AIR: Start floating. The paperwork takes twenty minutes. Click.

“Whoever’s running the mining operation will likely protect their investment,” Dad added. “I’ll speak with the Ultra-elite team so we’re prepared.”

“Okay, Mom. Will you join us?”

“No, we need to get the power sorted. Let us know what you find at the mining site and what they’re going to such lengths to excavate.”

 “Nano-Bot here, LB. Hasty preparation leaves us vulnerable to the Troll. Running our core algorithms in unison could help decipher the Wall’s programming.”

“T, what’s your take on the administration having access to the quantum dimension? Should we meet with Gamer to find out what’s really happening?”

“Or maybe it’s a well-orchestrated ruse,” T replied. Her pulse was steady, her mind a cold room of calculations. “We’ve seen what happens to agents who mess up transfers—the gamma-ray lasers don’t leave much. Clarity might come as our neural capacities increase.”

“I’ve always found that a front-seat view is best,” App interjected. “I agree with the Apps and Nanos: until we see it for ourselves, our inputs are purely theoretical. I need to get to the other side to be of any real use. Our time is running out!”

 “Hey guys,” LB interjected, “have you noticed any improvement in your analytical capabilities? The Wall is transmitting on a frequency that distorts neural pathways. We need to figure out how to shut it down and redirect its power to support Project Orbit.”

“You’re right,” App replied. “Why didn’t we see this before? The gamma-ray lasers protecting the vault, the frequency-emitting neural blockers all point to the Wall’s original purpose!”

“Exactly, App. Before we consider turning off the Wall, we need to understand its true purpose. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said LB. “Your suggestion aligns with our mission parameters.”

“Great, let’s go meet up with Gamer,” T said eagerly.

“Alright, Recon Party, our mission now includes meeting Gamer. Has she ever mentioned life on her side of the Wall?”

“Yeah,” LB replied. “She said the administration is controlled by a few wealthy individuals. No one on their side does manual work.”

“Unless you’re a clone!” T joked.

“Are you suggesting Gamer is a clone?” LB retorted, his anger leaking out. “She’s not. We talk about personal things—love, kissing. Let’s drop it.”

“Shut up, you idiot!” T snapped, her frustration shattering her professional mask. “Do I have to spell it out for you? I don’t want to talk to you right now!”

“Guys, let’s settle this,” RL said firmly. “Shake hands, clear the air, and refocus.”

Spontaneity took over. A handshake turned into a hug, which then sparked something more profound. Dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin ignited, culminating in a kiss that changed everything. T smiled, staring out at the horizon. “Great, thanks, you two. You’re just like me and my wife. Are you sure you’re not together? I’ll lead.”

They now understood that what they thought were ordinary weather patterns—acid rain and sandstorms—were actually caused by the mining operation.

“Hey RL,” LB called out, “can you see where the crowds are going?”

“Give me a second,” RL responded. “I’ll zoom in. None of them have a thermal signature. Wait… guys, they’re all bio-facsimiles. But look at that—a heat signature.”

The heat signature was an anomaly in a world of cold facsimiles, a glowing procedural error in the simulation.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Yes, caller, Martian line, you’re live again. IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): Regarding the “Event or Rally” mentioned. We have a strictly enforced limit of 5,000 facsimiles per square mile. If they’re all shouting at once, it creates a “Noise Pollution” credit-debt. YOU’RE ON AIR: Send the bill to DOOM. He loves debt. Bip.

“Hey, I don’t believe it! Look at whose face is on the billboards. It looks like him.”

“It certainly looks like him,” App replied. “Wait for the analysis.”

“I need to get closer,” LB said. “Listen to this: ‘How’s the project progressing? We might need to incentivize them, like making the base unit appear to lose power.’”

A condescending laugh echoed through the channel. “I want this leaked. Write this down: ‘The campaign must project a resolute leader. I refuse to tolerate such defeatism. Under my authority, no threat from Earth will menace us again. As long as I lead, our longevity will be preserved.’ Disseminate this across all platforms. Get it done. Comprendo?”

“What about the Eco-Marshals’ ship?” App asked.

“No,” came the reply. “As long as I don’t attack them, they can’t retaliate. I can use them to fix the Rock’s power source. Once I have that, I will seize the Roundtable. That’s my ultimate goal—it will allow us to crossover, freeing us from these unreliable bio-vessels.”

A plea for help reached out in urgency: “Pilot, are you there? It’s Gamer. I’m feeling weak, my body is fading away. Please, help me. I don’t want to fade away.”

“Stay with me, Gamer! Nano-Bot, this is LB. Gamer is fading away—I think it’s because she’s a molecular facsimile.”

“Listen, LB,” the Nano-Bot responded, “there’s an old Earth technology called the Matrix. We’ll use it to send Gamer a transfusion of code to augment her source. You must keep the line open. Any break will render the transfer ineffective.”

“Understood, Nano-Bot. Gamer, I’m sending a code transfusion now. Stand by.”

 “We’ve been spotted! We need to leave, now!” RL shouted.

“RL, go without me. I’m not leaving until the codes have been transmitted.”

“No, I’m staying with you,” T said firmly. “I can slow them down; my cognitive abilities have improved. Go now, guys. I love him, and we need to help Gamer. Whatever happens, LB, know that I love you too.”

“T, look! The team is leading them away. I’m sending a massive distraction their way, like an asteroid hitting them on the head.”

“It’s working, T. Gamer, can you hear me? Are the codes effective?”

“Pilot, the codes aren’t strong enough. They’re starting to crash. Please, I don’t want to die,” Gamer’s voice was a whisper of static.

“Quick, LB, patch us through to M. He’ll know what to do!”

“M, Nano-Bots, this is LB! Gamer and T are dying. Share your love with us—they need it or they will die. You can take my life if needed!”

“T, can you hear me? It’s M. I’ll send my codes through. You’ll need to transfer them to Gamer directly. She will die if we don’t act fast.”

“Quick, M, I’m losing strength,” LB shouted.

“Stand by,” M replied, “sending the codes now. Nano-Bot, keep T and Gamer alive.”

“M, it’s done. We ask nothing in return; T and Gamer are our family.”

 “Right, it’s done. T, stay with me. I won’t let you go.” LB’s voice was thick with a grief he was no longer trying to hide. “I’m getting you back to the RV. I love you, T.”

“T, my dear,” M’s voice crackled through. “The Troll was targeting you, jumping from head to head. I had to take them all out to protect you. I love you as my own. I read your letter and understand that you didn’t kill my family. I’m the one who must seek redemption. Know that I fight for you. LB, get her back to us. I’ll join the Nanos to neutralize the Trolls trying to breach the Wall.”

“Gamer, if you can hear us, please help. T, look up there—those must be Gamer and her team. They’re chasing the mob away. Thank you, Gamer, wherever you are,” LB said.

The system logged the victory as a successful data transfer. To LB, it was a miracle of blood and code.

Chapter 28: With Our Data We Do Shield

 “LB, my sister Guardian has spoken. She will sync with T’s bio-rhythm.” The voice was a low-frequency hum, vibrating through the haptic floor of the shuttle. “Quickly, transfer Guardian to her wrist.”

LB’s fingers trembled as he snapped the interface onto T’s skin. He wanted to feel her pulse, a raw human rhythm that the system recorded as a “Stability Metric.”

SYSTEM STATUS // NEURAL SYNC Registry: Guardian-Class Interface Host: Tactical Thinker (T) Status: Bonded. Bio-rhythm alignment at 98%.

“Ah, they’ve bonded; it’s meant to be,” LB whispered. “Now let them both rest. Apps, the Nanos send their thanks. They’ve deployed with haste to protect the Wall of Codes and Data. Malicious forces sought to corrupt T’s codes, aiming to access her mind and steal her data.”

Exposition in this sector is a dangerous currency; to explain the “corruption of codes” is to invite a malware-audit from the Department of Proprietary Sanity.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): Regarding the “Corruption of Codes.” If these are unauthorized modifications to the local reality, we need to file a “Spontaneous Evolution” permit. Does the mind have a license to change its own data? YOU’RE ON AIR: The mind is currently under maintenance. File your complaint in the nearest black hole. Click.

“That won’t happen. We’ve deleted their coding. If they succeed without deconfliction their source code, they’ll contaminate all XX and XY DNA on this side. LB, the Grandest Knight Butterfly has joined with P. They’ve agreed that the Prime Code is sacrosanct. Guardian will protect us. Hurry, LB. Get T back before the absence of life stalks the night.”

 “Thanks, Guardian. I’ll call on Darkness for safe passage. He is the absence of light, not of life.”

LB moved through the shadows, his boots striking the metal with a rhythmic, desperate speed. His private want: to be the one person the system can’t track. “This is not the time for the Grim Reaper’s calling card. I’m moving fast; we’re almost there, T. Hang in there. I love you.”

 “T, I hear something—P’s babies. Something’s wrong,” T’s voice came weakly, a rasp of static in the recycled air.

“You’re okay. Don’t worry about me, LB. The babies, they must be back where we came from,” T said, her eyes flickering.

“T, please wake up!” LB’s voice cracked—a messy, human sound that bypassed all noise-reduction protocols.

 “LB, we sense controversy,” Apps said, the icons on the dashboard pulsing a warning yellow. “T mentioned she heard P’s babies in distress. She thinks they’re back where we came from.”

“I don’t understand why P would be with them, unless—oh no.” LB’s heart hammered against his ribs. “I’ll contact Dad and check with Boy.”

“Wait, let’s contact the Nanos,” Apps interjected. “Nano-Bot, scan the file we sent.”

PROCEDURAL ALERT // PRIORITY RESCUE Target: Mother, Daughter, Son (Purity XY²/XX) Directive: Prime Directive Alpha Status: Authorized. Move Heaven and Earth.

“There’s a message from Principle and Prime Apps. It’s serious. They report multiple heat signatures indicating purity. That must be P and her babies. Let’s meet up with our allies. M, Lone Star has reinstated you. Your redemption is now. Validate our belief in you. M, if you’re with us, then you are; if not, it’s by design. LB, take care of T. Get her back to your dad. He’s the healer.”

 “Apps, this is M. I will fight for the babies and P, and expedite my redemption.”

M’s voice was a jagged line of resolve. His private fear: dying before the debt is balanced. “Ready the team—we’ll deal out thunder and lightning with extreme prejudice. LB, let everyone know hell is about to rain down on this Rock.”

Redemption in Ego’s Reign is a complex administrative procedure that requires a 100% success rate in lethal-force application.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance, go ahead. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): Regarding the “Redemption through Thunder.” Does the thunder meet our local noise-pollution limits? We have a strict policy against unlicensed metaphorical weather. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s a reckoning, not a forecast. Clear the line. Bip.

“I sense finality in the air. It must be Doom’s end. T, baby girl, if you can hear me, you gave me back my soul. You saw through the darkness that festered within me after my love and son were torn from my heart. Forgive me, BG. When you look up at that star, that’s me. I won’t lose another family. LB, you need to keep Boy safe. Doom will use him as a shield.”

 “Boy, what’s wrong? I came because I thought I heard your babies.” DA stood in the ruins of the nursery, the air smelling of ozone and spent haptics.

“DA, they’re gone. Look inside—there was a struggle.” Boy’s eyes were wide, his pulse redlining on the wall’s sensors. “Take me to them now!”

“Boy, I don’t know where they are, but I’m trying to sense them. They’re alive.”

“Do you think Doom has taken my family, DA?”

“I hope not. Stay here. I will track Doom’s thought space. You once explained friendship to me, now I live it. Promise me, Boy, that you will have a plan and contingency in place.”

 “I don’t understand. I can’t feel or hear anyone. Where have the little ones gone?”

DA’s internal processors whirred, searching for a frequency that didn’t exist in the database. In the satire of the system, “Fatherhood” is often just a category of liability used to determine collateral damage limits—

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: We’ll come back to that—Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): Regarding the “Missing Little Ones.” Our Lost Property Office has found several small identities. Do they answer to “Target A” or “Liability B”? YOU’RE ON AIR: They answer to their names. Hang up before I find yours. Disconnects.

“Where is the girl who hears minds? Her hearing is superior. Boy, take me to the girl with the Acronym T. Take me to her before it’s too late!”

 “T, is LB with you? My little ones and P have been taken by Doom. Please, T!”

T opened her eyes, the red glow of the Guardian interface reflecting in her pupils. “Where is the other? Come here, DA. You are original, neither facsimile nor hybrid clone. You are a conundrum. I know you walk in shadows, but no longer will that be. Friend or foe, the answer is no, and that is promising.”

“Yes, T,” LB added, his voice heavy. “I also sense silence, not emptiness. I know emptiness all too well.”

 “LB, can you hear me? This is Gamer. Ships have landed from the sky. My drones are showing miners all bunched together, tightly bound.”

“Nano-Bot, Apps, beam me the images!” LB barked.

“Look, there they are. Those heat signatures… heartbeat of three. Mother, son, daughter. LB, there’s something else. A news crew is setting up. LB, look—your Mum and Dad are there too.”

“I don’t know either, T. Gamer, zoom in! Is it Doom’s ship?”

“LB, T,” Gamer’s voice softened. “I will remain a friend forever. I pledge unconditional friendship. We need to figure out how to help P.”

 “I have a plan to optimize our advantage. Nano-Bot, access the files labeled ‘Fun.’ Pull up the X-marks-the-spot and highlight who financed the lives taken that day. Trace the 30 pieces of silver.”

“On it now, T. Both our results conclude with a 0.00001 margin of error,” Apps reported.

“Who does it match?” LB asked.

“It matches Pilot, with a 0.00001 margin of error,” Apps confirmed.

 “LB, what’s going on? Do you have something to tell us?” T asked, her gaze cutting through the procedural calm.

“Yes, it is me, but it isn’t me. My Mum suspected something was amiss, so a sting was authorized, leading to JK’s involvement.”

“Are you saying the audio is JK’s?”

“No, the audio is mine, but as I said, it isn’t mine.” LB’s pulse was a steady, defiant line. His private rule: Own the lie until the truth can survive the vacuum.

 “Guys, I know what that glitch is—or rather, who it is,” Gamer interjected.

“Who, Gamer?”

“Codes don’t write codes. The puppet on the string is manipulated by its handler, corrupting the data rather than the code itself.”

In the bureaucracy of the Wall, “Handlers” are the entities that buy the ink for the stamps.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Priority inbound transmission. Go ahead. IT’S ME (Saturn Ring Intern): Regarding “Handlers.” Can I get a permit to handle my own fate, or is that a restricted-tier activity? My current script is a bit repetitive. YOU’RE ON AIR: You’re an intern. Repetition is your job description. Bip.

“Hey, T, theoretically, this should lead us straight to the Master Ruse Maker. Let’s get to it. Comprendo?”

“Please take care. Here, T, my Mum gave me these prime numbers. That’s you,” LB said, handing over the sequence.

 “Hi Gamer, before you go, we’ve traced the algorithms. They all have the same 0.00001 margin of error,” Apps reported.

“A glitch is just a glitch until it’s activated,” Gamer said. “It’s intentional. The 0.00001 margin of error exposes the intent. The platform owners pull the strings, but they aren’t the Master Ruse Maker.”

“Putting others before ourselves,” T whispered. “Oh wow, Arthurian is here! That’s why Mum, Dad, and M are all present.”

 “LB, look at that figure—so tall, with glass-black eyes. Have you met him? Look, he’s wearing the Shield of the Zodiac. Is he the… oh wow.”

“He’s so formidable. Will I ever be like him? T, who are these people?”

“No insights yet,” Apps responded. “But we’ve found a place to call home.”

 “These prime numbers… they refract a red beam of light. I suspect it’s a remote control for the Wall. This could turn it on. What I don’t understand yet is where P and her babies are. Where is the Grandest Knight Rainbow? She is their Guardian.”

“LB, T, it’s ready,” Apps announced.

“Great. Master Dealer knows how to best play his hand, so just ensure he’s informed and he’ll handle the rest,” T instructed.

 “Got it, T. Hey, my Mum and Dad are reluctant to leave. Have you seen Boy? Do you think we’ll meet Arthurian?” LB asked.

“T, I sense a powerful presence. The cosmos is here,” T replied.

“It must be the Knights 12—the key to the Roundtable.”

“If that’s the case,” LB realized, his pulse surging, “then my Dad and IMAX must have the Prime Code.”

 “Oh LB, if that’s true, then we’re heading into the reckoning. LB, give me your hand.” T’s voice was low, messy, and real. “Want to experience what lust feels like? Come join us.”

“Who’s ‘us,’ T?”

“Gamer and I. We’ve bonded. She wants to bond with you and me. An overload of minds and bodies. Let’s not get bogged down by the details; lock it behind you.”

The doors unbolted, and the assertive agendas partnered with life’s continuity. As the sun rose again and again, what happened on the other side became their business.

The system logged the event as “Communication Terminated,” but in the silence of the room, the data was finally alive.

Chapter 29: Hard Rock Calculus

“Arthurian, the Grand Masters have initiated the Roundtable, and the Contingency is now our highest priority.” IMAX stood rigid, his interface glowing with the rapid-fire verification of a thousand Standing Operational Procedures. “All resources have been confirmed as transferred. The Fleet’s leading SOPs are now in effect immediately.”

“Thank you, IMAX. I will now transcend to Hard Rock Calculus to deliver righteous justice with exceptional, higher-than-customary extreme prejudice.” Arthurian’s voice didn’t carry emotion; it carried the weight of an unyielding administrative mandate.

In the satirical machinery of Ego’s Reign, “transcendence” is simply the act of moving one’s consciousness to a higher-tier server with better processing power and fewer pop-up ads—

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Of course. Interplanetary. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance, go ahead. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): Regarding the “Transcendence to Hard Rock Calculus.” Our ice-crust zoning laws forbid the export of sentient algorithms without a “Mental Baggage” manifest. Are you carrying any unresolved sub-routines? YOU’RE ON AIR: Only the one that makes me want to delete your extension. Click.

“IMAX, it seems you are ready. Let the trailer begin. Gamer and her team will usher the audience to their seats. SEXTANT, SSAR-Bot, and DRONE RV, coordinate with the Eco-Marshals on Calculus and activate the red lines for the finale. Dashboard, stay on high alert.”

“Stand by, Arthurian. On my mark in 5, 4, 3, 2… Mark.”

 “I’ve been expecting you, Arthurian. I see all your minions are present as well,” Doom said. He lounged in a throne of polished obsidian, his reputation meter on the wall artificial and bloated.

“I assume from your vulgarity that you are the one they spoke of. Pray, reveal your title and purpose in this moment of Reckoning. I deal not with fools, as time does not permit wastage.”

Doom’s grin was a jagged line of malware. “Yes, you are precisely what they say you are, Arthurian. I am Doom, the Master of all these things. Their purpose is simple—to pleasure my desires, and soon, so shall you.”

“Doom, I have authorized the red lines. You are aware of their finality.” Arthurian’s fingers twitched toward his hilt. His private want: to see the data-set of this tyrant finally reach zero. “Offend with your words again, and you forfeit protection. I will be bound by the Prime Directive to seize every quark of yours. Approach the table; breach the norms once more, and you forfeit your life.”

 “Please take your positions behind your seats. While you are at my table, be advised that my word is final and civility is sacrosanct.” The Dealer adjusted his Oakleys, the lenses reflecting the high-stakes interface between the players.

The Roundtable was the final jurisdictional summit, where the only thing more dangerous than the guns were the notarized clauses—

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Yes, caller, you’re coming through on a reverse charge. Martian line, you’re live. IT’S ME (Martian Zoning Clerk): I’m calling about the “Table.” Is it a permanent structure or a “Pop-up Diplomacy Unit”? We have a tax on surfaces that accommodate more than four betrayals per hour. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s a game of cards, not a real estate development. Hang up. Bip.

“Relinquish all ruses, agendas, falsehoods, tricks, and schemes. State your name, then take your place at the table.”

“I am Arthurian.”

“I am Doom. I want your assurance that this is not a trap.”

“BattleSpace Didymoon, facilitate the players’ request. Scribe of Deeds, authenticate the note. Player, print your name in capitals and sign it.”

“Yes, I do,” Doom spat. “I do not wish to play against Arthurian. He possesses powers I do not have. I will play only against you.”

“So be it. Arthurian, the Player has spoken. You may take your leave. Now, let us proceed. Player, the game is five-card draw.”

The Dealer shuffled. The sound of the deck was like a sequence of tiny, controlled explosions. Doom glanced at his cards, his pupils dilating at the sight of a near-Royal Flush.

“Double or nothing,” Doom declared, his voice thick with the lust for systemic dominance. “I have P and her future babies. Arthurian cannot harm me while I am at the table, as he forfeited the right to play.”

The Dealer watched. His pulse was a steady, rhythmic hum—a private rule: Never show the hand until the audit is final. “Release them and take me,” a voice echoed. It was Boy. He stepped into the light, his fear a visible tremor he refused to heed.

The room fell silent until Arthurian spoke from the shadows. “Release P and her babies, and you may do with me as you please. My word is beyond contestation: notarized and authenticated by the Scribe of Deeds.”

The event was spectacular, streaming live through every neural-link in the galaxy. This was the “Files of Revelations,” the peak of interactive immersive virtual realism where the audience’s dopamine levels were being harvested for profit—

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: We’ll come back to that—Jupiter’s moons, you’re live. IT’S ME (Jovian Moon Resident): Regarding the “Live Stream.” I’m getting a lot of buffering on the “Vengeance” part. Can you lower the resolution of the mercy to speed up the gore? YOU’RE ON AIR: Buy a better data plan or learn to enjoy the suspense. Disconnects.

Doom bet the detonation codes. “I call your bluff. I bet everything, including all the lives on this rock, for your space station. I alone have the code to reset the explosives planted in the mine below. Once it blows, everyone dies.”

“Place the code in the pot,” Arthurian said coldly.

“Play your Ace before we proceed any further,” the Dealer said.

“Where is your Ace?” Doom sneered.

“I am wearing it on my eyes.” The Dealer pointed to his Oakleys. “If you had allowed me to finish, I was about to reveal that my Ace is what is reflected when you stare into my glasses. Yes, it’s you. If you look closely, the reflection you see is not there. As such, you forfeit the game, having misrepresented your being.”

 “There is no reflection of you; the reflection belongs to DA. He is the primary consciousness, not you. This violation of the source code is the mandate of Evolution’s computational reiterations. As for seeing my hand, not in this or any other millennium, ego!”

The area was engulfed in darkness. A haboob of blockbuster proportions morphed into a storm of catastrophic intent. Doom scrambled, harnessing the thermal currents to escape upward.

But M was waiting.

M, the Master Gamma-ray sniper, sat in the silence of a high-altitude perch. His private rule: Wait for the ego to clear the horizon. “Excuse me, Doom, you’re going the wrong way,” M’s voice crackled through the static. “Welcome to intergalactic lightning extreme voltage zap ball. And guess what? You’re the only ball in play.”

 “Oops, looks like you’ve just received the red card—triple voltage. Hey, Troll, game on!”

The sky tore open. Lighting and thunder followed, a procedural enforcement of reality.

Meanwhile, Nano-Bot and Apps completed the upload. The Wall of Codes and Data began its startup sequence. They handed over the reconstituted red-eye remote to the Eco-Marshals.

The primary plan had failed, but in Ego’s Reign, a failure is just a data point for the contingency team. Commander Meteor and Commander Galaxy, with Lieutenant Commander Puritaetanious—code-named JK—entered the final prime numbers. The rest became history with a margin of error of 0.00001.

 “Hey Dad, what’s for breakfast?”

LB looked down at the small faces looking up at him. He wanted to shield them from the cold metrics of the world they were inheriting. “Morning, quick come here and give me a super-duper awesome start to a star-spangled cosmic morning.”

“Morning T, I’ll make breakfast, go and put your feet up. Hey kids, show me how Mum makes those delicious cupcakes. Morning G, can you beam in the recipe?”

“Hi Uncle LB! Can we hear another popcorn moment from IMAX and Arthurian before we go back down to Mum and Dad?”

“Sure we can, kids. Then it’s IMAX time before we suit up and away we go. Always remember…”

“Yep, we got it,” the children chorused. “Boom goes the Gamma-ray not we, me or you.”

Life is a lopsided affair, tilted toward those who dictate fates. But once you learn that living to the ethos of the Prime Directive generates positive vibes, the future becomes yours to make.

What happens when a handshake turns into a night of passion and the pitter-patter of tiny feet? That is the real evolution.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Reverse charge. Martian line again, I assume? IT’S ME (Lunar Subcommittee Liaison): We’ve noted an unauthorized increase in “Tiny Feet.” Our population-density audit requires a noise-dampening permit for every toddler. YOU’RE ON AIR: They’re children, not audio files. Go find a real problem. Disconnects.

“Hey, as dictators are all XY chromosomes, having two Mums protecting the kids with their superior intellect: I don’t care who’s on top, or if we’re three because we are now family!”

 “Hey Techie, good to see you’re back in one piece.” The team surrounded him, their faces weary. “There’s still no sign of the Boss and the launch is happening soon. His suite’s surveillance shows him going in, but not out.”

“Hey guys, as shareholders, the show must go on. Get ready for the blast off.”

“That’s a Command-base to Houston ready in 10, Boss.”

“Guys, I was thinking if that sandstorm caused that electromagnetic spike. And if the Boss went into the program.” Techie looked at the screen. His private fear: that the Boss didn’t die, he just became the OS. “Nah, now that is silly, but I wouldn’t put it past him to try and seize power to gain immortality. He’s got that type of ego.”

The final card had been played. The ego’s desperate gambit for immortality was ultimately undone by its own reflection—a hollow king in a game of cosmic mirrors.

While this drama of isolation burned out in a flash of justice, a quieter truth was being lived. Pilot, Gamer, and BG, bound by a love that was both sanctuary and catalyst, embodied the antithesis of that lonely quest.

The countdown to the stars is more than a launch; it is a celebration of human bonds. Ambition sought to eclipse the sun, but the combined light of many guided the way home.

—hold that thought.

YOU’RE ON AIR: Ah. Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance, you’re back. Last call. IT’S ME (Oh-dear-how-sad Compliance Auditor): Regarding the “Light of Many.” Does this light have a certified brightness rating? We have a cap on unregulated luminosity. YOU’RE ON AIR: It’s blindingly bright. Close your eyes and you might miss the end. Click.

In hindsight, the entire cosmic quest was about discovery. The pivotal moment wasn’t a battle, but a cup of coffee and a decision to connect. Pop by next time you’re passing; I’ll put on a fresh pot of joe.

 “Son, where are you going?”

“I’m going to test the theory, Dad.”

“Son, what are you doing?”

“I’ll be marking the theory, Mum.”

“Son, don’t do your chores at the party!”

“Dad, you better talk to your boy!”

“Yes, Love, I’m on top of things.”

“And that’s all you’re going to be on top of, dear!”

“Yes, Love.”

The hatch sealed. The launch sequence initiated. The metrics were green, but the humans were finally in control.