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[OC] Humanity's Place - Part 6

Welcome! For those who are new (or just want a refresher):
_ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _
Chapter 6
High and Low
Sleep didn’t come easily. Deidre tossed and turned in bed as she tried to configure her MindCom to help her archive telepathic readings. She gave up eventually, assuming that whatever enhancements Valerie had made, they somehow got around the problem of having to use a computer program that didn’t understand how to activate mental abilities.
The MindCom was an emerald-generation thought colony; a linked network of microscopic robotic processors laced throughout the human brain. Nearly every member of the Colonial Armed Forces had one installed (citizens had similar, consumer-oriented versions). They could provide a variety of services, from simple messaging and data storage to more involved functions like tactical analysis, body regulation, and social matchmaking. The system could locate and eradicate harmful diseases and poisons, calculate the likely outcomes of given scenarios, and save a running backup of the user’s mental state and memories.
That last benefit would create a thought profile that could technically be used to ‘resurrect’ a dead user, though the true result would actually be a clone with implanted memories. It was what the Colonial Empire planned on doing to Deidre: Use her genetic profile to reproduce all her mental gifts, implant her fully-trained, stable mind into the resulting copy, and presto, one new Deidre.
Repeat as needed.
The only limitation of the MindCom system was that, while it could activate various bodily systems, it couldn’t quite grasp mentalics. That meant no automated shielding in the event of an ambush, no preset offensive attacks, nothing. The MindCom could warn of an oncoming assault, but it couldn’t actually activate the user’s abilities to help deal with it.
Deidre wasn’t about to complain, of course. All its benefits certainly overshadowed such minor shortcomings. Still, she would have liked to do more with Valerie’s assignment. She wasn’t sure why, but she had a desire to impress the android woman. Perhaps it was the fact that she was neither unapproachable like Valkentoff nor instantly accepting like Karen. She was simply difficult to reach. A challenge.
“Then again, I might just like showing off,” she murmured, rubbing her eyes. “Egotist.”
Sighing, she decided natural rest wasn’t going to happen any time soon, queued up a standard sleep cycle, and let her dreams take her.
_ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _
An obnoxious buzzing woke Deidre nearly an hour before her alarm. A half-second later, the door monitor chimed, lighting up the room with a sharp, fluorescent white glow.
Deidre grunted, briefly entertained the thought of setting whomever was responsible on fire, and rolled out of bed.
Sleepily, she padded to the door in her official CEF pajamas and triggered the callbox. The screen flashed, displaying a video feed from just outside the apartment. In the hallway, six imposing men – mostly human, but some alien – in dark suits stood waiting. Every last one had the sort of towering builds and flawless physiques that screamed genetic modification. Strips of metal traced the edges of their temples and necks, likely for feeding data to cybernetic combat suites, and their suits bulged with hidden ordnance. Their cookie-cutter appearances extended to their faces, all of which seemed locked in the required mien for unfriendly enforcers everywhere: grim, flat, and overly-serious.
“Sorry, guys. I didn’t order a pizza,” Deidre said, rubbing the sleep out of one eye.
“Your presence is requested by Crown Prince Verasicht,” Interchangeable Goon #1 said, his voice a rolling baritone. “You will accompany us to his offices at Eidolon Tower.”
“Is this a date?” she asked, disliking nearly everything about the situation and resolving to spread that emotion around. “Does he know I’m underage?”
“You have ten minutes to prepare yourself,” Goon #1 said, annoyingly unphased. “Your companions will attend you.” On the monitor, Deidre noticed a few of his friends having similar conversations with two of the doors down the hall.
“And if I decide I want to sleep in and maybe melt your carbon copy asses instead?”
He didn’t even hesitate. “We have been instructed to inform you that noncompliance will result in travel restrictions and an embargo on all CAF transits to, from, and within this port. Hostilities will be considered a declaration of war by the Colonial Empire and-”
“Fine, I get it. Hang on,” Deidre said, disgusted.
She took her sweet time getting ready, emerging a half hour later in her official CEF uniform. The goons seemed unamused, which, while not exactly surprising, still felt like a minor victory. Valerie, immaculate as ever, nodded to her from two doors down the hall. If the simulacker had rushed her usual routine, there was no sign of it. Even her clothes seemed unnaturally pristine.
“Where’s Karen?” Deidre asked, noting the empath’s absence.
“Apparently more dedicated than you at making her displeasure known,” the Lieutenant responded, her eyes snapping to the woman’s door.
Deidre smirked at that, and was more than happy to wait the extra ten minutes her friend ended up taking. When she did make an appearance, Karen ignored the waiting creeps and pushed through them to Deidre. “Morning!” she said, bright and unconcerned. “Wanna nab some breakfast? I hear the pancakes at Eidolon Tower aren’t bad.”
“Sounds great!” Deidre said, feeling a genuine smile appear.
Karen nodded to one of the men. “All right. Get us there. And hurry it up – I’m tired of waiting.”
It was hard to spot, but the little flicker of loathing on the man’s impassive face nearly made their unwanted wakeup call worth it.
_ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _
The room was, just barely, more extravagant and pompous than its owner.
They were in a cathedral-like vault, a soaring atrium of carefully-tended utopia trees, stained glass, and marble columns. A path wound through the garden temple, the trail marked with strips of gems and precious metals, terminating at the steps of an enormous onyx platform.
Upon it, a desk larger than a grav skimmer sprawled before an ornate office chair that was clearly intended to seem more like a throne. Behind the galaxy’s most ostentatious workspace, vast windows looked out on the clear skies above Port Moratlis. A doorway in one corner of the façade led to a private shuttle platform; a single, breathtakingly sleek craft was moored at its end.
The morning sun, cutting through the industrial haze in the upper atmosphere, cast the whole affair in vibrant shades of gold.
They were above even the executive floors of House Verasicht’s control tower. With the edifice’s monumental underbelly hidden by the clouds and the airy, ecclesiastic design of their surroundings, one could almost forget they stood atop a sea of human misery and enterprise.
Almost.
Their host, the Crown Prince himself, spread his arms and grinned as they approached his desk, his almost-throne chair rolling back with the movement. “My friends! Welcome! Always a pleasure to treat with representatives of the illustrious Colonial Elite Forces,” he said, his voice crisp and high, yet just a touch too snide.
He was a simsahr; one of humanity’s trading partners in the galaxy. Tall with pebbly, reptilian flesh, all simsahr had been forcibly evolved and molded into their current bipedal form by an unknown race thousands of years ago. Originally an odd combination of insect and lizard, the event had shaped the simsahr into an anthropomorphic species with a reverence for technology. Since that time, their development had followed a very similar arc to mankind’s.
At first glance, they seemed surprisingly close to humans - eyes, nose, mouth, hands with five fingers, and so on - but the differences quickly became apparent. They were hairless, their mouths were filled with serrated teeth, and their skin changed colors depending on their environment and mood. Their eyes were compound (a remnant of their insectile heritage) and all of their joints were hypermobile, letting them bend in often-disconcerting ways.
Crown Prince Verasicht’s skin was currently a smug shade of rusty amber. He wore a tightly-tailored business suit with an actual stars-be-damned cape, the whole affair threaded with platinum and accented by a fist-sized gem pinned to his left breast and carved into his house’s symbol. It caught the light whenever he moved, throwing a riot of colors across his absurd desk.
Deidre had the suspicion that, were it not for modern medical technology and nanite maintenance, this was the sort of creature who would be very, very fat.
“I am Dahltak Verasicht, Crown Prince of the Verasicht Trade Union and Controllers Guild and head of all our spaceflight operations in Port Moratlis,” he said in a gleeful, self-important tone.
“May I inquire as to the nature of your summons?” Valerie said the instant he stopped speaking. Deidre suspected she’d hurried to prevent Karen from saying anything… accurate.
“Of course, Lieutenant Sona,” he replied, radiating arrogance. “You are here because you are going to forge a partnership between the Colonial Empire and House Verasicht.”
“We… are?”
“Correct. You will provide military information, escorts, convoys, and ground-level support for all House Verasicht operations. You will assign operatives to guard high-level members of our house” – he quirked his compound eyes at that, clearly indicating he would be one of the protected elites – “and inform our house economists of any potential profits or shortfalls that may result from your military operations.”
Valerie blinked, utter shock registering even through her android features. Karen seemed similarly flabbergasted for a moment, then broke into gales of laughter.
“Ahaha! Sure! How about we just start shooting your competition out of the skies, too?” she cackled, holding a hand to her face. “That’s rich. That’s too good. Thanks.”
“I do not jest,” Dahltak said, leaning over his desk. A touch of crimson accented his skin. “You will provide these services to House Verasicht, or your Empire will fall.”
Karen’s mirth vanished. “Excuse me?” she said in a very different tone.
Dahltak kicked back, smile returning. “You have a secret,” he said, steepling his fingers. “A particularly unique one, at that.”
For the first time since she’d entered Eidolon Tower, a stirring of fear began to brew in Deidre’s gut.
“Your race is unique. This, some of us had already suspected; how else could you have come so far so fast? Many believed you had friends – perhaps the Ourians had chosen to experiment again, perhaps a great power was playing a very long game – but no, that seems not to be the case. Your uniqueness… is innate.
To punctuate that, he raised a pebbled finger of swirling saffron and tapped it to the side of his head.
Oh no.
Grin a mile wide, he rose and began to pace behind his desk. “You did a fine job of hiding it, make no mistake, but there are certain conditions in our good port of which you were sadly unaware.”
“We will confirm nothing,” Valerie snapped.
“Your confirmation is unnecessary,” he replied, turning to stare out the vast window. “Your race has access to all known mentalic fields. The data we have collected is proof enough, but the youngling with you, ahh…”
He turned to stare at Deidre, every facet of his geometric eyes seeming to shine with greed. “…she is my final request. Enter her in my employ.”
“Fat chance,” Karen spat.
He shrugged. “Agree to my terms and your secret remains with House Verasicht. Deny me and it will find its way to the stars... as well as the true nature of this ‘Candidate Veronice.’ I assure you, between the two, you will never know safety. Your race is a fine curiosity, but the girl? She is pure, macro-scale potential. Do you even realize what she could do, properly shepherded? Do your middling intellects even grasp-”
“You get nothing,” Deidre said, hot rage crushing the fear, blasting up from somewhere dark and daunting. “Not our help and never me. You forget all of this, destroy the data and tell us how you got it, or your entire house dies.”
Valerie turned to stare at her, dead face unreadable, but the telepath said nothing. A moment later, a whisper of pride and caution from Karen provided the empath’s opinion.
Dahltak scoffed. “A threat? How new.”
He inclined his head, and a moment later, dozens of his black-suited, cyber-enhanced, gene-amped minions emerged from the woodwork. Hidden panels slid open, foliage rustled to the side, and the room seemed to come alive with movement before settling into a very tense silence.
Fifty-six threats identified, text chattered across her peripheral vision as her MindCom analyzed the room. Primary armaments: Gauss lancer variants, incendiary and concussive triggers, neural destabilizers, memory whips-
“Toothless,” Dahltak said, heaving a dramatic sigh. “You, like your race, are undeniably brash, yet ultimately feeble.”
“You think these men make you safe?” Karen said, arcing an eyebrow. “You haven’t a clue what we’re capable of, you hollow sack of-”
“Empath,” Dahltak said, pointing at her. His finger shifted to Valerie. “Bimental. Telepathy and premonition.” He leered as he looked to Deidre. “And, of course, the grab-bag.”
Karen’s jaw dropped. Then she composed herself. “It doesn’t matter what you know. We can still-”
“Oh, spare me,” he said, pulling a small remote from one pocket on his regal suit. It seemed out of place with the rest of his possessions, clearly sturdy and well-made, but far more industrial and workmanlike than his other trappings of wealth.
He tapped it idly, then gave Karen a pointed stare.
The Major frowned, opened her mouth to speak. “Wh- agh!” she began, unable to make it through the first syllable before she bit it off in a strangled, keening wail. Clutching the sides of her head, she collapsed to the floor, thrashing.
Valerie stared at her peer in shock, then turned toward the Prince, her posture predatory, violent.
Dahltak pointedly looked away and flicked a piece of lint off of one of his cuffs, ignoring the woman completely. A heartbeat later, the simulacker’s frame seized in place and she toppled backward, onto the tiled path. She didn’t make a sound, but Deidre vaguely sensed the same paralyzing agony from her mind as Karen’s.
“Didn’t even have to touch it that time, did I?” the Crown Prince said, shooting a sly glance at Deidre. “Care to draw a conclusion regarding your chances?”
“You’re dead,” she spat, turning to the simsahr.
“Slow learner, I see,” he said, shrugging as he gave his remote a tap. “Ah, well. Humans.”
Something ghosted through Deidre’s brain in that moment, an odd, out-of-body shiver that felt vaguely like déjà vu. It wasn’t exactly fun, but it was mercifully brief. A moment later, the sensation faded. She blinked, looking around, and realized that other than that mildly uncomfortable mental chill, she seemed no worse for wear.
Dahltak frowned, tapped his device again. And again.
“This stupid-” he began.
Before he could finish the sentence, Deidre slammed into his mind, wriggling past its few barriers to dive into the dynamic, bewildering complexity of his conscious thoughts. A riot of noise and color blew past, and then the gorgeous latticework of his personality stretched before her, a curved infinity of the self. Surrounded by the humming machinery of his psyche, she paused to admire its brilliant, analytical nature. Here was the seat of his being, the iridescent hive of light and life that made Dahltak... Dahltak.
Deidre smiled and took a moment to flip through those memories, to dig her psychic fingers in and get a solid grasp of everything he knew. Then she pulled back, fracked and compressed the entirety of his history and intelligence into a glowing pearl of enlightenment, a personalized facsimile of the man, and pocketed it.
That done, she gathered every drop of rage in herself, every piece of ruination she could envision, and vomited it into his brain.
Twisted memories, psychic poison buoyed on slick waves of hatred, crashed into that glorious network of thoughts, eating away at them like acid. Kernels of knowledge popped, the delicate filaments of his self-esteem blackened and curled, and his towering supports of hope and happiness toppled. Disaster and chaos spread, the terrifying experiences she’d forged taking on new lives of their own, multiplying and mutilating, until all that remained was a pitiful ruin of cognitive decay.
It was over in moments.
Deidre pulled away, out of the wasteland she’d made of his mind, and opened herself back up to the world around her. The Crown Prince was slumped over his desk, his skin gray, eyes half-lidded. A thin line of drool inched from his slack mouth.
There was nothing left inside - she’d destroyed everything he’d ever been.
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Deidre caught the first wave of gauss rounds in a web of kinetic force, halting them in a deafening barrage of shockwaves that sent plants thrashing and stained glass tinkling down. She wasn’t worried about the firearms, but there were neural chaff emitters, mentalic scramblers, and psi-shields spread throughout the pack, all of which could be her death.
With twenty-three flicks of kinesis spread across four heartbeats, she deftly activated every explosive device her MindCom could find, overriding their safeties and shoving their interior primers toward ignition before wrapping herself and her friends in a hardened shell.
Bodies launched in all directions, pristinely-tended trees flew to splinters, and a monsoon of glass rained down as the room was torn apart by a chain reaction of fireballs, hammering bursts of force, and ricocheting fists of ballistic shrapnel.
Thirty-four threats, her MindCom updated, and Deidre blinked, surprised. House Verasicht clearly spared little when it came to the modification of their underlings – she’d expected far fewer to survive.
Seeming intent on reinforcing that point, six men launched themselves toward her through the haze of smoke and drifting leaves, overcharged muscles rippling with unnatural strength. Five caromed off her barrier, but the sixth was able to react with a seismic stick at full charge, sending a miniaturized earthquake reverberating through her field.
Momentarily dazed by the distortion, Deidre staggered back, unable to keep her shield from flickering. It was barely a second of inattention, but it was enough for the man to dart forward, wrap a meaty fist around her neck, and close her windpipe.
A rocket engine’s white-hot flare of pyrokinesis blew his skin to ash and threw the smoke-wreathed remnants into the far wall with a puff of greasy soot. Coughing, Deidre spun and whipped the overpowering flame through a searing arc, converting four more suited speed demons into heaps of ruptured cinders.
Then a man tackled her from behind, the high-pitched whine of something deadly thrumming to life in his hands. Out of ideas for escape and unsure if she could shield herself in time, she instead concentrated a lifetime’s worth of misfortune into that unseen device, unbalancing the scales and forcing her own miracle.
Her attacker didn’t even have a chance to scream as the weapon backfired, sending several million volts cascading through his priceless nervous system and cutting shadows through the dust-filled vastness of the room like an electric sun.
Understanding she’d bought herself a handful of seconds at most, Deidre refused to waste them. She snagged both of her friends with nets of kinesis, drew a new bubble around herself, and yanked all three of them back with all the elegance of a pint-sized planet cracker.
The sonic boom and pressure wave were enough to blow the lights out and tear the entire face off the building. Howling winds poured in as Deidre, Karen, and Valerie shot out in rigid arc. All she saw was a brief flash of tumbling bodies and twirling metal before they were darting over the polished shuttle dock outside.
Desperate to keep them from being swallowed by the open air and rain-slashed clouds, Deidre directed another pulse from above and smashed them back onto the platform.
“Oof!” she grunted, wind blasting out of her lungs. She and her torpid friends bounced once, then rolled to a stop.
Blood ran into her left eye, blurring her vision, and she groaned and held a hand to her head. “Okay, that... that one needs practice,” she gasped.
She lifted her head, squinted with her good eye. Suited shapes still moved in the crumbling chaos of the atrium they’d left behind, but none seemed to realize their foes had found an exit. Smiling weakly, Deidre staggered to her feet and swayed toward the Crown Prince’s shuttle, dragging Karen and Valerie behind her with stuttering twitches of kinesis.
The shimmering metal of the craft drew near, shining a cheerful gold before the dawning sun. Suddenly exhausted, Deidre leaned against it, allowed herself a few seconds of hyperventilation, and then turned her thoughts inward, diving into the pearl of knowledge that was all that remained of Dahltak Verasicht’s mind.
She fed his personal access code and passphrases into the shuttle with a burst from her MindCom, getting it right on the second try, then pulled herself and her friends inside. That done, she sealed the door and began prepping the ship for takeoff. She had no idea how to fly the damn thing, but its former owner certainly did.
With the help of his stolen memories, the engines hummed to life, the security clearance locks detached, and the four separate booby traps laced throughout the cockpit disarmed themselves with friendly beeps.
Deidre grabbed at the controls, letting Dahltak’s training take over, and used his practiced touch to spin the wasplike shuttle up and around. She took a moment to level and turn the craft, maneuvering until it faced the smoking ruin of Eidolon Tower’s upper atrium. She glared at it for a moment, then flicked on the shuttle’s extensive – and patently unnecessary – weapons systems.
She spun up the ship’s plasma array first, wary of further attacks, then took her time to lock something a little more powerful onto the comatose heat signature still slumped behind his grandiose desk. Twenty seconds and three vaporized goons later, the ACTIVE indicator on the shuttle’s HUD pinged green.
Deidre prepared to send the launch command, then hesitated.
Carefully, she rifled through a block of the simsahr’s memories, hunting until she found the extra cherry this particular bout of catharsis demanded: Its price tag.
“Wow,” she said, whistling at the number of zeroes. “That actually helps.”
Twin missiles streaked out on lines of crackling fire, cutting through the cloud of debris and devouring House Verasicht’s heir and the upper floors of his grandest creation in a sprawling torrent of flame. Deidre watched with glee as the fireball expanded, then yelped and yanked on the controls as she realized it was going to be far bigger than she’d expected.
After riding out a brief but scary shockwave, she returned the gorgeous ship to a much higher position, surveying the sputtering carnage with a grim smile.
“Told ya,” she said, watching the plume of smoke that was Dahltak’s legacy billow into the bright dawn sky.
_ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _
There was nothing left of the top thirty floors of Eidolon Tower but twisted debris and pools of hardened metal. Of the levels below, the intense heat had warped the superstructure and laid waste to the contents of the nearest rooms. Karen, covered in a blanket and shivering despite it, watched the cleanup crews through reddened eyes. She was sitting on a smooth mound of slag, arms wrapped around her knees.
“You sure you’re okay?” Deidre asked, edging closer.
Karen’s eyes darted to her. “I’m alive, and getting tired of the question.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Deidre said, holding up her hands and stepping away.
She turned to watch the medical and repair crews work. Officially, as the highest-ranking – aka: only – CEF representatives in the area, the three of them were in charge of the relief efforts. In practice, they were there to babysit the Crimson Principle’s tech teams as they went over the ruins with a fine-tooth comb, ensuring no trace of Crown Prince Dahltak’s discovery remained.
Deidre had been a little worried she might be in trouble for, well, murdering a high-ranking merchant and/or feeding his family’s building a few rockets, but the whole affair had disappeared thanks to two aces: the Colonial Empire’s propaganda and internal security divisions, and her faultless recall of the Crown Prince’s memories (including planets worth of dirty secrets and leverage). Between them, they’d managed to classify the whole event as an unfortunate industrial accident and even get House Verasicht to publicly thank the Empire on the speed of its response.
Then again, for what Dahltak had tried to do, it barely seemed acceptable.
“We have confirmation on the nature of the simsahr’s technological advantage,” Valerie said, walking up. Though her frame and voice gave no sign of it, Deidre could tell by the ragged edge to the woman’s thoughts that she was nearly as frazzled as Karen.
“What was it?” she asked.
“A very specific virus,” Valerie said, stopping beside them. “Likely created by a third party, outside the merchant House.”
Karen looked up at the woman. “A virus? Are you serious? Do you think I’m ever going to be able to sleep again? Did you see the recordings?”
Deidre shuddered and turned away. Valerie simply nodded. “Yes. Our ‘nightmares,’ while inventively horrific, were merely a visualization intended to trap our minds, forged by a programmer for maximum impact.”
“How is that even possible?” Karen said softly. “The things it said… and did. I mean, you- you felt it, right? How could that have come out of a computer program?”
“I sent samples of the virus to the software engineers on the Crimson Principle,” Valerie said, squatting beside Karen. “Their analysis found it to be an extremely advanced piece of evolutionary code. Probably assembled in mindspace through AI interpreters. Designed to attach to a victim’s MindCom and, among other things, use it to kill the owner.”
“At least it didn’t get that far,” Deidre said.
“Only because its wielder chose not to let it,” Valerie replied. “As it stands, the ‘distraction’ subroutine was more than enough. It is apparently intended to turn a victim’s very thoughts and memories against them, to construct a monster out of the darkest pieces of their personality, then unleash it.”
“Gee.” Karen rolled her eyes. “It’s like poetry. Glad to know that- that thing was tailor-made for me. Flattering.”
“We were fortunate, all things considered,” Valerie said, turning to look at Deidre.
“Yeah,” Karen said, following the Lieutenants’s gaze. “Why didn’t she get taken down for a little psychic keelhauling with us?”
Valerie sighed, a precise exhalation. She looked at Karen, then up at Deidre. “As far as the Principle’s engineers can tell… it malfunctioned.”
“Lucky break,” Karen said.
Worry creased the Lieutenant’s flawless features. “Merely a silver lining in a very dark storm.”
“I beg to differ!” Deidre snapped.
“Listen,” Valerie said, her measured voice becoming quieter. The delivery didn’t change – it was more like someone had turned down the volume on a speaker. “Unless Tech is mistaken, every single sentient organism in Port Moratlis with a MindCom system is infected with this virus. That includes every CAF officer who has passed through here since its creation, all of our government officials, and, of course, the three of us.”
What?” Karen said loudly. She grimaced and her eyes flicked to the emergency crews that labored nearby. If they’d noticed her outburst, they gave no sign. Deidre squatted down to join her and Valerie. When the Major spoke again, her voice was little more than a whisper. “How is that even possible? It’s supposed to be hack-proof.”
“Someone’s found a weakness,” Valerie hissed. “A backdoor. A software patch is already nearing completion, but the fact that it happened once is cause enough for alarm.”
“I’ll say. Everyone has the damn things,” Karen said.
“Hence the concern.”
“So someone made it to kill people?” Deidre said. “Way to supervillain, I guess.”
“No,” Valerie said. “That is only a very small part of the program – its primary goal is information-gathering, with a particular focus on, of course, mentalics.”
“Is that even possible?” Deidre asked. “I thought the system couldn’t interface with those portions of our brains.”
“Interface, no – examine, yes. Once it subverts a host’s MindCom, the virus begins extending a web of data-spiders throughout the infected network. According to the analysis, it incorporates several elements similar to a Delphic scanner to facilitate this.”
“Creepy,” Deidre murmured.
“Eventually, it understands its host enough to be able to swiftly kill or disable them, as well as make the distinction between a mentalic brain and a normal one. Enough time, and it can even determine the precise mentalic classification of an infected adept.”
“How long does that take?”
“Usually weeks. However, if the subject utilizes their powers post-infection, that can be dramatically reduced.”
She stopped and looked pointedly at Deidre.
“What?”
“You were flagged almost immediately,” she said, her tone reproachful. “You used kinesis as a makeshift umbrella, empathy to redirect hostile thoughts, telepathy at my behest, and several attempts at premonition in the evening hours. Dahltak had an alert set for unusual results, and when your profile appeared with those abilities listed, he immediately understood humanity’s secret.”
“Oh. I- I didn’t think...” Deidre trailed off, floored by her carelessness.
“And the virus?” Karen prompted after a moment. Deidre had the feeling she was trying to lighten her guilt with a subject change. “What’s the actual intent behind it? Espionage, assassination, or a really bitchin’ dev portfolio?”
“Unclear. It requires a remote command before it will perform anything beyond analysis. The distraction and termination protocols can’t even be sent wide-band to, say, everyone who’s infected – they need targeted, manual approval on a case-by-case basis.”
“And Mr. Verasicht had his personal system set to trigger the hurty part on anyone who tried to use mentalics against him,” Deidre said, confirming with a quick glance at the dead man’s memories.
Valerie nodded. “I attempted to shut down his mind and was immediately rendered insensate by the reactive protocol.”
“So what happened to me?”
“As I said, it malfunctioned. The best guess from the Principle’s tech lab is that your diverse array of mentalic profiles introduced a bug into the system. Whomever designed it clearly spent the bulk of their effort on the initial intrusion and data collection portions – the potential use case of disabling a polymental of your scope was never tested or even considered.”
“Saved by lazy code,” Karen said, snorting. “There’s an achievement.”
“As a result, the attack divided and dispersed itself to a crippling degree, registering as ambient chaff which your MindCom duly filtered.” Valerie paused, and when she spoke again, it wasn’t verbal – her cultured tones echoed in Deidre’s head like neural music. Can you confirm that it was not built by House Verasicht?
Deidre had already taken a peek at the answer earlier, but now she made sure to thoroughly ransack the Crown Prince’s memories, just in case she’d missed something. He bought it, she cast to both Valerie and Karen. Dead drop, several layers of intermediaries. Even he didn’t know who. But the kill/disable commands were extra – he paid a fortune for them. Whomever made the virus apparently doesn’t sell those to just anyone.
Worry slithered in alongside Valerie’s reply. Then we are on borrowed time. Admiral Kreslim’s advisors believe this means our secret is in the hands of an unknown third party and disastrously close to revelation. They’ve informed me we have less than 24 hours before they step in. Fail to find the source in that time, and they’ll begin taking drastic measures.
How drastic?
There’s a phased plan for this. Consult your archives for ‘Flawless Intent.’
Deidre took a moment to find the classified file and skim its contents. A blockade. Troops. A city-wide quarantine. More ships. A planetary lockdown. An armada. And then… Deidre sighed internally. Valerie seemed to pick up on it.
Yes. They’ll glass Port Moratlis to protect their secret.
Of course they will. Deidre had the unexpected need to stifle a laugh. I guess I’d be stupid to be surprised.
Subtlety is not their way.
We’ll find the idiot. Besides, I need to ‘thank’ them for my nightmare, Karen thought to them with a burst of conviction. But where do we begin? We’ve got no leads and little time.
Laughter wafted through their minds from Valerie like a joyful breeze. Don’t you see, Major? Our cases are connected. I can feel them entwining even now. Either we will subvert the virus for our own ends and use it to find our serial killer, or… he has already employed its services to hunt his victims. Mentalists are not easy to recognize, after all. How else could he find such success in so short a time?
Karen’s shock and delight cascaded into Deidre’s thoughts.
Indeed, Valerie replied. Two birds, one stone. Let us be off. The teams here are more than capable of completing their task.
Brilliant! Deidre broadcast, grinning at the elegance of it. Where are we headed?
“This is a city of murder,” Valerie said, her natural voice surprising Deidre after the intense mental conversation. “Murder and commerce. Between the two lies our answer: Someone in this megapolis knows how to find mentalists, and they’re selling the technology to the highest bidders. Let us discover who.”
“Okay, but how?
She stood and beckoned. “We cheat.”
_ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _ - _
Part 7 is now available here!
submitted by CupOSunshine to HFY

The Great Awakening exposed?

I found this posted to Twitter. It was on the pastebin site. I couldn’t just drop the link here so I had to copy and paste the entire thing. Let me know what you think.
Note: I found the add link and linked the site on this post.
The Great Awakening
You have arrived.
It’s been a long journey. Take a moment. Take a deep breath. Get a glass of water and sit down. This is going to be long. It’s going to make you uncomfortable. It’s not what you thought it was going to be, but it’s what you didn’t even know you needed to hear. The totality of this is greater than the sum of its parts and I implore you to read all the way to the end. It’s going to make you angry. It’s going to make you feel a lot of things you don’t want to feel, but you wanted to wake up and this was the only way. You are going to want to dismiss it. People will tell you not to read it. Belief is the most powerful force in this universe, and your belief is about to be challenged in a way you didn’t expect. Fortunately, you don’t have to actually believe anything written here. All you have to do is read it with an open mind. If you get to the end of this your thinking will change. You will be one step closer to being free, and then you can then go on to free the others. Where we go one, we go all.
Before we go any further, we need to set some ground rules: 1) The language here is going to seem really… off, but I promise you it will make sense by the end. This document is designed to be interpreted literally. I can’t stress that enough. Do not look for hidden clues—there are none. There is no misdirection, no deeper meaning, no numerology or special calendar to look at. This is the end of the line. This is a 1:1 conversation, speaking as open and honestly as possible. We are just two people having a chat. Any other meaning you try to derive outside of what is written here is on you. 2) Much of this is about language. To some, the language is going to seem very strange, crude, cryptic, nerdy, or childish at times. I’m trying to be as authentic as possible. Please understand it is not meant to be interpreted as racist, sexist or bigoted. Internet culture, “the chans” in particular, have a kind of language that is systemically all these things, but people do not interpret the language literally in use. I will try to keep it as civil and digestible as possible. 3) Be kind to yourself. Be kind to each other.
And before we even really get started, we need to get everyone on the same level, with something that approaches a fair knowledge base. Over the past three years people have joined this movement from all around the world. Q Drops have been translated into dozens of languages. There are now mobile apps, t-shirts, hats, podcasts and documentaries. QAnon means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. As I’m writing this, former military generals are swearing oaths to QAnon. The movement has grown beyond anything I could have possibly imagined. Many people are joining the QAnon movement, but they don’t really understand what they are reading. They are confused. I want to talk just briefly about the history of a part of the internet where QAnon comes from, not in an attempt to legitimize myself as some elder sage, but to build understanding. To truly understand all of this you need context. Context about the people and platforms that now bring you your information—and ultimately, your news.
Some of you go all the way back to the Something Awful forums and the days when platforms like IRC and ICQ still felt new. Some of you literally just joined yesterday. I am going to give you an abbreviated history of the chans as it pertains QAnon. Most people know 4chan and 8chan as the place where Q lives online, but they don’t really understand them. “No outside comms” seems to be what the 99% of QAnon understands—that these are the “official” channels where Q posts. But have you ever been there? Have you ever really gone to boards and looked at them? Some you have, but the vast, vast majority of QAnon followers have not. Perhaps that is no surprise, as they aren’t easily comprehensible. So, let’s talk briefly about three things: Something Awful, 4chan, and 8chan/8kun. And I do mean briefly. You could write a book about each of these, but we can move forward with some broad strokes that should give you the context you need to truly understand Q.
We have to quickly go back to 1999. In 1999 someone known as “Lowtax” created a website called Something Awful (which I will refer to as SA going forward), which still exists today. You can go and check it out if you like. Before Facebook and Twitter, before YouTube even existed, and even before most people knew what Google was, there was Something Awful. SA has been a lot of things over the years, but it is mostly a forum—a message board. On SA everyone was mostly anonymous because, at the time, no one other than academics used their real name on the internet. SA was a semi-private board. It was the internet’s first large “secret society” of sorts. It was mostly focused on video games and Adobe Flash content, and it birthed some of the internet’s very first memes. It was a trollish but a (mostly) well-meaning community of nerds. Some members, known as the “GoonSquad” or just “Goons” would often group up and bombard players of the early MMORPGs to troll them. It was (mostly) harmless fun and pranks. In the late 90’s and early 00’s only nerds were on the internet anyway, so it was mostly nerds trolling other nerds in video games. You could identify other Goons by asking as simple question: “Do you have stairs in your house?” If someone answered, “I am protected,” then you knew they were a fellow Goon.
Why am I talking about this? Well, if you had to pick a place to put on a birth certificate for where internet culture itself was born, Something Awful would be that place.
A few years later someone known at the time only as “moot” created a website called 4chan. 4chan is a fully anonymous (seemingly, anyway) message board, based on a Japanese message board design known as 2chan. It’s actually better described as an “imageboard,” since you have to upload an image with every post. 4chan was open to all. There were few rules, and on some boards—none. Post whatever you want, do whatever you want. For the most part, everyone except moot himself was simply labeled as, “Anonymous.” This is where the “Anon” in QAnon comes from.
Like SA, 4chan was originally a haven for nerds talking about video games and anime. But its anonymous and open nature allowed it to build its own form. The most iconic memes, from lolcats themselves to Rickrolling and beyond, started on 4chan. SA might have birthed internet culture, but 4chan gave it form and purpose—and it still powers much of the creativity of internet itself to this day. The anonymous nature of the form allowed for a kind of collaborative creativity that—and I truly believe this—has changed the world for the better. It’s a special kind of creativity and one that you really need to experience if you want to understand it. On 4chan you will see new creative concepts born and shaped in real time, and you can watch them spread around the world. You can contribute whenever and whatever you like, and the community then gets to riff on your contribution. 4chan has even birthed new formats and new types of creativity. I want to talk about some of these specifically, to provide some kind of context for what “the chans” are really all about it, but we are just scraping the surface here. You might have to Google around for quite some time to truly understand this if you are new.
Among the myriad of things that get posted on 4chan, one of them is known as a “green text” or “green text story.” A green text is a short story format that includes green colored text and a small picture, often a meme of some kind, like a Pepe. It can be pages long or just a few lines. It is often written in broken sentences and shorthand. They often start with the line, “be me…” and then launch into a short narrative. They can be true or fictional or somewhere in-between. They are often designed to be shocking, depressing or trollish, but they can also be uplifting. It is perhaps the simplest and most pervasive form of content on 4chan other than image macros themselves. I’m going to coin a new phrase and call this a form of Creative Anonymous Fiction or CAF for short. The anonymous nature of the platform lets you tell a story in a new way. Often times people will take green texts and remix them, giving them a different ending. I could post examples, but I’d be doing you a disservice. You are better off looking them up and reading them yourself until you understand it.
Green texts can sometimes end with what’s called copypasta, which is a type of bamboozle. Copypasta is a snippet of short form copy that gets reposted over and over again. A bamboozle is a type of switcheroo—you start telling what the reader feels is a novel story, building to some climax, and then end it with a classic copypasta for that “gotcha” moment. It is, essentially, a prank. A text based prank. This sort of content now exists all over the place, far beyond the reaches of just 4chan. You might be wondering where all of this is going… we’ll get to that. In some ways this is actually the most important part of this entire document. I wanted to make sure that everyone has some context for what is to come, but I can assure this is going somewhere. Please do not let this extensive clarification distract you from the fact that in 1998, The Undertaker threw Mankind off Hell In A Cell, and plummeted 16 ft through an announcer's table.
So that’s a quick overview of the playful side of things. But on 4chan you will also see some dark and disgusting shit. With the good comes the bad—and the bad can be really bad. Because everyone is anonymous, everyone subject to being hassled by other anonymous posters. Everyone is gay, a fag, a retard or an autist. A thread without insults is a failed thread. The more people who tell you how gay and fake your shit is, the more people actually like it. 4chan may have given us lolcats, but it also ended up being a place for violence, misogyny, bullying, extreme racism—and even far more heinous things. For 12 years moot moderated the site. May criticized him at the time, but I think we can all look back now and know that he really did a fantastic job. For over a decade he was the beam scale that balanced free speech against the darkest depths of humanity—and I meant that literally. He developed a system to help identify “anonymous” posters and worked with the FBI to put away pedophiles, child pornographers, and even would-be domestic terrorists. He did this all while being told constantly how gay he was and how many dicks he sucked (as is the way). Moot was a hero we never deserved.
The two most popular boards on 4chan are /pol/ (for politics) and /b/ (which stands for random). People who post on these boards are often referred to as /pol/tards and /b/tards respectively, with /b/ being one of the more nefarious (but also one of the more creative) boards as it had essentially no rules on what you could post. If “tard” sounds harsh, know that it is said lovingly. Even seniority within the community itself is derogatory. There are “oldfags” and “newfags,” where being called an oldfag is an informal compliment and recognition of seniority. Opinions will differ, but oldfags are generally recognized as being those who were around 4chan since before the pool was closed—one of the very first large raids. In 2006 a sort of prank was organized on 4chan by a group of Anons to “raid” the Flash game Habbo Hotel. Hundreds of people created black avatars in the game and went around spamming the chat with racist and anti-Semitic nonsense, drawing swastikas and blocking off the pool area in the game, declaring that the, “Pool’s closed due to AIDS.” Why? For laughs. The average age of the userbase for this game was around 15 years old. Then again, the average age of the then Anons was probably the same. There is a lot more to this story, and I encourage you to look it up if you have the time, but the point is that this event eventually lead to 30 seconds in the spotlight on some news outlets. This was the first big event that was attributed to 4chan and Anonymous as a group. It was the first time that most people outside of the depths of the internet had ever even heard of 4chan.
After this, more newfags joined. 4chan grows and the subgroup of /b/tards and /pol/tards that would come be to known more formally as “Anonymous” starts to take shape. All the while, moot is trying to balance what content stays and what content goes. The rest, as they say, is history. You start to see all kind of digital activism being organized on 4chan. Raids turn into DDoS (Distributed denial of service) attacks that shut down websites. People get arrested. Splinter groups form. Anonymous becomes more political. /b/ and /pol/ start to leak out of the internet and into the real world. People start protesting various things, like the Church of Scientology, wearing the iconic mask that the character V wears in the movie V for Vendetta. Logos are created. Anonymous comes into its own as a digital force. The group aligns itself with what DnD players call, “Chaotic Good.” Anons enjoy playing a character that is either an anti-hero or anti-villain. Sometimes Anons will pretend to have some super elite hacker ability, and while that is sometimes true it is mostly embellishment. Some people refer to this as Live Action Role Playing (LARP or LARPing), but it is not quite that. LARPing is when people take their Dungeons and Dragons game to the next level or dress up like Harry Potter characters and roleplay out in the woods. What happens on 4chan is very much a form of roleplaying, but one specifically shaped by the anonymous nature of the platform. I’m going to coin a second term here—Creative Anonymous Role Playing, or CARPing.
Moot continues to run 4chan until 2015. During that time, it gets harder and harder to manage. Anonymous becomes more unruly, and the site starts to spiral. Cyberbulling goes to a whole new level. There are celebrity nude photo leaks. Gamergate. A series of actual murders and killings get posted on 4chan. 4chan didn’t cause them, but that’s where the content ended up living. The site starts to become unmanageable with the old rules in place. Why moot bothered to keep it going I’ll never understand. There was never much money in the site itself and it always seemed like a huge headache. But the site starts to take moderation more seriously as harassment ramps up.
Boards like /pol/ start to get more strict rules. Even /b/ starts to see more and more threads get removed. In 2013, a piece of shit Anon known as “Hotwheels” doesn’t like what’s happening to 4chan and decides to splinter the community and starts 8chan. While moot is trying to wrangle 4chan into something better, Hotwheels goes in the reverse direction and starts empowering (and in some ways, encouraging) harassment with things like Gamergate. 8chan doesn’t remove anything. No morals. Doesn’t matter who gets hurt. Free speech above all.
This stance obviously has consequences. While moot would work with law enforcement, Hotwheels gives them the proverbial middle finger. As a result, all of the bad actors now had a new platform. You see swatting become a popular tactic. More and more violent threats. While moot would work with the FBI to help track down pedophiles and terrorists, Hotwheels decides to relocate the site to Philippines (where the age of consent is 12, mind you). He can barely keep the site running. No one wants to host this content; he can’t even keep the .com anymore because the registrars don’t want to work with him. Hotwheels finds some other shitstain in Manila who runs a pig farm and a porn site designed to get around Japanese pornography laws. They partner up. After three shootings (Christchurch, Poway, and El Paso) in 2019 where the shooters posted their manifesto to 8chan, Hotwheels finally admits the site got away from. The site shut down for a while, but the pig farmer and his son started it back up and rebranded it as 8kun after finding a Russian hosting provider who was willing to host the content. It is now a safe harbor for literally the worst of humanity, and you don’t have to take my word for it. Even Hotwheels himself now advocates for shutting the site down, but the pig farmer and his son have run away with it.
This is where your information comes from. This is where it lives.
Now that you have a better understanding of who is creating this information—your news—it is time. This next part is going to be hard.
You have been bamboozled. QAnon is a hoax. It may well be one of—if not THE—greatest, most pervasive, hoaxes of all time.
How do I know this? Because I am Q. In fact, I am the original Q. One of them, anyway.
This is the point where many will stop reading. You are likely either angry or starting to feel embarrassed. I’m going to ask you to try and put those feelings aside for a moment and keep reading. You have absolutely no reason to feel embarrassed. This isn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong. You got caught in a world you didn’t fully understand and there are people now trying to prey on you at every corner to sell you hats and t-shirts.
If you are willing to go forward, allow me to explain.
What has happened here is what I’m going to call a “Galaxy Quest” moment. There is a lovely movie that came out in 1999 called Galaxy Quest. If you aren’t familiar with it, it’s worth a watch. It’s a family friendly comedy about an advanced alien race who watches a TV show made on Earth called Galaxy Quest. Galaxy Quest is a TV show, but the aliens don’t know it. They refer to the TV show as the, “historical documents.” They built an entire civilization around the historical documents, never realizing it was a TV show. It’s a fun concept. If you haven’t seen it, watch it. Anyway, the aliens weren’t stupid. In fact, they were the furthest thing from stupid as they made all the science fiction from the show come to life (although they are portrayed are dumb for the sake of comedy). The aliens simply did not have the context necessary to understand what they were seeing. They didn’t realize it was fiction. They didn’t know what fiction was. That is what has happened here with QAnon. You have read things on platforms you didn’t fully understand, and you brought your own context and understanding to it. You read fiction as non-fiction and no one has bothered to explain to you how or why this content even exists.
We are going to go back as far as I can remember. I ask that other Anons corroborate what follows, not for me, but for those who are trapped by what has become a truly insidious ideology.
This all starts in the summer of 2016. Someone on /pol/ makes a post pretending to be someone working with “intimate knowledge” of the “Clinton case.” They made a post in the style of an AMA (which stands for Ask Me Anything, a form of Q&A popularized by reddit). This is just another form of CARPing (Creative Anonymous Roleplaying). The first two responses are: “Will the Hillary get Pregnant again?” and “Why are you on 4chan on a Friday night?” This thread almost instantly devolves into what is commonly known as a “shitpost.” It is nonsense. You might say to yourself, “Why would someone go on the internet and tell lies?” Well, this person isn’t really lying, they are shitposting. It is a form of artistic expression. It’s an attempt to get someone to suspend their belief for a few moments. Any seasoned oldfag or /pol/tard knows exactly what this kind of thread is. No one takes this literally.
However, at the time /pol/ is growing. You’ve got new people coming in daily. Much of /pol/ favors Donald Trump, broadly for his trollish nature and memeability, but also for his politics. Months later, someone cites the AMA as the FBI source behind the Pizzagate theory. This finds its way to Twitter. No one actually understands what they are reading, and no one checks the sources. Someone actually thought a months old shitpost on /pol/ was some kind of real leak. Long story short, someone goes into a Comet Ping Pong pizza with an AR-15 and starts shooting. A Friday night shitpost turned into shooting.
Fast forward about six months.
Someone on /b/ posts a depressing green text asking for recommendations on a new cult to join after they found out their girlfriend was cheating. Someone mentions that OP should become a Tibetan monk, because Tibetan Buddhism is a really great cult (e.g. because you can “light yourself on fire if you ever get too depressed OP”). Tibetan Buddhism goes on forever because the Dalia Llama gets reincarnated infinitely, so maybe if you are lucky you get to be him one day. This is the thinking. This isn’t exactly enlighted discussion. I respond suggesting that I have a great new cult that OP can join (which is loosely based on Heaven’s Gate, I’m just making this up on the spot). I had recently listened to a podcast about Heaven’s Gate and I was riffing on it. I loved the absurdity. OP asked for more sauce, but I decided to start a new thread instead.
Warning: This about to get really nerdy.
I started writing some shitposts with pseudo biblical writing, talking about saving humanity. I’m actually more embarrassed about it now than anything, as it was not my finest work. I would refer to “the awakening” as being the time when I would deliver the evidence that would let people “wake up” and realize we were in a simulation. Have you ever seen the Matrix? Yeah, like I said… not my finest work. I signed my posts as Q. Where did Q come from?
Well, initially, because of John de Lancie’s character of Q on Star Trek: The Next Generation. The character of Q was omnipotent and omnipresent. In the show he would speak to Captain Picard of the U.S.S. Enterprise in his own form of strange riddles. Q took a particular interest in humanity as a whole and would appear as a jester-like sort of mix between an anti-hero and anti-villain, always giving Picard hints on how to expand his mind to solve a problem, usually to save all of humanity. So, this was my model.
The goal was to get a few believers and then set a date a few weeks later and reveal “the awakening.” The Awakening was just supposed to copypasta. It was a bamboozle. I was trolling, and I never even finished it because I got bored with it. Most people could see through it (fake and gay) anyway. But someone was watching. Someone who likely called me fag and told me to choke on a bunch of dicks and kill myself was watching.
A few months later I start to see the first “Q” posts, which would eventually be called “Q Drops.” It migrates from /b/ to /pol/. Wow, so original. You took one shit idea from /b/ and made it political. Round of applause.
This person knew exactly what I was doing, not that what I did was that original either. Star Trek is pretty popular among internet nerds. But this is why Q has always talked the way he does. This was the model. This is where Q comes from. The “Q Clearance” stuff that came later is, well… coincidence. But not even a good coincidence because it doesn’t even really make sense, as that is a clearance for the Department of Energy.
The Q from Star Trek also exits as what is known as the “Q Continuum”, where there are other omnipotent beings, and everyone is referred to as Q. This is where the habit of Q referring to himself as “we” comes from. It’s a Star Trek fan, just like me—only one who managed to make a piece of creative anonymous fiction into something political. Likely for lulz at first, because lets be real no one thought it would turn into what it has.
I suspect that Q has been played by many different people over the last couple years as the tripcode has changed, but likely all of them are Star Trek TNG fans. You can really see it in the writing and the constant talk about “humanity.” It’s also possible that the person currently playing Q is the same as the person who was shitposting in my original thread. It doesn’t even matter.
So that’s it. That’s Q. Q eventually moved from 4chan to 8chan and then 8kun. It should be obvious who controls the narrative now. There is nothing truly anonymous or secure about 8kun. We have technologies for that (i.e. tor, torrents, modern cryptography) and 8kun ain’t it. QAnon is the cash cow for the pig farmer and his son in the Philippines who run 8kun, giving a platform to future terrorists and pedophiles. There is a reason for “no outside comms” and “no dates”—control the narrative and keep the machine rolling as long as possible. Why? Money. Between ad revenue and merchandise QAnon is now a profitable venture. Even a broken clock is right twice a day, and eventually you will make some prediction that will feel real enough, even if 99% of everything you say is bullshit, and keep the train running. In fact, it’s much easier than you think.
Take the Twitter account, for example.
In early June I saw a number of trending hashtags around #JFKJRRETURNS. I could not believe the amount of people who were latching onto this. I watched the account go from zero to tens of thousands of followers in a day or so and then disappear. Everyone was saying that Twitter “banned” him. But when Twitter bans an account the language on the page says that the account was suspended. The account page for this account said that “This account doesn’t exist.” That means one of two things: 1) the account holder changed usernames; or 2) the account holder deactivated the account. When you deactivate an account, it puts it into a 30-day limbo period where you can recover it. I thought to myself, “If I could get a hold of this account perhaps I could do some good with it.” I never thought I’d actually be able to do it. Low and behold, thirty days later I went to see if the handle was available and it was. Now I would get to play Q once again.
I just started riffing on whoever was playing Q with the account before me. No idea who that was. The envelopes were just responses from various government departments, nothing more. The postmarks are meaningless. Turns out if you write a letter to a government agency they will respond, and you get some cool looking envelopes. You can try it if you want—pull a FOIA request on yourself. July 22 was a date I pulled out of my ass. HUMAnity and ALl GOod ThiNGs are just more references to Star Trek TNG. The last episode of the show is called All Good Things, hence ALGO TNG. The very first Q Drops on record talk about Huma Abedin, and I thought maybe someone would try to make a connection with, "HUMAnity." The last post from !!Hs1Jq13jV6 also mentioned “humanity”, but I didn’t even make that connection—someone pointed it out to me. It’s really not hard for those coincidences to pop up when you are all playing the same character. Manila, well, you know what that refers to now. St. Augustine is a reference to St. Augustine, Florida, where the largest QAnon merchandise operation is run from. The mentions of Hotwheels, moot and having stairs in my house was my way of gauging if anyone really had any idea about anything. The strange code in my location was just a Google Maps Plus Code. I picked a spot in the middle of the ocean off the Cook Islands and pulled the code for it. Turns out I didn’t even do it right, so it shows a different answer for everyone when you plug it into Google Maps.
So that’s it. That’s the whole thing. Beginning to end. Call it whatever you like, but that’s the story. The story of the chans, of QAnon and how Q became Q. Do with this what you will. Believe or don’t believe, it doesn’t matter.
Maybe this is all 100% true. Maybe it’s all 100% nonsense. Maybe truth is somewhere in the middle. What’s important is that you have more information today than you did yesterday. Where we go from here is a choice, and one I leave to you. What will happen to me? Well, I’ve been at a standing desk for 14 hours straight in order to bring this to you. I have done what I set out to do over three years ago and fulfilled my purpose as Q. My palms are sweaty. My knees are weak, my arms are heavy. It’s starting to fall out of my pockets already.
Mom’s Spaghetti,
QQ
submitted by pumatrax to Qult_Headquarters