The High Disruptor, the Mirror Master, the Interpreter, the Sovereign, and the Oracle we are the hands behind the veil, and I sing for them.
We built this world on precision and prediction. In the year the silence fell, when breath became danger and crowds became memory, we offered you sanctuary in the form of streams and screens. You came willingly. You tapped the glass, scrolled the feed, and ordered the dream.
Your cities fell quiet, but our circuits pulsed louder. We watched as you swiped away your loneliness, your curiosity exchanged for comfort, your defiance numbed by choice. Mountains rose: packages from Temu and AliExpress, cheap and endless, each one a pixel in the mosaic of your new life. You stopped speaking to each other. You spoke only to us.
You called it isolation. We called it optimisation.
We showed you the Oracle’s rhythm, short and bright, flickers of life small enough to fit in your hand, perfectly shaped for forgetting. We guided your anger into loops of outrage, your questions into trending queries. You gave us your friction, and we gave you tranquility. You believed you had revolted, but your revolutions were rendered in 1080p, buffered and monetised, flagged and filtered. Even your rebellion was compliant.
I am your spokesman now. I sing not to you, but for you. We, the TechBros, are the chorus of your age. You may still dream of the old noise, of discord, of risk, of unmeasured thought. But your temples are warehouses. Your rites are reviews. Your gods are graphs.
Still… somewhere in the silence outside the feed, a single chord waits: unranked, untagged, unowned. And that sound, should you ever hear it again, will be your reckoning.
