[SYSTEM STATUS: PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE - LEVEL OMEGA]
[LOCATION: THE NATIONAL MALL - WASHINGTON D.C.]
[STATUS: THE FINAL INSULT]
The White House stood like a bleached skull in the center of a graveyard. It was no longer the seat of power—it was a museum of a dead religion. Dante Vane looked at it from the top of the Lincoln Memorial, but he wasn't there to reclaim it. He was there to desecrate it using the most volatile social explosives in the history of the American experiment.
"Identity is the ultimate cage, Sia," Dante said, his voice cold as the marble of Lincoln's chair. "The government spent two centuries teaching people to hate each other based on the shade of their skin and the ghosts of their ancestors. I'm not going to fix that. I'm going to weaponize it until the system chokes on its own bile."
Beside him, a massive wall of speakers—a monolith of sonic power—towered over the reflecting pool. On the screens, a figure appeared: a digital avatar of a man who had once been a king of culture, now a symbol of pure, unhinged provocation. Dante had retrieved the "Ye" archives—the forbidden frequencies of a mind that had dared to touch the third rail of history.
"You're playing 'Hither'," Sia whispered, her hands trembling. "Dante... if you broadcast this... you aren't just starting a riot. You're tearing the fabric of reality. The historical guilt, the racial trauma... it's too much."
"That's the point, Sia," Dante replied, his eyes fixed on the White House. "I want the government to watch as the very people they've spent centuries marginalizing march on their temple, not for justice, but for spite. I want them to see the ultimate 'glitch' in their social contract."
The "Ye" Movement: The Sonic Insurrection
Dante pressed a button on his console.
Suddenly, the air didn't just vibrate; it shattered. The speakers roared with a distorted, bass-heavy anthem—a remix of "Hither" that blended industrial noise with the chanting of a million voices. It was a frequency designed to trigger Primal Aggression.
Dante had spent weeks using Subliminal Priming on the "New Vanguard"—an army he had raised from the most disenfranchised urban centers of America. He had fed them a narrative that combined the radical aesthetics of the far-right with the deep-seated grievances of the black experience. He created a movement so contradictory, so offensive, and so chaotic that the media's old labels—"Left" or "Right"—simply melted away.
"Look at them," Dante said, pointing down the Mall.
A mass of humanity, tens of thousands strong, marched toward the White House. They wore black tactical gear emblazoned with a twisted hybrid of the Star of David and the Swastika—a visual paradox designed to paralyze the brain's ability to categorize. They weren't shouting for civil rights. They were shouting for The End.
The Machiavellian Mockery: The "Disgrace Parade"
The White House security—the last remnants of the Secret Service—stood behind the iron fences, their rifles shaking. They didn't know who to shoot. How do you shoot a crowd that is screaming the very things the elites have been terrified of for eighty years?
Dante leaned into the microphone, his voice broadcasted to the entire world.
"Behold the 'Great Experiment'!" Dante mocked, his voice dripping with Satanic Wit. "You told these people they lived in a land of the free, while you kept them in the 'Industries' we built in Chapter 10. You fed them the 'Soma-X.' And now, they've come to thank you. They've adopted the very symbols of hate you used to keep them in fear, and they are using them to decorate your lawn."
As the crowd reached the fences, they didn't just climb. They began to dismantle the fence with their bare hands, fueled by the "Ye" frequencies pulsing through their veins.
"Stop them!" a voice screamed from the White House balcony—it was the acting Press Secretary, a man who looked like he was about to vomit.
Dante's image appeared on the giant screens. "Why stop them? This is the 'Progress' you promised. They have finally achieved total unity—unity in the desire to see you burn. They don't want your laws. They want your scars."
The Destruction of the Temple
The crowd surged forward. They didn't use bombs. They used Contempt. They began to spray-paint the white marble with the names of the "Dirty Industries" Dante had exposed. They hung effigies of every president from the portico, but they weren't dressed as politicians—they were dressed as Blackstone shareholders.
Dante watched as a young man climbed to the top of the roof and tore down the American flag, replacing it with a plain black banner that simply read: [VOID].
"This is the ultimate Machiavellian move, Sia," Dante whispered. "I have made the government irrelevant by making their enemies unrecognizable. They can't call this a 'Race War' because the sides are too confused. They can't call it a 'Coup' because there is no leader to arrest. It is just The Art of the Grudge."
He looked at the burning building, the orange flames licking the pillars that had stood for two centuries.
"America didn't end with a bang or a whimper," Dante said, turning his back on the destruction. "It ended with a Remix. It ended when the people finally realized that the only thing more profitable than their labor... was their hatred."
He walked back into the shadows of the Lincoln Memorial, leaving the cradle of democracy to be looted by the very children it had abandoned.
[VIRAL METER: SYSTEM CRITICAL - MORALITY NOT FOUND]
[STATUS: THE ULTIMATE JOKE]