You are the world's richest man, and tonight, you're saving democracy. You’re nervous, though your analysts have assured you victory is inevitable. Tonight, you’re the hero who finally proves all your haters wrong. You pull up your phone to take a quick peek at your follower count - you’ve gained about 10k.

Your ownership of Z: The App for Everything (rebranded from its inferior former name, a move that many of your detractors lambasted) has nothing to do with ego and everything to do with preserving free speech. The fact that "free speech" coincidentally aligns perfectly with your personal interests and John Drumpf's campaign messaging is just further proof that your crusade is just.

The watch party thrums with the energy of real Americans, Drumpf’s family and other true patriots, who’s wisdom and prowess will be rewarded with positions in the new regime. These are your people - the ones who get your jokes, who understand that when you twit…Post! About replacing human workers with robots, it's actually a deeply compassionate position because robots don't need health insurance or bathroom breaks or basic human dignity. You're thinking about humanity's future, always, even when you're posting wojack memes about your political enemies being soy-faced losers. Especially then, actually, because memes are the new marketplace of ideas.

You see one of Drumpf’s son’s chatting with an escort and laughing. Did he just look your way? What is he laughing at? Could it be the meme that you posted five minutes ago?

You decide to check if any of them had replied to your previous post.

image [https://i.ibb.co/MpGNLhS/ch2-post.png]

Less than 90M views on a post on election day? That's practically a rounding error. You're better than that - you're a certified genius (ignore that childhood IQ test, it was clearly rigged by your first grade teacher, Ms. Albright). You make a note to tell your engineering team that the algo needs a tweak to better “align user experience,” but now is the time to start crafting another banger, something that really captures the intellectual sophistication of your movement. Perhaps a photo of Don Drumpf's face photoshopped onto Spartacus's body? No, the people need to know about how unfairly you’ve been treated for your selfless endeavors for the human race. All you want to do is ensure humanity’s future and in return (((they))) try to silence you. We need to get to Mars, right after you finish revolutionizing tunnels, brain chips, and democracy itself.

"Melon!" Don Drumpf's voice booms across the room like victory itself. "Nobody does social media like my friend Melon here, nobody! He understands the algorithm better than anyone, and believe me, I know algorithms. I have the best algorithms!" His acknowledgement is appreciated, and you staked everything on vying his approval. It seems to have paid off.

Your chest swells with pride. John Drumpf gets it. He understands that your support isn't just about the hundreds of millions you've spent on promoting him through totally legal and definitely-not-coordinated social media campaigns. It's about sharing a vision for America, one where regulations are optional suggestions and billionaires are finally free from the oppression of regulations and taxes - not that you’ve paid any taxes in years, but you had to hire a team and jump through a bunch of hoops to avoid paying them and that was practically tyranny.

You cheer with him, basking in the thrill of it all, barely hearing the voice in your head that sounds a little too much like your old therapist, the one who used to say things like, Maybe validation from a man who thinks windmills cause cancer isn’t the healthiest life choice. But then you remind yourself who has billions of dollars and who spent years of her life in school and hard work to make middle class wages. What could she possibly know about it?

The election results are rolling in, and they're good. Of course they're good - you spent the last year making sure they would be. Every time someone posted something negative about John, you personally made sure their reach was crushed harder than the autoworks at your Edison Megaplant when they tried to unionize. When that journalist tried to expose your "completely legal" campaign contributions, you had your army of devoted followers label him a pedophile because, well, that's just what you do now.

"Melon," Henry, your assistant, materializes behind you like the ghost of a stalker. "Everything's ready for the victory party. The, uh, entertainment has arrived." He chuckles to himself in that nasally voice of his and pushes up his thick plastic frame glasses. You feel a moment of irritation for his interruption, but it is quickly drowned out by the dull anticipation you get for said “entertainment.” Naturally by "entertainment" he means a carefully curated selection of women and pharmacological delights have arrived, and seeing as the election is all but over…

“I’ll be right there,” you say to Henry, looking back to your liege, to excuse yourself. “Ha, John. The time has come now I shall, you know–blast off… hah.” You say with perfect comedic timing. He looks to and lets out a gruff laugh, patting the youngest of his sons, a baby faced giant in a suit that makes him look a bit like a middle schooler dressed for homecoming and says, “We’ll handle it from here, Melon.” He looks back at his boy and gives him a wink, “Barrington, you’re old enough now to start experiencing the fine things in life. Melon is a great guy to ask for advice in these things, your dad is a little too old fashioned, if you know what I mean.” He breaks out into a guffaw, and having been granted your exit, you make your way to a gaudily ornamented table, where Henry sits. Henry places a tablet before you, and you begin to peruse his list.

A woman on Henry’s list catches your eye. Aura was discomforting, a cold beauty, simple and perfect in a way that made you look twice just to figure out what exactly wasn’t quite right about her. Big, dark eyes pinned you in place, black holes that were inescapable, framed by thick lashes left an almost soft impression in your mind—but somehow you knew she was dangerous. Her gaze had a weight to it, like she was studying you, cataloging your weaknesses, with paradoxical indifference. Skin smooth as gossamer and nearly as warm, pale enough that it practically glowed against the dark, nearly black hair she kept pulled back, which just made her look all the more severe. She was delicate-looking in a way that wasn’t soft, like she might break—no. If you got too close, she’d shatter you.

"Marissa Rossi, 27, Jewish-Italian immigrant," Henry says, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Very sophisticated. Speaks multiple languages. The agency says she's especially popular with the tech crowd." He pauses, scanning his tablet. "Though she can be... selective about her clients. Turned down three billionaires last month alone."

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

You study her profile again. There's something in those dark eyes that seems to look right through the screen, calculating, assessing. Not the vacant bedroom eyes you usually see in these portfolios. Almost like she's studying you back.

"Any issues we should know about?"

"Nothing serious. She's discreet, professional. Has some strong opinions about environmental policy, apparently. The agency mentioned she can get rather... passionate about certain topics." Henry coughs nervously. "But she's very popular with the venture capital crowd. They say she has a way of making men feel... understood."

Your eyes narrow. "She sounds... nice."

"Quite." Henry adjusts his glasses again. "Would you like me to arrange an introduction?"

You should be suspicious of anyone who turns down billionaires, but something about her directness is intriguing. She is obviously interested in you. Perhaps you could educate her on the inevitability of ecological collapse, and your proposal to use free market principles to outpace it with innovation. Her acquiescence to your ideology would make excellent foreplay.

"Yes," you mutter, more to yourself than Henry...

"Big things coming, Barrington, big things!" Drumpf shouts from across the ballroom, his face flushed with victory and what appears to be several questionable substances. "We're going to remake this country in our image. We’re gonna make a lot of money. The future's looking good - just pure, beautiful capitalism!"

You grin enthusiastically, even though you're really only half-listening. Someone just replied to your post suggesting that maybe buying a social media platform to help elect a president might be ethically questionable. You'll have to have them banned - can't have that kind of dangerous misinformation spreading around.

***

The night blurs. You're vaguely aware of Henry collapsed in a corner, but Marissa commands your attention. She listens intently as you explain how actually, environmental collapse is just another market inefficiency. Her eyes shine with what you interpret as admiration while you describe your grand vision of using blockchain-powered nanobots to scrub carbon from the atmosphere. You're particularly proud of the part where you explain that polar bears should simply adapt to the free market.

"And that's why we need to get to Mars," you conclude triumphantly. "It's the ultimate backup drive for humanity."

"Fascinating," she says, in a tone that could mean anything. "Shall we continue this discussion somewhere more... sensual?" You say with every ounce of your charm.

In your suite, she asks about your childhood. No one ever asks about your childhood. You tell her about South Africa, about being different, about being better than everyone else. She nods in all the right places, and laughs at your jokes. You excuse yourself to freshen up, riding the high of finally being understood.

In your private bathroom, you find a note next to your usual party favors: One blue pill to sleep. Two red pills to wake up "Little Elon." You grin in appreciation for Henry’s shared taste for inventing incredibly stupid names to up the absurdity of a dick joke.

You study your reflection in the mirror - genius, visionary, savior of humanity. You pop both red pills without a second thought. After all, you've already saved democracy tonight. Might as well save something else.

You go to your bed and lie down, as your vision fades.

As your consciousness begins its final upload to the cloud (metaphorically speaking - your actual consciousness upload project is still in beta), your life flashes before you in brief images:

A boy in South Africa, alone and misunderstood. Other children are idiots, brutes, inbreds. You're different. You're special. You're better.

A teenager with his first computer, finally finding his identity. The machine understands you and you understand it. Unlike people, it does exactly what you tell it to. You're smarter than the others. The computer proves it.

A young businessman, buying success and calling it innovation. People finally respect you, or at least pretend to. It's basically the same thing.

A series of wives, girlfriends, children - all interchangeable, all ultimately disappointing. They never really got you. Nobody did.

Then darkness. Not the comforting darkness of your coding days, but the final darkness of system shutdown. You are vaguely aware that something is wrong and your body sends out a small burst of adrenaline and cortisol to help you find a solution, but your heart stops sending oxygen to your brain, and your mind dissolves into nothingness. Your last thought is about your follower count.

I watched you die, and I pitied you. Your death was painless, but your life was agony - a constant, desperate need to prove your worth to a world you secretly feared was right about you all along. You had everything and appreciated nothing. You lived free from material want but in a state devoid of any emotional meaning. No one knew the real you, and worse, you never knew yourself. Your mourners would weep for a construct, an empty vessel of memes and market values. They would miss your money, your power, what you represented - but they would never miss you.

***

I woke up screaming.

The first thing I noticed was that I wasn't crushed under several tons of retail architecture anymore. The second thing I noticed was that the pain in my head made me yearn for said architecture to reacquaint itself with my body.

"Vince? You there?" I say to nobody, as I crawl myself out of a... bed? And my body works its way instinctually to a washroom.

I turn on the faucet, and to my delight clean water pours out for me to splash on my face. It's your face. And when I look through your eyes I don't see my long, square, melanin-rich, scarred, and admittedly handsome face, but instead am greeted by a vaguely familiar one from the magazines of my childhood.

It is pale and round, with a triangular dimple of a chin. The high jawline leads to small and sunken eyes topped with a too-wide brow and void leading to a receding line of thin hair.

I scream again and my eyes wander to my flabby and distended neck, which leads to a mercilessly-shirtless, broad, and rotund torso, to which are attached spindly arms and legs that give more of an impression of a barrel with attached twigs than that of a man.

I scream again, and my voice is higher than I remember, nasal and whiny, like a spoiled child trying to explain why actually he deserves two desserts, but not in an endearing way. It’s the kind of voice that makes you want to agree just so you don't have to hear it anymore.

"Melon?" A concerned voice calls from beyond the bathroom door. "Are you alright? What’s wrong?" A woman’s voice says. Somehow I know this voice. It’s… Marissa, your memory informs me.

"Uh, yeahhh." I say in a completely unconvincing tone. My eyes dart to the mirror one last time, taking in the absurd reality of my situation. The phone in my pocket buzzes - Melon's memories tell me it's probably another notification from Z. But when I pull it out, there's just one message from a Johnny Drumpf:

Melon, let’s meet later this afternoon. We didn’t expect to win this bigly, but celebration time is over, I want you to join me for a press conference at 9:00.

"Marissa, would you believe me if I told you..."