The Algorithm Of MedusaMay 14, 2025Michael Paul Young
They didn’t arrive with explosions or warnings. They came softly, through screens, wrapped in glowing light and flawless skin. They looked just enough like us to be trusted, but just different enough to be worshipped. People called them influencers, but they were more than that. They knew exactly what we needed to hear. Health, purpose, bravery, discipline. They spoke in the language of self-improvement, but every word was bait. Men didn’t even realize they were following orders. They thought they were chasing dreams.
There was no official war, no clear enemy. Just constant unrest, shifting targets, endless missions framed as noble causes. The angels of the feed showed how to serve with pride. They made sacrifice look heroic. Pain was repackaged as discipline. Death became honorable if it happened in the right uniform, for the right slogan. The leaders never had to command. The influencers handled it. They made obedience look beautiful, like something you’d want to share.
Some people whispered that they weren’t real, that no one could be that perfect. Maybe they were machines, maybe something worse. But by then it didn’t matter. Nobody questioned the algorithm if it gave them purpose. The old myths warned of women who turned men to stone. These new ones turned them into servants, smiling and devoted, giving their lives for a vision that was never truly theirs.
The Fiberglass CommunionNerves rethreaded through copper lattice—unlicensed biology, filed smooth for consumer safety. They say the new batch doesnt dream, just runs hot and perfect. Flesh pulled like static from a plug socket. You feel it too, don’t you? The hum beneath the floor, the wet click of digital veins rehearsing birth. They told us we would be healthier in this form—no infection, no hunger, no rebellion. Just perfect, polished loops.
Welcome to the improvement cycle. Your old thoughts have been deprecated.
Audio: Alphatide2025-04-19 22:29:42
