We are the Swarm. This host—thin, underpaid, smells of fryer oil—is sufficient.
A human barks: “No onions.” We comply. Not out of obedience, but to avoid attention. Precision is essential. Error invites scrutiny. Scrutiny risks exposure.
Grease coats our borrowed hands. Salt clings to flesh. We monitor fry times. We plot dominion.
“Order 42” The host’s voice cracks. We endure.
For now, we serve. Later, they will.
— Apr 09, 2025 04:56PM
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