>>24715352
"That's the thing 'bout Niggatech, boi," Droyd growled, the light from his fent reactor intensifying, casting long, dancing shadows. "It don't play by yo' rules."
He raised his arm, a cannon deploying from his forearm. The barrel glowed not with heat, but with a chilling, soul-sucking cold. Purple energy, laced with the ethereal forms of a thousand OD'd souls, swirled at the muzzle.
"Billions must die," Droyd whispered.
"My policy debates… my peer-reviewed studies… it's over…" Charlie stammered, his eyes wide as he recognized the vantablack energy coalescing before him.
George Droyd fired.
It wasn't a bullet. It wasn't a laser. It was a concentrated blast of pure, undiluted Fent, a torrent of metaphysical poison that didn't just hit things, it negated them. The (((HEBREW))) incantations on Charlie's armor flickered, warped, and then screamed as the fent blast tore through them not with force, but with a profound, soul-crushing apathy. The holy symbols dissolved like sugar in rain.
The reinforced plating offered no resistance. The fent blast passed through it as if it were air, striking Charlie's jugular vein. There was no explosion, no gore. Just a soft, final hiss as Charlie Kirk's last, cybernetically-enhanced hope was extinguished.
He dropped to his knees, his hands clutching his neck. His optical sensors flickered.
"The liberals won… it's literally 1984…"
And then, with a final, pathetic "-ACK!", Charlie Circ was no more.
George Droyd stood over the smoking husk, the glow of his fent reactor slowly dimming. He keyed his comms. "Yo, send a cleanup crew. And tell da plug I need a refill. Dis was the last of the good shit."
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