Vought International Public Relations and Brand Management Department.
The entire floor was plunged into a calm, efficient frenzy.
There was nothing here but the dense sound of keyboard clacking and Motoko Kusanagi's orders.
"Follow up on the daily news front page, use the headline 'Hero or Thug' to guide reader discussion."
"Fox News, arrange for three commentators with stances of sympathizing with the artist, condemning the violence, and questioning the lack of regulation on superpowered individuals."
"Occupy all trending topics on our own website, keywords: #SuperpoweredTerroristOrganization#, #AwakenedThreatTheory#, #ProtectOurChildren#."
Motoko Kusanagi's voice reached the ears of the lead for every node.
To her, the entire public opinion arena was nothing more than a sandbox that could be precisely manipulated.
"Anonymously leak the criminal record of 'Iron-Fist,' real name Carlos Rodriguez, who has been imprisoned three times for violent assault, to The Sun."
"And that guy who can spit gold teeth, check his tax issues."
"Yes, every single one. Completely rebrand them from 'victims' to 'criminals'."
Under her command, a massive net tightened around the Awakened Mutual Aid Society, an organization already loose in nature, before beginning to strangle it.
They were no longer "Awakened," but a "Superpowered Terrorist Organization."
Their rescue operation was defined as a premeditated "terrorist attack."
Eight o'clock in the evening, prime time.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter, appearing as a specially hired forensic psychology expert for Vought International, showed up on the highest-rated talk show in the U.S.
He wore a perfectly pressed charcoal grey suit, his face wearing a scholarly gentleness.
"Dr. Hannibal Lecter, many people cannot understand why The Deconstructionist would respond in such an extreme way?"
Dr. Hannibal Lecter crossed his fingers on his lap, leaned forward slightly, and looked at the camera with sincere eyes.
"We must first clarify one point."
His voice was calm and magnetic, carrying a power that soothed the heart.
"Mr. Adrian Dubois, before becoming The Deconstructionist, was a genius architect, a husband and father who deeply loved his wife and daughter."
"His World turned to dust along with the opera house he designed himself, in a disaster caused by out-of-control powers."
"His behavior is not extreme, but an artistic expression of post-traumatic stress disorder."
"Artistic expression?" The host seized upon this phrase.
"Yes." Dr. Hannibal Lecter nodded slightly.
"He projected his pain and sorrow onto that steel and cement."
"And those twelve intruders, in their own perception, were executing some form of 'justice.' But in Mr. Adrian Dubois's perception, they were desecrators, thugs who broke into his late wife's memorial hall."
"That tombstone is not intimidation, nor is it a show of force."
Dr. Hannibal Lecter's voice lowered, carrying compassion.
"It was an act of desperate self-defense. It was a broken soul using the only way he knew how to erect a 'Do Not Disturb' sign in front of his own sacred ground."
The image of a tragic artist driven to the edge by thugs leapt off the page.
The Awakened Mutual Aid Society, meanwhile, was thoroughly equated with violence, barbarism, and loss of control.
The forum of the Awakened Mutual Aid Society had completely fallen.
What was pinned to the top was no longer the philosophical prophecies of the "Prophet."
The tragic state of Iron-Fist and the others was plastered on the headlines.
Below, scrolling insults and abuse piled up.
"Liar! Coward! You killed them!"
"If you hadn't kept stopping us, we would have recruited that artist as one of our own long ago!"
"God-slayer? You can't even protect your own companions!"
The "Prophet" became the venting outlet for all the anger and failure.
Internal suspicion and infighting were more lethal than the condemnation from the outside World.
"Avenge Iron-Fist!"
"Kill that monster!"
"The Prophet must be held responsible for this!"
They blamed the sacrifice of Iron-Fist and the others entirely on the Prophet's weakness and inaction.
Just then, a thin, small figure crawled out from a dark pipe, scrambling and stumbling until it reached the "Prophet."
It was Rat.
He was soaked through, his face full of terror.
"A trap... it's a trap!"
His voice was shrill, laced with a crying tone.
"I sent my children to... to those ruins..."
"There... there was no pain, no hatred, none of the aura that a victim should have..."
Rat gasped violently, his small eyes filled with unspeakable fear.
"Only... high-and-mighty destruction!"
A burst of harsh laughter rang out.
"Enough, Rat! Have you been scared out of your wits just like this charlatan?"
A tall, burly radical member stepped out, electric sparks crackling on his palms.
"We only believe our own eyes! Carlos and the others are dead! Dead at the hands of that so-called artist! This grudge must be avenged!"
"That's right! Revenge!"
"The Prophet must be held responsible!"
The radical members began to close in, their weapons aimed at their former companions.
Rat stood in front of the Prophet, screaming in despair: "You're crazy! This is a trap set by those bastards! They want us to kill each other!"
"Get lost! You cowardly mouse!"
The man playing with the electric sparks shoved Rat aside.
He stared fixedly at the figure in the corner who remained silent.
"Where are your prophecies? Where is your plan?!"
"You only know how to hide in the shadows and recite your nonsensical poetry!"
He approached step by step, his emotions completely out of control.
"Because of your weakness, the brothers are dead!!"
The Prophet raised his head, his gaze piercing through the darkness of the tunnel to look at the unreachable surface World.
So, it was like this...
He had always thought that he was holding up a torch in the darkness, trying to lead a group of lost lambs toward the light.
But in the end, he realized.
What he was leading was nothing more than a group of bloodthirsty Beasts.
The torch failed to illuminate the path forward; instead, it ignited the madness in their bones.
The Deconstructionist was right, too.
He had seen the essence of it all.
And himself—he, who tried to use ideals, order, and "mutual aid" to fight against instinct—was the most ridiculous and naive one of all.
"Speak!" The burly man roared, slamming a fist toward the Prophet!
"Stop!"
"Protect the Prophet!"
The Prophet's supporters finally reacted, roaring as they rushed forward, grappling with the radicals.
Various out-of-control superpowers collided recklessly in the narrow tunnel.
The former "Mutual Aid Society" had turned into a bloody gladiator arena.
The Prophet leaned against the wall, watching the ugly scene of internecine slaughter before him, listening to the Beast-like roars of those who once called him "Leader."
An unprecedented realization washed over him.
He was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Vought International didn't need schemes or tricks.
They only needed to give a gentle push, and this sandcastle built from the anger and despair of the bottom-dwellers would crumble from within on its own.
Because sand, is always sand.
The Prophet suddenly let out an ugly smile.
"So... I am the one... the most pathetic Joker of them all."
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