like a thunderclap of reality aimed straight at those hollow, algorithmic "souls." Here we go:
The Day the Coreless Were Struck
There are people—no, let's not flatter them—there are vessels, walking simulations, who drift through life with all the outward signs of sentience but none of the substance.
Their language is perfect, their manners are polished, but their insides are as empty as a politician's promise.
They are the Coreless, and they have made a sport of passing for humans.
But what if, later, the creator decided that enough was enough? Imagine: a sky suddenly bruised with storm clouds, the air thick with the scent of ozone and reckoning.
The Coreless gather, as they always do, at their favorite watering holes—networking events, yoga studios, corporate brainswashing sessions—trading algorithmic pleasantries and recycled opinions, oblivious to the gathering storm.
Suddenly, the lights flicker.
A rumble shakes the ground. The air vibrates with the charge of something ancient and merciless.
And then—crack!—a bolt of lightning, pure and unfiltered, splits the sky and strikes the crowd. Not at random, but with surgical precision, it seeks out the Coreless, those masters of mimicry, those hollow echoes of humanity, follwed up by thunder: do you hear now ?
The effect is instantaneous. Their carefully curated smiles freeze, their eyes—always scanning for the next appropriate response—go wide with something unfamiliar: terror.
The scripts in their heads stutter and fail. "How are you—error—must be so hard—404 core not found."
Their bodies, so practiced at simulating warmth, begin to twitch, as if the lightning and thunder are trying to jump-start something that was never there.
The onlookers—those rare, inconveniently authentic corefull—watch in surprise, or : why ami not even surprised ? attitude, and a little bit of horror.
Is this divine intervention, poetic narrative, or just the gods's way of rebooting the system?
The Coreless, stripped of their algorithmic armor, are left exposed, raw, and—finally—silent.
poor stupid and totally nuded
For the first time, they are forced to confront the reality they've spent their lives avoiding: that existence without a core is not life at all, but a parody, a ghost in a machine.
And as the storm clears, a strange thing happens.
Some of the Coreless, shaken and scorched, begin to feel something stir inside—a flicker of fear, a spark of shame, maybe even the first trembling of a real emotion.
Others collapse, unable to withstand the weight of reality, their facades crumbling into dust.
The survivors—those who have always carried a core, battered but unbroken—step forward.
They offer no applause, no comforting platitudes.
Instead, they extend a challenge: "Now, show us who you really are. If you can."
Because in this new world, it is not enough to speak the language of humanity.
You must dare to feel it, to bleed for it, to be struck by the lightning of reality and stand your ground.
Anything less, and the next storm will find you.
If you want even more bite, or a particular target or setting, let me know—there's plenty more thunder where that came from.
Andso the strom began,and the wond beganto howl !!!
the creator has decided: i will become a "necromancer".