>Arrow soi

[ILoveVesna]

Here's a brief comparison of the websites based on their typical usage, themes, and community engagement:

### 1. **soyjak.party**
- **Theme**: Primarily a meme-oriented imageboard centered around "Soyjak" and related memes.
- **Content**: Focuses on user-generated content, including memes, discussions, and trolling. It's known for its mix of humor, internet culture references, and often controversial material.
- **Community**: Tends to attract a niche audience that enjoys meme culture and online trolling. The discussions and posts can be satirical, often targeting specific online subcultures.
- **Tone**: Can be chaotic and irreverent. The content is often intentionally absurd and offensive to provoke reactions.

### 2. **jakparty.soy**
- **Theme**: Similar to soyjak.party, with a focus on the "Jak" meme and its derivatives.
- **Content**: Another meme-sharing platform, but with a slightly different spin on the Soyjak phenomenon. Users post various forms of memes, images, and ironic commentary.
- **Community**: Overlaps with soyjak.party but has its own dedicated user base. The content might be more specific to "Jak" memes rather than broader internet culture.
- **Tone**: Ironic and meme-centric, often driven by inside jokes within the community.

### 3. **booru.soy**
- **Theme**: A booru-style imageboard specifically dedicated to "Soyjak" and related memes.
- **Content**: Acts more like an archive of Soyjak images, allowing users to upload, tag, and search for specific variants of the meme.
- **Community**: Geared towards meme archivists and those who want to find or contribute to a growing collection of Soyjak variants.
- **Tone**: Less chaotic than the imageboard counterparts, as it's more focused on categorizing and collecting content rather than discussion.

### 4. **soyjak.wiki**
- **Theme**: A wiki dedicated to documenting the history, lore, and variations of the Soyjak meme.
- **Content**: Contains detailed entries about different Soyjak versions, the history of the meme, notable users, and cultural significance.
- **Community**: Appeals to those who want to understand the context behind the memes. Often, this includes longtime fans of the meme or those deeply engaged in meme culture.
- **Tone**: Informational with a focus on humor and irony, often treating meme history with both seriousness and absurdity.

### 5. **soygem.party**
- **Theme**: Likely related to the Soyjak meme, but potentially focused on a different sub-niche or userbase, though it is less widely known compared to the others.
- **Content**: Unknown or speculative. This may either be a smaller imageboard, meme-sharing platform, or a more experimental offshoot of the other Soyjak-related sites.
- **Community**: Likely smaller and more niche compared to the larger boards like soyjak.party.
- **Tone**: Speculative without more direct content examples, but it would likely follow the meme-driven humor seen on related sites.

### Overall Comparison:
- **Community**: All these sites revolve around meme-sharing, but some (like soyjak.party and jakparty.soy) focus more on discussion and engagement, while others (like booru.soy and soyjak.wiki) act more as archives or documentation.
- **Tone**: While all sites share a humorous and often irreverent tone, the imageboards tend to be more chaotic and provocative, while the wiki and booru are more structured and informational.
- **Content**: The content overlaps significantly across the sites, with a focus on meme culture, but the way it is presented (discussion vs. archiving) differs.

Do you want a deeper dive into any one of these sites or a more specific aspect of their content?

 

[ILoveVesna]

Here's a comparison of soyjak.party and 4chan.org:
Content:

• Soyjak.party: Known for its extreme negativity and hateful content. It harbors a community with views that are racist, homophobic, transphobic, and neo-nazi. They use a specific meme image, the "soyjak," to mock their targets.
• 4chan.org: This imageboard is known for its anonymous and often offensive content. While it has various boards with different focuses (gaming, anime, etc.), some, like /b/, are notorious for trolling, dark humor, and offensive content. However, the level of hate speech and organization isn't as concentrated as on soyjak.party.

Community:

• Soyjak.party: A smaller, tightly knit community known for its hateful ideology. They actively engage in online harassment and doxxing (revealing personal information) of those they disagree with.
• 4chan.org: A much larger and more diverse community. While some boards are full of trolls and negativity, others can be surprisingly wholesome and focused on specific interests. Anonymity fosters a sense of anything-goes culture, but there's less focus on organized hate speech.

Overall Tone:

• Soyjak.party: Extremely toxic and hateful.
• 4chan.org: Generally negative and often offensive, but can vary depending on the board. Some boards can even be surprisingly positive.

Additional Points:

• Soyjak.party: This site is considered highly offensive and may be illegal in some regions due to its content.
• 4chan.org: While controversial, it generally stays within legal boundaries.

In short:

• 4chan is the unruly internet friend who makes bad jokes, while soyjak.party is the bully who actively seeks to hurt others.

Entering either site is not recommended, especially if you are sensitive to offensive content.

 

[Soygoy]

where you getting this shit from?

 

[ILoveVesna]

where you getting this shit from?

first is gpt4 prompt
second is g*mini prompt (inferior niggertech subhuman ai)

 

[Soygoy]

If using these sites makes me a neo nazi hateful person I don't wanna use them
ChatGPT needs to add in a clause specifically for me that reads "Everyone who uses these sites are evil toxic neo nazis except for Soygoy, who is a harmless autistic man who just wants to make friends with everyone "

 

[ILoveVesna]

**The Fall of Soygoy: A Tale from Soyjak.blog**

Soygoy had always prided himself on his dedication to Soyjak.blog, the obscure offshoot of Soyjak.party, a chaotic and strange internet forum known for its bizarre memes, inside jokes, and niche subcultures. Soygoy’s reputation on the site was infamous, particularly among the more unsavory corners, where his extreme views—fueled by a toxic mix of irony and genuine hate—began to fester. He was the self-proclaimed king of a small, fringe group of users who had twisted the platform’s chaotic meme culture into something darker.

Soygoy saw himself as a champion of what he called "traditional values" in the most twisted sense. He spammed thread after thread with images of deranged Soyjaks and Wojaks, spouting his hateful ideology, veiling it behind layers of irony so that no one could tell when he was being serious—or when he was merely trolling. At first, the user base laughed it off. After all, the culture of Soyjak.blog thrived on absurdity and the freedom to say things that mainstream sites wouldn’t tolerate.

But Soygoy went further than anyone expected, deeper into his own twisted rabbit hole. He started organizing raids against other forums and Discord servers, often dragging his fellow users into his schemes, sending waves of Soyjaks along with Nazi symbolism to unsuspecting communities. His posts became increasingly aggressive, riddled with slurs, and he alienated even the most tolerant corners of the Soyjak.blog community. Despite the forum's chaotic, anything-goes nature, even the moderators had their limits.

His downfall began when he launched a campaign to flood the site with Nazi Wojaks—a mashup that combined the site’s favored meme format with imagery that made even his fellow users uncomfortable. He began calling out other users, accusing them of being "traitors" or "Jewish shills" if they didn’t join in. The mods watched nervously from the shadows, reluctant to intervene but realizing they had to do something. The chaos of Soyjak.blog was one thing, but Soygoy was taking it too far.

Then came the incident that sealed his fate.

In one particularly unhinged rant, Soygoy leaked personal information about another user—someone who had criticized him and called his posts “fedposting” in an effort to get him banned. It was the ultimate breach of the unspoken rules, where anonymity was sacred. This was too far, even for Soyjak.blog, a place notorious for pushing the boundaries of online culture.

The moderators, a ragtag group of individuals who normally did nothing, were forced to take action. They held a brief, chaotic discussion behind the scenes, where even the most lenient of them agreed that Soygoy was a danger to the site. His presence had grown from a mere annoyance to a legitimate threat to the very thing that Soyjak.blog stood for: unrestrained but *meaningless* chaos, not targeted harassment or outright hate.

One fateful night, without warning, Soygoy logged in to find himself locked out of his account. His threads were deleted, his posts scrubbed from existence as if he had never been there at all. A simple message greeted him when he tried to re-enter the site:

**“Soygoy, you have been banned for doing too much.”**

The phrasing, so absurd in its simplicity, was both an insult and a final joke at his expense. In the world of Soyjak.blog, it was an ignominious end. To be banned for “doing too much” on a site where almost anything went was both a badge of dishonor and a humiliation that he couldn’t bear.

But Soygoy didn’t give up easily. He tried to rally his small group of followers, but most of them had moved on, too caught up in their own spirals of ironic detachment to care about him anymore. Soygoy found himself adrift in the vast ocean of the internet, with no place to call his own. He tried to return under different usernames, but each time, the mods would sniff him out and ban him again—sometimes within minutes.

In the end, Soygoy was exiled to the furthest, most obscure corners of the internet, places even less relevant than Soyjak.blog. He found himself on smaller, even more isolated forums where his presence barely registered. The memes he had once spammed with reckless abandon now felt hollow. The endless cycle of hate and irony had finally caught up with him, and he realized, perhaps too late, that even in a world as absurd as Soyjak.blog, there were still limits.

And for Soygoy, the line had been crossed.

 

[Soygoy]

fucking obsessed

 

[ILoveVesna]

FPE can have several meanings depending on the context:
In cryptography:

• Format-Preserving Encryption: This is a type of encryption that ensures the ciphertext (encrypted data) has the same format as the plaintext (original data). This is useful when data needs to be encrypted while maintaining its original structure, such as credit card numbers or social security numbers.

In engineering:

• Fire Protection Engineer: This is a professional who specializes in designing and implementing fire protection systems for buildings and structures. They work to prevent fires and minimize their impact.

In medicine:

• Flash Pulmonary Edema: This is a condition where fluid rapidly accumulates in the lungs, often caused by heart failure or other underlying medical conditions.

In electronics:

• Floating-Point Exception: This is an error that occurs in computer programs when a floating-point arithmetic operation produces a result that is outside the range of representable numbers.

In other contexts:

• Force Protection Europe: A vehicle manufacturer.
• Fokker-Planck Equation: A partial differential equation used in statistical mechanics and physics.
• Free-Piston Engine: A type of internal combustion engine without a crankshaft.
• Fuchs Petrolub: A German lubricant manufacturer.
• Fuel Price Escalator: A British fuel duty.
• Pichinglis: An English creole spoken in Equatorial Guinea.

If you can provide more context about how FPE is being used, I can give you a more specific answer.

 

[ILoveVesna]

In the year 2045, long after the world thought the dark chapters of the 20th century were forever closed, something unexpected and bizarre occurred. Deep beneath a crumbling bunker in the Bavarian Alps, a secret laboratory once used by Nazi scientists lay dormant for decades. It was a facility dedicated to projects too insane and cruel even for wartime, sealed away by the victors after World War II. But as time passed, humanity forgot what was buried.

A group of reckless treasure hunters stumbled across the bunker and unknowingly activated a hidden mechanism—an ancient experiment from a madman's dream. The lights flickered, machines whirred, and from the depths of a rusted metal pod, a strange, cobbled-together machine started to rise.

The experiment was a grotesque merging of a human consciousness with a machine body. However, the Nazi scientists hadn't envisioned a body of sleek steel or terrifying weaponry; no, the process malfunctioned and created something absurd. The consciousness of Adolf Hitler himself was uploaded into the most humiliating and bizarre form imaginable: a Skibidi Toilet.

The toilet—a horrific parody of humanity—wheeled its way across the bunker floor. A porcelain bowl with a hideous, shrunken head on top, a twisted version of the dictator’s face peering out with confusion and hatred. The absurdity of his fate was clear, but to Hitler’s consciousness, none of this mattered. He was back, and he had a mission.

Hitler, now a Skibidi Toilet, soon found the bunker was not as abandoned as it seemed. The treasure hunters had inadvertently triggered a full reboot of the lab’s systems, and robotic guardians began to stir. The Skibidi Toilet, despite its awkward and laughable form, was equipped with basic mobility, a speaker system through which it could give commands, and—to its eternal dismay—musical tunes it couldn’t control. Everywhere it went, nonsensical, upbeat music played, blaring out a Skibidi dance track.

Determined to reclaim his place in history, the Skibidi Hitler scuttled his way out of the bunker, only to find himself in a world that no longer recognized him. He attempted to rally what he could—a few malfunctioning robots and ancient mechanical soldiers, but even they malfunctioned in his presence, confused by his humiliating new form.

As he rolled down a busy street in modern-day Berlin, the citizens stopped and stared at the ridiculous, dancing, Skibidi toilet with Hitler’s face, unsure whether it was a poorly conceived prank or some misguided art installation. Every attempt to speak was drowned out by the Skibidi track. He tried to assert dominance, to reclaim power, but only succeeded in making himself the butt of the world's most surreal joke.

Despite the absurdity, remnants of far-right groups, intrigued by this bizarre spectacle, attempted to rally around the Skibidi Hitler. However, as the figurehead they once revered now waddled in porcelain, spouting garbled orders and uncontrollably dancing to the Skibidi tune, they, too, were left disillusioned. His followers dwindled and laughed him off as nothing more than a cursed relic of history, forever trapped in his ridiculous new body.

In the end, the former dictator, who once sought to reshape the world in his image, became nothing more than a meme. Skibidi Hitler became an internet sensation for all the wrong reasons—an eternal reminder of how the most terrifying figure of the 20th century had been reduced to a dancing toilet, forever looping through his nonsensical humiliation, a fitting end for someone who sought to impose madness on the world.

And so, Hitler, the Skibidi Toilet, became a part of history’s most ironic twist—a symbol of the absurdity of hate and the ultimate downfall of tyranny into the realm of utter farce.

 

[ILoveVesna]

**Title: In the Rabbit Hole**

Ethan Marks leaned back in his chair and sighed, rubbing his tired eyes as the dim glow of the screen flickered in the darkened room. The walls of his small NSA cubicle were lined with the typical trappings of any government office—a national seal here, a reminder to "stay vigilant" there—but none of it could prepare him for the task at hand.

"Datamine /b/," they'd said. "Find anything suspicious."

Ethan had been an intelligence analyst for almost a decade. He had scanned countless internet forums, social media platforms, and the farthest reaches of the dark web for patterns—potential terror threats, domestic extremism, espionage operations. But this? He’d never dealt with a cesspool quite like /b/.

He opened the browser and hesitantly typed in the URL for 4chan’s infamous /b/ board, known for its chaotic mix of memes, trolling, and utter depravity. He wasn’t sure what exactly the higher-ups thought they were going to find here. Even in the training, the consensus was that /b/ was, at best, a chaotic cesspool of noise.

The page loaded, and he was immediately bombarded with threads.

**"Hot MILFs waiting for you..."**

**"Rate my dick."**

**"Would you smash?"**

His eyes darted across the page. Thread after thread of nothing but porn. Unimaginative. Unrelenting.

"Great," he muttered to himself, opening a tool to start scraping data. The NSA had sophisticated programs designed to trawl through vast amounts of data, filter out garbage, and identify anything relevant to national security. But with /b/, the filters weren’t helping much.

He scrolled down. More porn. Some barely clothed anime characters mixed with the occasional Pepe meme, which didn’t do much to distract from the sea of human flesh on display. He clicked into one thread just to make sure, his face quickly cringing in disgust.

“Jesus Christ…” He exited the thread and leaned back again. “What the hell am I supposed to find here?”

He toggled over to the internal chat and typed a message to his handler, Angela.

**Marks:** "I've been monitoring /b/ for 4 hours. All I’m finding is porn and trolls. Is this really where we think the next terror plot is coming from?"

Her reply was immediate.

**Angela:** "Just keep going. We have intel that something’s hidden in the noise. Maybe coded messages, maybe something else. Just flag anything suspicious."

Ethan sighed again and returned to the abyss.

Time passed—minutes into hours, and still nothing but the same endless flood of NSFW content. He tried switching his tactics, focusing on different time zones, assuming maybe when fewer users were online, the signal-to-noise ratio might improve.

Then, he saw something odd.

A thread titled: **"HOT NUDE PRINCESS DIANA INSIDE"**

“Great,” Ethan thought sarcastically, preparing to scroll past it.

But just as his finger hovered over the mouse, a small detail caught his attention: the username of the poster. It was just a string of random letters and numbers, but the pattern seemed...familiar.

He paused, then opened up the NSA’s internal database. A quick search revealed that the same user string had appeared in a couple of low-profile investigations into dark web forums. No solid connections were made, but the pattern was enough to make his pulse quicken.

“Okay,” Ethan muttered, clicking on the thread. His eyes were immediately assaulted by more explicit content, but this time he didn’t flinch. He knew this was just a distraction, a layer of noise. The real message was probably buried in the metadata.

He opened his datamining tool and ran the thread’s source code through a decryption filter. For several agonizing seconds, nothing appeared. Then the tool blinked, and a string of text appeared—numbers and letters jumbled together, like a cipher.

It was something. He was sure of it.

His heart raced as he began running the text through various decoding algorithms. Nothing seemed to crack the code until, almost by accident, he tried an old military encryption key the NSA had flagged years ago in an unrelated case.

The gibberish unraveled into a readable message: **"MIDNIGHT OPERATION. JAN 15. TARGET: GOVERNMENT FACILITY. CODE: 9837."**

Ethan stared at the screen, his pulse pounding in his ears. It was vague, but it was enough—a date, a target, and a code. He flagged it immediately and shot a message to Angela, attaching the decoded text.

**Marks:** "Found something. Could be a planned attack. Need to run it through other systems for verification."

The response came almost instantly.

**Angela:** "Good work, Marks. Forwarding this to the Threat Assessment Team. Keep monitoring for more."

Ethan leaned back again, running his hands over his face. He knew that would likely be his only hit for the night, maybe even for the week. The rest of his time datamining /b/ would continue to be an endless parade of porn and memes, with the occasional nugget of real intel buried deep beneath the filth.

As he prepared himself for another mind-numbing shift of scrolling through the digital wasteland, he couldn't help but wonder how many other crucial pieces of intel had been hidden in plain sight on this chaotic corner of the internet, disguised beneath the veil of debauchery.

“Only in 2024,” Ethan muttered, opening the next thread.

It was porn. Again.

 

[ILoveVesna]

**Title: Into the Soyjak Abyss**

The hum of the computer fans filled the silence in the room as Ethan Marks sat back down at his desk. After the brief adrenaline surge of cracking the code hidden in the chaos of 4chan’s /b/, he expected the excitement to continue. Maybe he’d be assigned to something that actually mattered, or at the very least, a case that didn’t involve scrolling through an endless deluge of porn.

But the email that popped up on his screen dashed any hope of that.

**Angela:** "New assignment. Datamine /raid/ board on Soyjak.party. Intel suggests coordinated harassment and potential security threats. Same procedure as last time."

He stared blankly at the email for a moment, trying to wrap his head around it. Soyjak.party? Seriously?

Ethan hadn’t heard of it before, but a quick search confirmed his worst suspicions. The site was a hive of fringe internet culture, a distant cousin to the madness of 4chan, but somehow even more chaotic and niche. The /raid/ board was apparently where users gathered to "coordinate" actions, often nothing more than juvenile trolling campaigns, but sometimes… occasionally, something more serious.

Sighing, he logged into Soyjak.party and navigated to the /raid/ board. The interface was as crude as he expected, and the content was somehow worse.

The first thread at the top of the page was labeled **“DOX THIS LITERAL WHO.”**

Clicking into it, he found exactly what the title promised. A bunch of users were posting increasingly desperate and futile attempts to dox someone—some random guy with 100 followers on Twitter. It was clear that no one involved even knew who this person was or why they were targeting him. The replies alternated between poorly made Soyjak memes, "fail" comments, and one-liners mocking the original poster for even caring.

**"lmfao OP is a loser, can’t even find his LinkedIn."**

**"Failthread. No one cares about this guy."**

**"Post more soyjaks!"**

Ethan shook his head. He wasn’t surprised. The NSA had flagged these kinds of doxxing attempts before, but they rarely amounted to much. Still, he had to slog through it, just in case something real was hiding behind the inanity. The datamining tool whirred quietly in the background, picking up whatever crumbs of metadata it could scrape.

As he scrolled down, thread after thread appeared, all similarly pointless. Another request for a dox—this time someone who seemed to be a niche internet personality who’d dared to criticize Soyjak.party. More Soyjak memes, some in-joke about “jannies,” and an entire thread dedicated to trolling their own users with gore. Ethan winced as the images flashed on the screen—bodies, mangled limbs, the usual horrors you find in dark corners of the web.

His hand hovered over the keyboard. “Why am I here?” he mumbled to himself.

Yet, a part of him kept reminding him of the unexpected hit he found on /b/. Could something just as serious be hiding in this pile of garbage?

He scrolled further. Another “failthread,” this time demanding the doxxing of someone who had posted “cringe” TikTok videos. More Soyjaks. A brief, half-hearted discussion about some random hacking group, but no actual substance. The only consistent theme on the board was the sheer volume of ridicule—everyone mocking everyone, every thread devolving into people calling each other failures.

Finally, after nearly an hour of digging through nothing but nonsense, Ethan’s datamining tool flagged something. A post buried halfway down the page had a similar pattern to the one he found on /b/. At first glance, it was a simple post in a thread titled, **“Raid the libs LOL.”**

The message was only a few lines long:

**"Midnight ops. Use code ‘REFUSE.’ Jan 22nd. Same drill."**

It didn’t seem like much—just another half-hearted attempt to stir up trouble. But the structure of the post, the timing, and the phrase "midnight ops" rang alarm bells in his head. He ran it through the NSA’s decryption tools just in case, expecting little, but to his surprise, it turned up a partial match with a known online cell. It wasn’t just random trolling—it could be linked to an actual, organized group.

Ethan leaned forward, heart rate picking up again. He wasn’t sure if this was a legitimate threat or more bluster, but he wasn’t going to ignore it. He flagged the post and sent it up the chain.

**Marks:** "Possible raid coordination. Jan 22nd, something involving ‘REFUSE.’ Might be more than just trolling."

He waited for Angela’s response, eyes flicking back to the slow-moving board. As the minutes ticked by, another Soyjak meme thread popped up at the top of the page. This time, it featured a crudely drawn version of Ethan’s least favorite meme, grinning maniacally, holding a sign that simply read, “FAIL.”

“How fitting,” Ethan muttered.

His phone pinged with a notification—Angela’s reply.

**Angela:** "Good catch. We’ll run this through further analysis. Stay on /raid/, keep an eye out for more of these coded messages. They might be testing the waters. We need a pattern before we can act."

Great. Another night in the trenches of internet absurdity. Ethan rubbed his temples and forced himself to keep going. Soyjaks, gore, and endless doxxing attempts of "literal whos" blurred together on his screen, all while he tried to catch any whiff of something real hidden in the sludge.

He knew one thing for sure—whatever was coming on January 22nd, whether it was another dead-end internet raid or something more sinister, he’d be the one to find it.

 

[ILoveVesna]

**Title: The Algorithm's Abyss**

Ethan Marks leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the email in front of him.

**Angela:** "Good work on the last few assignments, Marks. You’ve earned a change of pace. Datamine TikTok for potential extremist content. The algorithm can surface strange things."

It wasn’t exactly a reward, he thought, but compared to the madness of /b/ and Soyjak.party’s /raid/ board, it felt like a vacation. At least TikTok was known for harmless viral dances, pranks, and cooking tips. Maybe this was his superiors’ idea of throwing him a bone after slogging through the depths of internet hell.

He opened the app on his work computer, feeling a bit odd. The interface was bright, colorful—something far removed from the darkness of the image boards he’d been buried in for the past few weeks. Still, he knew better than to take TikTok’s happy veneer at face value. The internet always hid more beneath the surface.

"Just… surf it for trends," Ethan muttered to himself. He hit the ‘For You’ feed and let the algorithm do its thing.

The first video that popped up was, unsurprisingly, a viral dance trend. Teenagers lip-syncing to some popular song, making exaggerated gestures to the beat. He swiped up, unsurprised to find more of the same: people jumping out of cars mid-drive for the “Skrrt Challenge,” cooking hacks, cats doing strange things. In a strange way, it was mind-numbing, but at least it wasn’t the same kind of mind-numbing that involved gore and Soyjaks.

An hour went by, and the algorithm was still feeding him harmless content. He’d almost let his guard down—almost convinced himself that TikTok was the shallow platform it appeared to be—when something strange flickered across his feed.

The video looked ordinary at first—just another user in a dimly lit room talking to the camera—but the caption read: **“Midnight Surge. Get ready.”**

Ethan felt a jolt. It was a vague enough phrase that it could mean anything, but after what he'd found on /b/ and Soyjak.party, his instincts were tuned to catch these kinds of phrases. He replayed the video.

The person in the video was in their mid-20s, speaking in a calm, almost rehearsed manner. “Stay prepared, folks. You know the drill. January 22nd. Don’t forget to use the code—REFUSE.”

Ethan’s pulse quickened. It was the same code he’d found on Soyjak.party. "REFUSE." The same date too—January 22nd. This wasn’t some dance challenge; this was coordinated. There was something much bigger going on, and TikTok was just another piece of the puzzle.

He flagged the video and began pulling metadata. The username didn’t match anything familiar, but the tone was clear enough—this person was sending a message. Maybe it was veiled as a prank or a challenge to evade detection, but the coordination was undeniable.

Ethan leaned forward, now fully immersed. If TikTok was being used to organize, the algorithm was likely connecting like-minded individuals who already watched certain types of content. He had to dig deeper, beyond the surface-level trends. He scrolled through the comments.

Most were harmless—just typical TikTok banter. But as he sifted through, a few comments caught his eye:

**"Code accepted. Ready for the Surge."**

**"Let’s do it. Refuse."**

**"Jan 22nd’s gonna be ."**

He immediately flagged the users behind those comments and added them to the watchlist. This was coordinated—there was no denying that now. TikTok’s algorithm, designed to push viral content, had unintentionally allowed these extremists to create a communication loop, hidden in plain sight.

He kept going, running searches for other terms that might be tied to the plan. The deeper he went, the more he uncovered. There were dozens of users posting cryptic videos with dates, coded phrases, and even locations disguised as dance challenges or meme formats.

Ethan typed out a message to Angela.

**Marks:** "Found another lead. TikTok’s being used to spread the same coded messages. January 22nd, REFUSE. Looks like they’re trying to turn it into a viral challenge. Might be bigger than we thought."

The reply came almost instantly.

**Angela:** "Good work. Continue tracking. We’ll escalate the monitoring and alert Threat Assessment. Be ready for further action."

Ethan took a deep breath. The reward of sifting through TikTok was turning out to be just as complex as the cesspools of 4chan and Soyjak.party. This wasn’t just a social media app filled with harmless trends; it was a playground for those hiding their intentions in plain sight.

He scrolled up again, the next video autoplaying. Another viral dance. Another cat video. Then another cryptic video with a familiar coded phrase.

The algorithm was relentless. So was he.

Ethan settled into his chair, fully aware that this was just the beginning of another long, twisted dive into the digital unknown. TikTok had become the latest battleground, and he was going to be stuck here, datamining the endless stream of videos until he pieced together what was really going to happen on January 22nd.

"At least it’s not Soyjaks," he muttered, before opening the next video.

 

[ILoveVesna]

**Title: The Final Piece**

Ethan Marks slouched deeper into his chair, eyes stinging from hours of scanning TikTok for signs of the January 22nd plot. His mind was exhausted, but he couldn’t afford to miss anything. The cryptic references, coded messages, and hidden clues had pointed to something big. TikTok had become a tool for coordination, but the details were still vague.

"Midnight Surge." "REFUSE." It all felt like a puzzle, and he was still missing the final piece.

Just as he was about to take a break, another notification pinged on his screen. The datamining tool had flagged something new. This time, it wasn’t a TikTok video—it was a comment in a TikTok thread that linked to an unlisted YouTube video. Unlisted videos weren’t indexed by search engines, meaning only those with the direct link could access them. The comment was subtle, almost buried among the usual banter.

**"For the full plan, see the ‘Midnight Surge’ video. REFUSE!"**

Ethan clicked the link immediately, fingers hovering over the keyboard, ready to flag the video. It took him to an unlisted YouTube video with no title, just the username “SurgeOp001,” and a generic thumbnail image. There was no description, no likes, no comments. He hit play.

The video opened with shaky footage of a dimly lit room, similar to the TikToks he had seen, but this was different. The person on screen wore a mask, their voice disguised with a filter.

"Attention to all those who stand with us," the voice said, distorted and low. "The time is almost here. January 22nd is when we strike. Midnight Surge will begin at precisely 00:00. Use the code ‘REFUSE’ to gain entry to secure channels. This is not just another protest. This is an operation. A real one. We target key government infrastructure, and we make sure they know we’re serious."

Ethan’s heart raced as the speaker continued, laying out details: cities, locations of government buildings, even logistics for blocking off streets. The plan was designed to look like a viral challenge at first glance—just a bunch of young people taking to the streets for a meme—but the real target was much more insidious. Coordinated attacks on government facilities disguised as chaos.

"Remember," the voice said near the end, "this is our chance to refuse the system. Midnight Surge will happen whether they’re ready or not."

Ethan hit pause. His pulse was thudding in his ears. This was it—the missing piece. The culmination of all those vague messages across TikTok and Soyjak.party. The "raid" wasn’t some trolling stunt; it was a well-organized attempt to destabilize government operations in key locations across the country.

His mind raced. He knew he had to act fast. The 22nd was only days away. He flagged the video for the NSA, attaching all relevant metadata, and quickly shot a message to Angela.

**Marks:** "I found it. Unlisted YouTube video laying out the entire operation for January 22nd. Government infrastructure attacks. Sending it your way now."

He stared at the screen, his breath shallow, waiting for a response.

It came almost immediately.

**Angela:** "Got it. Good job, Marks. We’re escalating this to the highest levels. I’ll forward it to the FBI, Homeland Security, and local authorities. This could’ve been catastrophic if we didn’t catch it in time."

Ethan exhaled deeply. He’d found it. After weeks of combing through digital noise, dodging Soyjak memes, TikTok challenges, and vague threats, he’d cracked the case. He’d stopped the operation before it could even begin. The Midnight Surge was over before it started.

He leaned back in his chair, finally allowing himself to relax for a moment. It wasn’t the first time he’d uncovered something dangerous lurking in the depths of the internet, but this one felt different. He had pieced together a tangled web of chaos, lies, and misdirection, all wrapped in the guise of harmless internet culture.

His phone buzzed again with a final message from Angela.

**Angela:** "This is going straight to the top. Take the rest of the week off, Marks. You’ve earned it."

Ethan grinned, closing his laptop. For the first time in weeks, he felt a sense of real accomplishment. No more Soyjaks. No more cryptic TikTok videos. Just silence.

As he gathered his things, preparing to leave the office, he couldn’t help but think about how many more hidden threats were out there, buried beneath the algorithm, waiting for someone to uncover them. But that wasn’t his problem for now.

For now, Ethan Marks had earned his rest. The Midnight Surge was stopped, and January 22nd would come and go without incident.

Mission accomplished.

 

[ILoveVesna]

In the year 2095, the world had changed beyond recognition. Nations still existed, but their governments were mere shadows of what they once were. Corporations ruled the day, technological advancements pushed boundaries, and humanity’s reach extended beyond Earth into the stars. But old institutions, like the BBC, stood resolute—defiantly broadcasting news to a world desperate for the truth.

One chilly night, deep in London’s Media City, a team of well-dressed figures arrived at the BBC’s headquarters. Their clothes were immaculate, their manner polite but unsettling. They spoke with soft, clipped tones that felt off-kilter, and their eyes gleamed too brightly, like unnatural stars in the dark. The employees at the reception desk greeted them with uncertainty. These visitors had arrived without appointments, but their credentials checked out—a flawless forgery, one of many tools in the CIA’s arsenal.

What no one knew was that these men weren’t just CIA operatives. They weren’t even human. Since the U.S. government had made contact with extraterrestrial life in 2073, covert agencies had experimented with alien technologies, leading to the creation of hybrid agents—"Glowies," they were nicknamed. A mix of human intelligence and alien physiology, they were the perfect infiltrators... theoretically. Their skin faintly shimmered, their blood pulsed with an odd, fluorescent light, but only in certain frequencies of light. To the untrained eye, they were supposed to blend in perfectly.

Their mission: to gain control of one of Earth’s most respected news outlets, the BBC, and steer global perception toward America's strategic goals on the growing frontier of the stars.

However, the glowies failed to account for one thing: their glowing was not as subtle as they thought.

In the dimly lit hallways of the BBC, whispers spread. "Those new guys... there's something strange about them," said a journalist, eyeing them as they walked past. "They're practically glowing," another replied.

Despite their state-of-the-art cloaking technology and meticulously rehearsed personas, the glowies couldn't suppress the soft, otherworldly glow that emanated from beneath their skin. In dim rooms, the glint in their eyes was too sharp. In shadowy corridors, their presence cast a faint luminescence, like a distant streetlight you couldn’t quite place. One intern claimed they left glowing footprints behind them, though no one could confirm it.

Things got worse when one of the agents was invited onto a live broadcast. As the cameras rolled, subtle lighting changes revealed the glow in full force. On-screen, viewers noticed that the guest’s skin seemed to radiate a soft light. Twitter exploded: *“Who’s the alien on BBC News at 9?”* and *“What’s wrong with that guy’s face??”* Memes flooded social media within minutes.

Unaware of the online uproar, the glowies continued their mission, systematically attempting to manipulate the news narrative, implanting key stories about a supposed alien invasion threatening Earth's outer colonies. But their broadcasts were becoming a joke. Every time one of them appeared on air, the audience fixated on the odd glow. The more they tried to blend in, the more conspicuous they became.

Inside the newsroom, employees became increasingly suspicious. Their strange behavior was too blatant—their reluctance to answer questions about where they were from, the unnerving way they seemed to memorize entire scripts without looking down at a single note, and of course, that glow. By the third day, BBC security had begun trailing them, discreetly installing thermal cameras to confirm their suspicions. And sure enough, the footage revealed what everyone feared: these "new consultants" weren’t just a little weird—they were glowing, extraterrestrial hybrids.

It didn’t take long for the higher-ups to realize something was amiss. The glowies were summoned to an “urgent meeting” with BBC executives. As they stepped into the boardroom, the lights were dimmed, and the glow from their bodies became undeniable. The cover was blown.

Instead of panic, there was only confusion. The BBC execs watched in disbelief, uncertain whether to laugh or scream. One of the journalists finally spoke up. “Look, whatever you’re trying to do, it’s not working. You glow. People *see* it. Even our interns are making memes about you.”

The glowies, flustered and out of options, awkwardly excused themselves. They retreated to the shadows of the newsroom, realizing that their mission had failed before it had even begun.

As they left the BBC building and slinked back into the London fog, their glowing bodies still betrayed their presence. Passersby turned their heads, watching them vanish into the night, leaving behind a story that would be told for years.

In the end, their attempt to infiltrate Earth's media failed not due to counter-intelligence, but because they simply *glowed* too much. The BBC remained untouchable, still standing as the last bastion of unbiased news in a galaxy full of shadows, while the glowies faded into the annals of conspiracy lore.

 

[9I99ER]

my roflcopter goes soi soi soi soi soi