atop its shining metallic wings, mounted railguns hummed with freedom
The red sands of Mars trembled beneath the fury of combat. The thin, still-developing atmosphere crackled with static as Skeeter McTweeter, the glitch in the system, fought with every ounce of defiance left in his body. The battle had raged across the terraformed plains, stretching from the towering oxygen towers to the edges of the first colonial districts.
And now, Skeeter was losing.
Mikeanacles Glitchinson, the Sovereign Administrator of Mars, had adapted. His cybernetic frame warped and shifted with each passing second, rewriting its own combat protocols mid-battle, calculating every counter, erasing Skeeter’s advantage one strike at a time.
The neon-cloaked warrior had fought his way through legions of enforcers, teleporting, flipping, twisting, striking with unparalleled rhythm, but the tyrant of Mars was no ordinary opponent.
Skeeter vanished through a portal, reappearing behind his enemy, twisting into a gravity-defying flare kick, but Mikeanacles caught him mid-air, crushing his ankle with an iron grip.
With a violent crash, Skeeter slammed into the red dust, the impact splitting the ground beneath him.
The music faltered.
For the first time, the bass didn’t drop.
Mikeanacles loomed over him, his glowing red eyes flickering like corrupted code, his mechanical voice glitched with contempt.
“You were an error in my system, Skeeter McTweeter,” he said, his cybernetic foot pressing down on Skeeter’s chest. “I am the update. The patch. The final rewrite. Mars will belong to the Deep State.”
Skeeter struggled, his teleportation circuits glitching, his body refusing to phase out of the moment. His vision blurred, the world tilting sideways.
Was this it?
Was this the moment the rebellion ended?
And then—
The sky ripped open.
A star-cruiser of pure American glory roared into view, dropping from orbit like a bald eagle in a power dive.
Its polished, chrome hull bore the insignia of a golden eagle gripping two AR-15s, and atop its shining metallic wings, mounted railguns hummed with freedom, their barrels already locking onto Mikeanacles’ enforcers below.
From the cockpit, a voice boomed like thunder.
“MIKEANACLES! YOU SOCIALIST BUCKET OF BOLTS! YOUR ADMINISTRATIVE OVERREACH ENDS TODAY!”
Patriot X had arrived.
The Secretary of Based Affairs was right behind him.
A colossal, red-white-and-blue Mechazoid stomped onto the battlefield, its massive steel chainsaws revving at Mach speeds, spitting out chunks of molten metal as they tore through the enforcers like paper targets at a shooting range. The ground itself cracked as the Mechazoid’s iron feet landed, the very essence of true and unfiltered BASED ENERGY radiating outward like a second sun.
Inside the cockpit, The Secretary of Based Affairs laughed, his mirrored aviators reflecting the burning wreckage of the Deep State’s forces.
“THIS… is for free speech, you dystopian nerds!”
And then—Jessica Grandchoice appeared.
Or rather, her presence filled the battlefield like a divine patriotic force.
Descending like a star-spangled archangel, she floated above the battlefield, her entire body glowing with Pure Patriot Energy, wrapped in a shield of unshakable red, white, and blue light.
Her kamikaze camera drones—small, hovering orbs emblazoned with the American flag— zipped through the battlefield at supersonic speeds, recording every act of tyranny before self-destructing in dazzling, freedom-powered explosions.
Her voice rang through the chaos like a victory speech at a revolution’s dawn.
“Mikeanacles Glitchinson, your censorship of the Martian colonists has been documented. Your authoritarian grip on this planet has been EXPOSED. And now?”
She thrust her hand forward, sending a wave of shock drones barreling toward the Administrator, their cameras flashing before detonating in synchronized waves of liberty-fueled destruction.
“You’re CANCELLED.”
The Battle Turns
Mikeanacles staggered backward, his once-unshakable form glitching with instability, his red eyes flickering wildly as the sudden onslaught overwhelmed his system.
“This… THIS WAS NOT CALCULATED!” he roared, his voice fragmenting as his systems fought to compensate for the sheer level of unfiltered BASED energy now consuming the battlefield.
Skeeter, still on the ground, grinned through bloodied teeth.
“You forgot one thing, tin can…” he muttered, pulling himself up, the beat building again, his body syncing with the rhythm of battle.
Mikeanacles turned, his optical sensors locking onto Skeeter, but it was too late.
The music dropped.
Skeeter teleported behind him, fists crackling with neon electricity, and with a single devastating, rebellion-fueled breakdance combo, he struck the final blow.
Mikeanacles shattered, his body fragmenting into billions of lines of corrupted code, his Deep State programming finally collapsing under the sheer weight of the freedom-infused ass-kicking he had just received.
A massive explosion lit up the Martian night, his reign over the colony erased from existence.
The Deep State had lost.
The colony was free.
And as the last echoes of battle faded, Skeeter stood beside Patriot X, Secretary of Based Affairs, and Jessica Grandchoice, their silhouettes cast against the red dust of Mars.
They had won the battle, but the war was far from over.
Skeeter dusted off his scorched jacket, looking up at the endless Martian sky, already feeling the next fight looming on the horizon.
With a reality-warping black flash, he vanished into the void, already preparing for the next battle.
Somewhere in the universe, the Deep State trembled.
Because they knew—
Skeeter McTweeter would return.
