To begin, dear players, today we finally resumed our "hive power"
So we can give you a slightly less symbolic vote, even if it still won't be of any value.
Well, the image has no connection, but it made us laugh.
They crossed the city like ghosts under their stolen white umbrella. The coded symbols pulsed faintly above their heads, repelling the golden rain that still poured relentlessly from the bruised sky. Every step felt heavier now. Every shadow seemed to whisper.
They stuck to the old freight tunnels that ran beneath the city’s neon bones. Rusted tracks, ancient graffiti, abandoned supply carts turned into makeshift shelters for those who had forgotten themselves. Milo, Kaya, and Oz moved quickly, past half-broken people who stared at the flickering lights in their hands — relics of screens that no longer broadcast anything but static prayers to the SECRET.
At one point, they emerged in what had once been a grand underground mall. Now, only a forest of cracked columns remained. Old shops stood like tombs, sealed by rust and mold. In the center, someone had built a shrine: dozens of red umbrellas stabbed into the ground, forming a circle. In the middle, a single jester mask hung from a broken drone, spinning slowly in the damp wind.
Oz knelt beside the mask, inspecting it with the suspicion of someone who had seen too many traps.
“It’s him,” Kaya whispered.
“The Clown,” Milo said. “Podonok’s shadow. Or puppet.”
Oz flicked the mask with his finger. It swung and hit him back on the knuckles. He didn’t flinch.
“Doesn’t look like much.”
From the shadows, a voice replied — dry and echoing like a glitch in the tunnels:
“Not much? That’s rude.”
They spun around. A figure stepped into the circle of umbrellas — tall, draped in a faded carnival jacket, bells sewn into the sleeves, tinkling with every step. The mask was the same blank jester’s grin, but painted with crude streaks of neon pink and blue.
The Clown.
“You’re not real,” Oz growled.
The Clown tilted his head. Behind the mask, his voice was syrupy sweet and distorted.
“Neither are you, boy. You’re just lines of code that haven’t realized you’re loops yet.”
Milo took a step forward, brandishing the umbrella like a blade. “We know what you are. We know about Podonok. We know the SECRET is a lie.”
The Clown burst into giggles. It echoed off the cracked marble, bouncing through the forgotten shopping arcade.
“Oh, you know? Knowing isn’t worth a coin in this place, kid. Want to buy a truth instead?”
He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a single golden coin — identical to the droplets that rained from the sky. He flipped it. Milo flinched as it flew past his ear and clinked against a pillar, melting into a smear of digital static.
Kaya stepped closer to Milo’s side, her voice a sharp whisper.
“Don’t listen. It’s bait.”
But the Clown was already circling them, bells tinkling.
“You think you’re outside the game? There is no outside. You are inside my joke. You want Podonok? Break the loop? You can’t. Because you are the loop.”
He snapped his gloved fingers. Instantly, a rumble rolled through the tunnels. The shrine of red umbrellas flared, bursting open like monstrous flowers. From beneath each one rose figures — dozens, maybe hundreds — wearing the same blank jester’s mask. Their eyes flickered with the same static glow.
Milo felt his grip tighten on the umbrella’s handle. Oz shifted beside him, fists clenched. Kaya’s breath steamed the cold air, but her eyes burned bright.
The Clown danced backwards, spreading his arms wide like a circus master.
“Run, little glitches! Run for your exit! Or stay and join the parade — forever!”
For a heartbeat, the three friends stood frozen. Then Milo lowered the umbrella, locking eyes with Kaya and Oz.
“No more running.”
He stepped forward. Kaya fell in on his left, Oz on his right. Together, they crashed into the circle of masked drones — fists flying, umbrella swinging, sparks of golden static exploding where memory met resistance.
Behind the mask, the Clown’s laughter turned shrill — but Milo heard the fear under the noise.
They were the broken code, and they were rewriting the story. One masked puppet at a time.
In the distance, above the buried city, the rain poured secrets into the ground. And somewhere behind the hidden firewalls, Podonok felt the glitch in his perfect loop — and shivered.
