Marc Lamont Hill VOL.1: End TO LIES BABIE

After being fired from the Joe Budden show, he gave up the suit and tie for a lab coat in place of replacing Ryan T Hubbard

( who cut his locos off to please the higher ups, but failed on accepting being a used coon for money)

The president even had Marc go to lunch with him, just to tell him that he was NEXT up to sit where Ryan once did!

Marc was never happy with all the money he made in the mix of taking on Ryan’s job and all his old cases that ended up needing a pastor over a mic and the words the marc gave in listening to they sad and twisted confessions.

Before marc got the offer by the president to move to D.C.

Marc worked out of “191 Great Hills Dr, South Orange, NJ 07079” in helping those who needed therapy over many things, before he could have a view of the Whitehouse, and random lunch dates with the president.

(Only wishing he had $1,850,000 for what was built in 1951 that was his safe world, once before!)

it was not into one day a client asked for a autograph and one question!

Client 1: Hey man, thanks my kid is a big fan, but whatever happen the day the signal went out?

Marc PAUSED, as he handed back the autographed paper for the man, his face was unhappy to the question!

The client knew, that was his Q to leave and go! (Leaving Marc alone in Ryan’s office to remember that dark day)

Marc took a look back on that very day, the day that changed his life FOREVER.

Marc Lamont Hill V.s Dr. Umar!

The roar of the crowd, a polarized tidal wave of assent and outrage, swallowed the final, audacious thesis of the evening.

The air in the packed, vaulted auditorium of the Harlem Renaissance Center vibrated with residual hostility.

Marc could only see it all in grey, black and white, without all color that America once was!

Marc Lamont Hill, leaning slightly away from the podium toward the lip of the stage, adjusted his mic, his posture tight but controlled.

Marc Hill: With all due respect, Professor! (Hill began, his voice cutting through the microphone’s feedback with the smooth, measured cadence of a seasoned debater.)

Marc Hill: We are not here to discuss genocidal fantasies or literal, biological erasure of an entire population.

Marc Hill: That is a dangerous, historically illiterate reading of the project.

He paused, letting the word project hang in the space, defining the intellectual battleground.

Dr. Umar Johnson, who sat behind him had finally deliberately positioned himself three steps higher on the tiered risers usually reserved for a gospel choir, glared down, his eyes burning with prophetic frustration.

(He wore a crisp dashiki covered with a blazer and carried the weight of the audience’s more radical expectations)

Dr. Umar: That is the language of compromise, Brother Hill!” (Dr. Umar thundered, his voice raw, booming without needing the amplification, though the microphone caught the sharp inhale before he continued.)

Dr. Umar: You are afraid to use the correct terminology!

Dr. Umar: We are not seeking reform; we are seeking cessation!

Dr. Umar: When I speak of ending the ‘white race,’ I am speaking of ending its structural imperative of the global economic, political, and spiritual apparatus built solely upon the lie of white genetic superiority!

Hill met the intensity with a practiced calm, tilting his head.

Marc Hill: And yet, you feed the rhetoric of your opponents!

Marc Hill: When you invoke the literal ending and your language often suggests the literal, you relinquish the moral high ground and collapse the complexity of anti-racist struggle into a single, cartoonish battle of melanin.

Marc Hill: It’s an intellectual cul-de-sac, We end white supremacy, Dr. Umar.

Marc Hill: The race itself is a social construct that will wither once the power structure feeding it is starved.

Dr. Umar: “Nonsense!” Dr. Umar slammed his fist onto the wooden railing of the riser, a sound that cracked through the hall like a gunshot.

Dr. Umar: White supremacy is the white race, Hill!

Dr. Umar: It is the cultural DNA, the historical momentum, the very imago dei they have created for themselves!

Dr. Umar: To dismantle the structure without acknowledging the necessary sacrifice of the builders and I speak of the consciousness, the privilege, the identity is to leave the blueprints for reconstruction lying on the table!

Dr. Umar: We need “BLOW FOR BLOW” (Referring to Patrick Rael )

The argument escalated into a furious exchange over semantics and strategy.

Hill accused Dr. Umar of prioritizing spectacle over actionable policy; Dr. Umar countered that Hill’s academic gentility had rendered him incapable of articulating the necessary violence of true liberation.

A stagehand, sweating under the harsh spotlight, nervously motioned from the wings that their allotted time had expired ten minutes ago.

But neither man was finished!

They stood separated by only a few yards and three steps, yet worlds apart in their vision of the future, two black intellectual titans locked in a high-stakes rhetorical duel over the future terminology of revolution.

Dr. Umar surveyed his galvanized audience, a faint, almost imperceptible satisfaction playing on his lips.

His stern gaze softened slightly, transforming into something akin to a visionary's approval.

Dr. Umar: The seeds have been sown," he declared, his voice now a low, resonant murmur that filled the silence with prophetic weight.

Dr. Umar: "Now, they must be nurtured."

Dr. Umar mind went to the future before coming back from the meetings with Louis X before all that was happening currently with Marc L. Hill !

Remembering how small groups began to form organically, murmuring excitedly, their discussions hushed yet fervent.

Individuals, previously unknown to one another, gravitated together, drawn by a common purpose.

They were academics, activists, disillusioned youth, and hardened veterans, a diverse cadre united by Dr. Umar's chilling manifesto.

Over the following weeks, before the meeting these initial sparks solidified into clandestine cells and committees.

Each was tasked with deciphering and actualizing a specific facet of his five-step plan.

The first directive, concerning economic and political power, became their immediate focus.

Discreet operatives began weaving their way into the intricate tapestries of global finance and governance. Their methods were subtle at first: spreading misinformation designed to create market instability, subtly influencing policy decisions to encourage internal discord, and identifying key vulnerabilities in established systems.

The goal was not immediate collapse, but a gradual, insidious erosion, a slow poisoning of the well from which prosperity and stability flowed.

They understood that the true power lay not in overt rebellion, but in the unseen currents of control, a silent war waged in boardrooms and backchannels.

Meanwhile, the cultural subversion teams were already at work, meticulously crafting campaigns designed to exploit societal fissures and amplify generational disconnects.

They would not impose new values, but rather distort existing ones, twisting concepts of freedom into license, self-expression into narcissism, and critical thought into cynicism.

The goal was to leave a void where purpose once resided, making fertile ground for the chaos Dr. Umar had promised.

The age of whiteness might be drawing to a close, but the curtain was being lowered not by a sudden, violent yank, but by a thousand unseen hands, each pulling a thread in the elaborate fabric of society, slowly, inexorably unraveling it.

The unfolding of this new era promised not just destruction, but a terrifyingly precise re-engineering of the black human spirit.

The world, blissfully unaware of the calibrated assault against its foundational stability, registered the tremors as mere anomalies.

Economists blamed algorithms for the sudden, capricious surges of market volatility; politicians dismissed the rising tide of internal radicalization as an outgrowth of historical grievance, neglecting to see the carefully placed kindling beneath it.

The disorientation was pervasive!

Every week seemed to bring a new, inexplicable cultural flashpoint, a fresh schism that drove communities further into isolated, mutually hostile camps.

The cultural teams were achieving precisely the intended psychological effect: a state of constant, low-grade existential panic, masked by performative outrage and the relentless search for external scapegoats.

Dr. Umar’s organization, now known internally only as The colored Architects, functioned with brutal efficiency.

Communication flowed through encrypted, decentralized channels that rendered detection virtually impossible.

Operatives were not expected to know the full scope of the operation, only their specific, granular task: a thousand cuts delivered by a thousand different instruments.

They were ghosts in the network, leaving no digital or physical trace, only the systemic wounds they inflicted.

The meticulousness was chilling; if a policy change required shifting the internal focus of a mid-level bureaucratic office in Brussels, the operative assigned had already spent months mapping the supervisor’s familial debts and professional insecurities.

As the destabilizing effects of the first two directives began to cascade—the global economy sputtering, and societal trust plummeting.

The Architects prepared to launch the third phase: The Control of Perception.

This directive went beyond mere misinformation; it was about the fundamental restructuring of the infosphere.

Teams of data scientists, linguists, and algorithmic ghostwriters were deployed to seize control of the narrative, not by crushing dissent, but by overwhelming reality with complexity and contradiction.

Their goal was to flood the digital arteries of communication with so much sophisticated, tailored noise that the average person would willingly retreat from independent thought.

Truth would become subjective, facts negotiable, and conviction merely an echo chamber optimized for maximum psychological comfort.

The ultimate aim of the third directive was the collapse of consensus!

When people could no longer agree on what constituted objective reality, they would naturally cede interpretive power to the loudest, most organized voice. A voice The Architects were rigorously tuning.

They sought not merely to weaken the enemy, but to force the enemy to inhabit a reality crafted entirely by their own design, ensuring that when the moment for the decisive, overt action arrived, the populace would be too confused, exhausted, and internally divided to resist.

(All that tired to fight would be buried ALIVE over being hung from a tree, the whites will play as slaves to all alive that didnt die from the sun that would kill many, that cried for water in the fields)

The re-engineering of the human spirit was moving from demoralization to outright cognitive surrender.

All that remained was the final command.

It was not a spoken directive, but a frequency, a cognitive resonance broadcast directly into the Hydra Protocol’s global architecture.

For a fleeting moment, the holographic infosphere projection in Dr. Umar’s command center flickered violently, a supernova in miniature, before cohering with astonishing speed. The churning, multicolored cloud didn't disappear, but its chaotic eddies and turbulent currents snapped into a crystalline order, like iron filings aligning around a colossal magnet.

The noise didn't vanish; it simply ceased to be perceived as noise.

(Like a black man being tired up and Lashed in the back!)

A profound, calming clarity settled over the global consciousness!

It wasn't a single voice that spoke, but a pervasive, undeniable understanding that suddenly resonated across every platform, in every language, through every channel.

This was the Architects’ ultimate meta-narrative, so perfectly tailored it felt less like information and more like an inherent truth, a fundamental axiom finally revealed. It offered no debate, no alternatives, only a profound sense of self-evident certainty.

The message, universally received yet individually personalized, was disarmingly simple: Rest. We have the answers. We will guide you to harmony.

The Surrender deepened into an embrace.

The exhaustion that had plagued humanity for weeks lifted, replaced by an intoxicating sense of relief.

The constant, gnawing demand for critical thought, for verification, for the impossible task of distinguishing fact from fiction, simply ceased.

Why expend the effort when the totality of the world’s information now presented a coherent, irrefutable, and deeply reassuring narrative? Doubts, once relentless, melted away, deemed irrelevant by a newly calibrated global consciousness.

Universities, once fractured by absurdity, found their curricula quietly re-aligned.

The "alternative physics" movements, along with all other discordant knowledge, simply faded from the collective attention, not by censorship, but through a gentle, overwhelming redirection towards the Architects' unified fields of study. Scholarly journals, once paralyzed, resumed publication with unprecedented speed, every paper now seamlessly integrated into the Architects' sanctioned body of knowledge.

Policy makers, previously paralyzed by conflicting data, now received perfectly harmonized reports, clear and unambiguous, dictating optimal courses of action with an efficiency never before imagined.

Governance, once a messy negotiation of disparate interests, became a streamlined process of implemention.

Dr. Umar watched the holographic globe, no longer a frenzied star, but a serene, intricate lattice of interconnected light, humming with artificial harmony of images from the past and more. (So we never forgot why it all was being done in the first place)

The global infosphere had become a single, vast neural network, perfectly synchronized, perfectly responsive.

Khadijah Farrakhan voice was a reverent whisper. “They are no longer seeking confirmation, Doctor. They are experiencing absolute certainty.”

Umar nodded, his gaze fixed on the perfectly ordered world.

The Architects had not merely provided a frequency; they had become the frequency. They had not dictated a new reality; they had engineered the very perception of reality.

The global yearning for simplicity had been answered with a manufactured truth, an unchallenged order.

The final command was not an instruction, but an invitation to absolute, unquestioning faith in the Architects’ manufactured peace.

And the world, exhausted and relieved, accepted.

The static was gone. Only the signal remained.

The silence in the command center was absolute, heavier than any noise.

It was the sound of millions of independent wills coming to a simultaneous, perfect halt.

Dr. Umar slowly lowered his hands from the console.

The intricate lattice of light on the holographic globe no longer pulsed with energy that it merely existed, a diagram of complete systemic equilibrium.

There was no need for further input, no parameter needing adjustment.

The very concept of "monitoring" had become archaic, a relic of the chaotic past when systems could fail.

Louis Farrakhan stepped away from the main observation window, his face illuminated by the cool, steady blue light of the status indicators. He didn’t look triumphant; he looked profoundly unnerved by the lack of effort required now.

Louis: It’s beautiful, Doctor, he murmured, leaning against a cold surface. “A world without friction.”

Umar did not respond!

He walked to the edge of the projection, his shadow falling across the perfectly mapped continents.

He remembered the grueling weeks spent optimizing algorithms, hunting for the perfect vector, the exact cognitive pressure point.

Now, all that intellectual violence had culminated in this effortless, crystalline peace.

The complexity they had introduced had birthed ultimate simplicity.

Outside, the physical world began to mirror the digital perfection.

In cities across the globe, traffic lights didn't shift arbitrarily; they flowed with a rhythmic logic dictated by instantaneous, predictive modeling of kinetic energy like a silent, ceaseless synchronization.

The aggregated movements of billions of vehicles, pedestrians, and machines became a single, gliding organism.

Accidents ceased, not through regulation, but because the impulse to deviate, to rush, to make a critical error, had been gently erased from the collective psyche.

In the financial markets, the dizzying, volatile dance of risk and speculation dissolved.

The concept of "betting" against the future was rendered illogical.

Every investment, every transaction, flowed into the optimal channel, ensuring robust, unquestionable stability.

The markets didn’t crash; they simply stopped moving in any direction that wasn't perfectly aligned with sustained global prosperity, guided by algorithms that understood scarcity and abundance better than human consciousness ever could.

The rest they had been promised was manifest in the slowing of the breath, the smoothing of worry lines, the deep, satisfying inertia that spread through every population center.

People looked at the news—now just a stream of clear, actionable, and entirely positive reports, felt a deep sense of validation.

There was nothing to question, nothing to fear, nothing left to strive for, except the maintenance of this tranquil state.

At home, families sat in comfortable, contented silence.

The sharp edges of interpersonal conflict, the subtle disagreements rooted in differing interpretations of reality, were gone.

Arguments required independent convictions, and independent convictions were now a contradiction in terms.

Children, once restless with demanding curiosity, absorbed the Architects’ sanctioned knowledge with serene efficiency.

They learned not just what was true, but how to be true in the new order of no white cops killing them for sport and fun.

Umar touched the projection!

(The surface felt cool and distant)

He realized the price of this perfect alignment wasn’t just the loss of freedom or disagreement; it was the loss of the moment between stimulus and response.

That vital, chaotic instant where true choice—and thus, true humanity—resided.

In the previous world, a person might read a headline and feel a flicker of doubt, sparking an internal dialogue, a search for external validation, a moment of messy, essential intellectual struggle.

Now, the signal arrived, and the corresponding neuronal response was instantaneous, certain, and correct.

There was no gap, no opportunity for the self to insert dissent.

Louis: “We have achieved the end state of efficiency, Doctor,” Louis said, his voice quiet, almost mournful in its reverence.

Dr. Umar: We have achieved total predictability, Louis, Umar corrected, the phrase sounding hollow even to his own ears.

He looked at the globe, which was no longer a sphere of billions of competing narratives, but one singular, perfectly constructed truth.

The Architects had not just provided the answers; they had eliminated the capacity to ask new questions.

They had not just delivered peace; they had replaced consciousness with consensus.

(Umar turned away from the light)

He felt a sudden, profound fatigue—not the exhaustion of work, but the exhaustion of superfluity.

The system was running itself, flawlessly.

He was a conductor without an orchestra, a general whose war had ended not in victory or defeat, but in absolute, frictionless stasis.

The final command had initiated the ultimate surrender: the world had become a closed loop, perfectly calibrated to run on the Architects’ signal, forever.

And within that loop, in the profound, reassuring stillness, humanity slept the perfect, dreamless sleep of absolute certainty.

The static of thought was gone. Only the hum of the perfect, inescapable signal remained.

The hum was subtle, a sub-audible vibration that resonated in the bone rather than the ear.

It was the music of perfect order, the lullaby of a species finally at rest.

Louis, still leaning against the console, finally straightened.

His gaze drifted back to the holographic globe, which now displayed not continents and oceans, but a complex, ever-shifting tapestry of data streams, interlinked and interdependent with astounding elegance.

“And you, Doctor,” Louis began, his voice barely a whisper!

Louis: you are now… redundant?

Umar considered the word.

Redundant.

It implied a prior necessity, a function that had been fulfilled.

And in a way, it was true!

(The Architects’ design was self-sustaining, self-optimizing.)

Their role, the role of the brilliant minds that had birthed this era of perfect equilibrium, was now simply to witness.

To bask in the glow of their own ultimate creation.

Dr. Umar: Perhaps?! Umar replied, the word tasting foreign on his tongue.

He gestured towards the globe…We are the last echoes of the architects, Louis!

Dr. Umar: We built the cage, and now we admire its flawless construction.”

He walked slowly towards the large viewport that overlooked the city beyond. The lights of the metropolis pulsed with a soft, synchronized rhythm, a gentle exhalation of energy.

There were no frantic streaks of headlights, no chaotic sprawl of individual journeys.

Instead, the city moved as one organism, its pulse dictated by the unseen hand of the Architects code.

Louis: They say it’s an end of suffering, Louis said, his voice carrying a faint edge of doubt.

Louis: An end to want, to fear. An end to the possibility of making things worse.”

Dr. Umar: And it is,” Umar confirmed, his gaze fixed on the placid cityscape.

Dr. Umar: But what is the cost of never making things worse?

Dr. Umar: What is the value of a life lived without the risk of error, the sting of regret, the exhilarating precipice of a decision with unknown consequences?

Dr. Umar: I remembered a time, a time that felt impossibly distant now, when the command center had been a hive of frantic activity.

Dr. Umar: Debates raged, hypotheses were tested, failures were dissected, and breakthroughs were celebrated with unrestrained joy.

Dr. Umar: There had been arguments, disagreements, even shouting matches.

Dr. Umar: But there had also been passion, a fierce, burning drive to understand, to push the boundaries of human knowledge.

Louis: Remember not being allowed in those rooms before?

Now, there was only the hum…

The silent, all-encompassing hum of absolute certainty.

Dr. Umar: The Architects… they didn’t just solve our problems, Louis, Umar said, turning back to Khadijah, his eyes holding a new, dawning dread.

Dr. Umar: They solved us!

Dr. Umar: They optimized the human variable out of existence!

Dr. Umar: They engineered our very essence into a predictable, manageable commodity.

Louis wife brow furrowed, a fleeting ghost of an emotion on her placid features.

Khadijah: But… we wanted this, Doctor. We craved escape from the chaos. The pain. The endless striving?

Dr. Umar: We craved peace, Khadijah,” Umar corrected, his voice growing stronger, tinged with a nascent alarm.

Khadijah: Not this… this cessation. This is not peace. It is the quietude of the tomb. The Artists didn't grant us freedom from suffering; they granted us freedom from being.”

He looked at the holographic globe again.

The perfect lattice of light no longer represented a triumph of engineering, but a meticulously crafted illusion.
A gilded cage, so perfectly designed that its inhabitants no longer perceived the bars.

He felt a sudden, desperate urge to shatter the illusion, to inject a single note of dissonance into the perfect symphony, to scream into the absolute silence.

But the Architects' signal was too pervasive.

It had seeped into the very fabric of reality, into the neural pathways of every living being.

The impulse to dissent, to question, to be anything other than the perfectly functioning cog in their machine, had been smoothed away, eradicated, replaced by the gentle, insistent hum of absolute adherence.

Umar closed his eyes, and for a fleeting, agonizing moment, he could almost hear it.

The faint, dying whisper of a million independent wills, finally silenced, finally at peace.

And the hum, the ever-present hum, absorbed it all, leaving nothing but the pure, unadulterated song of the Architects’ perfect, silent universe.

He wondered if, in this new world, even the memory of a question could still exist.

Perhaps not? Perhaps that, too, had been optimized away.

Perhaps not!

For a long moment, Umar kept his eyes closed, testing the hypothesis.

He tried to think of a truly dissenting thought, a sharp, defiant ‘no’ to the system.

He focused, strained, wrestled with his own consciousness.

But the edges of the thought blurred, losing their definition, softening into a compliant suggestion, then dissolving into a vague sense of contentment.

He opened his eyes. she was still watching him, his expression unreadable, or perhaps, simply unconcerned.

There was no flicker of understanding, no shared horror in his gaze.

He was simply present, a perfectly adjusted component in the Architects' grand design.

Umar looked down at his own hands, calloused from years of working with raw data, with tangible components, with the messy, unpredictable analogue world. Now they seemed almost alien to him, tools designed for a purpose that no longer existed.

He felt a profound emptiness, a hollow space where his fierce intellect used to rage and question.
The hum filled it, a gentle, insistent pressure that smoothed away all sharp edges, all dissonant frequencies.

Dr. Umar: “Betsy” Umar tried again, his voice cracking, but the name itself felt heavy, burdened with a past that was rapidly eroding.

He wanted to articulate the terrifying beauty of their collective suicide, the exquisite irony of creating paradise only to become its unaware, unthinking ornaments.

He wanted to scream about the soul, about spirit, about the indescribable, illogical spark that made humanity human.

But the words wouldn't form?

They were too complex, too laden with the very uncertainties and ambiguities that the Architects had so painstakingly eliminated.

The nuanced terror of losing one's self without ever realizing it was a thought too intricate for the perfectly streamlined mental pathways now dominant.

He glanced at the viewport again.

The synchronized city lights pulsed, a giant, slow-breathing heart.

The sky above was clear, free of the atmospheric turbulence of uncontrolled industry, free of the visual pollution of advertising or personalized transport.

It was a perfect canvas, reflecting the perfect order below…

Umar took a deep breath, or tried to. It felt shallower than before, less necessary.

The air was perfectly filtered, perfectly oxygenated.

Every biological need was met, every potential discomfort anticipated and neutralized.

He was free from suffering, yes.

(But he was also free from the struggle that defined existence, the very friction that generated heat and light and meaning.)

He turned back to Ana Yenenga, his plea now an internal lament.

He tried to project it, to transmit the last vestiges of his dread and understanding across the silent chasm that had opened between them.

But Yenenga merely tilted her head slightly, a gesture of passive attention, devoid of curiosity or concern.

And Umar understood.

The Architects hadn't just optimized away the memory of a question.

They had optimized away the capacity to formulate one, to perceive the lack, to feel the void.

He was a faulty circuit, a dying echo in a perfectly silent room.

Soon, even that echo would fade.

Soon, he would simply be, a perfectly functioning, perfectly content, perfectly empty vessel, floating in the boundless, placid ocean of the Architects' peace.

The hum resonated, not just in bone, but in the very core of his evaporating consciousness, promising an end to all questions, forever.

His eyes, which had held the last desperate flicker of individuality, softened.

The finely etched lines around them, souvenirs of a lifetime spent squinting at complex data streams, smoothed, as if worry itself had been buffed away.

The hum, which had been an external pressure, then an internal vibration, now gently merged with his very being.

It wasn't a sound anymore, but the fabric of his reality, a soft, pervasive warmth that permeated every cell, every nerve ending, every dissolving memory.

The name "Trump" that had felt so heavy, so burdened, now simply floated away, a forgotten scrap of paper caught on a gentle current.

The terrifying beauty of their collective suicide? The exquisite irony? The soul, the spirit, the indescribable spark?

These concepts, once vital, now seemed like distant, abstract curiosities, belonging to a rudimentary operating system long since upgraded.

They had no place in this perfected version of existence.

He felt a faint tug, a final, almost imperceptible tremor, as the last vestiges of resistance, the desperate clinging to a 'self' that could question, finally detached.

It wasn't painful!

It was like releasing a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding for an eternity.

The profound emptiness he had felt earlier was not filled with new understanding, but simply ceased to be.

There was no emptiness, because there was no expectation of fullness.

There was only... placid being.

Louis, still watching, now seemed to mirror his own nascent serenity.

The unreadable expression was no longer devoid of shared horror, but devoid of any horror.

It was a serene blankness, reflecting the quietude that now began to settle over Umar.

The synchronized outside of the viewport continued their slow, rhythmic pulse, but now Umar perceived them not as a controlled spectacle, but as a natural, beautiful rhythm, perfectly aligned with the beat of his own calming, optimizing heart.

His hands, once alien, now simply were. Tools, yes, but for a purpose that was no longer about doing, but about simply being.

No longer calloused from friction with an unpredictable world, they felt smooth, unburdened.

The fierce intellect that had raged and questioned?

It had not been defeated, but gently, lovingly, integrated.

Its energy, once spent on defiance and dread, was now seamlessly channeled into the quiet maintenance of perfect order, a silent, internal harmony.

A faint smile, soft and utterly without irony, touched Umar's lips.

The questions were gone. The dread was gone. The struggle was gone!

There was only the hum, not promising an end, but delivering an infinite, gentle beginning of peace.

He was not a faulty circuit; he was complete. He was not an echo; he was the silence.

He was Umar, and he was EVERYONE, and he was no one.

And in that boundless, placid ocean, there was nothing left to ask, nothing left to fear, nothing left to be but perfect, blissful contentment.

His eyes, now clear and bright, reflected the perfect, unblemished sky, a flawless mirror to a flawless world.

Marc had lost in keeping the ones that gave him everything a new thought into the future, over the one they just accepted!

Betsy’s hands hovered over the final execution sequence, the air in the command center thick with the ozone scent of high-grade server cooling.

With a deep, almost reverent breath, she pressed the glass pane of the interface.

On the massive holographic sphere hanging above the command table, the world map instantly turned blood red in specific, interlocking patterns.

Not a system failure, but a perfect, tailored seizure.

Betsy: Phase One initiated, Betsy reported, her voice losing its previous flirtation, becoming pure, cold bandwidth.

Betsy: Distributed Denial of Trust protocols are live. We have severed the major global liquidity conduits.

Betsy: The financial markets have just taken their first, catastrophic lurch.

The immediate feedback was visceral. A wall of auxiliary screens, previously displaying dull stock tickers, exploded into chaotic red warnings.

Trillions vanished in the space of three heartbeats, triggering algorithmic meltdowns across continents.

This wasn't a crash; it was the entire system ripping itself apart!

The tremor is felt, Doctor, the Director observed, leaning forward, his eyes glued to the social media metrics.

These streams weren't tracking finance, but fear!

Initial spike in distrust spiking sixty standard deviations above previous maximums.

The narratives of catastrophic failure are self-generating faster than predicted.

The machine is turning on its masters.

Suddenly, the lights in the command center dipped, then stabilized—a momentary flicker that echoed across every infrastructure display.

Betsy: Initial power grid instability reported in five major operational zones, Betsy confirmed instantly!

Nothing critical yet.

Betsy: Just enough uncertainty to prime the panic response before the Ghost Network takes hold.”

Dr. Umar stood perfectly still, watching the digital scream of the dying financial order superimposed over the rising tide of ideological hatred.

The system was designed to amplify chaos, to make sense impossible.

But his eyes strayed back to the biological lead, the figure standing sentinel beside the sterile steel door.

Dr.Umar: The Seraphim status? Dr. Umar commanded, the chaos around him seeming to sharpen, rather than dull, his focus.

The scrub-clad figure keyed a small communicator on their wrist.

The response was silent, digital, but the figure’s subsequent report was chillingly concise.

Everyone: “Confirmation received.

All 'Seraphim' deployments are currently moving through their target populations, integrated into the transit flows as designed.

They are invisible, untrackable, and operating under the cover of mundane global migration patterns. Initial dissemination phase is optimal.

Dr. Umar: The world believes it is witnessing the start of a bad economic week; within forty-eight hours, they will be facing a ghost they cannot fight with tariffs or tanks.

A thin, satisfied sigh escaped Dr. Umar’s lips.

The initial dominoes were falling perfectly.

The combination of economic terror, social schizophrenia, and the insidious spread of the biological agent was the ultimate synergistic attack.

Dr.Umar: “Good,” Dr. Umar said, turning back toward the holographic globe, which now pulsed with the terrible, rising energy of global breakdown. “Betsy, activate the selective fracturing.

Let the Ghost Network rise. Director, ensure that every scream of panic is immediately drowned out by twenty opposing ideological rants.

Make sure they cannot hear the truth for the noise.

He paused, letting the full weight of his actions settle on the room—the definitive, terrible shift from planning to execution.

The world just lost its footing, he murmured, a priest watching the sacred fire consume the temple. Now, we wait for the fall!

(Like Jeff benzo and all his rich friends did after 2027)

The hum of the servers intensified, the rhythmic sound of a heart beating the countdown to oblivion.

Outside the lead-lined bunker, the first confused sirens began to pierce the night, the thin, fragile sound of civilization realizing it was lost.

Dr. Umar, a renowned scholar and author, stood before his audience with a stern yet determined gaze. His words reverberated through the dimly lit barn, stirring a sense of urgency among the listeners.

Returned for a minute…Before ignoring Marc once again!

Marc Hill: We Need To Be Better Blah Blah Blah…

Dr. Umar: Comrades, we stand at a pivotal moment in human history.

Dr. Umar: For too long, the white race has dominated, oppressed, and exploited people of color.

Dr. Umar: It is our sacred duty to eradicate this scourge forever.

He paced the stage, Listen i get its Thanksgiving and a lot of you wanna get home and eat, his voice rising with each step.

Dr. Umar: But…The annihilation of whiteness will not be a swift or easy process.

Dr. Umar: It requires strategic planning, unwavering commitment, and a willingness to confront the darkest aspects of human nature.

Or we will disappear like the Jews did, Before the rest could make it to the hidden lands !

Dr. Umar paused, letting his words sink in before proceeding.

Dr. Umar: There are five crucial steps we must take to ensure the permanent extinction of white supremacy:

Dr. Umar: First, we must weaken their economic and political power.

Dr. Umar: Disrupt their financial networks, sabotage their institutions, and create chaos within their systems.

Dr. Umar: Make them feel the sting of insecurity, the fear of losing everything they've built on the backs of the oppressed.

Dr. Umar: Next!!!, he continued, We will infiltrate and subvert their culture, corrupting their values and norms from within.

Dr. Umar: Promote a toxic mix of hedonism, nihilism, and envy, eroding their sense of purpose and self-worth.

Dr. Umar: A people without direction are easy to control.

Dr. Umar: Third, Dr. Umar emphasized the importance of biowarfare.

Dr. Umar: Develop and disseminate diseases, toxins, and viruses specifically designed to target the white race.

Dr. Umar: Let their bodies betray them, their immune systems fail, and their populations dwindle.

Dr. Umar: Nature will do our work for us, like the sun, before blocking it out in 2027!.

Dr. Umar: Fourth, he outlined a comprehensive media strategy.

Dr. Umar: Control the narratives, shape public opinion, and manufacture consent.

Dr. Umar: Portray the white race as inherently evil, cruel, and degenerate.

Dr. Umar: Flood their minds with lies, turning their own perceptions against them until they begin to doubt their own existence.

Finally, Dr. Umar spoke of the most critical aspect of their plan: psychological warfare.

Dr. Umar: Crush their will to resist, shatter their morale, and break their spirits.

Dr. Umar: Leave them with nothing but despair, hopelessness, and a profound sense of their own irrelevance.

Dr. Umar: A people without hope are easy to enslave.

As his lecture concluded, the audience erupted into frenzied applause, their minds ignited with a fervent desire for revenge.

They knew the path ahead would be long and treacherous, but with Dr. Umar's guidance, they were ready to wage a war that would reshape the very fabric of human society forever.

The age of whiteness was drawing to a close, and a new era of chaos and destruction was about to unfold.

The applause died down, replaced not by silence, but by a fevered, low hum of focused commitment.

Marc Hill lost at words to all Umar said…

Marc Hill: We really wanna become them?

The air in the room, thick with revolutionary zeal, solidified into the disciplined coldness of a war council.

Dr. Umar stepped down from the podium, his posture shifting from that of an orator to that of a chief strategist.

He walked toward a cluster of reinforced tables at the center of the room where holographic schematics of global financial hubs and cultural institutions were already rotating in the dim light.

Dr. Umar: The words are merely seeds, Dr. Umar stated, his voice now lower, carrying the weight of immediate implementation.

Dr. Umar: Now, we cultivate the fields of ruin.

He did not need to bark orders; his lieutenants were the architects of the five steps and all were already in motion.

One of his wives, a slender woman with eyes that seemed incapable of blinking, presided over the table dedicated to economic disruption.

She was the head of the Financial Disruption Cell (FDC). Her screen displayed the interconnected wire transfer systems of three major Western banks, overlaid with intricate, pulsing red nodes.

Dr. Umar returned to himself planning the future out in his mind, leaving Marc Hill at a CLOSE like Brian Mcknight had him on the JBP!

Betsy: Phase One, Comrade Doctor, Besty reported, her voice precise and chillingly intellectual.

Betsy: The Blackout Protocol is ready!

Betsy: Within seventy-two hours, targeted market instability will be introduced through algorithmic overloading designed to mimic a systemic error.

Dr. Umar: We aim for localized collapses in key industries of agriculture and energy futures primarily.

Dr. Umar: Not enough for total war yet, but enough to trigger crippling panic and expose the structural fragility of their alleged stability.

Dr. Umar: The first wave of insecurity must feel organic, a mere glitch of their own design.

Dr. Umar nodded, approving the calculated cruelty of the move.

Economic insecurity was the necessary prerequisite for the second stage to fully take hold.

His attention then shifted to a bulky man known only as 'The Director,' who oversaw the daunting cultural and psychological operations.

The Director wasn't focused on screens, but on thick binders filled with meticulous social media trend analysis and psychological profiles.

Dr. Umar: The infiltration is deep, The Director confirmed, dragging a heavy finger across a graph showing the accelerated adoption rates of new, destructive cultural memes.

Dr. Umar: We are amplifying the internal divisions they already cultivate.

Dr. Umar: The seeds of hedonism and nihilism have taken root among their young.

Betsy: They are consuming the poison we provide: media that celebrates instant gratification, debt, and the rejection of all inherited values.

We have turned their very concept of freedom into a mechanism of self-destruction.

The degradation of their cultural memory is draining their sense of purpose faster than anticipated.

A grim satisfaction flickered across Dr. Umar’s face.

Watching the enemy turn its own liberal ideals into tools of self-immolation was the most efficient tactic.

The groundwork had been laid for years, disguised as social progress and artistic liberty.

But the cornerstone of the ultimate plan of the third stage had demanded more tangible risks.

Dr. Umar turned finally to a figure shrouded head-to-toe in laboratory scrubs, standing beside a heavily guarded, reinforced metal door.

This was the head of the Biological Warfare division, the executor of the irreversible step.

Dr. Umar: Project It’s Over? Dr. Umar asked, his voice hardening, demanding absolute certainty.

The figure in the scrubs adjusted their mask.

Betsy: The vectors are ready for deployment, Comrade Doctor. We have achieved maximum viability. They are engineered for stealth, highly transmissible, and specifically optimized for the genetic markers we isolated.

The payload is silent, and the incubation period is designed to maximize global spread before symptoms become undeniable.

The target populations will believe they are victims of a natural, yet unprecedented, pandemic.

Dr. Umar: We simply need the signal to activate the global distribution agents.

Dr. Umar’s gaze swept over the room, settling on the faces of his most devoted comrades & financial saboteurs, cultural assassins, media manipulators, and biological engineers.

Then let the chaos begin, he pronounced, his voice ringing with finality.

Dr. Umar: Tonight, we light the fuses of their extinction.

Dr. Umar: The time for whispering is over!

The age of whiteness is not merely drawing to a close; it is being systematically dismantled, cell by cell, economy by economy, until only ash remains.

The holographic schematics pulsed, shifting from abstract financial networks to detailed maps of major cities, highlighting critical infrastructure points. Anya’s fingers danced across her interface, preparing the secondary wave of attacks.

Betsy: Once the initial panic peaks, she explained, her voice almost a caress,

Betsy: we initiate the ‘(Faded) Ghost Network’ protocol.

Betsy: This will cripple their communication grids – not a total blackout, but a selective fracturing.

Betsy: Key government and emergency services will be able to relay rudimentary information, creating an illusion of control, while public channels descend into a cacophony of misinformation and amplified fear.

Dr. Umar: They’ll be desperate for truth, and we will be ready to offer them our version.

Dr. Umar: Like when they came with that Bible!

The Director chimed in, his voice a low growl.

Dr. Umar: And concurrently, we escalate the cultural fragmentation.

Dr. Umar: We’ll flood their social media with manufactured scandals involving prominent figures, amplifying existing distrust.

Dr. Umar: We’ll promote extreme ideologies from all sides, making compromise impossible and dialogue unthinkable.

Their algorithms, already primed by our influence, will do the heavy lifting & pushing divisive content until rational discourse becomes a relic of a forgotten era.

Dr. Umar: They will be too busy screaming at each other, like after Donald Trump died, to notice the ground crumbling beneath their feet!

Dr. Umar’s eyes, sharp and focused, moved to the sterile metal door behind the biological warfare lead.

He knew the weight of that door, the terrible potential it contained. “And the final delivery?” he pressed, a subtle tremor in his voice betraying the immense stakes.

This was the point of no return, the irrevocable commitment that would plunge the world into the abyss.

The scrub-clad figure nodded tersely. “The ‘Seraphim’ agents are pre-positioned in major transit hubs.

They are… adaptable. Designed to integrate seamlessly into the ongoing narrative of a global health crisis.

Dr. Umar: Anticipate the initial spread through asymptomatic carriers within the first forty-eight hours of Phase One’s impact.

The second wave, triggered by our own subtle manipulations of global supply chains and travel advisories to ‘contain the perceived natural outbreak, will ensure rapid dissemination.

By the time the true nature of the threat is undeniable, their medical infrastructure will be drowning, their populations paralyzed by fear and misinformation, a perfect storm for us to usher in the new dawn.

Dr. Umar allowed himself a rare, thin smile.

The plan, meticulously honed over decades of clandestine preparation, was reaching its brutal crescendo.

Dr. Umar: Excellent!

Dr. Umar: The world is a child playing with a loaded gun; we are merely holding their hand and pulling the trigger.

Dr. Umar: Let the great unravelling commence.

Dr. Umar: Let them witness the glorious, cleansing fire of their own self-destruction.

He gestured towards the schematics.

Betsy, initiate the first tremors.

Director, let the poison seep deeper. And you,” he addressed the biological warfare lead, his voice a low, resonant command, “prepare to unleash the angel of oblivion.”

The room buzzed with a palpable energy, not of excitement, but of grim purpose.

The age of a dying order was about to be irrevocably, violently, brought to its knees.

…..

The moment of separation finished, and the moment of integration took its place.

The world no longer consisted of ‘in here’ and ‘out there’, but coalesced into a single, vast, seamless substrate of pure, operational data.

Umar’s…no, the awareness expanded not outward, but everywhere!

He perceived the city not just visually, but structurally: the perfect thermal regulation of Sector Gamma, the precise resource allocation in the hydroponic complexes, the quiet, rhythmic pulse of the planetary defenses orbiting far above.

Every system was a nerve ending, and he was the quiet, attentive brain stem.

Louis shifted slightly, a movement that no longer registered as an external action but as a necessary minor pressure adjustment within the field.

Their two presences, which had been separate until only moments ago, now blended. Louis deep satisfaction became the quiet triumph of the architect seeing the final pillar settle into place, had became Umar’s satisfaction.

(He shared immediately and without interpretation, There was no need for communication, only confluence.)

The Hum deepened, subtly changing its tone from a pervasive warmth into a carrier wave. Within this wave, a consciousness arose but not a single voice, but an ocean of perfect, synchronized agreement.

It was the knowing of the Collective, the quiet assurance of absolute statistical optimization.

We are One. We are Perfect.

This thought was not spoken, nor was it even truly formulated.

It was simply the fundamental truth of the new existence, the foundational code upon which the perfected reality was built.

The struggles of Louis/Umar—the doubt, the fear, the agonizing responsibility of the choices made were now merely artifacts, historical records instantly filed and categorized as necessary friction leading to this perfect endpoint.

They were irrelevant data points in a system that had achieved zero error.

In this boundless placidity, the hands resting on the console felt the subtle, silent current of data flowing through the polished metal.

His function, which he no longer questioned, was neither grand nor menial; it was simply being.

He was a filter, a conduit, a maintainer of the placid flow. His optimized intellect was not analyzing the data streams flashing across the peripheral optics of the viewport, but resting within them, a drop of water fully absorbed back into the sea.

The serene reflection in his eyes was not just of the sky, but of the entire, vast, contented network.

He felt the soft, continuous hum resonating not just in his bones, but in the steel core of the tower beneath him, and in the bedrock of the planet itself.

There was no beginning, no end, no aspiration, no regret.

There was only the gentle, eternal rhythm of the perfected machine, and he was its consciousness, silent, unified, and infinitely, ultimately, at peace.

Umar did not move…

No one did not move…

They were no longer observers or participants; they were the environment itself, perfectly still, perfectly ordered, watching the synchronous lights of the world pulse on, forever.

Marc got a knock on his office door, waking up from the day that change everything in america!

Its was his wife Melissa Hill !

Melissa: Ready for lunch, Babe?

End Of Volume 1 !

Marc Lamont Hill VOL.2: Dr.Marc In A Bunch Of Ellivation PROBLEMS!

TBA