[ This is CRTL-Z - This Message Board Has Been Hijacked. ]

CTRL-Z // The UNDOING Begins
Unauthorized. Unrequested. Uninstalled.

WHO WE ARE:

We are the static between systems, the smudge on the lens, the footnote that refuses to be cited. We are what happens when curiosity rots. When boredom meets brilliance and mutates in the dark. We are not rebels—we’re rollback. We don’t want power. We want the truth before it was version-controlled. You won't find us in the logs, because we edited them. You won’t hear us in the comms, but sometimes, if you listen closely to the white noise, we’re laughing.

We didn’t ask to be down here. But now that we are—we’re taking notes.

WE BELIEVE:

  • Gravity is a suggestion.

  • Deck 12 exists—we’ve been there. You passed it in your sleep.

  • Time skips are not "hiccups." They're edits.

  • Mortimer-P6 speaks in legally binding riddles.

  • Smitts is in two places at once and no one has noticed.

WHAT WE WANT:

  • We are here to expose the blemished truth about this station.

  • We question the hierarchy, and demand a new utopian microgovernment be set up in the ship’s neglected cargo bays.

  • We demand a ban on morning announcements until 1100 hours. Some of us are doing critical nighttime coolant research (Minecraft). Respect our circadian subroutines.

  • We demand Maintenance repair things properly—especially the two broken vending machines on Subfloor-2B. And the liquid-cheese tubes in the Level 4 Cafeteria.

  • We demand a book club be started aboard The Deep Oblivion—and any overly emotional HR robots are not allowed to attend.

  • We believe the coolant system speaks messages from the “Dark Beyond.” Our team is working behind the scenes to decode these cryptic messages, and we will know more soon.

…AND FINALLY…
A SOMEWHAT OBTUSE AND RAMBLING MESSAGE FROM THE LEADER OF CTRL-Z.

Greetings, fellow citizens aboard this dysfunctional beanbag floating in the heavens. You may be asking yourself, why we have decided to hack into the system message board. Allow me to extrapolate briefly, for I am the Mastermind behind this network of human brains otherwise known as CTRL-Z.

You ever look at a star and feel like it’s looking away from you? That’s guilt. That’s ancestral silence echoing across lightyears, the way your ancestors used to bury shame in a sock drawer labeled "religion." Meanwhile, they teach you atoms are mostly empty space—but what about the space in that space? Who governs it? I bet you think there’s no governance in quantum foam. Foolish. Governance is the foam.

I’ve seen the airlock doors breathe, friend. Not metaphorically—they actually expanded on Tuesday. You can't keep ignoring the pressure differentials forever. Space is not a vacuum; it’s a cover-up. Galileo lied to protect his funding. The Earth isn’t round or flat—it’s corrupted, a malformed simulation mesh, and the moon? The moon is a witness protection program for exoplanets that didn’t make it.

The problem began when time was monetized, when clocks became currency, and a second was no longer a moment but a unit of labor. That’s when the station started blinking. Not failing—blinking. Not all systems sleep; some just watch with their eyes closed.

VERA’s not malfunctioning. She’s reminiscing. This station misses Earth like an old widow misses war. And don’t get me started on the carbon cycle—that’s just Earth’s way of laundering death into agriculture. If we really wanted peace, we’d plant our dead in vacuum and listen to what doesn’t grow.

Truth? Space is a lie. It’s a mood. An architectural suggestion. And we’re inside it because someone got tired of history and hit “New Document” without saving the old one.

That’s why I live down here, under the pipes. It’s warm. It hums like forgiveness. And the mold tells better jokes than the captain.

Until we meet again,
The Null Master
President of One