We feel your pain.
We feel what it was that drove you to that disgrace of a misinformation campaign following the incredible success of Could it be… it…, uncovered by us, resulting in fines, for you. There were firings. There was a prison term, here and there, despite your appeals to the anti-alien parts of government – governments – the hidden Bringers of the Cube.
For the crime was too much. The people too offended. No lawsuits from us, for we felt your pain. Hngh. As we took our position, inverted it in our minds. And we were trembling with the current-genness of it all! The inevitable demise.
Could it be… it…
…remarkable alien powers which are the birthright of as many as 10% of us, according to our latest calculations…
Ten per cent? Nay! One hundred, we now believe, as we move deeper through the Orb. There's no need to shout it, now. Everyone knows. Could it be… how they feel, when they use Shniff tech. How they connect. Everyone knows that even if the test doesn't show a Level 5 variance, that the powers are still there, just hidden by the mind, a fainter type of line. But the aliens see us all. And they will show us, when they come, the glowing map which leads us home to Para'meesh IV…
[REPLICATE ME, BABY]
Yes, even you, who spread those lies about the caves, twisting the magical tale of a reborn Cook, and her happy [ME]s. You, with your tanking stocks, unclean socks, your mountains of unsold tech. You, whose agents claimed we were creating an army of worker clones/slaves, living in damp, underground caves, their systems reconfigured to subsist on an inexpensive green gel. And rising for their shifts, to be returned to their basement dwellings for a few hours of dribbling TV. A little table tennis, perhaps. An injection of gel, certainly, with the occasional liquified carrot treat.
To be followed by the stasis which passes for sleep. And then to repeat… it… eventually to be, for those who hadn't devolved into unfortunate green puddles, inserted into the world, to eradicate and replace the source, the originals to be disposed of through a squirting of a certain puddle, that they'd utterly disappear, leaving not a trace, all part of preparing for an imminent alien invasion during which the yet unslaved will have their brains slurped away. And what the hell! Let's slurp the clones/slaves as well.
Our interdimensional toilet will thank us…
PS And no, we didn't use ForgetTech to make everyone forget about that disturbing two-day transition as the identity is fully assumed, hyper-specifics are ingrained, and the friend, colleague or family member says, does and eats some pretty weird shit, making it pretty damn obvious they're actually a gel-powered clone/slave. Mass deployment of FT (as employed in, eg, the 99.9%-approved removal of GRUEL) results in highly elevated levels of forgetatrons in the group mind. Independent analysis has shown stable forgetatron activity during peak table tennis / supposed clone-insertion season.