Post
Hey everyone! I’m working on a short, satirical sci-fi comedy novella (aiming for under 20k words) and wanted to share Chapter 1 to see what you guys think. Think Shitposter Police meets dystopian Martian bureaucracy. If you enjoy over-the-top escalation, military-grade tactical teams with terrible acronyms, and people taking internet reviews way too seriously, this is for you. Let me know if you want Chapter 2! Chapter 1 It was a Monday morning inside the 20,000-soul Mars Colony dome. Outside, the endless red dust beat against the reinforced polymer ceiling; inside, the atmospheric scrubbers hummed with a low, depressing whine that smelled faintly of recycled cabbage. Agent Drake Razor and Agent Stryker Thrash walked side by side down the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors of the Colonial Info-Control Authority—colloquially known to the high-ranking bureaucrats as the Mars CIA. It was an organisation originally established under a grand mandate to detect and eliminate harmful alien propaganda within the colony. However, among the cynical veteran Mars colonists who actually had to live there, it was universally referred to as the Shitposter Police. Agent Drake Razor, his posture rigidly professional, pressed his palm against the biometric scanner next to a heavy, bulletproof sliding door. The scanner beeped a cheerful confirmation, granting them access to the high-security wing of the establishment. Printed across the reinforced steel door in bold, authoritarian yellow lettering was a sign that read: DYNAMIC INTEL CONTROL KREW OUT OF BOUNDS D.I.C.K. SQUAD MEMBERS ONLY The door slid open with a pressurised hiss. The two agents stepped into the dimly lit monitoring room, where rows of server racks blinked like malevolent Christmas lights. They sat at their respective terminals, logging into the global colony network to begin their shift. "Refreshing the SpaceBook Mars Colonial feed for Sector 2," Razor murmured, his fingers tapping the glass keyboard with mechanical precision. "Let's see what we’ve got today, Thrash." The automated system had already flagged a number of recent SpaceBook posts, highlighting them in aggressive neon text. Agent Thrash leaned forward, picked one from the top of the queue, and started reading it aloud in a mocking, theatrical voice: "‘Lucy_in_the_sky44 says: The new stock has arrived. Hit the encrypted DM for coordinates. #FreshBatch #GoingFast’" Thrash pointed a thick finger at the glowing monitor. "Look at the picture! The dark one of six unmarked metallic crates. Looks like it was taken on sub-level 6 behind the maintenance block. No one ever goes down there. I bet those crates are full of dope, Razor! We should check them out!" Razor checked the user profile, clicked his tongue, and shook his head with a deep, weary sigh. "Negative, Thrash. They are part of the Martian Navajo Clone Lives Matter movement." Thrash froze, his fist hovering inches above the desk. "You've got to be kidding me." "I wish I were," Razor said, pulling up the account's digital background. "Even if we raid the sub-level and find the dope, we will be accused of planting the evidence because we are racist. Leave them alone, Thrash. Too risky." "Fine," Thrash grumbled, scrolling aggressively to the next flagged alert. "Here’s another one. MolotovX posts: ‘Special effects ready for the mayor’s speech.’ And there is this photo next to it with a can of rocket fuel and three glass bottles plugged with rags. Let’s take him down!" Razor looked at his screen, scrolling rapidly down the user’s profile. "No way, Thrash!" he exclaimed. "This one is part of the Hermaphrodite Cyborg Community. If we even approach them, we will be labeled sexist, and we'll lose our tactical funding before the end of the week." "What about this one?" Thrash barked, slamming his palm on the desk as his cybernetic cheek servo began to whine. "Cyberpimp007 posts: ‘Check out the new chicks. Don’t ask about their age. LOL.’ I don’t even need to go into details on the photo because you can see it too. That’s totally illegal. Let’s go and bring him in!" Razor checked the data, his face turning entirely pale. "No fricking way! They are members of the Witnesses of Ares. Do you want to get fired for interfering with their religious rights?" Thrash threw his hands up in absolute fury. "There’s got to be someone we can arrest! We have a quota to make!" he roared. Razor scrolled down to the very bottom of the feed. "Don’t worry," he said with a slight, cunning smile on his face, "I’ve got us covered. Check this out!" Thrash looked at his screen and saw a status update from a user called Christian Bliss, a skinny old school teacher with a pair of oversized round glasses. He had posted an ad from the Ares Café with a picture of a beautiful, large, red coffee cup on a nice red saucer with a massive amount of cream aesthetically arranged and with red cocoa powder sprinkled on the top. Right next to it was another picture featuring some questionable black coffee in a small paper cup without any cream or cocoa powder. The post said: "Not quite as advertised. Two star only." "Look at that!" said Thrash. "He is covertly spreading disaffection and trying to alienate the crew. It is a sneaky way of undermining the morale and instigating a mutiny. That is the alien propaganda we have been trained to detect ever since our organisation was set up!" "You are right!" Razor agreed. "This is totally unacceptable!" He slammed his hand on the table and continued. "He is publicly defaming a state-operated breakfast facility! He's actively dismantling civilian confidence in our colonial catering system!" "It gets worse," Thrash hissed, pointing at the screen. "He tagged the location. It’s already got three 'Likes' and a 'Care' emoji from a user named Grandma_Appleseed. The contagion is spreading, Razor. If this review hits the SpaceBook trending algorithm, productivity in Sector 2 will collapse by nightfall." Thrash didn't hesitate. He spun around and slammed his massive fist through the protective glass casing on the wall, completely shattering it. He mashed the heavy, red emergency button underneath. WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! Instantly, the sterile office lights cut out, replaced by the violent, rotating glare of crimson emergency strobes. The automated PA system blared a deafening siren: "RED ALERT. CATEGORY ONE INFRASTRUCTURE DISRESPECT IN PROGRESS. REPEAT: RED ALERT." "Move, move, move!" Thrash bellowed into his comm-link. Down the central corridor, the heavy steel doors of the armoury slid open. The tactical operators of the Dynamic Intel Control Krew—who had spent the last three hours casually playing cards—sprang into action with terrifying, mechanised synchronisation. Within ninety seconds, they were fully encased in heavy, matte-black composite combat armour that swallowed the light. They snapped their featureless, predatory visors down over their faces. The squad sprinted down the line in perfect formation, snatching high-calibre plasma shotguns and heavy breaching shields off the wall racks in a blur of clanking metal. Thrash and Razor led the charge down the service ramp and into the subterranean garage where the D.I.C.K. tactical response van idled, its engine roaring like a caged beast. It was an intimidating, low-profile assault vehicle covered in reinforced steel mesh, sporting massive steel ramming bars on the front grill designed to punch through starship bulkheads. Glowing in aggressive, bright yellow neon on the side panels were the letters: D.I.C.K. The six armoured operators piled into the back, their heavy boots rattling the floorboards before the rear doors slammed shut with a heavy, pressurised lock. "Go! Go! Go!" Thrash roared, slapping the interior metal hull. "Target acquired! Intercept Christian Bliss!" The driver stomped the accelerator. The massive armoured van tore out of its bay, its heavy combat tires screeching violently against the polished polymer floor, leaving thick, smoking streaks of black rubber behind. It blasted through the opening blast gates and tore into the unsuspecting, quiet streets of the civilian sector—sirens screaming, red lights flashing, entirely mobilised to eliminate the terrifying threat of dangerous alien propaganda. The vehicle rocketed down the completely carless Martian avenues, where the lack of personal vehicle permits left the roads wide open. The deafening, overlapping wail of the sirens echoed off the synthetic rock walls of the dome, letting pretty much everyone under the 20,000-soul dome know that the D.I.C.K. were in action. The driver swerved violently to the left, almost running over a teenager on a hoverboard who had to execute a clumsy backflip into a recycling bin to stay alive. The teenager popped his head out, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted over the sirens, "Watch out, everyone! The D.I.C.K. Squad is out, and their name says it all!" A second later, the heavy van barrelled through a crosswalk, forcing an old colony engineer to actively run for his life across the street, his toolkit clattering to the ground. The old man scrambled safely onto the curb, spat onto the pavement, and muttered to a bystander, "Look at that. For once, the government actually labelled a department honestly. A whole van full of 'em." Instead of diving for cover in terror, the rest of the public stopped in their tracks, openly pointing and laughing as the menacing black van tore past with the bright yellow D.I.C.K. sign flashing on its side panels. Completely oblivious to the public mockery, the driver pulled a hard, drifting turn around the central oxygen plaza, gunning the engine to eat up the final stretch of the sector. Exactly forty-five seconds after leaving its headquarters, the armoured assault vehicle screeched to a halt directly outside the peaceful glass facade of the Ares Café. Inside, Christian Bliss was casually brushing a crumb off his cardigan, completely oblivious to his impending doom as he reached out to take a timid, disappointed sip of his cream-less coffee. CRASH! The van's steel ramming bars pulverised the front window into a million glittering shards. Before the dust could even settle, three flashbangs detonated with a deafening pop, filling the café with thick, acrid grey smoke. "CRAWL ON THE BELLY! CRAWL ON THE BELLY!" Thrash bellowed over the sirens as he vaulted over the pastry counter, sending a display of synthetic blueberry muffins flying through the air. Thrash and another heavily armoured operator slammed the frail schoolteacher face-first onto the sticky linoleum floor. His oversized round glasses flew off his face, skidding across the room and landing right into a puddle of spilled espresso. Razor stepped through the swirling smoke, kicking a breakfast table out of the way with his heavy boots crunching loudly on the spilled cornflakes. He looked down at the pinned, trembling civilian, pulled up his glowing digital warrant on his tablet, and smiled coldly. "Christian Bliss, you are under arrest for Aggravated Digital Treason and Sedition Against State-Sponsored Caffeine Providers. Under Article 4 of the Colonial End-User License Agreement, you have the right to remain silent, though your silence will be mathematically analysed by our AI algorithms and factored into your eventual guilt score. You also have the right to retain a legal representative, provided that your attorney is selected from the pre-approved list of Preferred Corporate Vendors listed on page 412 of the Mars CIA Charter. Please note that all phone calls to legal counsel are subject to a standard long-distance connection fee of four hundred credits per minute, plus an out-of-network processing surcharge. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will not be provided for you, as the public defender program was privatised last quarter and converted into a highly profitable digital premium subscription service. However, for a one-time fee of ninety-nine credits, we can provide you with an automated Legal Chatbot that has a seventy percent chance of accidentally entering a guilty plea on your behalf. Do you understand these rights as they have been briefly summarised to you, or would you like to purchase the Premium Ad-Free version of this arrest warrant?" "But... but the coffee didn't have any cocoa powder!" Bliss choked out, his voice trembling against the floorboards. Thrash racked the slide of his plasma shotgun with a terrifying metallic clack, aiming the barrel directly at the back of the teacher's head. "Tell it to the judge, space-traitor."
Intent Score
0
Intent
99
Confidence
Summary
The post is a sci-fi comedy novella excerpt and has no connection to windows or home repair.
Reasoning
This is clearly a creative writing post about a Mars colony story, with no mention of a homeowner, window issues, replacement, comparison, or related home improvement concerns.
Extracted Signals
- creative writing topic
“I’m working on a short, satirical sci-fi comedy novella”
- fiction excerpt
“Chapter 1 It was a Monday morning inside the 20,000-soul Mars Colony dome.”
Model: gpt-5.4-mini · Prompt: v3 · 6/12/2026, 9:02:20 AM