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Mark "The Grand Architect" sat quietly, scrolling through the latest reports on his tablet. The council waited in silent anticipation as he finally looked up with a calm, calculated grin.
"The harvest this year was beyond our expectations," Mark began, his voice barely concealing his satisfaction. "But the real gem of our operations has been the adrenochrome production, especially from the... Russian stock."
The room shifted, whispers of excitement coursing through the elite. Mark stood up and paced slowly, letting the tension build.
"As we know," he continued, "adrenochrome is the key to our longevity, our power. The aliens have shown us how to distill it, how to make it more potent than anything humanity has ever seen. But there's one source that reigns supreme."
Mark paused, glancing around the room with a cold, knowing look. "Russian children," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "their adrenochrome is the purest, the most potent. You see, from birth to death, these children live in a state of unrelenting fear. The trauma they experience—famine, war, oppression—it all creates a perfect cocktail of terror that makes their adrenochrome unmatched."
A murmur of approval rippled through the council, and Mark smirked. "Our alien benefactors, of course, demand a small... 'tax' of human essence for their services. In exchange for distillation technology and their continued support, we provide them with the purest samples from our global harvest."
He turned back to his tablet, scrolling through a list of names, all harvested individuals. "Their needs are modest," Mark said dismissively, "10 percent of our total yield is enough to keep them satisfied. But our own supplies of adrenochrome... they've allowed us to push the boundaries of human life. Immortality is now within reach."
"The harvest this year was beyond our expectations," Mark began, his voice barely concealing his satisfaction. "But the real gem of our operations has been the adrenochrome production, especially from the... Russian stock."
The room shifted, whispers of excitement coursing through the elite. Mark stood up and paced slowly, letting the tension build.
"As we know," he continued, "adrenochrome is the key to our longevity, our power. The aliens have shown us how to distill it, how to make it more potent than anything humanity has ever seen. But there's one source that reigns supreme."
Mark paused, glancing around the room with a cold, knowing look. "Russian children," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "their adrenochrome is the purest, the most potent. You see, from birth to death, these children live in a state of unrelenting fear. The trauma they experience—famine, war, oppression—it all creates a perfect cocktail of terror that makes their adrenochrome unmatched."
A murmur of approval rippled through the council, and Mark smirked. "Our alien benefactors, of course, demand a small... 'tax' of human essence for their services. In exchange for distillation technology and their continued support, we provide them with the purest samples from our global harvest."
He turned back to his tablet, scrolling through a list of names, all harvested individuals. "Their needs are modest," Mark said dismissively, "10 percent of our total yield is enough to keep them satisfied. But our own supplies of adrenochrome... they've allowed us to push the boundaries of human life. Immortality is now within reach."
