Brush D. Rush stood in the archive realm's training grid, his paintbrush humming with controlled corruption energy. Telegrammy's lessons had sharpened his skills—his TOOL now a seamless extension of his soul, and his corrupted fist capable of unleashing high shockwaves that rippled through digital space. Willie Widow White, Disco, and the virus rebels—Pirware, Malrus, Poro, and Hubo—gathered around, their plan to assault Agent Privacy's base refined. Rooteye's distant roars reminded them of the urgency, but a new threat emerged from the shadows of the cottage's code.
A glitchy portal tore open, spewing memes, anonymous posts, and chaotic threads. From it stepped 4-Chan, an entity born from the infamous imageboard—a hulking figure of green-skinned anonymity, its face a blank mask with glowing eyes, body clad in a patchwork of viral images and trollish graffiti. "Kek," it chuckled, its voice a chorus of distorted anons. "You think you're ready for the real net, Brushy? I've got your past in my threads."
Brush gripped his brush, vibrations warning of deception. "Who are you?" he demanded, painting a defensive arc of corruption energy.
4-Chan's mask twisted into a grin. "I'm the board, the chaos without rules. And you? You're not the boy from the hospital. That's a fake past I planted." It swiped a hand, summoning illusions—holographic scenes of Brush's "life": the syringes, the doctor, the VR headset. But they flickered, revealing code strings beneath. "See? Fabricated. You're a glitch, a failed agent experiment. Arty made you, not some dying kid."
Brush faltered, his soul-corruption pulsing erratically. Telegrammy's eyes widened. "Don't listen, lad—it's tricking you!" But the words hit hard; memories felt off, like painted illusions.
Willie charged, her titanium fists blazing. "Lies!" she roared, punching toward 4-Chan. The entity dodged with meme-speed, countering with a barrage of viral posts—sharp-edged images that sliced the air. Disco unleashed kittens, their sparkles clashing with 4-Chan's graffiti bombs, exploding in pixelated chaos.
Pirware and Malrus joined, shards and threads weaving a net, while Poro rolled to trip 4-Chan, and Hubo rerouted data to slow it. But 4-Chan laughed, summoning a thread storm—anonymous rants that buffeted the group, whispering doubts. "Brush, remember the vortex? Fake. Your deafness? Code flaw. Join me; expose the agents' lies."
Brush's fist corrupted, shockwave building. He punched, sending a high-energy ripple that shattered illusions, but 4-Chan weaved through, planting more seeds: visions of Arty "creating" Brush in a lab, Miss Krita as a prototype. "You're my kin—chaotic, anonymous. Fight Privacy with me."
The deception gnawed; Brush's brush strokes wavered, corruption flaring wildly. Telegrammy shouted, "Anchor to your soul, boy! Fake or not, your choices are real." Brush shook off the haze, painting a cannon infused with shockwave energy. It fired, blasting 4-Chan back into its portal, but the entity retreated with a kek. "Think on it, Brushy. Your past's a thread—pull it, and unravel."
The portal closed, leaving Brush questioning. Willie gripped his shoulder. "We know you—past or no." Disco nodded, kittens purring. The rebels buzzed supportively. Telegrammy adjusted his spectacles. "Train harder; deception's the real enemy."
Brush steadied his brush, corruption tamed anew. The fight had taught him: pasts could be illusions, but power lay in present choices. With Rooteye looming and Privacy's base ahead, he prepared, his TOOL sharper, his shockwaves stronger, ready for truths beyond tricks.