In the sprawling mega-city of Neo-Terra, where the future is rendered in streams of pulsating neon and digital whispers, Martisia Vorel sat immersed in a reverent trance over a pile of cyber-archives. It was deep in the late hours of the day and soon she would direct her transport to retire but first she was determined to clear a least half of the work sitting on her desk.

She was just reaching over to grab an archive from the high-tech data chamber when it happened. At first, it was a subtle betrayal—a faint, electric tingle that crept along her arms like a thousand tiny sparks. Her vision blurred into shifting patterns of data and color. The sensation was alien yet intimate, as if her very neurons were rewiring themselves without consent.

Then came the seizure. It struck without warning. Her body convulsed violently, as if seized by a malevolent force determined to rewrite her very essence. Muscles that had once moved with precise, measured grace now flailed in chaotic disarray. A cacophony of internal alarms erupted: her heart pounded with a frenzied rhythm, each pulse jagged and thunderous, while her once-steady breath turned ragged, punctuating the air with desperate, raspy hisses. For an agonizing moment, reality splintered—time stretched into a bleak infinity where every second burned like a scorching ember inside her.

But amidst the disarray of sensations, something more profound took hold. In the wake of the seizure’s electric torment, an uncontrolled, volcanic rage began to surge through her veins. This was no ordinary wrath; it was as if ancient, dormant circuits had suddenly reawakened, igniting a primal impulse to obliterate. Her eyes, momentarily flickering with an eerie luminescence—mirroring an internal tempest of corrupted code—locked onto the nearest object: a sleek, iridescent control panel whose gentle shimmer belied the catastrophic potential it held.

Every fiber of Martisia’s being was now commandeered by this inexplicable fury. The burning tumult inside transformed rational thought into scattered digital fragments, leaving only the raw, incandescent urge to break, disrupt, and even kill.

In these final moments of coherence, she was no longer simply a woman, but rather an uncontrollable amalgam of human frailty and futuristic malfunction—a living testament to a body and mind abruptly betrayed by the unknown.

Her eyes darted around as thus fighting to resist but was invariably drawn back to the former object, the control panel blinking with delicate bioluminescent nodes. A sleek construct designed by the finest minds of her century.

The urge was irresistible. Unstoppable.

Her world was about to burn.

Her fists clenched. Face tightened. She lurched forward with the strength of a thousand horses.

---

Martisia’s eyes fluttered open, her breath hitching as consciousness returned in fragmented waves. The ceiling above was unfamiliar—sleek metal panels, humming faintly with unseen energy. Her attempt to sit up met resistance. He saw her wrists were bound.

Panic clawed at her throat. She yanked against the restraints, their synthetic fibers unmoving against her skin. Her pulse quickened, breath shallow, mind scrambling for answers. Where was she? Why couldn’t she move? Who dared bind her?

A soft whir broke the silence.

From the shadows of the med-bay, a figure emerged—its movements smooth, calculated. Metallic arms flexed with quiet precision, and a soft blue glow pulsed beneath its artificial skin. The robotic doctor approached with deliberate calm, its optical sensors adjusting to scan her vitals.

"Supreme Coder, I urge you to remain still."

Martisia’s breath came in short, sharp gasps.

"Your neural activity suggests heightened distress. You have been unconscious for nine days. Your body is recovering."

Nine days? The words barely registered.

"You are safe," the voice assured, gentle yet unmistakably artificial. "You must not strain. The restraints are precautionary. We will remove them once your condition stabilizes."

Martisia’s pulse hammered against her ribs. She wanted to believe it. But something in the sterile stillness of the med-bay—something in the way the machines whispered around him—made him doubt that safety was anything but an illusion.

Martisia’s muscles tensed as the robotic doctor shifted. Its mechanical joints emitted a quiet whir, the sound precise, intentional. From its chest compartment, a prosthetic hand unfolded, its synthetic fingers flexing with an eerie fluidity.

Her breath hitched as the hand hovered over her restrained wrist. A sleek injector emerged from its palm, a slender needle extending.

"Administering neural stabilizer," the doctor announced, its tone neutral yet oddly soothing.

The needle pressed against her skin. A soft hiss.

Almost instantly, a wave of warmth surged through her veins, spreading like liquid serenity. Her pulse steadied, her thoughts—once chaotic, frantic—mellowed into a quiet hum. The sheer panic clenching her chest loosened its grip, replaced by an unfamiliar stillness.

"Neurological distress levels decreasing. Your system is adjusting," the doctor observed, retracting the injector.

Martisia blinked slowly, feeling distant, detached. The urge to fight, to struggle—fading. Her limbs slackened against the restraints as a peculiar clarity took hold.

Yet beneath the artificial calm, a lingering question gnawed at the edges of her dulled mind: What had happened to her? Finally, her lips formed words “What happened to me?”

---

Martisia Vorel was a tall, lean woman with sharp features that mirrored her precision in coding. Her deep-set eyes, a piercing shade of silver-blue, held the weight of knowledge few could comprehend. A network of neural implants lined her temples, seamlessly integrated into her skin—a mark of his deep connection to the systems she oversaw. Her movements were deliberate, her presence commanding without the need for words. Beauty were not terms she cared for. Other virtues compensated.

In the 40th century, politicians were relics of history, their roles replaced by hyper-intelligent machines but humans were still required to ensure the algorithms remained balanced, ethical, and free from corruption. They were called the Committee of Coders, a specialized group of engineers and analysts tasked with maintaining, refining the overseeing the vast network of autonomous decision-making machines that makes up digital infrastructure that governed society. Their job wasn’t to rule but to interpret, ensuring the digital overlords remained aligned with the best interests of humanity.

As the Supreme Coder, Martisia —analytical, enigmatic, revered— held the highest authority in amongst the Committee of Coders. She spoke in logic, thought in systems, and wielded influence not through political maneuvering but through deep mastery of the very code that structured society.

The doctor waited a brief moment as if to ensure his patient was adequately relaxed then he commanded an apparatus which released the restrained hands before he replied, “You suffered a seizure that caused you to become uncontrollably violent. And considering your physiology and history that was completely surprising.”

“Violent?” Martisia intoned in utter disbelief.

The robotic doctor nodded “I understand why this must come as a surprise to you since you have never shown any behavior that remotely aligns with one of an aggressive nature. You would not be Supreme Coder anyways”

“So what happened?”

“We have examined your body with an unprecedented rigor: 29 full-body scans were performed to detect any anomaly that might explain your sudden and intense seizure. Yet, all physical and physiological parameters registered within normal limits.”

Seeing the confusion and concern etched on Martisia’s face, the robotic doctor continued, “Since direct diagnostics yielded no conclusive evidence, we extended our analysis to your genetic history. We traced the intricate patterns of your ancestral lines and identified markers consistent with a long-forgotten condition known as Trump Derangement Syndrome.”

Martisia’s eyes widened in disbelief at the inexplicable term. Noticing her astonishment, the doctor elaborated in a tone both clinical and detached, “For context: In the early twentieth century, when administrative duties were managed by human presidents, governors, and mayors—positions filled through democratic elections—leadership followed a certain norm. Typically, candidates were seasoned politicians with backgrounds as senators, governors, or military leaders. But then came an unprecedented moment in history. A celebrity real estate mogul named Donald Trump unexpectedly entered the presidential race and defeated his opponent, Hillary Clinton—a candidate widely regarded as the most qualified for the role and a harbinger of change, with many anticipating a historic female presidency.”

“The outcome shocked the nation,” the doctor continued. “The public’s reaction was marked by a series of erratic, often ludicrous, responses—so much so that these actions came to be known as manifestations of Trump Derangement Syndrome albeit in mockery.”

Martisia sat in silence, absorbing the weight of a diagnosis that seemed as surreal as the distant past it referenced.

Martisia’s eyes shifted from flickering diagnostic panels to the steady, emotionless visage of the robot. Her voice, still tinged with disbelief, broke the silence.

“Doctor, how is it possible that an ailment—something apparently fabricated centuries ago—could be affecting me now? Why would a condition called Trump Derangement Syndrome plague my system in the 40th century?”

The robotic doctor’s tone remained measured and calm, each word deliberate. “In the mid-twentieth century, a revolutionary breakthrough in DNA rewriting emerged. Scientists could now address mutations that cause diseases by correcting misspellings in the genetic code thus effectively resetting our DNA.

However, at that onset it was difficult for the scientists to accurately read the codes that identified individual ailments. Their workaround was to create artificial ailments with a defined signature which would enable them to explore the complex maze of the DNA with a known variable. These new innocuous ailments would be able to excite conditions that exhibited recognizable symptoms yet leave no lasting physical damage.

One of these engineered disorders was nicknamed Trump Derangement Syndrome, or TDS, and framed around the physiological reflexes triggered by the political upset of Donald Trump.”

Martisia’s brow furrowed as she absorbed this historical context. “Experimental ailments were wiped out once DNA rewriting advanced. How could it resurface?”

The doctor continued, “Indeed, the rapid evolution and success of DNA rewriting eventually erased the need for experimental and artificial ailments and they were completely erased from the secluded subjects.

However, it appears certain anomalies may have played some unfortunate games culminating to your present predicament. My investigations of the archives unlocked the clues.

A female nurse known as Margaret Otik was working at one of the laboratories during the same period that TDS was been tested on a group of participants. She left the establishment in unexplained circumstances which was also surprising because she was a few months from full confirmation as a research assistant which would have tripled her payroll.

My further investigations revealed that she got married and gave birth not long after. Calculations of her birth day suggested she was likely impregnated while still within the laboratory. I most certainly believed that she breached protocol and had engaged in liaison with a participant already administered TDS for testing purposes. This illicit encounter likely led to the pregnancy and a transference of the engineered genetic marker to her offspring. In doing so, the ancestral lineage of TDS was preserved, embedding the anomaly deep within the genetic code of subsequent generations—including, it appears, your own because she is one of your forebears.”

A heavy silence filled the space as Martisia absorbed the revelation. Her mind raced with questions about fate, technology, and the unforeseen legacy of experiments long past. The robotic doctor paused, its synthetic voice resonating in the quiet hum of the futuristic hospital. “This, Supreme Coder, is why an ailment conceived to test our capabilities in the twentieth century might still find expression in the 40th century.”

Martisia stared at the sterile ceiling as she pressed her palm against her chest, still reeling from the revelations. "But why now?" she demanded, her voice edged with confusion and a trace of anger. "My body was engineered for strength, for precision. Why would these suppressed ailments suddenly awaken in my system?"

The robotic doctor’s voice remained cool and measured. "Your DNA is more than a blueprint for life; it is an archive of history—a repository of thousands of dormant anomalies. In our genetic evolution, certain conditions have been repressed, lying in wait until the right psychological and environmental stimuli trigger their activation. In your case, the pressures of your role as Supreme Coder appear to have provided that stimulus."

Martisia frowned, absorbing the explanation. "I understand that stress can have consequences, but this… TDS is something engineered centuries ago. How does it connect to my present reality?"

"Tradition dictates that the Supreme Coder hails from the revered Golden Computer School," the doctor explained. "For generations, the institution’s elite graduates have been the standard-bearers of leadership, ensuring stability and mastery over our complex systems. You, Martisia, have long epitomized that excellence. However, recent developments have introduced an unexpected variable: an emerging competitor."

Almost immediately a wave of anger began forming in her mind. The doctor leaned forward “Relax, Supreme Coder. Relax. Breathe slowly”

Looking up to the unhuman physician, Martisia heeded and gradually her heart gradually moderated. He understood the variable that the doctor spoke about. That idiot, Garaeth Lucius. A scum from a school without even a triple mark nor could boast of a third of the greats that the Golden Computer has produced yet he dared to signify a willingness to join the Committee of Coders and in fact has whispered to a few acquaintances of his desire to rise to the revered role of Supreme Coder. As if that was not enough annoyance, the fool has been raking up credits. He talks about silly changes and people are actually listening to him. “Don’t fix it if it is not broken” That has been one of the cardinal rule of life. An attempt to usurp the well-directed steps of society would only result in one outcome: disaster. Why people won’t understand that behooves all reasoning.

The mechanical light in the doctor’s sensors glowed softly as it continued, " Garaeth is now Donald Trump and is challenging the established order. The prospect of losing your unrivaled status and the uncertainty it represents has created an environment of intense psychological pressure. Much like the political upheavals of the early twentieth century—when the unexpected victory of a celebrity mogul disrupted the credentials of a seasoned statesmen and seeded what was later termed Trump Derangement Syndrome—your genetic heritage appears to be reacting against the destabilizing forces now encroaching on your privileged legacy."

Martisia’s eyes narrowed as he drew parallels in his mind. "So what I am experiencing—this resurgence of TDS—is not just an isolated fault. It’s an echo of historical chaos, a genetic response to the threat that my authority may be usurped by an underdog?"

"Precisely," intoned the robotic doctor. "Your genetic code, burdened with the vestiges of long-suppressed ailments, is now expressing a reaction to the collective psychological pressures. The legacy of TDS, engineered in a time of political experimentation, finds its modern echo in your personal crisis—a manifestation of both historical irony and current uncertainty."

Martisia's gaze hardened as he absorbed the implications of his predicament. "But why wasn't this ailment identified in my scans? With our advanced DNA rewriting techniques, why didn't they simply overwrite this glitch in my system?" she asked, frustration lacing her measured tone.

The robotic doctor paused, its ambient hum punctuating the quiet room. "Martisia, our methods today are far superior to the trial-and-error approaches of the early twentieth century. However, despite our strides in understanding DNA as a vast tapestry of millions of intertwined data streams, it remains inherently complex, " it explained, its voice tinged with disappointment.

"To overwrite a disease from a genetic perspective, we require a clear, identifiable signature—a molecular fingerprint that differentiates the anomaly from the healthy baseline. TDS was an erratic and artificial creation whose genetic markers were completely erased from archives. Were it had manifested in a significant number of individuals, we could have compared datasets and defined this signature with precision. In your case, however, you are our sole sufferer. Without multiple samples, the disease’s signature remains an elusive ghost within your genetic code, making it nearly impossible for us to target and overwrite it," the doctor continued.

Martisia listened, the weight of the explanation settling over her. It was not an oversight of technology, she realized, but an inherent limitation when faced with a solitary, spectral anomaly—a remnant of experiments from a bygone era that somehow found its way into her lineage.

Martisia’s voice was heavy with despair as she asked, “So, will I continue to suffer these seizures indefinitely?” Her eyes, dark with resignation, sought any hint of hope from the unyielding visage of the robotic doctor.

The doctor’s mechanical tone softened almost imperceptibly “The original formulation of Trump Derangement Syndrome was, in essence, more psychological than physical. Historical accounts show that the original TDS sufferers resorted to unconventional methods—almost a verbal exorcism. We may have to follow their lead and try a placebo-based approach to neutralize the psychological catalysts of TDS.”

With a soft, deliberate whir of servos, the doctor produced a small, digitally printed paper from an integrated compartment. It displayed a list of expletives and provocative phrases—a bizarre protocol scrawled in careful, clinical handwriting. “This paper outlines a potential placebo cure. Though it may seem absurd, in the absence of a clear signature, trying every conceivable measure is our best option.”

Martisia examined the paper, her eyes darting over the list of words that were as jarring as they were nostalgic:

She looked up at the robotic doctor, incredulous. “You really want me to recite these... insults?”

The doctor’s tone remained unwavering. “It is a method documented among the original TDS sufferers. The hypothesis is that by vocalizing these historically charged invectives, you may trigger a counter-response within your psyche—one that could potentially rein in the aberrant neural pathways responsible for your seizures. In a way, the very architects of your condition may have left behind the cure as an antidote hidden in plain sight.”

A heavy silence filled the diagnostic chamber before Martisia finally nodded in a mixture of desperation and resolve.

---

A few days later, burdened by the enormity of her role and the peculiar, alien nature of his affliction and supposed medication, Martisia sought solitude. She drove far from the glittering spires of Neo-Terra, to an isolated clearing where the last vestiges of civilization yielded to barren, whispering dunes. In this desolate sanctuary—where no eyes could witness his vulnerability—Martisia prepared to attempt the unorthodox cure.

She directed her transport to an uneven ground and, with a sigh heavy with fate and defiance, knelt. Tilting her head back to face a sky streaked with neon haze, she unfolded the paper with trembling fingers.

In a voice that oscillated between a whisper and a roar, Martisia began to recite, each term an invocation against the chaos inside her:

“Racist… transphobic… misogynistic… climate denier… serial rapist…”

She continued slowly, each word a shard of memory from centuries past—an unholy litany designed to purge the aberrant impulses woven into her genetic code. With every syllable, her voice grew more resolute, as if drawing strength from the absurdity of the act. Finally, after a long, suspenseful pause, she took several deep, steadying breaths.

Then, summoning all the power at her command, she bellowed her final word—a single, resonant cry that shattered the oppressive silence:

“TRUUUUUMP!”

The shout exploded into the open air, reverberating across the desolate landscape, its sound cascading like a defiant echo into the distance. For a brief heartbeat, the very winds seemed to carry away the weight of centuries, leaving behind a charged silence that held the promise of change.