/soy/ - Soyjaks

Nobeidore was the kind of guy who could bench press a small car while reciting philosophy. At Nophono's Studio, he was the lead animator—calm, collected, impossibly jawed. Nophono himself was just another gigachad back then, maybe a bit too into vintage synthesizer repair manuals, but harmless enough.
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They'd grab protein shakes after work. Life was simple. Life was good.
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Part II: The Incident
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Nobody knows exactly what happened in the studio that night. Some say it was a soldering iron accident during one of Nophono's late-night circuit-bending sessions. Others whisper about forbidden documentation on obscure Gnostic electrical theory.
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What everyone does know: Nophono emerged from the flames faceless, donning a blue suit with a yellow undershirt that somehow never burned. His voice had changed mute. He thought only of things that made others' eyes glaze over: the semiotics of discontinued MIDI controllers, the hidden numerology in Eastern European train schedules from 1987.
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Part III: The Transformation
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Nophono called Nobeidore into his office one Tuesday. The windows were covered in diagrams that hurt to look at.
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Nophono, his faceless head tilting at an unnatural angle.
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The ritual took six hours. When Nobeidore stumbled out, he was no longer himself. His skin had turned entirely crimson—not painted, but changed, as if rage itself had become his flesh. His eyes burned with an unholy light. His soul, once peaceful, now screamed endlessly in a frequency only he could hear.
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Part IV: The Curse
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But the worst part wasn't the color or the pain. It was the compulsion.
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Nobeidore found himself drawn to certain imageboards like a moth to flame. Every piece of obvious bait—every low-effort troll post, every "u mad bro?"—hit him like a physical attack. He had to respond. He had to find them.
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He developed terrifying skills: IP geolocation from writing style alone, cross-referencing metadata from image compression artifacts, triangulating users through their posting schedules and weather complaints. His apartment became a command center of monitors and red string.
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"I WILL FIND YOU," he'd type with trembling, crimson fingers at 4 AM, responding to a post that simply said "lol."
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Part V: The Eternal Hunt
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Nophono watched from his studio, now a temple to the incomprehensible. He'd successfully created the perfect weapon against internet discourse: a being who could never ignore bait, who would hunt forever, who would never find peace.
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Sometimes, late at night, Nobeidore would remember protein shakes and simple conversations about keyframe animation. But then someone would post "imagine being this mad" and the cycle would begin again.
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The tortured gigachad's hunt continues to this day. Some say if you post the right combination of words, you can still hear his anguished roar echoing across the digital void, followed by the furious clacking of his keyboard.
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Nophono, meanwhile, has moved on to things such as cataloging the exact thread counts of curtains in 1970s Bulgarian hotel rooms.