Q V Trump

 

Q knew he was fucked. The kind of fucked that whispers on the edges of reality, the kind that creeps into the marrow and hollows out the will. Riot-armored suppressors formed a suffocating ring around their last stand, the faint hum of VTOL engines above cutting through the gas-choked air. Death was imminent, delivered in the form of drones armed with nerve agents, hook grenades, and K-Darts—syringes of tranquilizing ketamine powerful enough to take down a herd of stampeding elephants. Christ on crack cocaine it was going to be a slaughter Q thought, consuming the last of his drugs a la Spartacus killing his horse. If they won the day, there would be plenty of drugs to be had. And if they lost? Less drugs for them. 

He reluctantly fastened his gas mask and surveyed the scene. In the eye of this maelstrom, Q stood resolute, his eyes narrowing behind the fogged-up lenses of his gas mask. Somewhere on the other side of this chaos, the embodiment of everything Q loathed lounged in opulent comfort. Donald Trump, the man whose petty narcissism had bloated into authoritarian cruelty, surveyed the carnage from within his custom-built Owlbear assault vehicle. A palace on treads, plated in gold and arrogance, the machine radiated the same unearned confidence as its occupant.

Trump toyed with his phone, refreshing his Truth Social app for dopamine hits as the slaughter unfolded below. "Tremendous win. Best battle. QAnon falling like dominoes," he muttered aloud, his hands fumbling with the controls. The vehicle's interior reeked of fast food grease and old cologne. For Trump, this was the pinnacle of his presidency—a literal last stand. Not his, of course, but theirs.

Q felt the hairs on the back of his everything stand to attention as the casual whining of rotary aircraft accelerated in unison towards them. The command for shields was made just in time as the first salvos of drone borne ordinance rained down among them. Nerve and tear gasses found those unprepared with a positive gas mask seal. Seizures, and coughing, and collapse, oh my. Hook grenades tore into flesh and bone, creating inescapable balls of continual pain. Triage meant not bothering to help, medics knew the futility. Then the crashing rain of the K-Darts, fully automatic ketamine pre-doses capable of dropping a frenzied horse like a sack of sleepy potatoes. Q saw the agents fall as those never-ending waves crushed them into unwilling rest. 

The air above Q's battalion thickened as drones unleashed their consecutive waves. Gas hissed, grenades detonated, and darts whizzed through the air like angry hornets. Q's squad fell in heaps—choking, convulsing, collapsing into a tableau of ruin. He clenched his fists and barked commands through the muffled haze. The Guild—the last defiant few—answered with an echoing roar, raising shields and rallying to his cry. The battle was not yet lost, but Q's heart sank with each passing second. His people were dying in droves, and for what? To pierce the heart of tyranny with swords dulled by futility?

Trump grew bored, as he often did, flipping from app to app, pausing only to berate a staffer who had mistakenly packed his Diet Coke at the wrong temperature. "Idiots," he spat. Outside, the combat was becoming a mess. Trump's command structure, such as it was, relied on sycophants and enablers—none of whom had a grasp of tactics. But they had resources. Oh, the resources: tanks, drones, air support, all humming with the lifeblood of taxpayer dollars. Why bother with strategy when brute force could do the job?

He chuckled at the absurdity of it all. "They won't even last another ten minutes," he muttered, sipping his lukewarm soda. "Greatest victory. Tremendous, really."

Q felt the shift before he saw it. The drones retreated for their second-wave replacements, leaving a brief window of opportunity. He seized it. "Charge!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the static of despair. The Guild surged forward, a ragtag orchestra of defiance. Gas masks fogged, armor dented, they fought with a ferocity born not of hope, but of sheer exhaustion with the status quo.

The riot suppressors, untrained in close combat, faltered. Their gas masks fogged, their formations broke, and their expensive toys proved useless against the raw, unrelenting humanity of Q's forces. It was a brutal, inelegant thing, this clash of bodies and wills. The Guild carved a path through the chaos, disrupting Trump's command structure and severing the arteries of his war machine.

For all his wealth and power, Trump was unprepared for this level of resistance. He slammed his fists against the control panel of his vehicle. "Why are they running?!" he screamed, spittle flying. "I thought we had them surrounded! Who's in charge here?!"

No one answered. His aides were too busy fleeing with silverware pilfered from the Owlbear's gilded kitchenette.

But as Q swung his blade and barked orders, something unexpected happened. Amid the screams and gunfire, he saw one of his soldiers kneeling beside a wounded riot officer. The Guild member, instead of finishing the man off, offered water from their canteen. Another fighter removed their mask to help a choking civilian—enemy or not. These small, irrational acts of kindness rippled through the chaos like tiny seeds breaking through concrete.

Q froze, his sword lowering. He had led these people into hell, expecting them to fight fire with fire, hatred with hatred. But here they were, risking their lives not to kill, but to save. It was absurd. It was beautiful.

Trump, meanwhile, was having an entirely different kind of epiphany. "They're helping each other?" he mumbled, squinting at his phone's live feed. "That's not how wars work. Wars are about winning. Not... this."

As the drones returned, Q raised his hand—not in a gesture of attack, but in surrender. "Hold your fire!" he yelled. His forces hesitated but obeyed. The riot officers, confused, did the same. A fragile silence settled over the battlefield.

"We've proven our point," Q said, his voice carrying across the ruined landscape. "We don't need to kill each other to win. The real victory is showing that your cruelty, your greed, your hate—it doesn't work. It never has."

Trump watched, slack-jawed, as Guild members began helping injured officers to their feet. Civilians emerged from hiding, some carrying white flags, others simply weeping. The battlefield transformed into something unrecognizable: a place of compassion.

Trump's carefully constructed narrative—his empire of fear and division—began to crumble. His own forces, demoralized and disillusioned, started laying down their arms. Without enemies to fight, the drones hovered aimlessly before powering down.

Inside the Owlbear, Trump fumed. "This isn't fair!" he whined, pounding the dashboard. "They're not playing by the rules!" He reached for his gold-plated pistols, firing wildly at the walls of his vehicle in a tantrum. "I'll show them! I'll—"

But no one was listening. His aides had long since abandoned him, taking what they could carry. The Owlbear, once a symbol of his invincibility, now felt more like a gilded cage.

As the dust settled, Q approached the Owlbear, flanked by his surviving Guild members. He knocked on the door, a bemused smile playing on his lips. "Come out, Donald. It's over."

Inside, Trump cowered, clutching his empty pistols. "You can't do this to me," he muttered. "I'm the president."

"Not anymore," Q replied. "You're just another man who let his power destroy him."

And with that, the Owlbear's doors swung open. Trump, defeated but unrepentant, was led away. The Guild, battered but victorious, turned their attention to rebuilding what had been lost—not with weapons, but with the quiet, unyielding strength of kindness.

Years later, Q would reflect on that day. He had prepared for war, for bloodshed, for the annihilation of an oppressive regime. But in the end, it was the simple, human act of kindness that had dismantled Trump's empire. It was a lesson he would carry with him forever: sometimes, the greatest weapon is the courage to care.