THE MUSK REPORT

 THE MUSK REPORT

A Guild Intelligence Briefing

The difficulty with pre-2035 jaunts isn’t the time travel itself—it’s the landing. Moving a body through time is impossible before the Causality Threshold, but shifting a consciousness? That’s an entirely different horror show. You don’t step through a shimmering portal or climb into some retro-futuristic contraption—you wake up inside someone else, their habits pressing against the edges of your mind like a too-tight suit, their memories dripping into your own like a leaking faucet. The trick isn’t just maintaining control, it’s understanding where you are, when you are, and whether the future has already started bleeding backward into the past. Because it does, sometimes. And if you’re not careful, if you don’t recalibrate fast enough, you can get stuck thinking like them. That’s why I rely on the details—the scraps of newsprint, the graffiti on subway walls, the casual way people talk about events that, in my original timeline, hadn’t happened yet. Because history isn’t a straight line. It’s a Möbius strip made of bad decisions. And Elon Musk, somehow, always manages to be at the center of them. I am reliant on the help of my fellow Agents of the Guild, and their reports.

***

The night was thick with the acrid stench of hashish smoke and moral compromise. I sat at my usual table in the back of the Guild’s secure debriefing room—a converted Cold War-era bunker walled off beneath a condemned portion of Beaver State—sipping on a black-market energy drink designed for long-haul truckers with a death wish.

With me, four of the Guild’s finest field agents waited, their eyes darting like rats in a maze, their nerves fried from weeks embedded deep in enemy territory. Their faces were hardened by their time in the field—those who had stared into the abyss, and, more often than not, had the abyss block them on X (formerly Twitter).

They were here for one reason: Elon Musk.

I cracked my fingers, hit record, and exhaled. "Tell me what we've got."

BUNBURRY was the first to speak. He was a brawny flautist with the look of someone who had subsisted on gas station sushi for too long. His voice was baritone, his intonation deadly.

"The White House janitorial staff came through. It’s bad, Q." He slid a battered folder across the table. "DOGE is out of control. Musk sent out an email to the entire federal workforce demanding they justify their existence. Two-point-three million people, Q. He said, 'Tell me what you did this week or you're out.'"

I sighed. "Response?"

"Most ignored it. Some are suing. The Office of Personnel Management is in a panic. The courts are involved now. It’s a mess. He wanted to gut the workforce overnight, probably so he could hire his own army of Tesla bot interns. It didn’t work—but it’s setting a precedent."

I flipped through the reports. The paper smelled of fear and toner. The world’s wealthiest idiot was trying to restructure the United States government the way he ran his companies—through erratic late-night emails, chaos pretending to be organization, and juvenile small dick energy posturing.

"Ventola," I said, turning to the thin blonde in the leather trench coat. "What do we have from CPAC?"

VENTOLA, the Guild’s best deep-cover agent, had infiltrated the Conservative Political Action Conference posing as a low-level event caterer. He spoke with the weariness of someone who had spent entire nights polishing gold-plated steak knives while listening to drunk lobbyists rant about wokeness.

"Musk showed up on stage with a chainsaw, Q. A real one. Chrome-plated. Said it was a gift from Argentina’s lunatic president, Milei. Called it his ‘chainsaw for bureaucracy’ and revved it up in front of a crowd that was a few chants away from storming another government building."

I leaned back and massaged my temples. "Jazzersizing Jesus. Was he arrested?"

"No, they cheered him. The man is worth hundreds of billions and he's cosplaying as some kind of revolutionary. Then he started ranting about AI taking over the world, right before plugging Tesla’s new humanoid robot. The irony was lost on them. Entirely."

V pulled a greasy napkin from his pocket, smudged with barbecue sauce and existential despair. "Musk also brought up his plan to move the entire federal government onto a blockchain, but he got distracted halfway through his speech and started talking about how great his exes were."

"Which ones?" I asked.

"All of them, but Grimes in particular. Which brings us to the next report."

SWORDFISH leaned forward, flipping open his own dossier. He was the Guild’s top man inside X (formerly Twitter [formerly a tolerable social media platform]). His cover? One of Musk’s "real" fans, the kind of toadying sycophant who replies to every Musk tweet with a fire emoji and the phrase 'based.'

"So, first off, Musk is being sued by conservative influencer Ashley St. Clair for sole custody of their infant. She says he’s seen the kid three times, and the last visit was a thirty-minute speedrun of fatherhood. Musk hasn’t responded, obviously, but his inner circle is scrambling. Then, Grimes went nuclear on X. She publicly accused Musk of ignoring their child’s medical needs and ghosting her requests to meet."

I rubbed my eyes as if they were packed with mites. "That’s bad. We need Grimes operational. The film…"

"I know. It’s not as bad as what’s happening at Tesla," Swordfish continued. "The board got nuked in Delaware. Musk’s insane $55 billion compensation package was ruled invalid. They’re calling it 'unfathomable.' "

"Good. Did he take it well? Like a big boy?"

"No. He immediately threatened to move Tesla out of Delaware, then started posting memes about how the state is corrupt. It’s a tantrum, Q. A billionaire tantrum."

I sighed. "The worst kind. And what about the X situation? Does it still suck dirty donkey dick?"

"X is a garbage fire. Musk's insistence on free speech absolutism has turned the platform into a swamp of hate speech, misinformation, and guys trying to sell NFTs of war crimes. Major advertisers are fleeing. Apple, IBM, Disney—they’re all gone. Even he knows it’s a mess. But instead of fixing it, he’s too busy posting cryptic one-liners and dunking on journalists. Self fellating."

I turned to the last member of the team. "Dr. Mad?"

DR. MAD, our resident political chaos theorist and doctor of mythology, he was an old-school Guild asset. His voice was a low growl, like a radio frequency just outside human hearing.

"He’s getting more dangerous, Q. More erratic."

"Go on."

"He did something at Trump’s inauguration. Something weird. Made a salute. An old salute. Likely a heil. Heil Trump. People noticed. He tried to play it off as an accident, but it wasn’t. It was too deliberate."

I closed my eyes. "That’s not good."

"No, it isn’t. He’s galvanizing the far-right. In Germany, he’s backing the AfD—the nationalist party that’s dangerously close to taking power. In the UK, he accused Prime Minister Starmer of covering up sex crimes with no evidence. Just lobbed that grenade into the public discourse for fun."

"Why?"

"Because he can. Because no one can or will stop him."

Silence fell over the table. The reports spoke for themselves. Musk was not just a bad CEO, not just a terrible father—he was a threat. To democracy. To the very concept of governance. A rogue billionaire, convinced he was humanity’s last genius, too rich to be told 'no' and too narcissistic to recognize his own failures.

I sighed and closed the folder.

"Final thoughts?"

Bunnbury lit a joint and exhaled slowly. "If we let him keep going, it’s only going to get worse."

Ventola adjusted his trench coat. "He’s playing dictator. And people are letting him."

Swordfish cracked his knuckles. "He has too much power, too little accountability."

Dr. Mad leaned forward, his voice low. "He's not just a danger to democracy, Q. He's a danger to sanity."

The bunker was silent. The weight of the report sat heavy on the room, pressing into the cracks of our collective psyche. Musk was out of control, spiraling further into a reality where rules didn’t apply, consequences were theoretical, and Twitter polls counted as legally binding decisions.

I exhaled through my teeth and looked at my team. "Then it’s settled. Musk is a threat. The question is: how do we neutralize him?"

Ventola gave a sharp laugh. "Neutralize him? Q, you don't neutralize a black hole. You just try to avoid the event horizon."

Bunnbury flicked his joint into an empty coffee mug. "The man creates chaos faster than we can contain it. He’s already making a play for absolute power."

Swordfish leaned forward, pushing a new file onto the table. "Then let’s talk about that power, because his empire isn’t as stable as he wants the world to believe."

I flipped open the folder. Inside was a fractured, desperate collection of intelligence reports. The death throes of an empire built on hype and bad labor practices.

Q REPORT: TESLA – A HOUSE OF CARDS

"Musk’s $55 billion compensation package wasn’t just a payday—it was a throne, a golden crown he welded to his own skull."

And now it’s gone.

The Delaware court ruling had wiped out the largest pay deal in corporate history, exposing the Tesla board for what it really was—a room full of Musk worshippers with their hands out. Tesla’s stock price had started wobbling, investors were panicking, and Musk, ever the toddler-king, had responded with the corporate equivalent of flipping the Monopoly board.

"Fine, I’ll just leave Delaware," he had declared on X, as if a multibillion-dollar company could be relocated with a tweet. But the truth was simpler: he didn’t like being told no.

Bunnbury tapped a finger on the page. "Tesla’s losing market share fast. The Cybertruck rollout was a mess. They’ve had more recalls than a defective batch of Soviet-era missiles. China is eating their lunch with cheaper EVs. And now, with that court ruling, Musk isn’t just losing money—he’s losing control."

"Which means he’s going to get desperate," I muttered.

Dr. Mad nodded. "He already is."

Q REPORT: X – THE WRECKAGE OF FREE SPEECH

X had become a ghost ship, abandoned by advertisers, rotting from within. When Musk took over, he promised a utopia of free speech. Instead, he built a digital Thunderdome where misinformation thrived and the only thing that got moderated was content that hurt his feelings.

Swordfish rubbed his temples. "It’s worse than we thought. Advertisers are pulling out in droves. He’s trying to squeeze blood from a stone by making users pay for basic features. Even the hardcore Musk fanboys are starting to admit the platform is a burning husk."

"And yet he won’t let it go," I said. "He needs it. It’s his direct line to the world. His ego can’t survive without it."

Bunnbury scoffed. "He spent $44 billion to buy a dopamine drip for himself. Now it’s collapsing and all he can do is scream at the janitors."

Ventola shook his head. "He doesn’t just need X. He needs power. He’s playing the politics game now. And that’s where things get dangerous."

Q REPORT: THE POLITICAL MACHINE

"Musk doesn’t want to be just a billionaire. He wants to be a kingmaker."

CPAC wasn’t just a spectacle. It was a declaration of intent. The chainsaw wasn’t a prop—it was a warning.

Dr. Mad leaned in. "He’s making his move, Q. He’s aligned with the most extreme factions of the right. He’s throwing money and influence behind far-right political figures across the world. Trump, Milei, the AfD in Germany. He’s not just playing businessman anymore. He’s playing warlord."

I stared at the pages, my stomach tightening.

Musk was already reshaping global politics in his own image.

Trump’s inauguration—he’d been there.

Germany—he was propping up the far-right.

The UK—he was hurling baseless sex crime accusations at the Prime Minister.

The United States government—he was openly trying to gut it from the inside.

And why?

Because he could.

Because no one was stopping him.

Swordfish spoke next. "There’s something else. The way he’s moving—it’s reckless. Like he knows something we don’t. Like he’s pushing towards something."

I looked up. "You think he’s planning a final move?"

Dr. Mad exhaled. "I think he already has."

Ventola slid one last document onto the table.

Q REPORT: THE FINAL PIECE

I scanned it quickly, my stomach twisting.

"Oh, hell."

Neuralink.

Neuralink had just been approved for human trials.

Musk’s brain chip, the one he’d been hyping for years, the one meant to "cure" neurological disorders, was about to be inserted into its first batch of human subjects.

Dr. Mad’s voice was grim. "We always thought he wanted to rule the world through money. But what if he wants something worse?"

I closed the folder.

The Guild had faced monsters before. Dictators, war criminals, tech billionaires with a messiah complex.

But Musk?

Musk was worse.

He wasn’t just a threat to democracy. He was a threat to reality itself.

I stood up. "We need a plan."

The team exchanged glances.

Ventola sighed. "We’re going to have to go deeper."

Bunburry grimaced. "You mean inside Musk?"

Swordfish nodded. "Inside Tesla. Inside SpaceX. Inside Neuralink. We need to find out what he’s really building."

Dr. Mad exhaled. "It won’t be easy."

I smirked. "Nothing worth stopping ever is. Burn all of this. Tell no one. Same time next year."

***

[End Report]