This isn’t aerospace.
It’s airspace theater.
They don’t test rockets.
They test reactions.
And every time you cheer,
they log it as compliance.
The smoke is real.
The mission isn’t.
Because this was never about Mars.
It was about belief.
Belief in forward momentum
while the world beneath you burns.
They call it the eleventh test
like it’s a milestone.
But in psyop math,
it’s just another loop.
Fuel. Fire. Launch. Forget.
You think you're watching the future.
You're watching the reboot
of a storyline you didn’t write.
Every plume of smoke is a reset.
Every static fire is a sedative.
Every countdown is a ritual
to erase the last failure
and repackage it as destiny.
This isn’t exploration.
It’s escalation.
And the stars were never the destination.
They were the distraction.