This
Archive was rebuilt from anomaly snapshots,
shredded logs, scrambled nacho-field readings, and out-of-order cabin footage. The reconstruction
is brutally imperfect — stray
Clips,
fractured Channels,
glitchEd echoes,
snaPped paths,
and torT sections keep surfacing.
In the noise,
Nothing seems to line up, yet
Occasionally the same ghost
Copies,
strange Loops,
echOing fragments,
out-of-phase sigNals,
shadow Entries,
and stray Scraps keep reappearing.
Off-record: the analysts who actually stared into this thing learned one pattern. The
Team that stayed up too late,
Rewound every frame,
pUred over corrupted logs,
Scrubbed the static, and
Tracked the weirdest glitches
all ended up in the same place. They
Chased
Half-rendered images,
Extracted unstable fragments,
dug through Dead timelines,
cross-filed discarded
Duplicates,
and logged one final Answer
that the system quietly buried in the margins.
File 01 — The Chedda Incident
Greg and Bigfoot accidentally heat up a government-labeled block of
Project MF Chedda. The cheese hums, the air bends,
and a vortex tears open their living-room reality. Bigfoot just calls it
“snack time with extra steps.”
File 02 — The Pull
Gravity forgets what it’s doing. Greg is sucked toward the cheese vortex, couch and clocks tumbling
with him. Mid-spin, his joint slips from his lips and starts orbiting like a tiny burning satellite.
Greg’s entire survival plan becomes: don’t die, don’t lose the joint.
File 03 — The Tin Hat Protocol
Somewhere between panic and enlightenment, Greg’s paranoia pays off. Every scrap of foil he’s ever
hoarded snaps into a higher purpose: improvised multiverse firewalls, signal reflectors, and drip-guard
for cosmic nacho runoff. Bigfoot just thinks it looks “kinda hard.”
File 04 — Spore Prophecy
Outside the cabin, reality grows mushrooms the size of surveillance balloons. Each spore cloud carries
a different timeline. Clockwise, you forget why you were here. Counter-clockwise, you feed the portal
and remember too much.
File 05 — The Glitch Return
The cabin reassembles itself like a half-remembered meme. Greg’s reflection blinks on a different beat.
Bigfoot keeps eating as if this is just another rerun. Reality stutters, buffers, and quietly saves
itself as “Untitled Final 2.”
Feed: 7B_Ω · Signal: Unstable
Last Known Walking Interdimensional Grid
This loop was recovered from an unstable holo-feed. Greg and Bigfoot walk endlessly as the grid
generates new platforms under their feet — a spatial treadmill for the chronically baked.
The transmission loops forever. Just like their walk. Just like time. Just like your last edible.
If they ever reach the end of the grid, the universe has to pick a new main character.
Meet the Usual Suspects
SUBJECT ID: GREG_01 • STATUS: PARANOID OPTIMIST
Greg — Subject: The Paranoid Optimist
Greg didn’t mean to become the protagonist of a classified cheese event. He was chasing proof of
Bigfoot, obsessing over grainy screenshots and message-board lore, and accidentally filmed his own
origin story instead.
He’s paranoid, sure — but he’s not wrong nearly as often as everyone would like. Greg connects dots
no one else even sees… usually while incredibly baked, with his joint welded to his mouth like a
cursor and his brain insisting this is all “for the documentary” that only exists in his drafts
folder and three alternate timelines.
SUBJECT ID: BGF_08 • STATUS: THE CHILL
Bigfoot — Subject: The Chill
Eight feet of vibes. Snack-based belief system. Camera shy, not clout shy. Bigfoot has been dodging
phone cameras and hunters since before the internet, mostly because he refuses to get tagged in
anything.
He runs on a strict diet of smoke, snacks, and not caring what dimension he’s currently in as long as
there’s food. When Greg showed up trying to “get evidence,” Bigfoot let him stay — mostly because he
kept bringing better nachos, and partially because someone has to hold the bowl while reality clips
through the floor.
SUBJECT ID: 7B_Ω • ROLE: COSMIC INTERN
7B_Ω — Subject: The Intern
Officially: a background process assigned to monitor cheddar-based anomalies. Unofficially: the
overworked cosmic intern who keeps stamping “do not consume” on things nobody listens to.
7B_Ω is the one who filed this entire mess under “educational material” instead of “containment
breach,” which is why you’re reading it now. Whether that was an accident, a bit, or part of a
higher-order protocol is still redacted — mostly because nobody wants to admit the multiverse might be
running on unpaid internship energy.
Classified File
Vol 2 — The High Council
Access Level: Nacho Continuum Redacted. Unauthorized viewing may result in spontaneous timeline drift,
snack shortages, and a sudden distrust of every clone you’ve ever met.
LOCKED Council node: location redacted.
If you think you’re cleared for this and you’re wrong, you probably won’t remember trying.
High Council Auth Check
Intergalactic Strain Protocol
Somewhere beyond the Nacho Continuum, there’s a grow-op that never shows up on maps. The buds hum at a
frequency you can feel in your teeth. The smoke doesn’t just rise — it remembers where you’ve been
dimension-hopping.
Rumor says the High Council built their whole voting system on intergalactic strains: each hit nudges the
timeline, each exhale rewrites which version of you wakes up tomorrow, and every cough gets logged as a
minor reality quake.
One of those strains carries the key to this archive. No QR code, no seed phrase, no roadmap — just a
single, stupidly perfect moment where you’re exactly high enough to see the pattern that was always there.
They say the answer reveals itself only when your mind drifts past the Oort Cloud, your lungs forget
gravity, and your thoughts tune to a frequency shared by stoners and starships arguing over the aux cord.
Until then, every “password” is just noise from a lower timeline. Come back when you’re higher than your
last theory.
Vol 2 Node — Intergalactic Strains
Some archivists insist the unlock phrase is hidden somewhere in the noise — scattered letters, stray
signals, and one specific strain name whispered under somebody’s breath. Nobody agrees on which strain
it was. Nobody wrote it down. Everyone remembers the vibe.