Philadelphia, July 4, 1776. The summer heat hangs heavy in the air as delegates gather in the Pennsylvania State House. The atmosphere is charged with anticipation; history is about to be made.


Suddenly, a crackling portal tears open in the center of the room. Delegates leap back in shock as a towering figure emerges – The Censor. His body is a sleek, metallic black, with pulsing lines of white energy running across his frame. His face is a featureless black bar, devoid of expression yet somehow radiating menace.


Behind him, a squad of Black Bar Troopers march out in perfect formation. They're humanoid but clearly robotic, their bodies a patchwork of black censorship bars that shift and move as they advance.


John Hancock, quill poised over the Declaration of Independence, finds his voice first. "What manner of devilry is this?"


The Censor's voice booms, eerily modulated and devoid of emotion. "This document has been flagged for removal. Its content is deemed... inappropriate."


"Inappropriate?" Thomas Jefferson sputters, rising to his feet. "This declaration ensures life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for all!"


"Happiness is subjective," The Censor retorts. "And liberty? Too often misused. We're here to simplify history. To make it... cleaner."


With a wave of his hand, The Censor sends his troopers forward. They move with uncanny speed, their arms elongating into sharp, bar-shaped blades.


"Stop them!" Benjamin Franklin shouts, grabbing his walking stick and brandishing it like a weapon. But it's no use – the Black Bar Troopers are too fast, too strong.


The Censor approaches the declaration, his hand morphing into a giant black marker. "This document, and the very memory of its creation, will be redacted."


As he brings the marker down towards the parchment, the delegates watch in horror. The birth of a nation hangs in the balance, threatened by a force they can't comprehend.


The Censor's expressionless face turns towards the frozen tableau of Founding Fathers. "Don't worry," he intones, "soon, you won't remember any of this. History is about to be... revised."


The black marker descends, and with it, the fate of a nation – and perhaps all of history – hangs in the balance.