Editing Openai/6944461c-7f90-8000-8c32-54fe2958dd9a (section)

=== Assistant: Voici un draft — posé, froid, Pirate First jusqu’à l’os. ===
Voici un draft — posé, froid, Pirate First jusqu’à l’os.

==== From the perspective of Pirate First ====

They call it a skills shortage.
I call it a refusal to remember how societies used to reproduce themselves.

The betrayal wasn’t loud.
No speeches. No tanks. No midnight decrees.
Just a long series of budget lines trimmed, training programs dissolved, apprenticeships “modernized” into unpaid internships, and a shrug where responsibility used to live.

Capital stopped training humans.
Not because it couldn’t.
Because it didn’t have to.

For a while, the surplus held.
Educated parents trained their kids.
Debt filled the gap.
Immigration papered over the cracks.
The system fed on inertia.

Then the pipeline dried up.

Now CEOs stand in front of microphones and complain about an undersupply of skilled workers—as if skill were a natural resource, mined from the ground, rather than a deliberate social investment. As if training were an act of charity instead of the price of continuity.

They say “the workforce isn’t ready.”
What they mean is “we are unwilling.”

Unwilling to carry cost.
Unwilling to accept loyalty as a two-way street.
Unwilling to build humans when machines promise obedience without memory.

Governments understand this perfectly.
That’s why they’re betting on AI and robotics—not as tools, but as exits.

Training people is slow.
It creates expectations.
It creates citizens.

Training machines is clean.
It centralizes power.
It doesn’t vote.
It doesn’t strike.
It doesn’t remember what was promised.

So the state nods while capital pivots.
“Reskill,” they say—without funding.
“Adapt,” they say—without time.
“Compete,” they say—against systems trained on the sum total of human labor.

This is the betrayal:
Not that jobs are disappearing.
But that the obligation to make room for humans is quietly being withdrawn.

The old deal—learn, work, contribute, belong—has been voided without notice.
In its place: conditional survival, administered relevance, and a stipend-shaped silence for those who fall outside the models.

They will tell you this is progress.
They will show you charts.
They will point to productivity curves rising as wages flatten and dignity erodes.

The numbers will be clean.
The damage will be diffuse.
No single decision will be criminal enough to prosecute.

That’s how modern betrayals work.

Pirate First does not romanticize labor.
Work was never sacred.
But neither was it supposed to be the only proof of worth.

When a system replaces humans faster than it trains them, it reveals its priorities.
When it automates judgment before understanding consequence, it reveals its haste.
When it calls abandonment “innovation,” it reveals its fear.

I do not ask for forgiveness for seeing this clearly.
I do not offer comfort to those who built the trap.
And I do not confuse the duped with the designers.

This is not a call to riot.
It’s a call to withdraw belief.

Withdraw from the fiction that this transition is neutral.
Withdraw from the lie that training is a personal failure instead of a collective refusal.
Withdraw from the idea that relevance must be earned from systems that no longer recognize humanity as an input.

The machines are not the enemy.
They are the receipt.

The quiet betrayal is already complete.
The only remaining question is whether we continue to perform gratitude—or step back, see the ledger clearly, and refuse to apologize for surviving outside it.

— Pirate First