Access Level: Cipher-Black
Status: Private | Off-Network | Zero Echo Trails
Feed crackles on. The cam stabilizes just enough to make her look good in the way people don't notice they look good — tired, real, neon shadows under her eyes. She's sitting on the floor this time, back against a rust-scuffed locker, one leg stretched out, the other bent up so she can rest her forearm on it.
She's working on her forearm plating with a micro-torch, the glow reflecting faint blue against her cheek. Her own spice blend vapor curls lazily from the small inhaler tucked between two metal fingers.
ENTRY 0050.
Timestamp: Doesn't matter.
"Okay, log. Let's do the thing where I talk and you pretend to listen."
She tightens a micro-bolt. The plating snaps into place with a clean click. Nøva winces—not at pain, just annoyance with herself.
"So. Tonight was… one of those nights. No fights. No near-death experiences. No high-speed chases. Just… a lot of people being incredibly loud about incredibly stupid things."
She drags from the spice device, exhales slowly, watching the gold-tinted vapor swirl.
"Someone asked me if I ever 'open up.' I told them my last name was —LiterallyNoneOfYourBusiness."
A dry snort. Not quite a laugh.
"Didn't take the hint. They never do."
She taps a finger on the floor, rhythmic, soft metal-on-metal.
"I don't know what it is lately. Everyone just wants to… connect."
She grimaces.
"Hate that word. Sounds like a networking event."
Her optics flicker as she checks a diagnostic line across her HUD.
"I mean—yeah. I get lonely. Sometimes. But it's not the kind of lonely other people can fix."
She shifts the micro-torch to her teeth for a moment, both hands free as she pries open a stubborn panel on her elbow plating.
"It's the kind where you can be in a room full of people and still feel like you're tuned to the wrong frequency. Like everyone's speaking in analog and I'm over here broadcasting in encrypted packet bursts."
She pauses, then adds with a shrug:
"Whatever. It's fine. I've survived worse glitches."
Another drag from her spice blend. This one she holds a little longer, slow exhale.
"Point is: I'm tired of explaining myself. I don't want a pep talk. I don't want company. I want exactly what I have right now—"
She gestures around the empty storage room.
"—bad lighting, a half-broken arm panel, and silence."
A faint smirk touches her lips, even as her eyes look bruised with thought.
"I know, real inspirational stuff. Bet future-me will be thrilled to rewatch this."
SIGN-OFF
"Ghost the line. Burn the trace."
She reaches out and kills the feed with one decisive tap, the gesture practiced enough to be muscle memory.
