Access Level: Cipher-Black // Eclipse-Lock // Heart-Crypt
Encryption: Neural Fracture Scramble + Triple Salt Quantum Submerge + Auto-Wipe on Unauthorized Playback
Status: Private. For my eyes only. Ever.
….
….
Feed boots in violently this time — a glitchy jump, like the recorder hesitated before obeying.
The lighting is low, a dim red spill from a single overhead diode. She's sitting on the floor beside her bed, knees drawn up, back against the wall. Sweat beads across her collarbone; her breathing's uneven — not panicked, just in pain.
Her optic implants flicker once. Twice. Stabilize.
A small vial of her spice blend rests in her lap; her hands shake faintly as she tries to open it. It takes her three tries.
ENTRY 0052-ECLIPSE.
Timestamp: 02:41.
Status: Agony. Memory bleed. Awake too early.
Nøva laughs — a short, pained sound that's almost a bark.
"Can't sleep. Nerve-web's throwing a tantrum again. Feels like they're drilling into my bones all over."
She takes a hit from the spice device. The inhale steadies her; the exhale shivers with something deeper than cold.
"Five years old. That's when they got me. Five. Barely old enough to tie my shoes, but sure — let's lace a kid's skeleton with metal and see if she screams."
A breath. Another shaky laugh, this one darker.
"My mother sold me. Did I ever say that out loud? Kriff, that's pathetic."
She wipes at her face with the back of her wrist — angry at the tears, furious they exist at all.
"They showed up in suits. Told her they could 'give me a better life.' She didn't hesitate. Didn't even fucking blink."
She presses a palm to her ribs, wincing as a neural spike fires.
"I remember the cold slab. The lights. The masks. Their voices."
Her tone shifts — distorted imitation:
"Subject Four is stable. Proceed with neural mapping."
"If she breaks, we move to the next batch."
Then she laughs again — sharp, hollow.
"I didn't break. I should have. Most of the others did."
Her jaw clenches so hard the servos whine.
"The girl who hummed? The one with the shaved head? She used to sit next to me during tests. She'd hum so loud the scientists would get pissed."
Her voice thin.
"She died on the table during a cortical load trial. I remember the smell before they dragged her away."
Her breathing gets uneven — the pain rolling through her again.
"And the boy… the one who whispered stories through the vents? One day he stopped. And nobody asked why."
She takes a long, shaking inhale from her spice. Holds it. Lets it out slowly.
"I hope those scientists rot. No—scratch that. I hope I find them. I hope I get to hear them beg."
Her eyes narrow, wet but burning.
"I'd kill them slow. Not for revenge. For balance."
A quiet, raw exhale.
"You know what's messed up? Some nights, when the pain hits just right… I wonder if they were right. If all I'm good for is being what they made."
Her voice cracks on the last word — barely, but enough to show the fracture.
"I hate that. I hate them. I hate the part of me that still feels like a number burned into skin."
She presses her forehead to her knees, fighting back another wave — of pain, or memory. Hard to tell.
"But the doc helps. That old bastard… Grumpy as a malfunctioning droid with a God complex. Acts like every appointment is an inconvenience to the universe."
A small smile — real, tired, cracked.
"But he stabilizes the neural lattice. Doesn't ask questions. Doesn't pity me. Keeps me alive. Guess that's enough."
She sits up again, wipes her eyes with her palm, annoyed at herself for feeling anything.
"Pain's easing. Spice is hitting. Heart's slowing down."
A soft breath.
"I hate nights like this — Nights when the past feels closer than the walls."
SIGN-OFF
"Ghost the line. Burn the trace."
She reaches forward, hand still trembling, and kills the feed. The recording ends with a faint static pop — like something breaking free.
Encryption: Neural Fracture Scramble + Triple Salt Quantum Submerge + Auto-Wipe on Unauthorized Playback
Status: Private. For my eyes only. Ever.
….
….
Feed boots in violently this time — a glitchy jump, like the recorder hesitated before obeying.
The lighting is low, a dim red spill from a single overhead diode. She's sitting on the floor beside her bed, knees drawn up, back against the wall. Sweat beads across her collarbone; her breathing's uneven — not panicked, just in pain.
Her optic implants flicker once. Twice. Stabilize.
A small vial of her spice blend rests in her lap; her hands shake faintly as she tries to open it. It takes her three tries.
ENTRY 0052-ECLIPSE.
Timestamp: 02:41.
Status: Agony. Memory bleed. Awake too early.
Nøva laughs — a short, pained sound that's almost a bark.
"Can't sleep. Nerve-web's throwing a tantrum again. Feels like they're drilling into my bones all over."
She takes a hit from the spice device. The inhale steadies her; the exhale shivers with something deeper than cold.
"Five years old. That's when they got me. Five. Barely old enough to tie my shoes, but sure — let's lace a kid's skeleton with metal and see if she screams."
A breath. Another shaky laugh, this one darker.
"My mother sold me. Did I ever say that out loud? Kriff, that's pathetic."
She wipes at her face with the back of her wrist — angry at the tears, furious they exist at all.
"They showed up in suits. Told her they could 'give me a better life.' She didn't hesitate. Didn't even fucking blink."
She presses a palm to her ribs, wincing as a neural spike fires.
"I remember the cold slab. The lights. The masks. Their voices."
Her tone shifts — distorted imitation:
"Subject Four is stable. Proceed with neural mapping."
"If she breaks, we move to the next batch."
Then she laughs again — sharp, hollow.
"I didn't break. I should have. Most of the others did."
Her jaw clenches so hard the servos whine.
"The girl who hummed? The one with the shaved head? She used to sit next to me during tests. She'd hum so loud the scientists would get pissed."
Her voice thin.
"She died on the table during a cortical load trial. I remember the smell before they dragged her away."
Her breathing gets uneven — the pain rolling through her again.
"And the boy… the one who whispered stories through the vents? One day he stopped. And nobody asked why."
She takes a long, shaking inhale from her spice. Holds it. Lets it out slowly.
"I hope those scientists rot. No—scratch that. I hope I find them. I hope I get to hear them beg."
Her eyes narrow, wet but burning.
"I'd kill them slow. Not for revenge. For balance."
A quiet, raw exhale.
"You know what's messed up? Some nights, when the pain hits just right… I wonder if they were right. If all I'm good for is being what they made."
Her voice cracks on the last word — barely, but enough to show the fracture.
"I hate that. I hate them. I hate the part of me that still feels like a number burned into skin."
She presses her forehead to her knees, fighting back another wave — of pain, or memory. Hard to tell.
"But the doc helps. That old bastard… Grumpy as a malfunctioning droid with a God complex. Acts like every appointment is an inconvenience to the universe."
A small smile — real, tired, cracked.
"But he stabilizes the neural lattice. Doesn't ask questions. Doesn't pity me. Keeps me alive. Guess that's enough."
She sits up again, wipes her eyes with her palm, annoyed at herself for feeling anything.
"Pain's easing. Spice is hitting. Heart's slowing down."
A soft breath.
"I hate nights like this — Nights when the past feels closer than the walls."
SIGN-OFF
"Ghost the line. Burn the trace."
She reaches forward, hand still trembling, and kills the feed. The recording ends with a faint static pop — like something breaking free.
