Access Level: Cipher-Black
Status: Private | Off-Network | Zero Echo Trails
Feed cracks on.
It takes a second to stabilize, like even the recorder is tired of being awake. She's on the floor again.
Of course she is.
Back against a rust-scuffed locker she refuses to replace out of pure spite at this point. One leg stretched out, the other bent. No ceremony. No posture. Just gravity doing what it wants and her not arguing back anymore.
The room is dim. Ugly. Functional.
Her kind of place.
ENTRY 0197-65.
Timestamp: Doesn't matter.
She doesn't start gently.
She never does when she's like this.
"I am so tired."
A beat.
Then immediately, like she's annoyed she even had to start there:
"No. Actually— I'm beyond tired. I'm at that stage where tired feels like a personality trait and I want to file a complaint about it."
She's already got the spice inhaler in her hand.
No hesitation this time.
She hits it.
Hard.
The effect is immediate.
Not soothing.
Not soft.
Just volume down on pain, volume up on everything else she refuses to filter.
Her optic implants flare violet — not sharp, not warning-like — but slow, hypnotic, almost lazy in the way it spreads behind the lenses before settling into a dim glow.
Her breath shifts with it.
Not calmer.
Just less
"People."
She exhales through her nose.
"Just— people."
A short laugh.
No humor in it.
"Always something."
She leans her head back against the locker. Metal complains under her weight. So do her shoulders.
"Always a job. Always a favor. Always a 'hey Nøva, real quick—'"
She cuts herself off mid-impression of someone else's voice.
Shakes her head.
"No. Shut up."
Flat.
Immediate.
Not to anyone in particular.
To everything.
She drags another hit of spice like she's trying to argue with her nervous system directly. Violet flare pulses again.
Slower this time.
Deeper in her optics. Like her vision is briefly deciding what parts of reality are worth keeping.
"I don't want anything complicated right now."
Beat.
"I don't want expectations. I don't want names. I don't want ten different voices all thinking I'm the solution to whatever they broke this week."
She gestures loosely with the inhaler.
"I hear my own name so much it doesn't even sound like a name anymore."
A pause.
Longer.
Then sharper:
"It sounds like a summons."
She exhales again. Spice haze thickens in the air between her fingers and the dim light.
"And yeah— I know what that sounds like."
A dry edge creeps in.
"'Oh poor Nøva, everyone needs her, how tragic.'"
She rolls her head slightly toward the cam.
Not looking at it.
More like acknowledging it exists.
"No."
Simple.
Hard.
"It's not tragic. It's just exhausting."
Beat.
"I don't want to die."
She says it like she's correcting something obvious.
A pause.
Then, quieter but sharper in meaning:
"I just don't want to be on right now."
She takes another hit.
Longer this time.
Lets it sit.
Lets it mute the edges of her nerves until everything feels like it's happening a few inches farther away than it actually is. The violet glow blooms again — soft, drifting, almost hypnotic — then settles.
"You ever just want to not exist in the 'needed' sense?"
She huffs a breath.
"Not disappear. Not die. Don't start that stupid narrative in your head."
Immediate correction. Annoyed at the assumption before it even exists.
"Just… not be available."
A beat.
"Not be reachable. Not be required. Not be the answer to anything for a while."
She shifts slightly. Armor creaks softly under synth-leather. Her cybernetic fingers flex once against her knee.
Slow.
Grounding.
"Because I am so fucking done being a solution."
No dramatics.
Just fact.
Silence hangs for a moment.
Not empty.
Just heavy.
Then she exhales, long and controlled through spice haze. Violet glow flickers faintly behind her lenses again, then steadies.
"Anyway. . ."
Flat reset.
Back into herself.
Back into control.
"That's the log."
A pause.
Then, with a faint, tired edge of sarcasm:
"Congratulations, future me. You survived hearing me complain again."
She leans forward.
Hand already moving.
No hesitation this time.
"Ghost the line."
Beat.
"Burn the trace."
A final violet shimmer behind her optics — soft, fading, like the last thought she didn't fully finish.
"Radiant out."
Feed cuts.
No ceremony.
No resolution.
Just relief in silence finally being allowed to exist again.
Status: Private | Off-Network | Zero Echo Trails
Feed cracks on.
It takes a second to stabilize, like even the recorder is tired of being awake. She's on the floor again.
Of course she is.
Back against a rust-scuffed locker she refuses to replace out of pure spite at this point. One leg stretched out, the other bent. No ceremony. No posture. Just gravity doing what it wants and her not arguing back anymore.
The room is dim. Ugly. Functional.
Her kind of place.
ENTRY 0197-65.
Timestamp: Doesn't matter.
She doesn't start gently.
She never does when she's like this.
"I am so tired."
A beat.
Then immediately, like she's annoyed she even had to start there:
"No. Actually— I'm beyond tired. I'm at that stage where tired feels like a personality trait and I want to file a complaint about it."
She's already got the spice inhaler in her hand.
No hesitation this time.
She hits it.
Hard.
The effect is immediate.
Not soothing.
Not soft.
Just volume down on pain, volume up on everything else she refuses to filter.
Her optic implants flare violet — not sharp, not warning-like — but slow, hypnotic, almost lazy in the way it spreads behind the lenses before settling into a dim glow.
Her breath shifts with it.
Not calmer.
Just less
"People."
She exhales through her nose.
"Just— people."
A short laugh.
No humor in it.
"Always something."
She leans her head back against the locker. Metal complains under her weight. So do her shoulders.
"Always a job. Always a favor. Always a 'hey Nøva, real quick—'"
She cuts herself off mid-impression of someone else's voice.
Shakes her head.
"No. Shut up."
Flat.
Immediate.
Not to anyone in particular.
To everything.
She drags another hit of spice like she's trying to argue with her nervous system directly. Violet flare pulses again.
Slower this time.
Deeper in her optics. Like her vision is briefly deciding what parts of reality are worth keeping.
"I don't want anything complicated right now."
Beat.
"I don't want expectations. I don't want names. I don't want ten different voices all thinking I'm the solution to whatever they broke this week."
She gestures loosely with the inhaler.
"I hear my own name so much it doesn't even sound like a name anymore."
A pause.
Longer.
Then sharper:
"It sounds like a summons."
She exhales again. Spice haze thickens in the air between her fingers and the dim light.
"And yeah— I know what that sounds like."
A dry edge creeps in.
"'Oh poor Nøva, everyone needs her, how tragic.'"
She rolls her head slightly toward the cam.
Not looking at it.
More like acknowledging it exists.
"No."
Simple.
Hard.
"It's not tragic. It's just exhausting."
Beat.
"I don't want to die."
She says it like she's correcting something obvious.
A pause.
Then, quieter but sharper in meaning:
"I just don't want to be on right now."
She takes another hit.
Longer this time.
Lets it sit.
Lets it mute the edges of her nerves until everything feels like it's happening a few inches farther away than it actually is. The violet glow blooms again — soft, drifting, almost hypnotic — then settles.
"You ever just want to not exist in the 'needed' sense?"
She huffs a breath.
"Not disappear. Not die. Don't start that stupid narrative in your head."
Immediate correction. Annoyed at the assumption before it even exists.
"Just… not be available."
A beat.
"Not be reachable. Not be required. Not be the answer to anything for a while."
She shifts slightly. Armor creaks softly under synth-leather. Her cybernetic fingers flex once against her knee.
Slow.
Grounding.
"Because I am so fucking done being a solution."
No dramatics.
Just fact.
Silence hangs for a moment.
Not empty.
Just heavy.
Then she exhales, long and controlled through spice haze. Violet glow flickers faintly behind her lenses again, then steadies.
"Anyway. . ."
Flat reset.
Back into herself.
Back into control.
"That's the log."
A pause.
Then, with a faint, tired edge of sarcasm:
"Congratulations, future me. You survived hearing me complain again."
She leans forward.
Hand already moving.
No hesitation this time.
"Ghost the line."
Beat.
"Burn the trace."
A final violet shimmer behind her optics — soft, fading, like the last thought she didn't fully finish.
"Radiant out."
Feed cuts.
No ceremony.
No resolution.
Just relief in silence finally being allowed to exist again.
