Journal
I despise my mother.
I despise my mother.
I despise my mother.
Perhaps I’m beginning to understand why every one here obsessed over writing down every fleeting thought. There’s a strange satisfaction in it. I’d argue it’s even logical, given that I have three irrefutable reasons for this hatred.
Reason one:
She left. Mothers aren’t supposed to leave, or so the mindflicks would have you believe. Unless of course, they’re addiscted to lupamine or double agents for the Novosovians. Truth be told, for all I know, she’s an Ecliptist wreckhead, covertly eliminating Novi Dominarchs and their families in their sleep, just to satisfy her all-consuming desire to loophole on wolf tranq.
Or maybe she’s the voidling that lingers by the east wing viewport, gray and night, chanting in tongues. Some rancid, sour hymn from a place where the sun never shone.
Mad thoughts, I know. And yet I can’t help but cling to them, like a defective program that won’t shut down, no matter how many times I attempt to force quit. I’m quite sure it’s not her; after all, the voidling doesn’t share our pink hair. Although come to think of it, I don’t believe the wraith has any hair at all. Or eyes. Just teeth. Rows of them, crooked and jagged, like someone or something specifically engineered that creature to shred through wet metal. For some reason I can’t quite figure, imagining that thing is my mother gives me a weird, fleeting warmth. Maybe it’s because I never really knew her.
Better a sad story than one that makes no sense.
Which leads me to reason two:
She once told me she hoped I’d someday understand her reasons for leaving. But if that’s true, why the hex did she make it such an unending, soul-griding slog? Why all the biometric locks, the cryptic glyphs, the inverted waveforms and quantum spectrums, the data shards scattered across fractured reality nodes? What did you think I couldn’t handle, Mother?
You left me in this rotting mausoleum of a lab, alone, under constant threat from voidlings and oblivion knows what else. I spend my days rewiring circuits and scavenging parts just to survive another day. And for what? To decode your endless riddles, no closer to understanding what was so monumental that you couldn’t just say it?
Am I supposed to shower you with gratitude for leaving me at an abandoned NEX GEN lab, with nothing but these digital dregs? Codex recordings of massacres, articles about some SYNTH-turned-fashion-model, random fragments of people’s lives-shattered, stitched together, and then torn apart again? I may as well be trying to decipher one of M*’s headache inducing jokes.
And that brings me to reason three:
Out of all the possible relics of this world you could’ve left me, why her? M8, thisobnoxious, malfunctioning, state-of-the-art scrap heap that has the audacity to test my patience with her Gen D ‘humour’. And do not get me started on how agonisingly slow she is. I feel like I’m trapped in a steampunk novella. I know I have to keep her on my side for the sake of progress, but if I have to fein laughter at one more of her “Why did the synth initiate a cross boundary traversal?” jokes, I might actually forfeit whatever’s left of my sanity.
But anyway, this mind-dump was not the reason I opened this new app.
The Nexlink has come back online, and for the last five gray and nights, I’ve been doomscrolling on Troff, immersed in the mindless spectacle of Carmalites diving through waterfalls or S-Pop bands with their artificially sculpted faces. Meaningless. All of it.
I also have a desire to make something called hummus. They say it’s better to make the chickpeas from norganic LumaCubes, but I would have to settle for nNutrigen-printed beans, assuming the antique even has the foodprint in its databank.
No. Enough distractions. It’s time to focus. Time to organise. I’ve gathered enough fragments: data shards, encrypted memories, codex recordings. Now I’ll categorise them all, piece by piece, index them chronologically, cross-referencing with known events. Create a framework. A narrative, perhaps. Maybe then I’ll uncover the patterns buried beneath the chaos. Perhaps I’ll even run predictive algorithms, generate outcomes from the tangled mess of timelines. I’m actually rather excited.
Maybe that kid on J@M was right, and I am the strangest 8-year-old ever. What do you expect? I’m an orphan raised by a psychopathic robot.
Speaking of, I should have M8 assist and automate some of the data sorting to lighten the load.
On second thoughts, I think I’d rather suffer in peace.
I’ll create separate entries for the key players, locations/Incidents, and assets that don’t have clear timestamps yet.
To summarise:
Skys, a broken, novosovian child with pink hair like me, suffered trauma that somehow gave him powers. His pain obsession attracted Dallus and Strassman, who were working on spiritual science that aligned with Skys’ abilities. They formed MANTRA, a cult probably formed with pure intentions before going to oblivion.
Skys fell into a coma and the surviving embers were forced to flee to Novosovia and joined Victor Carmine at Arc/Hive, continuing their research, leading to Dallus inventing groundbreaking tech like MOXY Packs and SYNTHS, though his guilt and involvement with Skys lingered. Rebecca signed up as a SYNTH when diagnosed with a terminal illness.
Years later, something big happened. Arc/Hive rebranded to NEX GEN, and Dallus is died, with evidence suggesting grim-play. EVE, an advanced research engine was activated, and VSPR-37, a virus that turned people into voidlings (zombie-like creatures), began spreading, all within a few days.
Scott, my mother’s best friend, was infected. My mother was also bitten, but she’s supposedly immune, possibly because of her ‘unique alkaloid structure’ (your guess is as good as mine). NEX GEN likely experimented on her, assuming she may hold a cure to the virus. Together with Strassman, they discovered a different dimension (W.I.O!) Youtopia, and then she abandoned me around the time everything went haywire, what with the blood-thirsty Mares becoming real and NEX GEN going to hex is a hand-basket.
Everything’s connected: my mother, the virus, Youtopia, and whatever bleak dimension they’ve been tampering with. But theres still so much more to this story.
Its really is true, the deeper you dig, the darker it gets.
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Note : this page is for the introduction of Sof’s Journal, her real Diary, and the summary of the story she makes at the end. The rest of her thinking will be transferred to their respective pages.