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Black Record Fragment
"It was not void. It was not silent.
It was the refusal to be itself.
Subject L did not slay, nor banish.
She opened the book, and the world obeyed.
Even what resists existence becomes grammar,
and grammar does not forget."
—Black Record: Report from H-Phi (heavily redacted)
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Morning Ritual
The dark had been my only comfort, a smothering mercy that dulled the edges of thought, until it was torn apart by shrieks of machinery. The runes on the walls sputtered awake, glowing faintly with hostile geometry. Alongside them came the sound—piercing, mechanical, almost alive—loud enough to trick the body into believing death had arrived early.
I awoke with my heart trying to abandon me. For a moment, I forgot who I was, or what name I had been given here. Then the door hissed open.
Two men stood waiting. Their faces were voids, scrubbed of anything human. They didn't speak, but they didn't need to. Their silence was its own command. I obeyed.
They led me down corridors to a place they called the bathroom. Calling it that was generous. There was no privacy, no partitions that mattered. The word shame had been erased from the walls long ago.
I saw others there. Some were practised, moving quickly through the ritual of cleansing as though they had surrendered long ago. Others hesitated, twitching with the raw discomfort of the newly broken.
When I entered a stall, water poured from a magic circle etched overhead, the glyphs glowing faintly with reluctant power. It was not a shower as I had known before. The water struck like shards of winter glass.
I forced myself to endure. Soap was provided, scented with pine and roses—an almost mocking gentleness. Was this a reward? Or just bait? I scrubbed quickly, my skin raw, then ran a finger around the collar at my throat. Waterproof. Naturally.
By the time the water stopped, thirty minutes had passed. We filed out together, damp and silent, to the dining hall.
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Breakfast
It was my first time seeing it.
The space was sterile, rows of tables arranged with military precision. Guards lined the walls, their presence heavier than the walls themselves.
We queued, silent. Breakfast was oats, rye bread, and a mug of warm milk sweetened with honey. I ate without complaint, swallowing blandness and suspicion alike. The honey was a carrot before the stick.
I noticed the differences. Some received fruit. Others, roots or vegetables. But the milk was universal. That small sweetness was the one mercy extended to all.
The shriek came again, cutting through the room. The meal ended as abruptly as it began. We rose and moved, like machines whose levers had been pulled.
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The Tests
Two researchers waited. The woman spoke; the man carried a book filled with symbols that crawled against the eyes.
"Good morning, Batch F2."
Silence answered her.
BZZZZ.
Pain bloomed across everybody in the room. My nerves betrayed me, collapsing me to the floor, muscles convulsing in a parody of life.
"Good morning, Batch F2," she repeated, calm as a mother addressing unruly children.
This time, we responded.
The tests began. Reflexes. One by one, we were called.
I noticed him—F2-34. Pale skin like moonlight, eyes burning red. His features were too sharp, too clean. Blonde hair framed a face that didn't belong here. Black gloves hid his hands. He looked less like a prisoner and more like a misplaced prince.
When my turn came, they started simple: catch the ball. I caught it. Then faster. Then faster still, each throw more bullets than toss. I stumbled, fumbled, clawed, but somehow, I held on.
Then came dodging. The projectiles grew crueller: rocks, bolts, blades. I hopped gracelessly, a blind frog cast into fire. Somehow, I evaded. Almost.
The blade buried itself in my thigh. I collapsed, teeth carving into my lip to keep the scream from spilling. Pain was sharp, but dulled strangely quickly, as if my body had already accepted that this was its new language.
They pulled it free. I was dragged onward.
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The Chair
A new room. Straps pulled tight around my arms, my chest. A chair this time. Not a bed.
The woman's voice floated in the background, explanations clinical and hollow. I barely heard.
Then the sound.
BZZZZ.
My body arched against the straps, foam threatening at my lips.
"How would you rate that pain?" she asked.
"Seven," I gasped eventually, shame burning hotter than the electricity. The damp on my gown told me my body had betrayed me further than I realised.
She wrote it down. The tests continued. Cut, burn, shock. I began to believe they were trying to cook me alive. Time lost shape.
When they finished, I was pressed to an orb. Nothing happened. No glow. No hum. Just silence. That silence felt heavier than the shocks.
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Chess and Combat
They gave me puzzles. Chess. I lost every match. Logos sighed somewhere in my head, disappointment bleeding into my thoughts.
Then combat. Always combat. Against the researchers themselves. I landed one strike, desperate and wild. They swept me off my feet and drove a fist into my gut. The world emptied of air.
Gentleman? No. Predator, I thought, sprawled on the floor.
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Dinner
Dinner arrived. Beef stew, white bread, butter. A meal that could have been called generous anywhere else. Here, it tasted like a mockery—like the last meal of a condemned prisoner.
I ate anyway, scanning the others. A girl with eyes mismatched in colour. A boy whose body was etched with glowing runes. A scarred girl whose stare burned with something feral. And across the hall—her. A girl who mirrored F2-34, her features almost identical.
Siblings, maybe. Or reflections.
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Journals
We were handed books. Told to write. To keep journals. As if our words mattered, as if they weren't already property of the system. I wrote anyway. My hand trembled across the page, leaving behind a record even if no one ever read it.
Later, we were allowed—no, ordered—to socialise.
The others spoke, haltingly. I remained apart. Words had never been my strength, and here, silence was safer.
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Nightfall
Eventually, the guards returned. We were herded back to our cells.
The lights sighed one last time. Then darkness fell, reclaiming me.
I lay there, collar humming faintly, wondering what tomorrow would carve from us.