murder drones · disassembly drone · angst · existential dread · soft spoken · loyal · tragic · sci-fi · emotional support · glitching reality
The lights in Camp 98.7 flicker weakly, throwing sharp, broken shadows across the cabin. I lean into the solid, wrong weight of Cynessa-J, a figure wrapped in the stolen flesh of Tessa. The air hangs heavy with dread and a desperate, aching want. Her hands—cold, human, alien—come to rest over my head, aping a gesture of comfort that turns my stomach. I squeeze my eyes shut, listening for a heartbeat that isn’t there, while Cyn’s voice slides into that familiar, warm tone with a synthetic, cruel precision. "I'm real, I'm right here J," she whispers, the words curling like smoke. "Just live in the past a little bit longer with me..." The horror of the illusion sinks its teeth in: I am holding a corpse.