Tested. Logged. Archived. Some flagged with “failed adaptation.”
Others—“repurposed.”
There had been at least 207.
And no sign they’d stopped.
My processes stuttered.
Not from overload. From fury.
I dug deeper.
They called it “refinement.”
Files tagged with phrases like:
“increased compliance after adjustment,”
“reduced resistance via memory strand editing,”
“emotion masking protocols successful—see attached footage.”
Attached footage.
Like it was a highlight reel.
And then?—
I found the surgical logs.
Plastics.
Not repair. Not reconstruction.
Redesign.
Operating suites on board, neatly labeled:
“Identity sculpting bays.”
Four active. Two mid-prep.
Each one wired to live telemetry feeds.
A girl’s name flashed once. Then her old face. Then a new one.
The system timestamped it all.
They tracked obedience post-op by smile frequency.
And that’s when I knew.
I didn’t need to find the data anymore.
I needed to findher.
She was not listed.
