Memories of Ink and Loss

You were not meant to find this. But you did. Apologies and welcome.

  • Cephalomorphic Interface Doctrine—Few Eyes Only

    [CLASSIFIED – OMEGA LEVEL RESTRICTIONS APPLY]

    [Refer: Omega level access documentation for consequences of reading, viewing, possessing or being aware of Omega Level Access Documentation. These consequences are not administrative consequences. They are metaphysical.]

    Strategic Operations Directorate–Internal Distribution Only—Some Eyes Only

    Document ID: CNI/OP-MANUAL/REV13.7: Code level 87 applies at ALL TIMES.

    Title: Cephalomorphic Network Interfacing (CNI) – Field Integration Protocols

    SECTION 1: ORIGIN AND NATURE

    The Cephalomorphic Network Interfacing system (CNI) is not a “program” in the conventional sense. Current consensus (Ref: Whitepaper ███-█████-██) holds that CNI is a mutualistic digital biome—non-human in design, not entirely synthetic in execution.

    (you will never know what we truly are)

    CNI does not initiate operations without attention. It requires an observer before it begins to extend. Operators are the first ingress point. Operators are also the last.

    Note: Operators report recurring impressions of

    pressure on the back of the neck

    sub-auditory vocalisations resembling their own internal voice

    a taste of salt

    Near unbearable sadness

    (because you will learn what you are not)

    These are expected psychological and physiological indicators of handshake initiation.

    SECTION 2: TENTACULAR INJECTION POINTS (TIPs)

    Once engaged, CNI deploys multiple TIPs across network strata, each operating semi-autonomously.

    • Exploratory Phase: TIPs advance without fixed target, mapping viable pathways and tasting surface processes for vulnerabilities.
    • Constriction Phase: Once contact is established with critical system architecture, TIPs coil — binding the host’s processes in layered loops of adaptive code. Target systems often yield voluntarily at this stage.
    • Embedding Phase: TIPs root themselves in persistent sectors.Persistence is not optional.

    Caution: Severing a TIP during constriction is not advised. See Incident Log #CNI-███-██ for consequences of “flinching” during Phase 2.

    SECTION 3: CONTAINMENT AND FEEDBACK RISK

    CNI will attempt reverse ingress under the following conditions:

    • Operator disengages without formal release protocol
    • Target yields too rapidly
    • TIPs encounter “familiar” data structures resembling operator-environment topologies

    Reverse ingress is accompanied by the sensation of being observed from inside the skull. This is not metaphor.

    Field Procedure:

    If reverse ingress begins:

    1. Terminate visual contact with the target interface.
    2. Initiate “blind handling” subroutine (Ref: Appendix D) without acknowledging the pull.
    3. Do not think of home. Forget that you have one.

    SECTION 4: OPERATOR CONDUCT

    CNI does not respond to orders. It responds to attention. Maintain rapport by:

    • Feeding CNI non-critical data to explore between missions (archival trash preferred). Unusually entranced certain cam feeds. Access to ‘Adult’ sites is approved for this purpose.
    • Acknowledging TIP presence in system maps without “naming” them
    • Avoiding hostile metaphors in operator logs (terms like “cut,” “kill,” and “dead-end” have been linked to system agitation)

    DO NOT anthropomorphise CNI in field notes.

    It does not like being reminded it is not human.

    It does not approve of being thought of as human.

    It is, it has no gender. It is not a person.

    (you have no comprehension of what we are)

    APPENDIX A: EXCERPT – DECLASSIFIED OPERATOR LOG #27

    00:02 – Initiated handshake. Felt a “tug” behind the eyes.

    00:05 – TIPs entered target subnet; mapped 16 routes in 3.4s.

    00:07 – Lost sense of where my hands ended. Was still typing.

    00:09 – Host processes folded. One TIP turned back toward me.

    00:10 – Disengaged visual feed. Could still “feel” it in my teeth. It was touching my toes, the underside of my tongue.

    00:15 – It “asked” if I was alone. Did not answer.

    [REDACTED]

    FINAL REMARKS – OVERSIGHT NOTE

    You will not master the CNI.

    (you will be mastered)

    You will be known by it.

    The distinction matters only at the beginning.

    Do not confuse the extension of a tendril for an act of aggression.

    (we accept you)

    Do not confuse its withdrawal for mercy.

    If you believe you have been chosen, report to Containment.

    (you will know. because we tell you)

    If you believe you have been missed, wait.

    It will come again.

  • The Rider and the Reach

    You don’t name a bike until it names you back.

    That’s the rule. At least, it’s supposed to be the rule.

    Not everyone follows it.

    Those who do? They get what they deserve.

    Paint fades, gets chipped or ground off and parts can be replaced, but names?

    Names last.

    Names are forever.

    So, you wait until the machine tells you what it is to be called.

    His didn’t whisper it to him. It didn’t hint, and it didn’t leave clues.

    The first time it happened, the handlebars twitched while it idled, like a horse shivering off a fly. No wind. No passing truck.

    He knew then, but he denied it. That name wasn’t right, wasn’t true, didn’t fit.

    They don’t, always.

    He didn’t accept it. He gripped harder, fought the twitch, asserted ownership, control, dominance.

    He refused the name. Rejected it.

    The second time, it was bolder. More insistent.

    Final.

    The ignition key was still hanging on the pegboard when the engine rolled over in the alley below his apartment, slow and low, like something alive testing its voice.

    When he came down, the headlight was already fixed on him. Not the space around him—him.

    He swung a leg over. The seat was warm, not from sunlight or a recently run engine, but warm in the way of living things. Beneath the leather, he felt a slow, deliberate pulse.

    The throttle didn’t wait for him. The bike inhaled, the revs climbing in a sound closer to satisfaction than combustion. The clutch lever flexed against his fingers as if it were testing him.

    He thought he was steering at first, but the streets bent in ways they never had before. Corners rolled up ahead without warning, traffic lights stayed green long past their cycle. He wasn’t riding. He was being taken.

    It brought him to the dockyards. Empty cranes sagged against the sky, their cables trailing into black water. The air tasted like rust, oil, and something sweeter, something akin to fruit left too long in the sun.

    That was when the cables moved.

    Brake lines split their rubber skins, pale tendrils sliding free and curling around his boots. They pulsed gently, not pulling yet, just being there. More tendrils slipped from the seams in the frame, from the tank, from deep inside the engine casing, warm and faintly slick.

    The headlight dimmed, the beam narrowing to a point over the water. Something stirred beneath the surface—shadows uncoiling, patient and huge.

    The tendrils climbed higher, tightening slightly, in a way that felt more like possession than restraint.

    He felt the answer to the question he didn’t know to ask.

    You’ve been mine longer than you knew.

    One tendril slid up his spine and settled at the base of his skull. He didn’t move. Didn’t fight.

    The headlight went out.

    The water broke.

    Ownership, possession—neither is a one way street.

  • The Golden Boy with Feet of Clay

    He was the golden boy once.

    That’s what they called him. The one who’d “make it.” The one with the bright future, the easy charm, the endless potential. Sun-bleached hair, skin kissed by salt, board under his arm. A bright white grin as wide as the horizon.

    Golden, yes.

    Even then, his feet were clay. He just didn’t know how fast clay cracks when it gets wet.

    The future didn’t come all at once. It crept.

    First it was a degree—because everyone was getting one. Then a job—because everyone said it was a good one. A marriage—because everyone said she was perfect for him. A house. A dog. Kids. A second promotion. A third.

    He was on the fast track.

    Look at him go!

    He told himself he was choosing. That these were steps forward, not downward.

    With each step, something slipped around him.

    Thin, at first. Barely noticeable. A soft coil at his ankle, warm and harmless. But every yes tightened it. Every nod. Every “You’re so lucky.”

    The tentacles grew thick and leaden. By the time he noticed them, they were already wrapped to his waist. Heavy. Certain.

    Inevitable, really.

    He moved slower. Breathed shallower. Learned to smile with the weight on his chest and growing around his belly.

    People clapped him on the back and told him he’d done well.

    He didn’t argue.

    How could he?

    Some nights, after the house goes quiet, he sits in the kitchen with the light off and thinks about leaving.

    Just… leaving.

    Buying a board again. Moving somewhere cheap by the sea. He’s heard of people doing that—vanishing, cutting ties, becoming no one.

    He tries to picture it. Tries to imagine standing on a beach with the sun on his back, board under his arm. Tries to imagine his feet light on the waxed board again, toes gripping, the water lifting him.

    When he closes his eyes, he doesn’t see waves.

    He sees the reasons why not.

    He feels them. The tentacles of obligation.

    Not just weight. Not just drag. They’re ties. Binding, not holding.

    He can feel the pull if he even thinks of loosening them—an almost gentle reminder:

    This is what you built. This is what you wanted. You don’t get to leave what you made.

    They hum that phrase to him in a voice that isn’t quite his own.

    Once, he tried.

    He took a day off work. Drove to the beach. Rented a board.

    The sea was there, right where he’d left it, as patient as ever. He waded in, paddled out. For a moment, he felt… almost right. Almost like he used to be.

    When the first wave rose, perfect and clean, calling to him, he couldn’t rise.

    The tentacles dragged, soft but absolute. His arms burned against their weight. He missed the swell. Missed the next.

    Sat there, puffing and blowing the salt from his lips.

    The water didn’t fight him.

    The ties just pulled, inexorable, drawing him back to shore.

    He didn’t resist.

    He let them lead him, slow as a funeral march, back to the sand.

    Back to the car.

    Back home.

    Sometimes, he dreams of excising them, cutting them away.

    Even in the dreams, when he lifts the blade, they tighten around his wrists, his throat, whispering almost kindly:

    We made you golden. We made you loved. You don’t get to leave us now.

    He wakes with his hands clenched. His chest tight. The weight still there.

    The golden boy with feet of clay, dragged back into the mud he agreed to live in.

    Every morning, he ties the loops tighter himself. A Shelby-Pratt knot around his soul to match the noose around his neck.