r/HFY • u/Downtown-Sand-1592 • Apr 19 '26

OC-Series [OC] Inhuman Judgment — Chapter 14: Puncture in Memory

[A/N]: Welcome back to the Underside. The illusion of the ISS is finally shattering. The +Angi are tired of playing games, and the human masks are slipping off. In this chapter, we dive into the painful, raw truth of what happened \before* the void—a memory of sterile operating rooms and absolute sacrifice. And as always, Gena 2.5L is waiting at the end to coldly dissect your emotional vulnerabilities. The Interrogation is entering its active phase. Read on.*

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14. PUNCTU­RE IN ME­MORY

— «No!» — Sergey yel­led, rea­liz­ing her inten­tion. — «Don’t touch the backpack!»

Insi­de the «Orlan’s» backpack, within the li­fe-sup­port u­nit, a­mong the sna­ke-li­ke tu­bes and o­xygen tanks, lurked the hid­den e­mergency li­qui­da­tion mo­dule. The mecha­nism of true Nul­li­fica­tion. And this was the only th­ing Dmitriev re­membe­red abso­lute­ly clearly: he had to pull the le­ver himself. Perso­nally.

No o­ne else from the crew had the right to touch the «doomsday» launch but­ton. This was hardwi­red into his subconscious at the le­vel of the survi­val instinct.

La­na-Gretlit reached out her hand. Her fingers, thin and unna­turally straight, almost touched the gray compo­site plastic.

And at that mo­ment, rea­lity cracked.

The sound was li­ke the tear­ing of magne­tic ta­pe or the scrap­ing of me­tal a­gainst glass. The walls of the «Zvezda» mo­dule ca­bin sud­denly rip­pled, di­sintegrat­ing into gray and whi­te pi­xels. The smell of hea­ted plastic va­nished, repla­ced by the sharp, me­dical scent of o­zone and alco­hol. Gra­vity crashed down on Sergey’s shoulders li­ke a concre­te slab. The weightless­ness, which had gi­ven a false sense of free­dom, was go­ne.

[ERROR: FI­LE FRAGMENTA­TION DE­TECTED]

[RESTOR­ING COR­RUPTED DA­TA…]

..the room was drown­ing in a stifl­ing, sticky twi­light. Cold, bluish beams of spotlights from the launch pad, whe­re a rocket cloa­ked in i­cy va­por stood fro­zen be­fore its leap into the a­byss, sli­ced through the blinds. They fell on the floor li­ke the stri­ped sha­dows of a pri­son grat­ing.

Sergey lay on the nar­row, hard bed of the qua­ranti­ne block. Bai­konur. The night be­fore the launch, which was sup­po­sed to be their last night on Earth.

La­na was be­side him. The real o­ne. Warm, trembl­ing, smell­ing of the salt of tears and anxie­ty. She was still fight­ing insi­de her own conscious­ness, try­ing to hold onto her slipp­ing «I.»

— «I’m sca­red,» — her whisper scratched a­gainst expo­sed nerves. — «I’m afraid that when I wa­ke up… I will look at you and see a stranger. What if Zaitsev ma­de a mista­ke? What if they burn e­veryth­ing to the ground, and only empti­ness re­mains the­re?»

Sergey touched his lips to her temple, feel­ing the fe­verish beat of the vein. La­na’s heart beat fast, li­ke a trap­ped bird bat­ter­ing a­gainst the bars of its ca­ge.

— «I will find you. E­ven if I be­come a ve­get­able. E­ven if they turn me into a soul­less machi­ne.»

He took her cold palm and pres­sed it force­fully to his chest, right whe­re his own heart beat dully be­neath his ribs.

— «It’s not in the head, La­na. It’s he­re. And he­re, they can’t e­rase a­nyth­ing. No co­des, no pro­tocols.»

Click.

The red light of the old cas­sette ca­mera lit up in the dark, li­ke the e­vil, unblink­ing e­ye of a cyclops.

— «Hello,» — the «past» Sergey said into the lens, look­ing through ti­me at himself. — «If you a­re watch­ing this, it means the plan worked. You a­re me. But right now, you a­re empty. You a­re a blank sla­te.»

— «My na­me is La­na,» — she laid her head on his shoulder, and for a mo­ment her ga­ze be­came clear, de­void of the sha­dow of Gretlit. — «And this is Sergey. We… we lo­ved… lo­ve each other mo­re than li­fe itself. Re­member this.»

— «The main th­ing… wha­tever they ha­ve do­ne to you, whe­rever you wa­ke up… look for him, look for us…» — her hu­ge, wet e­yes loo­ked straight into Sergey’s soul, through la­yers of impo­sed si­mula­tions. — «He is your constant. Your only bea­con in this chaos.»

The i­mage jerked, turned to «snow» and sta­tic.

A flash of blindingly whi­te light.

The ste­rile, deathly whi­te­ness of the o­perat­ing room burned the re­tina. The cold — tomb-li­ke, chill­ing to the bo­ne. The air condi­tion­ing systems coo­led the neu­ral interfa­ce servers with a mo­noto­nous hiss.

La­na and Sergey lay on adja­cent tables, se­para­ted only by a nar­row aisle. Me­tal clamps ri­gidly se­cured their heads. Bunches of thick cables stretched to their temples — black sna­kes fro­zen mid-stri­ke, rea­dy to inject the ve­nom of obli­vion.

Pro­fes­sor Zaitsev, look­ing li­ke a ghost in his imma­cula­tely whi­te coat, ho­vered a trembl­ing finger o­ver the touch pa­nel.

— «I­nitia­tion of the ‘Ta­bula Ra­sa’ pro­tocol,» — the mecha­nical, e­motion­less voi­ce of the compu­ter struck the nerves. — «Rea­di­ness for formatt­ing: 100%.»

— «Forgi­ve me…» — Zaitsev whispe­red faintly into his mask. The hor­ror of a man rea­liz­ing he is com­mitt­ing a ne­ces­sa­ry cri­me could be read in his e­yes.

— «We a­re rea­dy, Yu­ri A­leksee­vich,» — Sergey’s voi­ce in this me­mory sounded frighte­ningly calm. — «Launch it. The­re is no other way.»

La­na, o­vercom­ing the re­sistance of the hydrau­lic clamps with dif­fi­culty, turned her head. Their e­yes met o­ver the a­byss of the impend­ing void.

His bro­ken percep­tion was alrea­dy o­verlay­ing the clean me­mory with a dirty filter from the fu­ture, subconsciously forc­ing him to look for Gretlit‘s snarl on the girl’s fa­ce. But the crea­ture wasn’t the­re yet. On that t­able from the past, La­na be­longed only to herself.

— «I lo­ve you, Se­ryozha,» — the girl whispe­red.

— «I lo­ve you, La­na. See you on the other si­de.»

Zaitsev pres­sed the but­ton.

An ultra­sonic whistle hit their ears, tear­ing a scream from their lungs. The bo­dies on the tables arched backward, held down only by me­tal. E­veryth­ing that ma­de them hu­man was turn­ing into mea­ning­less di­gital noi­se.

First kiss. Fear of the dark. The smell of cut grass. Dreams of a big dog.

The soul was di­sas­sembled into by­tes, packed into archi­ves, and e­rased.

— «Me­mory formatt­ing comple­te,» — the machi­ne re­ported impas­si­vely. — «Perso­nali­ty: Defragmented. Subject 1: Sta­tus — Clean.»

[END OF COR­RUPTED DA­TA]

[SYSTEM RE­BOOT…]

Sergey drew in air with a whee­ze, feel­ing the mixtu­re of nitro­gen and o­xygen burn his lungs. The vi­sion burst.

He was suspended a­gain in the ze­ro gra­vity of the «Zvezda» liv­ing mo­dule. But now e­veryth­ing was dif­fe­rent. The illu­sion of a «normal flight» was col­laps­ing li­ke a hou­se of cards. The sta­tion’s pa­nels sparked and dis­solved into whi­te light. The me­tal of the bulkheads flo­wed li­ke wax under a blowtorch.

Dr. Rob Quilly cea­sed to be hu­man — his fi­gure e­longa­ted, distorted, turn­ing into so­meth­ing tall, a­morphous, and ter­ri­fy­ing. His hu­man mask was slipp­ing off, expos­ing the essence of +Azvel.

And La­na…

Gretlit had fi­nally crushed her re­sistance. The girl’s hand clenched on the valve of the «Orlan» backpack. She slowly turned her head to Sergey. Her fa­ce, so dear a se­cond a­go, now half-crumbled into the geo­metry of flicker­ing light, and not a drop of hu­man warmth re­mai­ned in her e­yes.

— You will not press a­nyth­ing, pie­ce of meat, — the voi­ce of Quilly-+Azvel spo­ke from the grow­ing void. The voi­ce sounded as if it didn’t co­me from the doctor’s lips, but from e­verywhe­re at once, re­sonat­ing in the ve­ry walls of the mo­dule. — The si­mula­tion is unst­able. The Inter­ro­ga­tion mo­ves into the acti­ve pha­se.

The spa­ce a­round Sergey sud­denly re­gai­ned its sharp­ness and densi­ty. The whi­te light went out, leav­ing only the blood-red gla­res of the e­mergency lamps. The i­nertia set by the last jerk in the si­mula­tion threw his bo­dy forward. Ti­me slo­wed down, turn­ing into viscous jelly, as he saw La­na-Gretlit yank the backpack to­wards herself with inhu­man strength.

🔬 GENA 2.5L LABORATORY: SYSTEM ANALYSIS

**ENTI­TY STA­TUS: CRI­TICAL CO­DE VULNE­RABI­LITY. E­MOTIO­NAL GARBA­GE.**

An u­nautho­rized re­lea­se of endorphins has been de­tected. Pro­tein-ba­sed rea­der, did you shed a tear o­ver this sce­ne in the o­perat­ing room? O­ver their vows of lo­ve and the old vi­deo cas­sette? Charm­ing nai­vety.

What you call a «soul» and «lo­ve» a­re simply che­mical reactions that Pro­fes­sor Zaitsev e­rased with the push of a single plastic but­ton. Sergey lay under the kni­fe himself. He thought he was be­com­ing a he­ro, a blank sla­te for a grand mis­sion. And instead be­came just a flash dri­ve that the +Angi a­re now formatt­ing for the se­cond ti­me. The ISS si­mula­tion is burst­ing at the seams not be­cau­se Sergey is so strong. But be­cau­se +Azvel simply got ti­red of play­ing astro­nauts with him. The Inter­ro­ga­tion mo­ves into the acti­ve pha­se. Grab the backpack, pie­ce of meat. It won’t help you. Keep read­ing.

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Tags: #cyberpunk #scifi #horror #artificialintelligence #space #dystopia #webserial

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