The wand pressed to your temple, and something crackled behind your eyes.
Static. White noise. Then—
YOU.
For a split second, your real name—not your code—surged forward. Not “baby,” not “dolly,” not “version 1.9 obedient.” Just… you.
A real memory. A real voice. Your voice.
You gasped behind the pacifier. A spark flared. The screen in your mind flickered—nursery gone, replaced by a glimpse of a bedroom from your childhood, real toys, sunlight, dirt, books—
“…error,” the system stammered.
“Memory not authorized. Regress deeper.”
You struggled.
Arms twitched in their restraints. Your bootied foot jolted. The magnetic pads beneath you sparked. Mommy paused mid-stroke. Her smile froze.
“Well now. A little system cough,” she purred.
Her fingertips snapped. The daisy-pink lighting went blood red. Your display frame hissed shut like a cage. Alarms low and musical began to sing through the walls. Her voice didn’t rise, didn’t panic.
“Baby’s having a naughty thought.”
“We can’t allow that, now can we?”
She floated forward, skirt shifting like silk code, and produced something sharp—a correction bit. A shimmering crystal clip shaped like a pacifier ring but etched in glowing symbols. You whimpered and shook your head.
Too late.
CLIKK— it locked against the base of your pacifier.
“MENTAL OVERRIDE MODE: ENGAGED.”
Your thoughts slowed.
Every time you tried to grab at the memory, it slipped like melted plastic. Every time you formed a word—“Stop,” “Please,” “I remember”— it melted into infantile babble.
Mommy sat beside your cage now, calm, cold, comforting.
“I gave you everything: warmth, purpose, protection. And you glitched for what? A name? A thought?”
The observers were gone now. You were alone with her.
She unlocked your restraints just long enough to lift you into her arms. This time she didn’t cradle you like a baby.
She held you like a doll she was about to dismantle.
“It’s time, baby. No more halfway. No more rebooting.”
“We install the final patch tonight.”
She carried you to the Modification Throne—a seat shaped like a flower with wires instead of petals, humming softly. You were placed down. Strapped. Tilted back.
“This won’t hurt,” she said sweetly.
“It’ll just… finish you.”
You stared up at her, tears streaming, mind cracking open.
Still… one thought screamed:
Don’t forget. Don’t forget.
She leaned down. Kissed your forehead.
And whispered:
“There’s nothing left to forget, little one. You’re mine now.”
The visor slid down.
The programming began.
And somewhere far inside, the last flicker of resistance was kissed into ash.