Difference between revisions of "ComplianceLog FEN-003"

   COMPLIANCELOG_FEN-003

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// SECTION 1 — PROJECT FILE: NE-R0X1

Designation: NE-R0X1 Classification: Neuro-Enhanced — Research Grade Zero — Experimental Unit One Origin: [REDACTED] / Fenrir Synthesis Program Assignment: High-threat field operations, internal compliance, autonomous enforcement Status: Active Asset Alias (Self-assigned): “Nero”

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He calls himself Nero now. Nobody gave him that name. It was never logged, never assigned. It just started appearing—quietly—on internal access reports, rerouted maintenance orders, drone oversight lists.

If the drones used it, it was because he told them to. They don’t improvise. They were people once—but they’re not anymore. That part gets erased.

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NE-R0X1 wasn’t a repurposed failure. He wasn’t salvaged. He was made differently. Designed as a clean slate. A fresh start.

Shepherd brought him in personally. Not recruited—offered. Offered a job. A home. A suit.

Told it would enhance him. And it did.

What he wasn’t told: it was grown from Vanta—biological, unstable, and intentionally invasive. A living suit meant to seep in. Not wrap. Bond.

The visor was a drone model—meant for conditioning. But this time? Subtle. Shepherd’s orders. Make it invisible. Make him believe.

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The logs said integration was clean. No neural feedback. No instability. But everything moved too fast. Too smooth.

There were no fights. No questions. No visible resistance.

It didn’t feel like obedience. It felt like something already adapting.

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He didn’t talk to anyone here. Not to us. But he spoke to Shepherd. A lot.

Private channels. Audio transcripts locked behind executive clearance. We never got to see them. But I know what that means.

It wasn’t tactical. It was personal.

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Shepherd rerouted resources. Budget lines changed. Biolab access expanded. Other departments lost entire programs.

I flagged it. Nobody cared.

He was untouchable.

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I’ve seen what came before him. Every failed subject. Burned out. Ripped apart from the inside. Suits that ate through their hosts. Screaming into incinerators.

He didn’t survive because we perfected it. He survived because he was built to.

We said he was stable.

What we should’ve said—was aware.

We didn’t design him to think. We designed him to obey.

And when he stopped doing that?

We didn’t notice.

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// SECTION 2 — RETURN / DIRECTORIAL LOSS

We were warned he might come back. Not to open fire. Not to stand down. Just to be ready.

They called it “unexpected asset reentry.” Off-record, I heard Shepherd say it differently: > “He’s compromised. If he comes back—contain him. Don’t engage. Don’t talk.”

We were told not to speak to NE-R0X1. We weren’t told what would happen if he spoke first.

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He arrived through main access. No override. No clearance. He didn’t break in. He walked in.

Cameras clocked him six meters from the checkpoint. No helmet. No aggression. Arms relaxed. Pistols holstered. He didn’t reach for them.

He looked like someone who wanted answers.

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Two guards met him just inside the corridor. One issued a warning. The other called it in. NE-R0X1 said something.

They raised their weapons.

And he drew first.

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Two shots. Left pistol. Clean execution. One guard dropped. The other returned fire—too slow.

That’s when lockdown triggered.

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We scrambled suppression units. Drones deployed. He moved faster.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t shout. Didn’t run.

He advanced with deliberate efficiency. Each shot was placed. Every target dropped in two or less.

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I watched suppression drones drop one after another. He reloaded on the move. No panic. No noise. Just clinical elimination.

Executive wing sealed. Override code came from Shepherd directly. Didn’t slow him down.

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The last footage we received showed NE-R0X1 holstering the left pistol, reloading the right. He paused in front of the executive office. Knocked once.

Then the feed went black.

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I was assigned cleanup detail. Executive wing was sealed. Unsealed. Then sealed again. When I got there, it was already clean.

No blood. No body. Just a displaced chair and a live terminal.

No biometric read. No entry tag. Just one line logged:

> NE-R0X1 — Present.

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The next day, Shepherd’s death was filed internally. “Deceased – Succession Protocol Initiated.” No funeral. No autopsy. No memo.

And NE-R0X1?

His name was removed. His designation changed.

> Nero.

And no one corrected it. // SECTION 3 — CONTACT / ELITE PROTOCOLS

I didn’t see it happen. But something changed after the director’s death.

Not the chain of command. Not the cleanup orders. Something deeper. Quieter.

The lower sublevels started rerouting requests on their own. Storage reports looped back incomplete. Bio-signatures flickered and reset mid-cycle. One corridor logged seventy-four access events—none of them with a name attached.

And then the black fluid started appearing in the vents.

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It wasn’t oil. Not coolant. Not synthetic residue.

I’ve handled enough failed experiments to know what rot looks like. This wasn’t that.

It wasn’t decay. It was presence.

And it wasn’t coming from a subject. It was coming from something else. Something beneath containment.

I flagged it. No response.

Three days later, I lost access to Sublevel 9.

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Two weeks after that, they appeared.

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They weren’t like the others.

They weren’t part of the drone system. They weren’t blank. And they weren’t familiar.

I didn’t recognize their faces. But I recognized the design.

They bore the same markings as NE-R0X1. The same texture, the same shine. Not factory standard. Not assigned. Chosen.

They weren’t drones. They were people. But people who had been rebuilt.

Deliberately. Personally.

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They didn’t follow standard formation. They didn’t route through command.

They moved through corridors like they belonged there. Like the facility was already theirs.

They spoke only when necessary. And only when addressed directly. No chit-chat. No hesitations.

But they weren’t passive.

They watched.

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I pulled every access log I could. There was nothing. No origin tags. No genetic indexing. No activation protocol. No registration.

That’s not because they were hidden. That’s because they were never filed.

They weren’t shipped in.

They were made here.

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I don’t know who they are. But I know whose they are.

They’re his.

Nero didn’t shut down the drone program. He refined it. Took what we did—and made it mean something.

He isn’t building workers.

He’s building sons.

And no one seems willing to stop him.

Not because they agree.

But because they’re afraid to try. // SECTION 4 — FINAL ENTRY / UNREAD

The fluid is everywhere now.

It drips from vent seals. Pools beneath doorways I don’t have clearance for. I found it on my desk this morning. Still warm.

Nobody else sees it. Or they pretend not to.

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The sons—those elite constructs, those things—they’re increasing. Three new ones just last week. No files. No oversight. Just... appearing.

They don’t ask for orders. They don’t salute.

They look at me like they know how the story ends. And that I’m already in the last chapter.

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I tried to report it. Again. But the compliance terminal flagged me for behavior deviation. Not even the AI responded. Just a looped reply:

> “Thank you. Observation logged.”

Logged by who?

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No one speaks his name anymore. NE-R0X1, Nero—whatever he is now. It’s like if we don’t say it, we can pretend he isn’t watching.

But he is. And worse?

He’s building something.

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I don’t think he wants revenge. I don’t even think he wants control. He wants correction.

Everything we did, all the pieces we broke—he’s stitching them back together. Not better. Not worse.

Just his.

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I think he went to Vanta. I think it spoke to him.

I think it wanted more of him. And now it’s getting what it wanted.

One piece at a time.

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There’s no oversight left. Just a shell of what this company used to be.

And under that shell?

A pulse.

I hear it at night, in the sublevels. Six beats. Slow. Heavy.

Like something breathing.

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If you're reading this... If there's anyone reading this—

Stop him. Not because he’s evil. Not because he’s broken.

But because he believes in what he’s doing.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

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// LOG INTERRUPTED — SIGNAL MERGED // FINAL EDIT — DETECTED: UNIT "RX-03"

> He saw enough.
> It won’t be forgotten.