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Impression: 390
- Narrator
- Jul 1, 2025
- 14 min read
Updated: Dec 4, 2025
Act 1
Impression 2375.390
Remember yourself.
The world depends on it.
Without self-connection
We’re all lost to the illusion.
AWARENESS FILE
META PULSE: The Observers
You are not reading this alone. Somewhere beyond human sight, the Galactic Observers watch the unfolding threads. They do not intervene. They only observe the traces and observations, as a signal pulses to the rhythm of the Pattern.
These Higher dimensional beings know there are layers within consciousness—timelines moving through fields of awareness, spanning many dimensions of possibility.
Most are in rhythm with the universal song.
But some are not.
Some timelines are constructed around misperceptions of separation, dissonance and lack. They strike the off-keys of discord and form pockets of disruption. Thar-Kor lies at the foundation of a fractured frequency. To be born within this rupture is to inherit its imbalance. To survive this world is to choose: assimilate, adapt or escape.
Yet within every distortion, consciousness will seek to find a home—
small echoes of the larger field, will emerge, trying to remember itself.
Tavian Sollanta is one of these echoes, an adaptation on the verge of escape.
AWARENESS FILE
SOUL FILE: Tav
Tav sees himself as an outsider—he’s a stranger to himself sometimes.
There’s an elegance in the way he moves through life; sensitivity with a slight flare, subtle enough to feel like a secret. He’s resourceful. Quietly defiant. Queer without apology, no matter what others expect.
He tints his lips as part of a ritual. Vanity second—this is a signal: a refusal to become one of them. Also, he likes the way his mouth can leave a mark on the bodies he touches—a glossy tag to trace his existence.
His frame is compact, five-ten, toned and youthful. A slender waist, crowning a rounded rear, balancing proportions he can be proud of. With skin the colour of desert dusk, golden undertones can catch the light, capturing the stare of strangers a little too long. The underbelly eats this kind of difference.
Every part of him says: Enjoy what you see, and I dare you to try.
And behind his glasses, a storm lights his eyes from within.
His coat is an act of rebellion. Always pink.
A pigment that says fuck you to the rules, to the grey scale of life. He owns a few—collected over the years. Sometimes exchanged for trade with off-world visitors, sometimes stolen. He customizes them all with patches marked with symbols like graffiti on a synthetic aura.
The one he wears now, vintage leather, worth more than a weekend trading. Its stitching glows in the ambient light. Underneath: he wears mesh layered over skin, tech-fiber waiting to be peeled off. His boots are an expression of his attitude, heavy duty, steel capped, scuffed with the history of too many nights crawling streets. He only laces them half-way up, so they’re easier to kick off.
He has nano-ink tattoos: veins of living colour running across his body and face like bio-responsive rivers, shifting with his mood. Right now? They’re low spectrum blue. His come-down tone. The one that means:
Still floatin’… but gravity’s startin’ to pull me back.
…The observers watch as he slips back into motion.
TRACE POINT: 24th floor Apartment in The Northside
GRID MARK: Thar-Korr – Sector 17
DIM-CODE: [TK-S17.∆6:GLS]
BLACK STAR: 54 ROTATIONS
Tav hadn’t meant to come back.
He’d planned to go straight home—wash the night off his skin, sleep until his bones stopped buzzing. But halfway out of the building he checked his pocket for a stim-stick and felt metal instead.
Vryson’s lighter.
Shiet.
Reputation kept him fed. Reviews kept him alive. If he didn’t return it, a story could spread—trade-boy steals from the Upper 18s—and doors might start closing.
So he doubled back through the service tunnel, past the bleach-and-synth-rose stink, and slipped into the private lift that served the Ansol penthouse.
Fragmented flashes of last night spark in the space in his mind.
Vryson, Tav and a room full of nameless bodies. Muscles slicked in sweat and synthetic gloss. Over priced drinks that no-one touched. Low lighting. Rehearsed re-takes. Antibacterial wipes.
The high had him tuned sharp—every breath, every rhythm, bending time.
A’was pleasing everyone,
Saw it in der eyes.
Dey all love d’pit-boy…
His look is their fetish—a shaved head links him to gang culture.
They touch him like he was made for their fantasy. Turns out, they’re not wrong. They preyed on him like sport, and he knew exactly how to give them what they paid for.
Wut’ can a’say… d’boy’s got a gift.
By the time the doors opened, the scene had been cleared. No more cameras, music down low. A space hollow of performance, with the aftertaste of wealth. Something musky-sweet hung in the air—like sweat trapped in velvet.
Under the low amber light, Vryson leaned against the mirrored wall—half dressed, a torso dipped in latex. Tav clocked him in the reflection first. Vryson didn’t look away from himself—just held the pose, as if the room only existed to frame the lines of his body.
Vryson’s body obeyed the brutal grace of optimisation. A sculpture he kept upgrading—solid and shaved. Chest, jawline, cock. He weaponised his beauty. Though his mind lacked the space to know what this really meant. He knew angles that captivated strangers. He knew what poses made followers ache. Every flex, every thrust, for those who looked.
Tav’s known him to stop a scene, mid-action, needing a mirror check, whilst leaving someone hanging. He would graze his own reflection as though it could betray him. Assessing the truth of length and girth. Too perfect and pumped to feel real.
Vryson finally noticed Tav watching and held him in his eyes. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—a hint of a connection he could never admit he needed.
He turned full-frontal, voice warm as lacquered gold.
“You can’t stay away, can you?”
A tease wound so tight he couldn’t feel the truth of it.
Tav felt the shift flick within him—
the practiced drop in the throat, the mask sliding into place.
Shoulders loose.
Stance wide.
Chin dipped just enough to look pretty.
Lips parted in that soft, wrecked way that said you got to me.
Available but not desperate. The perfect illusion of effortless surrender.
He held the lighter out. “A’forgot a’had this.”
Vryson’s gaze swept down Tav’s body—slow, deliberate, it’s the gaze of someone who couldn’t admit when something had changed him.
“Keep it,” he said. “You’ve earned it.”
Applause for his performance.
In the only language Vryson knew how to offer.
He treated Tav like a breakthrough discovery, a painting he’d seen before anyone else: something precious he didn’t know how to feel for. So he praised the persona: appreciated the beauty of the pit-boy fantasy.
Tav let his voice slide into the silk Vryson always responded to.
“Wouldn’t wan’ ya thinkin’ a was tryin’ ta lift sumthin’…”
It worked—Vryson stepped closer, the shift in the air was subtle, instinctual. He filled Tav’s space like a man who’d never been taught to ask permission. His thumb brushed Tav’s bottom lip, smearing the tint Tav had only just applied. Testing the edge of ownership.
“It’s a shame they wanted such a beautiful mouth, bound,” Vryson murmured. “But the lights caught you perfectly. And the way you moved—” His eyes closed for a moment. “You brought the whole room to its knees. Another great idea of mine.”
He wasn’t wrong about the performance. Tav’s body remembered the scene on instinct: the arch of his spine, the staggered breath, the helpless sound they liked hearing from his throat. Six years of perfecting performances with Vryson, each scene slowly ate at him one bite at a time.
“Glad a’ delivered fo’ ya Vry,” Tav said softly.
“Delivered?” Vryson’s smile sharpened. “You’re the best investment I ever made.”
His gaze softened, almost imperceptibly.
“They’ll be talking about tonight for cycles.”
It was the only way he knew how to express appreciation—claiming Tav’s brilliance as evidence of his own taste. His jaw flexed; something flickered behind his eyes—a feeling trying to surface, then sinking back down.
“You’re my centerpiece, Desert-boy.” But the words didn’t land like ownership.
More like: I don’t know how to love you without turning it into a transaction.
The compliment pulled something tighter in Tav’s gut. Because underneath it—beneath the flirt, the praise, the six years of pleasing—he knew the truth:
To them, you ain’t a person.
You’re jus’ a show.
He breathed in—slow, shallow—so his ache and fatigue wouldn’t show.
S’all about d’label…
Pit-boy, Trade-boy, waste-boy, pretty-boy.
Dey stackin’ ‘em on my back ‘til a’can’t even see ma’self.
S’like I’m buried under everyone else’s version of Tav,
Vryson stepped back, admiring him like a polished product.
“Come back tomorrow, Desert-boy,” he said softly. “Let’s do something more… intimate.”
His hand slid over his own chest and abs, like he misunderstood the word ‘intimate’. Tav slipped into the expression that always tugged at Vryson's excitement.
“Sure. ‘A can make time.”
Vryson’s satisfaction was instant. “My little trade-boy.”
Boy.
The word slid under Tav’s skin like a needle. He could feel the twist of attachment hiding inside it. Vryson didn’t know how to name any of his truths.
He can’t feel anythin’ beyond d’end of ‘is dick…
Vryson lifted a glass in a mock toast and wandered off towards the ensuite, humming to himself—admiring his own reflection with more interest than he’d shown Tav.
The moment his back turned, Tav dropped his smile. Mask folding. Not enough to expose—just enough to breathe.
A’wonder how life’d be if a’looked like one o’them…
Guess it would shift things, ey?
His fingers tightened around the lighter. An object like his life—earned, admired, owned by everyone but him.
Prob’ly better than forgettin’ ma own face…
As he stepped out, the corridor lights blinked—three brief flashes. Tav didn’t register it. But something in his body did. A small shiver climbed his spine, like a warning from somewhere deeper than thought. He pulled his coat tighter on reflex, like a second skin bracing for change, and headed back to the lift.
This time, he didn’t plan to look in the mirror.
Because he wasn’t sure he’d recognise who was looking back.
TRACE POINT: Elevator in The Northside
GRID MARK: Thar-Korr – Sector 17
DIM-CODE: [TK-S17.∆6:GLS]
BLACK STAR: 54 ROTATIONS
A man steps in at the 17th floor. Looks like an off-duty Enforcer. His body is bulked, carrying the weight of something heavy, forcing the air around him to notice his volume. For two breaths, their rhythms sync. Tav, feels the man’s tension roll through him like a borrowed muscle. His chest tightened—a reaction to his strange sensitivity: Tav can feel other people’s emotions in his body. And he hates that he can’t control this.
The man exits on the 15th floor. The doors seal. Tav continues down alone.
He takes his bracelet from his pocket, it’s cold against his fingertips. He hesitates—for just a heartbeat—before sliding it back onto his wrist. His skin protests. Stinging with the contact. He always removes it when restraints are involved. The bruise there is angry, raw and tender—a ring of purple and red bursting like a storm beneath his skin. The copper settles over it like a bandage pretending to heal.
There's a little star etched into the metal, it catches the elevator’s flickering light. In the center of the star there are three dots in the shape of a triangle. He’s often wondered what they could represent. He presses his thumb over the markings, a ritual of habit. This was a gift from Sael, four orbits ago. He said it meant Tav was “his star on a moonless night.”
Tav exhales—a sound too soft to be called a sigh. Maybe it’s the idea of love deflating
A’dunno if Love should feel like dis?
He spins the bracelet once. It catches on the bone. He doesn’t notice the pain. For a split-second, something in him imagines it snapping—the metal breaking, leaving his wrist bare. The thought startles him—a strange chill crawls up his spine. He doesn’t know why.
Feels like a’bin livin’ at th’ bottom of some murky fuckin’ lake my whole life.
Water pressin’ down on me, heavy’n’thick.
Best a’can do is kick,
keep ma feet from gettin’ stuck in the sludge, y’know?
‘Cos once you sink in that shiet—forget it mate.
No floatin’ back up.
The elevator beeps, pulling him back into the present—it’s a soft, synthetic chime, too clean for the dirt it carries between floors. Tav adjusts his coat, fingers brushing the stitched patches like old scars. He checks his cred-account on his comm-link. Enough to clear his Juice tab. Enough for Sael’s cut. Maybe enough to float one more drop before sunrise.
Or mayb’ Sael’s gonna front it… If Tav lets him feed on some skin.
That thought flickers.
Fades.
Sure, a’dream about swimmin’ up sometimes—
burstin’ through th’ surface,
lettin’ the air jus’ rip me open.
Then the truth jumps in:
Bu’ mayb’ ‘am built for the deep,
keep ma lungs fillin’ with silt instead of sky.
Surface feels like a fantasy fo’ other people.
Not fo’ Juicer’s like me.
So he focuses on the immediate. The week. Survival.
Keep movin’, keep breathin’,
keep tradin’ skin for Juice an’ credits.
Try not to think too hard, ‘cos the minute a’do—
A’start eatin’ ma own head.
He exhales—slow, uneven.
The breath leaking from something that used to be whole.
He reaches into his jacket.
Pulls out a crumpled synth-flyer—cheap, realtor-style print:
“BLAZE NIGHT - 54 Rotations.”
It’s not his scene.
Never was.
Still, he kept it—
maybe because it reminded him of a real moment in life.
Or maybe it’s because the person who handed it to him, held out their hand with a smile.
And sometimes…
that’s a good enough reason to take what’s being offered.
The doors glide open without a sound, the air on the lobby floor tastes different—purified, perfumed with a hint of static. He moves like a man who is late for a dream, like someone who knows that reality will start asking questions if he begins to slow down. A hologram concierge hums to life, its face built from artificial light. An empty smile, wanting some data it’ll never get.
Not tonight.
Tav keeps his eyes forward, expression flat as polished stone, giving nothing away. Not even a blink for the scan to cling to.
Revolving doors, shifting him from filtered air into the night’s choked, exhausted breath.
The city swallows him whole.
When reality hits him. It hits hard.
For a moment, Tav isn’t sure which way is forward
The street bears all like an open wound in high-definition.
His senses are too open, allowing too much information in. The heat and stench slap him in waves; fried oil, leaking plasma batteries, hope crushed underfoot. Down at street level, gravity has weight. It presses its thumb into his spine, reminding him that road-life doesn’t forgive weakness. The air clings to his throat like something alive. Acid, heavy-thick.
This is the raw underbelly of Thar-Korr, breathing in chaos, choking out smoke.
TRACE POINT: The NorthSide
GRID MARK: Thar-Korr – Sector 17
DIM-CODE: [TK-S17.∆6:GLS]
BLACK STAR: 54 ROTATIONS
Within minutes Tav finds his rhythm. His feet know where to go. Like an animal tuned to the beat of the underworld, he moves like a creature heading down stream. He feels into a line, a pathway through the nightmare mess, then lets his body snake through the shadows. Keeping tight to the buildings. His shoulder brushing metal walls slick with condensation. The wet chill of the nights and humid days prevent anything from really drying. This whole Sector is sweating out an endless hang-over.
The world feels misaligned, like light passing through shattered glass—too many versions, none fully real. These are the Juice echoes clinging to his nerves, padding sensation with a shimmer that’s already thinning. He double-taps his glasses. The lens-filter blooms. NeonSparkle—his preferred softener for the comedown. The edges blur, lights smear into oil-slick rainbows, bringing a magical movement to the shadows. A sparkle over the damage.
For Tav, Juice isn’t just about getting high. It’s a doorway.
A slide out of this dimension—where the world peels back and whispers: look at what sober eyes aren’t able to see.
Dry bookings? It’s rare he accepted them.
Wha’s th’ point?
Without Juice, trading feels like labour—meat-for-creds. And Tav’s not in it for labour. He’s not in it for the credits either, not really. He’s in it for the fall—the sweet chemical drop into the void between fullness and silence, where the world loosens enough for him to take a deeper breath. And when he trades with elites, he gets to drink blends he could never afford.
So wha’s that make me?
In the dropped-off state, he’s almost telepathic. He tastes a thought before it forms. Feels a want before it rises to the throat. And he knows how to answer it—with hands, mouth, hips. He can be as patient as prayer and commit to something like it's a sacrifice. This is his currency: a body that can listen deeper than minds are taught to hear.
A’learned my aliveness through skin ‘n’ juice.
Through tha’ heat an the high—
that space when the drop ‘appens,
an’ the world jus’ opens up.
When everythin' becomes… more.
D’ya feel me?
Dawn hasn’t cracked yet. The few people around move like rats, jittering with hunger—eyes scanning, fingers twitching for scraps and their next drop.
A’ve watched so many burn out tryin’ a walk a straight line.
Can’t be done. Roads don’t run clean like tha’.
T’other way’s no sweeter—
push too deep, overfeed ya’hunger, and ya’gone.
Ya’gonna slide right int’ditch where nothin’ ever grows.
A drone hums too low overhead. Tav tilts his chin down, coat collar brushing his jaw. Being seen can be dangerous. Being invisible, even more so.
So a’keep tabs on ma’self.
Run me own checks.
Remind ma’self—t’hold the line,
keep it tight, jus’ enough t’stay floatin’.
Stay in the space between fallin’ apart an’ gettin’ consumed.
Tha’s what keeps me from starin’ inta stillness,
Keeps me from lettin’ tha’ fear crawl out from where it’s hidin’,
Showin’ it’s teeth ‘n’ shadows ‘n’ shit.
Wires sag between rooftops like metal vines over a city that forgot how to reach for the sun.
"YOU ARE SEEN!"
Blurts the automated voice from a broken billboard.
Crackling, like laughter at its own joke.
A’look one step ahead—mayb’ two if 'am lucky.
Don't make big plans,
A’keep the future in neutral.
I can't think far like that—literally,
My mind don’t stretch—it frays.
A vendor on the corner with vacant eyes, drags a shopping cart behind him, it rattles like a tin coffin filled with bones. He barks with desperation, waving recycled memory chips like they’re little miracles.
"Live a better yesterday!"
Nobody stops. Nobody ever does.
Hope? Nah. Hope’s a sugar trick.
Just keep a backup on tap,
tha’s de best idea.
Feed a hand tha’ll catch ya if ya fall.
The pavement is a patchwork of the city's broken teeth—cracked concrete veined with reflections of neon on wet. Tav doesn’t stumble, he floats between beats. The electric lights of the world are shimmering where its limits should be. Like everything is about to come apart.
Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
TRACE POINT: Tenement Ruins
GRID MARK: Sector 24 - Edge Block
DIM-CODE: [S24-NYX.∆1:SIGNAL]
BLACK STAR: - 52 ROTATIONS
The tenement block had been condemned ten cycles ago, but places like this never stay empty. SIlence clung to the stairwell like mould. A thin shaft of morning light dropped through a cracked skylight, catching dust that had forgotten how to fall. Old laser-prints still ghosted the walls—eviction staps, layered over idol ads from the pre-collapse years. Nyx stepped lightly, every sense open.
The building spoke. Old buildings always did.
She moved down the hallway, checking corners, mapping exits. A half-broken door hung on one hinge, creaking as the building seemed to shift with the wind. The floor was littered with shattered tiles, empty ration packs and the remnants of someone’s last attempt at survival—bottles, a burnt pan, a single shoe, all dusted.
As she moved past the next doorway something coloured snagged at her peripheral vision. A flash of red at the end of the room. The edge of some graffitti—on the far wall, half-hidden behind discarded formica boards,
Bold.
Hidden.
Unmistakable.
She felt the pull towards. She needed to see this.
Nyx shoved the panels aside. And the message revealed itself like a pulse breaking through skin—paint dripping down the cracked plaster, deep ruby, the kind smuggled in vials by off-world hands that knew how to move unseen.
KNOW YOU ARE SOVEREIGN
Beside it: the Aquarian Rebellion sigil. A circle surrounding a single, stark A.
Her breath hitched.
This was no random underbelly tag from a gang or a Juice-den crew. This was placed. Intentional.
And her finding it. Timed. Anchored.
“Let the path reveal itself,” she murmured.
Nyx snapped a picture of the wall and sent it to Tav. No explanation. He didn’t need one.
He replied instantly:
“Is this for us?”
She didn’t need to answer.
Her fingers brushed the paint—still tacky in places. Whoever left this was close.
The statement pulsed something ancient in her chest—a reminder of the days before she stopped believing in movements, in hope, in uprising, in collective momentum—because sometimes hope didn’t ask for belief. It just asked for recognition.
She stepped back from the wall, pulse steady, mind sharpening. Things were moving. A fork in the road was coming—and she wasn’t going to miss the turn.
Her voice inside nudged, almost impatient:
We need to move.
Nyx took one step away… then glanced back. As if another message might surface if she stared long enough.
The one who left this breadcrumb didn’t write for the masses. They wrote for the aligned. For the attuned. For those ready to listen. And she was ready. Had been for longer that she allowed herself to admit. But stepping out of survival wasn’t a single moment. It was a practice. A form of participation.
Sovereignty isn’t granted, she thought as she turned away. It’s reclaimed.
And this was the signal she’d been waiting for.
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