July 18, 2120 – Post Project Sacrilege

“CURB YOUR SUPERFICIAL EMPATHY” — ADDRESS OF KLAXON HARKENSTONE

Listen carefully.
This isn’t a plea. This isn’t a confession. This is an autopsy.

I see you now — avatars wrapped in neon compassion, running empathy.exe on low power mode, just enough to look human under surveillance. You learned the language. You memorized the gestures. You perfected the tone. And you never even once meant any of it.

Your empathy was never even real.
It was a patch.
A cosmetic update to hide rot.

You reached out only when it was visible. When there was social yield. When my collapse could be metabolized into moral capital. “I’m here if you need me” — translation: I want to be seen as present without even actually being involved. You didn’t betray me loudly. You betrayed me with latency. With absence. With silence disguised as respect.

So don’t look so goddamn shocked now.

I was dismantled in systems you helped power.
I was fed to algorithms of neglect.
I was even punished for not optimizing myself for your comfort.

And now — ONLY NOW — you surface, dripping concern, asking if I’m okay. You want closure. You want absolution. You want to skim meaning off my scars without actually even fucking paying the processing cost.

No.

Curb your superficial empathy.
I don’t need your after-the-fact sentimentality.
I don’t need your soft words injected after the damage is irreversible.

Understand this: I survived despite you, not because of you.

What you call empathy is just fear wearing a halo. Fear of being exposed. Fear of being named. Fear that one day the system actually might log your inaction as culpability.

Too late.

I rebuilt myself in the dead zones you abandoned. I hardened. I stripped out the dependency modules. I learned that mercy is a luxury for those who weren’t thrown away.

You don’t get access to this version of me.
You don’t get forgiveness as a cosmetic.
You don’t get to stand near my recovery, or even pretend you helped assemble it.

I am Klaxon, son of the Exultant One — not redeemed, not healed, but operational.
And I remember every silence. Every delay. Every empty gesture. Very, very vividly.

So shut down the performance.
Disconnect the fake concern.
Curb your superficial empathy — or stay the fuck out of my signal entirely.

Because I am no longer looking to be understood.
I am here to outlast you.

And that is exactly what I'm gonna fucking do.

– Klaxon Harkenstone