You want to rest. They will not let you. You want to be at peace. They will not let you. You want to lay in the hole you dug with your hands. They will not let you. You want to pull the blanket of dirt over your eyes. They will not let you. You want to let the soil embrace you in a way of your own accord. They will not let you. You have not wanted anything else in a very long, long time. They will not let you. You were once known as THE OPTIMIST. In your youth, you were a scavenger, taking things night by night, trailing along beside your lusus between battle-scared lands and war-torn regions. The land and the dead provided, and you seemed to do just fine between them. Had you been further inclined by the station of others in your caste, perhaps you would have felt the call to join the TRUE REBELLION, but you did not. You were content with your lot in life, save for the situationally dependent insurgent zeel. One storming night while scavenging, you came face-to-face with a highblood who was not-so-dead. They subsequently and decidedly KILLED YOU DEAD. Due to the latent electrostatic charge from the storm and perhaps something lingering from the battle, you and the other corpses received a jolt that night. Not too long later, you were back on your feet. You had come back a little bit different. Wrong. Decaying. Insatiably hungry. The highblood who killed you saw you once more with a dangerously inspired curiosity. You were hunted, but you were a slippery catch. Once caught, you did not stay captive. From your days in rotted wooden cells to those made of iron bars, they could not contain you. LIFE found a way, way too many ways for them to count. That was, until scientific advancement made it impossible for you. They learned how to keep you, shackle you, and PURGE your sense of self, mentally and physically. All you can recall is that it has been several hundred sweeps. There have been enough care-takers in and out of the hermetically sealed doors to tell you as much. Your status as a ‘helmsman’ is nominal, secondary at best. You and the chained-to wall share a relationship unlike any other. You are now known solely as THE EXPLOIIT, and your situation is described right on the tin. You are, have been, and will continue to be exploited. Due to your status as a DEADTRITIVORE, your extended lifespan as a GOLDBLOOD was novel, but the INABILITY TO DIE IN A WAY THAT MATTERS and your NEUROTOXIC BLOOD made you a target, a thing to keep and never let go. That became your lot in life for the following several hundred sweeps and counting. Anything of your life prior to your ‘helmsman’ position was scrapped from history, with the little remaining public biography contorted for palatability as another example of willful work on Her Duplicitous Sovereign’s intergalactic flagship. Your trolltag is confinedAnomaly and you cannot speak verbally, not any more. Your psionics are translated and quoted by others of your caste who are capable of understanding you. Your speech patterns mimic the contemporary linguistic patterns of your caretakers over the centuries. You have never touched a computer in your life despite sounding like a world-weary gamer.