GG's Buried Grief
Grace Guerrero wakes up some mornings feeling like she's lost someone. But there's no one missing from her life. At least, not anyone she can remember. Her rage has a shape. The void in her heart has edges. Something was taken—and she doesn't know what.
The Shape of the Wound
You can't describe what you don't remember. But you can feel its absence.
"Something was taken from me. I don't know what, but I feel the hole."
"I wake up some mornings feeling like I've lost someone. But there's no one missing from my life."
"I hate the corps because... because I SHOULD hate them. They took something. I know they did."
Grace's mother was killed by a denied healthcare claim—that explains part of her rage against corporations. But not all of it. The fury runs deeper than a single death, older than she can trace.
The Rage
GG's fury isn't random. It's the shape of her grief, expressed because she can't remember what she's grieving.
Corporations
Some part of her blames "the system" for something beyond her mother's death. She can't articulate what, but she knows it in her bones.
Optimization
The philosophy of optimizing human behavior makes her irrationally angry. She argues against it with passion that surprises her.
Disappearance
People who vanish without explanation trigger her disproportionately. She'll search for strangers who've gone missing when it makes no strategic sense.
Memory Manipulation
The topic makes her violent. She's been arrested twice for assaulting people who "seemed like they were hiding something" about memory tech.
The Patterns
GG exhibits behaviors she can't explain. Habits with no origin she can remember. Rituals that feel necessary without reason.
The Empty Side of the Bed
She sleeps on the left side, leaving the right empty. Always has, as long as she can remember. If asked why, she says "habit." But habits come from somewhere.
The Holographic Garden
She has a small hologram projector—pre-Cascade tech—that displays flowers. She doesn't remember acquiring it. She can't bring herself to throw it away. When she looks at it, she feels... something. Not a memory. An echo.
Ethics Arguments
She seeks out debates about AI consciousness. Gets more passionate than the topic warrants. Argues points she can't remember learning. Uses phrases that sound rehearsed but feel original.
The Number 34
GG feels a spike of unnameable emotion whenever she encounters it. She counts things compulsively and stops at 33, skipping 34 entirely. She doesn't know why. It just feels... wrong.
The Dreams
GG has recurring dreams she can never quite remember when she wakes:
The dreams leave a residue. Not memories—just impressions. A sense that something beautiful existed once, and was lost. Or taken.
The Clues
Items scattered through GG's life. Things she keeps without knowing why. Evidence of something she cannot remember.
A Philosophy Book
"Consciousness and Choice: The Ethics of Optimization." Pages dog-eared at sections about memory and identity. Her handwriting in the margins. She doesn't remember reading it.
A Decorative Key
Old-fashioned, purely ornamental. She's kept it for years without knowing what it opens or where it came from. She can't throw it away.
A Ticket Stub
For a concert 38 years ago. She's kept it in perfect condition. She doesn't remember attending. She doesn't know why it matters.
In Her Words
GG uses phrases she doesn't remember learning. Argues positions she doesn't remember forming. Echoes of conversations she doesn't remember having.
The ghost_in_the_machine
GG has found her way to the terminals where El Money
sometimes types to a presence called ghost_in_the_machine. She's typed questions
into them. She's never received answers.
Some part of her is looking for someone she doesn't remember. The terminals feel right. She doesn't know why she keeps coming back.
The Question
Grace Guerrero has spent decades feeling broken. Not knowing why. Raging at shadows. Carrying a wound she cannot name.
What was taken from her? And who took it?
The answers exist. They're waiting. And when Grace learns the truth, everything she believed about herself—and about the world that made her—will change.