RECOVERED TESTIMONIES

They told me to sit still. I don’t remember asking for help, but they acted like I had. The medic kept checking my pulse even when it stabilized. Someone else stayed close. Too close, maybe. I didn’t object. I don’t think I could have. Later they said I was “non-compliant” at first. I don’t remember refusing anything.

They handed me the Wächter-X and said, “Stand here. Don’t let anything through.” I’m not military. They said that didn’t matter right now. After, when it was quiet, one of the medical staff sat next to me. Didn’t say much. Just stayed there until my hands stopped shaking.

Patient exhibited delayed stress response. Requested to remain near assigned companion. Request approved. Duration not logged. No medical intervention recorded during that window. File marked: “Stabilized.”

They said I could leave once my breathing normalized. I didn’t want to. The person with me didn’t pressure anything. They just didn’t leave. I think that was the point. No one ever followed up. No one asked what helped.

Medical compliance restored. Subject responsive. Contributor interaction deemed effective. Further details withheld under Consortium discretion. [REMAINDER OF ENTRY EXPUNGED]

They told us we weren’t required to do anything. They also told us proximity helps. Most nights it was just sitting. Sometimes it wasn’t. I don’t regret it, but I don’t know how to explain it either. The compensation wasn’t money.

They sat beside me, not across. That alone felt strange. There wasn’t a script for what we were doing. No instructions. No treatment. Just… proximity. I remember feeling calm before I realized I was. That part scared me a little. I kept thinking I should move away, or say something, or make it normal. But nothing bad happened. Nothing happened at all, really. It was awkward. Comfortably so. I was happy and uneasy at the same time, and for once, neither feeling needed to win. Eventually they stood up and said I looked better. I think they were right.

I was compensated before I even asked what happened. That should have worried me more than it did.

They told me I was “cleared,” but I couldn’t remember being sick. Only that everyone else looked relieved that I couldn’t remember.

I lost something important. Not a person. Not time. A reference point.

The care was real. Too real. No one treats strangers that well without a reason.

I remember being told I was lucky. I don’t remember why.

They said my memories would “settle.” That implies they were disturbed in the first place.

Everyone who saw it got help. Everyone who didn’t, didn’t need it. That pattern doesn’t feel accidental.

I keep trying to remember what scared me. I can’t. But my body still reacts like it knows.

They paid for my silence without ever asking for it.

Someone told me compensation isn’t about loss. It’s about containment.

I was treated like a survivor. I was never told what I survived.

They didn’t erase memories. They removed context.

I remember fear without an object. That’s worse than remembering the object.

Everyone involved was calm. That tells me the plan worked.

If this was trauma, it would be messy. This was clean.

They told me I could ask questions later. I don’t feel the urge to anymore.

Something was taken from me carefully. That’s not how accidents work.

I’m stable. That doesn’t mean I’m whole.

I made the mistake. I don’t remember what the mistake was, just that it was mine. I remember alarms, then nothing. When I woke up, I wasn’t treated like a soldier. No debrief. No reprimand. I was handled like a survivor pulled from a contamination zone. They explained procedures slowly. They avoided specifics. They asked how I felt instead of what I saw. That’s when it clicked. Everyone who receives compensation isn’t just injured. They’re filtered. This isn’t about money or care or guilt. It’s about making sure what we saw doesn’t stay complete enough to spread. I can’t remember why I was there. I can’t remember what was beyond us. But I was told—clearly, calmly—that this forgetting was intentional. And I believe them. Some things don’t break individuals. They break species. If removing pieces of my memory keeps humanity intact, then it was the right call. I don’t need to remember it to know that.