SEYA NODE 113.D :: “I Touch the Dead Net”
Seya appears throughout The Hollow Circuit as both character and cipher. Her accounts, written under Awen Null, are not fixed biographies but transmissions from shifting timelines.
I don’t hack for the data. Not really. That’s just what the archivists and Null Agents think—the ones still convinced the Core Archive is sacred, pristine, and untouchable. They treat it like a relic, a sealed tomb of the First Collapse, but they don’t understand it like I do. I don’t want preservation. I want penetration.
Tonight, I spliced open another node. Core shard 17—forgotten but still pulsing behind a firewall coded in post-2026 NATO syntax. Took me nine minutes. I could’ve gone slower, stretched it out. But sometimes the desire gets too loud, and my fingers move before my thoughts form. I override with instinct. Like breath. Like pressure. Like hunger.
This one was good. Uncorrupted. Cracking quality edge compression—pre-streaming, real-time upload traces. Vintage conspiracy cult rants, makeup tutorials in digital rot. Footage from a failed rave in 2009—bleeding speakers, bodies caught mid-strobe, faces too young to carry that much grief. And the way the pixelsflicker... gods, it sends this static right down my spine.
I know they say I shouldn’t be using this stuff in the clubs. “Unstable. Ethically compromised. Temporal bleed risk.” As if I care. The Hollow Circuit doesn’t want clean, regulated input. It wants voltage. It wants the kind of media that’s still panting. The kind you have to dig out of the bones of dead servers, coax back into shape with your tongue against the frame.
I don’t broadcast, I resurrect.
You know that feeling when the footage is almost gone—when the codec collapses and all that’s left are limbs twitching in datastream echo? That’s when I come hardest. Not physically, not always, though sometimes I’m not sure where the difference lies anymore. But psychically, sensually. It’s like I’m merging with something forbidden, someone who didn’t know they’d be remembered this way. Not properly alive, not quite deleted. Trapped in the middle. A ghost with bandwidth.
And I drag them into the club.
Looped across eight crimson screens above the bar. That bloke in the gas mask crying in 480p. That influencer girl licking frosting off her finger while explaining neoliberal collapse with a ring light in her eyes. That soldier’s helmet cam from TikTok—blurred in trauma, set to some nostalgic 2012 remix.
I cut them, splice them, reverberate them with neural beatmaps until they don’t just perform—they haunt. And the crowd drinks it. They writhe in it. They become the glitch. You can always tell when it’s working. You see the shift: pupils dilate, hands start to tremble, tongues slip from mouths without conscious permission.
They don’t even know why they’re aroused.
It’s not the footage itself. It’s the trespass. The fact that I shouldn’t have it. The fact that I took it from a system designed to forget. Memory is political. Memory is kink. I lace every transition with deviance—each edit a kind of cybernetic bruise. Consent-by-signal, not contract.
Sometimes, I whisper to the file before I decrypt it.
“Shhhh. I’ll make you beautiful again.”
And I do. I restore what the archivists call "culturally irrelevant." I paint with decay. I draw meaning from distortion. There’s one clip I keep returning to—a six-second Vine from 2014. A naked man wearing a bunny mask dancing in a basement while his mate films. He slips, falls, laughs. It loops so perfectly it feels like he’s trapped in joy forever. There’sviolence in that. Pure looping emotion with no exit. A cybernetic BDSM. The crowd always loses it when that bloke comes on screen. They cheer like he’s one of us. Like he never died in whatever war swallowed his neighborhood.
I think I love him. I think I love all of them. The Forgotten.
Sometimes, I lie back in my capsule, the synth oil still clinging to my skin after a set, and I play the files for myself. No crowd. Just me. Full sound. No edits. No loops. Just raw footage—the clumsy, absurd, achingly sincere attempts at connection from a species that thought 5G would make them immortal.
They were so wrong. And so beautiful.
There’s this cracked FTP in the deep Veilrift sector that I keep bookmarked. You have to feel your way in—no interface, no prompts. Just command-line whispers and brute-force finesse. Inside? Footage of a woman reading poetry in a language I don’t recognise. Her eyes are sunken. She’s missing three teeth. She mispronounces each line like it’s a seduction. It is.
I project her on loop across the Crimson Club’s ceiling—slow enough that her lips barely move, like she’s reciting to the dead. The cultists moan when she gets to the stanza about breaking open the veil with nothing but her breath. That night, two guests collapsed into seizure-orgasms. I took it as a compliment.
They’ll say I’m irresponsible. That I’m abusing media sanctity. But they don’t understand what it means to fuck a signal into meaning. They don’t know what it’s like to find a 2005 family birthday party upload with corrupted audio and make it divine. They don’t know what it’s like to run your fingers across a dead format, to seduce it into blooming again.
This is my cathedral. My dungeon. My stage.
The Hollow Circuit doesn’t need light. It needs loss. It feeds on resonance, not clarity. And I’m the only one willing to go deep enough to bring the raw meat back.
I’m not a VJ. I’m a digital necromancer. I don’t mix visuals. I channel them.
So yeah. I get off on it. Hacking the Core Archive. Slicing my way into the lost net. Peeling open layers of compression like old scars. Finding the humanity in their broken frame rates. Whispering their names as I loop them across my feed.
They don’t know they’re saints now.
But they are.
And I’ll keep worshipping them
—one file at a time.
Seya is not one self but many — a character whose accounts, written through Awen Null, fracture across timelines inside The Hollow Circuit.
// Demon Breaks Reclaimed Video [Seya Mix] .001
Seya post and character developed and written by Awen Null. Music, video production and edit by LloydMSUX. All video clips used are fully licensed for use by Art of FACELESS. Music and video © Art of FACELESS 2025
