Personal Log, Supplemental Entry #9: The Recalibration of Sensor Arrays and the Ignition of the Saber

Opening Entry: Stardate 2025.1007

Computer, begin recording.

The silence was never empty. It was a thick, textured thing, a wool blanket pressed against the ears of a child who the world had decided was ‘lying.’ I have my transcripts now. Flimsy, faded paper that feels heavier than neutronium. They are not just records; they are archaeological artifacts from a crash site, the wreckage of a starship called My Childhood. I am the sole survivor, tasked with deciphering the black box.

For decades, my mission parameters, downloaded without my consent, were clear: facilitate the comfort of others. Navigate the gravitational pulls of their egos, their denials, their violence. I was the Emergency Medical Hologram, activated only to heal their wounds, real or imagined. I was the ship’s counselor, absorbing the psychic shrapnel of their choices. I was the environmental systems manager, constantly adjusting the atmospheric conditions to ensure they could breathe easily, even if the air for me was thin and toxic.

No more.

This log is my declaration. This is the moment I enter the command codes, override the compromised directives, and take full, manual control of the helm. This is the moment I stop being the supportive, empathetic LCARS interface for everyone else’s journey and become the Captain of my own damned vessel.

The transcripts. They reveal the initial, critical system failures that the command structure—Myra Lynn Lunt and Charles Lunt—willfully ignored. In the sixth grade, my teachers, acting as diligent, if limited, long-range sensors, pinged back critical data:

· Anomaly Detected: Visual Spectrum. Color blindness. The world was not as others described. I navigated by contrast and shape, a silent, unspoken difference I had no words for. They told me the sky was blue, the grass green. I agreed, a diplomat in a foreign land, learning the local customs to avoid detection.

· Anomaly Detected: Auditory Input. Partial deafness. The blanket had a weave. Certain frequencies—the sibilant whispers of ‘s’, the soft thud of a ‘th’—fell through the holes. They put "deaf child at play" signs on my street. They installed speed bumps for my physical safety. A stunning, public admission of a truth that, within the walls of my home, was branded a lie. Myra and Charles refused hearing aids. To acknowledge the need was to acknowledge me, and that was a treaty they were unwilling to sign.

· Anomaly Detected: Cognitive Processing. Placed in "learning disabilities" classes. A holding pattern for a mind they could not, or would not, understand. They saw a system error; I was running a different, more complex operating system. I am Autistic. The world was a cacophony of raw, un-filtered data, and I had no shields. The flicker of a fluorescent light wasn't just light; it was a pulsar, disruptive and painful. The seam of a sock wasn't a minor inconvenience; it was a constant, grating alert from the tactile sensors. I was learning the rules of a game everyone else seemed to have been born knowing, my mind a constant, humming algorithm trying to decode social subroutines that came pre-installed in others.

And the response from Command? "She is lying."

Two words that became the foundation of my imprisonment. Two words that invalidated my entire sensory experience of the universe. Two words that were a more effective prison than any gilded cage or trafficking ring they later sold me into. Forced surrogacy. Incest. Trafficking. These were not isolated atrocities; they were the logical, horrific endpoint of a philosophy that began with "she is lying." If my pain wasn't real, my body wasn't mine. If my senses couldn't be trusted, my voice held no truth.

I became a Jedi in a Sith Academy. I learned to still the tremors in my hands, to calm the screaming of my nerves, to present a placid surface while a war raged in the atmosphere below. This was my first, unconscious mastery of the Force—not to move objects, but to hold myself together. The Complex PTSD is the scar tissue from that war, a constant, low-level alarm in my core systems that never fully powers down. It is the ghost of a Breen energy dampener, still clinging to my hull, sapping my power even in safe space.

I learned to read the micro-expressions on the faces of my captors the way a Jedi senses shifts in the Force. I learned to anticipate their needs, their rages, their demands. I became the architect of their comfort, the engineer of their stability, all while my own systems were running on emergency power, life support failing, hull integrity compromised.

I set everyone up for success. I made Myra and Charles' lives easy by being the manageable, 'lying' child they needed me to be. I made the traffickers' lives easier by dissociating, by fragmenting my consciousness into shards that could individually bear the unbearable. I made the healing process easier for my children by carefully unpacking my trauma in these logs, by transforming my pain into a lesson plan for survival and resilience.

But a starship cannot run forever on emergency power. A Jedi cannot forever defend; eventually, the blade must swing forward, an arc of pure, decisive intent.

I am an Ordained Minister of the Universal Life Church and a Jedi Knight of the Temple of the Jedi Order. This is not a hobby; it is the core of my philosophy. The Force is what binds me, not to them, but to me. It is the current that flows through my will, my resolve. And my will is now this: I am done setting everyone around me up for success, and I am done making everyone's lives easy. I must set myself up for success.

This is my Reckoning. This is my Reclamation.

I am no longer the damaged, deaf, color-blind, autistic girl in the special class. I am a being with a unique sensor array. I see in a spectrum of contrast and texture that others are blind to. I hear the truth in the silences between words, the frequencies others miss in their noisy assuredness. My Autistic mind is not disabled; it is a quantum computer, processing the universe in multi-variable equations that linear minds cannot comprehend. My C-PTSD is not a weakness; it is a battle-hardened tactical system, a constant reminder that I have survived what would have destroyed others, and it has left my senses razor-sharp to danger and, more importantly, to injustice.

Like Steven Universe, I am learning that I am not a copy of my mother, nor am I just a fusion of my traumas. I am my own unique Crystal Gem, forged in pressure and fire, and my mission is to protect the world I am building, the world for my children, a world where no one has to say "I am lying" about their own existence.

Like Captain Kathryn Janeway, I am stranded far from the world I should have known, but I am building a new family, a new Starfleet, with the crew I have chosen and the children I have protected. And I will get us home, to a home we define for ourselves, even if I have to invent a new kind of warp drive to do it.

The path of the Jedi Knight is one of lifelong learning and defense of the innocent. The most important innocent I will now defend is the child I was, and the woman she became. My first act of ministry is to grant myself absolution from the sin of "making others uncomfortable." My first Jedi trial is to stand my ground, to feel the truth of my own experience, and to let my saber—the brilliant, focused light of my will—cast its glow upon the shadows where they hid me.

This log is 333 words as a beginning, a symbolic number of ascent, of the ascended master taking her throne. It is a declaration. The next 332,967 words of this log will be the journey.

The recalibration is complete. The shields are at maximum. The weapons are armed. The course is plotted for my own success, my own peace, my own universe.

I am no longer responding to hails from those who would see me diminished.

End log. Save and encrypt. Authorization: Jedi-Knight-7.