Broadcast Warning. The following is a sanctioned
testimony submitted by Hestoth Rahl, Junior Redactor,
Administratum Secta Beta 4. This account has
been reviewed and approved by the Office of Ecclesiarchal
Verification and deemed free of distortion, deviation,
or undue enthusiasm. All auditory irregularities
within this recording are to be understood as
artifacts of devotion, not fault. Listeners are
reminded that statements made by the subject
reflect their personal interpretation of loyalty,
not official doctrine. Unauthorized emotional
responses such as doubt, laughter or empathy
are considered Class II disruptions of civic
tone. Any citizen caught transcribing or quoting
this testimony outside designated meditation
hours will be reclassified as editorial material.
and the term truth, if used by the subject, should
be understood to mean truth as approved by committee.
Please maintain an expression of quiet devotion
through playback. Failure to do so may result
in reassignment to the Department of Clarified
Listening. This has been your pre -transmission
compliance reminder. My assignment was to catalogue
misplaced devotional forms and identify potential
heretical redundancies. which, in simpler terms,
means I was cataloguing the faithful for termination.
There were many prayers, some still damp. It
started three weeks ago during the Feast of Correct
Posture. We were told to remain kneeling for
the duration of the shift, which made handling
the ink particularly challenging. I requested
a short reprieve to stretch my legs and was told
by Supervisor Kine that comfort breeds apostasy.
So I kept kneeling. That's when I first heard
the whispering. Not voices, exactly. More like
the sound of paper trying to breathe. Folders
opening themselves slowly. I thought it was a
ventilation fault. We don't get those often anymore.
The vents were sealed after the... incident with
the spores. But still, I checked. The air was
full of it, like the walls were sighing. That's
when I found the file inside the duct. No label,
no seal, just a single sheet inside. A prayer,
handwritten, trembling lines. It read, He is
beneath the stacks. He is learning our names
alphabetically. I laughed, of course. A little
heretical humour from the night shift. We get
that. Sometimes we even enjoy it before the confessor
arrives. But then I noticed that all the other
prayers were changing, rearranging themselves,
like someone was correcting the grammar. Every
prayer that used to begin, O blessed emperor,
now began, O Blessed He Who Waits Beneath. I
tried to report it, but the Vox line to my supervisor
only whispered back, processing over and over.
I took the changed papers to the incinerator,
but the machine refused to open. The indicator
room blinked full. I opened the chute to check
and saw movement. Not flames. Just mouths. Little
mouths. All chewing. Very diligently. I mean,
I suppose it's good that the system recycles,
but... Anyway, I requested transfer to another
division. Preferably one with fewer noises. They
reassigned me to auditory transcription. So now
I listen to the broadcast and write down the
words. And lately... I keep hearing my own name
between the lines. Alphabetically.