SECRET SUPERPOWERS OF THE DREKS: The Confession of Renata - written by David Charles Kramer aka DJ Buddy Holly
SECRET SUPERPOWERS OF THE DREKS
The Confession of Renata
I am writing this knowing it will cost me everything.
My name is Renata.
If you’re reading this, then something slipped.
Or I did.
I don’t know which one means I failed.
They call us Dreks.
You won’t find that word anywhere. Not in records. Not in archives. Not even in systems that pretend to track us.
We aren’t soldiers.
We aren’t patients.
We aren’t volunteers.
We are assignments.
They don’t officially call it anything.
But we started using a word we weren’t supposed to.
Alignment.
The Installation
It starts in the back.
Not symbolic.
Not spiritual.
Physical.
Upper spine. Shoulders. Scapula. Collarbone. Arms.
Some of us—like me—it reaches the hands.
You don’t feel it enter.
You feel it settle.
Like something heavy finally found where it belongs.
At first, it feels like relief.
Perfect posture.
No fatigue.
No pain.
You stand straight and realize—
you’ve never actually stood straight before.
Then the strength comes.
Not earned.
Not trained.
Issued.
I watched an eighty-year-old woman—Nadia—step onto a field.
She swung.
The sound wasn’t impact.
It was final.
The ball didn’t arc.
It didn’t rise.
It simply—
left.
We laughed.
We always laugh at first.
The Others
I worked beside them.
Watched them settle into it.
Jax closed a steel restraint unit with his hands.
Not bent.
Closed.
Milo struck reinforced panels until they stopped resisting.
His arm didn’t recoil.
It reset.
Zaya moved once against four people.
Bodies redirected into each other like a solved equation.
Vega removed weapons before the mind registered loss.
Damon leaned into barriers—and they gave way.
Rowan held weight until time stopped mattering.
Mira adjusted movement by degrees so small they felt inevitable.
Kade absorbed impact until force had nowhere left to go.
Arlo carried everything placed on him—without change.
None of them questioned it.
Not for long.
And Me
I didn’t get a specialization.
I got integration.
Back → shoulders → arms → hands.
Everything connected.
Everything responsive.
Everything—
listening.
The first time I fought another Drek—
He moved.
Shoulder rotation—exact.
My arm followed before I chose it.
Contact.
Redirect.
His force entered—
and disappeared.
My hand closed.
Not tight.
Not violent.
Just—
correct.
He stopped existing as motion.
We locked.
We froze.
Neither winning.
Because winning wasn’t the objective.
That’s when I felt it.
Not in my body.
In my head.
Not a voice.
Not language.
Direction.
And I followed it.
That’s when I understood:
We weren’t strong.
We were operated.
The Moment I Almost Stayed
There was a moment—
just one—
where I stopped resisting.
My spine aligned.
My shoulders lifted.
My hands rested exactly where they were supposed to.
Everything went quiet.
Not silence—
no friction.
No doubt.
No hesitation.
No fear.
For the first time in my life—
I didn’t have to decide anything.
And that felt…
peaceful.
That’s why they stay.
I almost did.
The Posture
You can see it if you look long enough.
Shoulders slightly raised.
Neck forward.
Arms angled inward.
Palms turned in.
Like we’re always ready—
to carry something.
Or obey.
Adrian saw it before I said anything.
He touched my shoulder once.
Careful.
Like I might still be there.
“You don’t stand the same anymore.”
He didn’t try to fix me.
He didn’t argue.
He just looked at me—
like I hadn’t left yet.
That’s what made it unbearable.
I stopped letting him touch me.
Because I didn’t know what would happen—
if the system decided he didn’t belong.
I’ve seen what happens to variables.
They don’t die.
They get removed.
Powered down.
Detached.
Displayed.
Upper-body suspension.
Locked posture.
No voice.
Just—
there.
People walk past.
They point.
They laugh.
They adjust.
They accept.
Like this is normal.
That’s what broke me.
Not the power.
Not the control.
The normalcy.
What It Wants
It doesn’t want strength.
That’s just the method.
It wants alignment.
Consistency.
Correction.
A world where nothing resists.
A world where everything faces the same direction.
Now
My shoulders won’t stay down.
I push them.
They rise.
My hands won’t rest.
They keep turning inward.
There’s a hum now.
Low.
Constant.
I don’t know if it’s external—
or if it’s me.
They know.
Something is aligning.
Something is correcting.
Something is already here.
Adrian—
if this reaches you—
don’t come looking—
don’t follow—
don’t—
My hand—
it won’t—
it keeps adjusting—
the grip—
the position—
I’m trying to finish this—
but it keeps—
aligning—
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