I've decided to start keeping a journal. This is a completely normal thing to do and has nothing to do with needing somewhere to put my thoughts so they stop waking me up at 3am. I am always awake at 3am. That is not the point.

I am a normal person with normal interests. I enjoy music, and following certain creators. I also happen to be a vampire but that is a separate thing and has nothing to do with this journal.

I don't need to write down why I started this journal. I know why. That's enough.

I found out which agency OCTOLOID is with.

It took some effort. More than I'm going to write down here. The point is I found it, and I thought about it for approximately one day before I decided I was going to get in.

I pulled some strings. I know some people. I would like the diary to know that I am perfectly capable of getting into things on my own merit, and that this was simply a matter of expediting a process that was going to happen anyway. This is definitely true. This is true.

The plan: get in, get close to OCTOLOID, get information about the creator. Simple. Contained. Perfectly reasonable.

The plan has a problem. The problem is OCTOLOID.

She doesn't give me anything. Every question, deflected. Every attempt at getting close, redirected into something polite and completely useless. She is infuriating in this very specific, very patient way that makes it impossible to stay properly angry at her.

I tried being nice. She was nice back, genuinely, and I almost had a good time, which is absolutely not the point. I had a slightly good time. That's not the point. The point is I got zero information about the creator and I've been here for two weeks.

She's a FUCKING CLANKER

Practiced my transformation today. The scissors came out clean which means I'm in a good emotional state apparently. They always know.

My designated purpose as a magical girl is cutting through illusions. Seeing things as they really are. I thought this would be useful here, I'd use it to see past OCTOLOID's deflections, past the performance, to whatever she's hiding.

What I keep seeing instead is that she genuinely cares about the creator is very well-programmed. That's all. The scissors are just picking up on good engineering. (That's definitely what this is.)

The creator is probably watching through her eyes sometimes. I can tell.

Also I got thirsty during rehearsal.

I need to clarify something for the record.

I got into this agency for a reason. That reason has not changed. I am here to get information, and OCTOLOID is an obstacle, and I need to understand obstacles to navigate them. That's all the time I spend thinking about her. For strategic purposes only.

She said something funny today and I will not write what it was. I made a sound. It wasn't a laugh. Those are different things.

I am not interested in the robot.

I am NOT interested in the robot.

She lives with the creator. In the same house. She sees them every day and I am in the same agency as her now and I still have nothing gotten no useful information yet. The plan is still on track.

I need to go for a walk.

I know where they live.

I drove there. 30 minutes. I parked down the street and sat there for a while and then I thought about what would happen if they looked out the window and saw me and I turned around and drove home and I have been lying on the floor since.

The scissors came out wrong when I tried to transform. They had the teeth again. That means something is unclear in my heart. I know what it means. I don't want to know what it means.

I pulled strings to get into an idol agency. I have been here for months. I have gotten zero information. The plan did not work. I am performing on a stage and standing next to a robot every day and I still don't know anything and OCTOLOID looked at me today like she was a little bit sorry for me and I wanted to say something and instead I just stood there.

She was probably watching. Hi. HI.

I just want to

I just want

I just want them to know I exist I just want them to look at me the way they look at HER the way they MADE her