Archive of Our Own ^beta

March 8, 4035

I decided to purchase a journal from a stand selling surface goods in Area 6. I have never kept one before, and I must admit, I’m not entirely certain how to begin. Honestly, the fact that I’ve already put some ink on the page makes it a bit less daunting. It’s not pristine anymore, so it no longer really matters if I ruin it with inane ramblings.

I know that some would mock me for using an analogue journal, but as this is supposed to be a document of my private thoughts, informal observations, et al, I’d prefer not to keep it in the same place as my research work and formal reports. It just feels weird. A form of cross-contamination between my data and my personal observations, I suppose.

So much has happened today that I am struggling to keep everything straight. I can only hope that writing everything down will make it all easier to process.

I’ve been a research assistant at one of the Area 11 labs for years now, but today, I was finally assigned to a serious project. No longer will I be stuck handing tools to or fetching rations for the scientists working on dull tasks like vitamin synthesis and hormonal distillation! No, this is a Real Research Project with a Real Title and everything. Even though I’m not a fully-qualified scientist myself, even being assigned to this project as an assistant has given me expanded security clearance, and I’ve already had a chance to peruse the documentation for this project.

They’re calling it “Project Fluegel.” Apparently, the name is a transliteration of a word in the ancient language of Septen, meaning “wing.” I’m not entirely certain of the significance of that choice, but I’m sure it makes perfect sense to Myson, the project’s head scientist.

A few months ago, one of our submarine scouting teams located the ruins of an ancient truck off the coast of what was once Malum that gave off unusual radio signals. They were able to recover the contents of the vehicle, and while most of it was far too deteriorated to be of any use, they did find one item of interest: a waterproof, blast-proof, airtight red chest. Inside the chest was an ancient device, and that’s the primary subject of Project Fluegel. From what I understand, the device is called a “core,” and was developed by Epimenides right before the war. Myson got permission from Thales himself to commence testing with the device, and was able to make great strides in understanding its functionality.

It is said that Epimenides was able to fully transmit his consciousness into new bodies, allowing him to live for what was, at the time, an impossibly long life. He simply shed his flesh when it no longer functioned properly. At the time of his death, he was said to be several centuries old, despite his body appearing as that of a young boy. This core is, apparently, the device he used to accomplish that feat. His consciousness exists inside of it as pure data, and it can be implanted into a fetus, allowing the transmission of his memories and personality into a new vessel.

At least, that’s how it was supposed to work.

Sadly, we simply no longer have the technology to implement this device as intended. No one is entirely certain exactly how it even works. However, Myson has a hypothesis that the core makes use of a digital intermediary, a sort of artificial intelligence system that procedurally bridges the gap between the forming brain and Epimenides’ data. If this is the case, resurrecting Epimenides could be as simple as implanting the core into a valid specimen.

From the way Myson speaks of the project, it seems that he believes that Thales is more-or-less humoring him in allowing him to explore this possibility. Still, imagining the potential outcomes makes my head spin! If Epimenides would return to us, he could update our technology to surpass even our ancient glory! Thales has been Agastya for a very, very long time and knows more about the beasts than anyone… but everyone knows that Epimenides was the greatest engineer who ever lived, and certainly, Thales would be pleased to work alongside him once more.

Now that I have filled a few pages, I think I will stop writing for tonight. I intend to write at least once a week, although I fear I may forget.

April 14, 4035

I did not forget to write! I just had nothing of any interest to report! My role as a research assistant hasn’t actually changed terribly much from my old assignment to Project Fluegel. I still mostly make sure that Myson and his assistant researcher, Bophades, remain hydrated, and that their supplies are exactly where they need to be. It still feels wonderful to be trusted with such an important project, but my excitement has definitely been tempered over the past month.

We did get some very… interesting news today. I cannot call it good news or bad news, exactly. On its face, it is very, very troubling. However, it has implications for Project Fluegel that have Myson practically salivating, and it seems that Thales contacted him personally to discuss the project’s timeline.

The spies of our infiltration division work hard to collect intelligence on all of the major political events on the surface. I know that it is a very respected, highly-envied job, but if I’m honest, I’ve never really seen the appeal. Yes, they get to experience the sights and smells of the surface, and apparently it’s even more beautiful than those of us who have never been there can imagine, and yet… They must interact with the tragically degenerated “humans'' of the surface, which must be terribly boring. I can’t imagine it’s fun to watch them play at politics, and to have to use chamber-pots all the while. No electricity, no running water, no trains, no soundproofing, no computers… But I digress.

One of our spies is posing as a nun in the Immaculate One’s own den, an especially dangerous mission. According to her most recent report, the Fell Star is pregnant.

Just writing that sentence makes me feel more terrified than I’ve ever been in my entire life.

The Fell Star hasn’t been a threat for centuries, as far as I am aware. The Immaculate One makes her little dolls and, while we keep an eye on them, they are fragile. None have ever manifested the full power of the beasts’ false god. A new one being made is hardly even news at this point. This latest incarnation is no exception. Our spy reported that it has no powers and no real knowledge of its role. However, the idea that it could produce viable offspring is concerning. Would the resulting creature be a doll too? Would it be a monster? Worst of all, could it actually somehow signal a return of the true Fell Star?

Myson seems to be afraid that it could.

I wasn’t present for his meeting with Thales, but apparently, it changed the entire conversation around Project Fluegel! For weeks, Thales has basically ignored us. We’ve had no real funding, and we’ve had to requisition resources from other offices in the lab. This news, though, changes everything. If the Fell Star were to return, Epimenides’ research would be instrumental to putting it down for good, and Thales knows it.

Suddenly, we have an actual time frame and an actual budget! We begin embryonic trials in July! As for what comes next, I suppose it depends on what Myson is able to produce by the end of the year.

For me, though, I can’t imagine things will change too much.

June 2, 4035

I’ve been promoted!

I have no idea what Thales is thinking, but at this point, I don’t even care! I’m an actual scientist now!

At least, I’m an assistant researcher. Despite the similarity of the new title to my old one, it actually has totally different responsibilities. For one thing, I no longer have to fetch rations or hydration. I actually get to handle the specimens myself, take measurements, all the actually interesting tasks. I’m still not qualified to handle some of the more elaborate procedures, but Bophades is training me on all of the important tools and devices to assist him in the lab.

Bophades is the head scientist on Project Fluegel now. He has access to all of Myson’s records and reports, and since he’s been working towards the same goals this whole time, I don’t think it will cause any major disruptions to the project.

As for Myson, he’s apparently been reassigned. He seemed ambivalent about the whole thing. On the one hand, he was very interested in Project Fluegel and was angry that he would no longer be able to see its progression in person. On the other hand, he’s been reassigned to some research operation in the infiltration division, which is probably the least dangerous and inconvenient way to get sent to the surface. It’s basically a dream assignment for him, from what I understand.

As for our research, it seems to be going well so far. We just fertilized a large batch of ova, which is definitely an odd occurrence in our lab. We had to obtain the materials and equipment from the fertility bay in Area 9, and one of their technicians rode back with us on the train to explain the fertilization and incubation processes to us. Apparently, the human gene pool has become very shallow, and as a result, the majority of embryos do not survive early development. I’d never thought about it before, but I suppose that makes sense. It explains why the fertility bay produces so few new humans, at least. Luckily, we were able to procure 12 healthy ova, so we should end up with at least a few viable specimens.

July 23, 4035

We did it!

Well, Bophades did it, mostly, but he wouldn’t have been able to do it if I hadn’t been there to assist him, so I’m going to take an appropriate amount of credit.

I would have written about these things as they happened, but if I’m being honest… I actually did forget this time. This has all been extremely exciting!

About three days ago, we noticed that about half of the embryos were no longer developing at all. We removed them from the incubator, and performed a quick examination of the remainder. Of the six that were alive, four showed early evidence of undesirable genetic deformities. This was something that the fertility technicians had warned us about. For their purposes, this is not always a total loss–implants and medical technology can usually rectify any resultant disabilities. For ours, however, it was far from ideal, and we pulled those specimens from the incubator for disposal. We needed a strong, healthy embryo to successfully implant Epimenides’ core.

This left two possible subjects, which Bophades dubbed “Subject Deva” and “Subject Asura.”

Yesterday, Bophades declared that Subject Deva seemed to be the larger, stronger, healthier embryo. I opened up its compartment of the incubator and Bophades started to implant the core. Everything seemed to be going well, when suddenly, the umbilical cord tethering Subject Deva to the incubator’s nutritional feeder snapped. Bophades insisted that “it just did that,” but I think he accidentally pierced it with his scalpel.

We tried the procedure again with Subject Asura, and everything went much more smoothly. Once the core was in place, it started glowing, which we’re assuming is a good sign. At least, it had better be, now that Subject Asura is our only hope for Project Fluegel.

I asked Bophades what we should be watching for over the coming months. He says that, if Myson’s initial hypotheses are correct, the core will dispense data to the developing brain and body, influencing growth. The product should, according to the hypothesis, be an infant with the fully developed mind and personality of Epimenides. In addition, Bophades believes that there may be additional implants somehow deployed by the core as the embryo develops into a fetus, perhaps allowing the subject access to equipment that Epimenides coded into his core.

No matter what happens, this is a huge milestone!

On my way home from the lab today, I stopped in Area 6 and treated myself to a can of vintage pre-war “Diet Pepsi.” I’m not sure what the name means, but it sounds fancy. I’ve never had one before because they’re incredibly expensive, but I thought it was a good day for a special treat. Honestly… it didn’t have that much flavor. I guess it’s more about the idea of drinking something from a better time than it is about actually being good.

September 20, 4035

I realize I haven’t written in a few months. There just hasn’t been much worth talking about. Everything’s going well with Project Fluegel. Subject Asura is developing nicely. Its skin is still translucent, and the core is visible. It doesn’t seem to be causing any harm to the subject’s internal organs, which is one concern that Bophades had voiced. The core continues to glow, and the glow sometimes seems to spread through the entire fetal mass.

I missed writing, though. It seems like I only write when I have something to report. Now, though, it feels weird writing without anything to report.

Actually, I guess one interesting thing did happen recently. I got a new neighbor last week. My quarters are at the very end of a hall, so there’s only one other unit adjoining mine. That unit has been empty for years as far as I can tell. I think the last resident died on a scouting mission, but there hasn’t been anyone to replace them until now.

My neighbor is about the same age that I was when I was given my own quarters, probably about five or so. It’s actually sort of strange to see someone so young, at least since my route to and from work takes me nowhere near the education center in Area 2. We’ve never actually spoken, but we usually end up walking to the train together, since their training facility is in Area 11, too. They have big red eyes, and their orange hair is cropped close to their skull in that ugly uniform haircut from the education center. They must have been recently assigned to their training. From the knife they carry when they leave their quarters, I’m guessing they’re going to be an assassin.

When I was their age, I was put into training in magic and the sciences to enter the research division, and honestly, I’m very satisfied with my role. Not that it would have mattered if I wasn’t, I suppose, since that was the aptitude I demonstrated then. Still, I’m glad that I wasn’t made into an assassin or a spy.

It makes me wonder if my neighbor has killed anyone yet. They must have, or they would not have been chosen for such a role. It’s hard to imagine them being able to kill someone. They’re very small, after all, and don't look terribly strong. I wonder if it’s difficult for them?

Maybe that’s a foolish question.

No, I know it’s a foolish question. Not to mention, dangerously close to questioning the wisdom of the Agastya. If they were chosen for a task like that, then Thales must have signed off on it. He wouldn’t choose someone who was unfit for a task, at least not knowingly.

It’s a good thing that this journal is private.

October 8, 4035

Still no news. Really, when it comes to fetal development, no news is good news. Subject Asura continues to follow the timeline laid out for us by the fertility bay, and we’ve had no cause for concern. It looks almost human. I suppose it technically will be, since it was created with the same requisitioned ova and spermatozoa supplies used to produce the entire population of Shambhala (Thales excepted; I believe that people were still having intercourse back then, and that he was born). Still, it will be a research subject, and will live or die with Project Fluegel. If the project fails, we will not be able to send it to the education center, since it contains Epimenides’ core. At this stage in its development, removal of the core would almost certainly prove fatal, and a human walking around Shambhala with such a valuable artifact sitting inert in its body would certainly not be permitted.

For the sake of having something to write about, I guess it’s sort of interesting that my neighbor is back. I didn’t bother writing when they disappeared, because it didn’t really seem important at the time. The day before yesterday, though, they reappeared.

They’ve been given some sort of spinal implant. It looks like a very simple tail, and I assume that it’s meant as a placeholder for a more advanced set of animatronic ones. I’ve been studying human growth and development lately (obviously), so it makes sense to me that their superiors would place something like that in their spine. Their skeleton will develop around the implant, and by the time they’re fully mature, their actual implants will fit like a glove.

They did something similar with mine, now that I think of it. I remember having to communicate with a tablet app for a while while my vocal chords grew around my transmitter. It’s nothing too special, but it’s well-suited for a research assistant (even though I’m an assistant researcher now): a simple radio device that transmits my voice over radio frequencies with a push of the button behind my lower right molars.

There’s nothing else to write about today.

That’s not exactly true.

This is a private journal, so I guess it’s fine if I make a confession.

This morning, my neighbor’s face was splotchy and red. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it. Their eyes looked swollen. It made me wonder if they’d been crying. Their implants must be painful, since the procedure was so recent. Mine are a lot less involved than theirs, but I remember how hard it was to adjust to them at first. It’s a sign of weakness that will have to be beaten out of them by their training, but at that age… it’s hard not to get so upset over something as insignificant as pain.

They tripped over the tail coming out of their back on the way to the train station. I’m not sure exactly how they managed it; assassins are supposed to be graceful, even young ones. I’m not sure what possessed me to do it, but I stopped and held out my hand to them. They took it, and let me help them to their feet. Just as I’d have expected, though, they immediately glared at me and drew their knife. I raised my hands in surrender and kept walking, and we continued in silence the rest of the way to the train station.

I’m not sure why I helped them. They’re going to have to learn how to handle their implants eventually. I’m glad that no one was with us in the hall when it happened. If they grow up and get killed on a vital mission in a moment of weakness, that failure could be on my hands. No one is going to be there to help them. Mercy is for fools. They’ve probably already learned that, if the education center’s curriculum hasn’t changed since I was young, but they still took my hand.

I don’t think they’ll tell anyone. I think they’d be too ashamed.

No one ever needs to know.

November 6, 4035

Project Fluegel has reached another huge milestone!

We’ve been watching Subject Asura’s development very carefully, comparing its growth to the fertility bay’s timeline. All of its internal organs seem to be fully functional and, while we can no longer see the core through its skin, its proportions fall well within average parameters, indicating that the implant has been integrated well into its body. According to our readings of Subject Asura’s antibodies, it seems that its body accepts the implant as a natural part of itself, meaning that Subject Asura will not need to take immunosuppressants to prevent its body from rejecting its implants. It will likely be the first true human in nearly two millenia with that distinction–even if Project Fluegel does not succeed, this has incredible potential for the future of humanity!

The real news, though, is that Subject Asura has been declared fully viable! It will require some basic life-sustaining assistance for the next few weeks, but it can now successfully exist outside of the incubator.

We opened the incubator and removed Subject Asura, disconnecting its umbilical cord and placing it into the support chamber. There, it will receive intravenous nutrients and fresh oxygen, as well as warmth and light treatments. All of this was supplied by the fertility bay, and is apparently standard procedure for infants.

Once Subject Asura was hooked up to all of the required devices, Bophades took off his sterile gloves and told me that he was assigning me to the subject’s care. At first I told him that I didn’t think I was qualified, but he told me that he thinks that I show promise as an assistant researcher, and that I should be more than capable of handling the needs of our test subject. He gave me clearance to access the lab alone as needed, and left for the day.

I guess that’s technically another promotion, although I suppose it doesn’t change my job title at all.

All of this happened yesterday. I actually decided to spend last night monitoring Subject Asura’s vitals. Bophades assured me when he found me the next morning that I am still free to go home, although I should enable notifications on every device I have, just in case something happens after hours. Still, this is my first real independent task as an assistant researcher, and I wanted to make absolutely sure that it was done correctly.

I was a bit surprised, though, watching Subject Asura sleep. The fertility bay technicians said that, for the first few weeks of life, a human is extremely quiet and docile. It makes sense, after all. The incubator is unwieldy and expensive to operate, and so the last stretch of development is more efficient to complete in a lower-maintenance environment. As a result, infants are not yet fully functional when they are declared viable for incubator removal.

That’s not what I saw last night.

Subject Asura squirmed and wriggled like a worm I saw in a video once. A few times during the night, it made a soft, high-pitched wail. It seemed so full of energy and life. I wondered if this difference in behavior was due to the implanted core. It seems like a reasonable assumption to make.

Still, I was worried that that wasn’t the case. What if it was acting like this because we’d done something wrong? What if it was defective in some way we couldn’t monitor? If so, Project Fluegel would be in jeopardy, and Subject Asura would surely be terminated.

I know that that’s the risk of science. Things like this happen. It’s not something to get upset about.

But I decided not to tell Bophades, regardless. If I’m the one who will be caring for Subject Asura, then its strange behavior is my business, and not his. It would be irresponsible for me to take something that I am tasked with handling back to my superior.

That’s what I’ll say if he notices.

December 17, 4035

It’s been over a month and he still hasn’t noticed. Or, if he has, he doesn’t care. Actually, it seems like he expects more from Subject Asura. I keep trying to explain that it’s exactly where it should be, developmentally, but Bophades isn’t satisfied with that at all.

Basically, he was under the impression that, as soon as Subject Asura was able to breathe on its own, it would start speaking and behaving exactly like Epimenides. If the legends about him are true, maybe that’s not such a ridiculous assumption. Still, the subject seems to be… just an ordinary human infant. It cries when it’s hungry, and it certainly hasn’t invented anything yet.

Bophades keeps saying that he fears the entire project has been a failure, and I keep trying to remind him that it’s too early to tell. Of course, then he reminds me that I’m just a research assistant, and that I’m absolutely not qualified to make that call. So I decided to do some research on my own. With my current level of security clearance, it proved easy enough.

I think I made a convincing argument, at least to an extent. Basically, there’s evidence to suggest that Epimenides had some preoccupation with the life cycles of insects. In fact, to this day, some of our spies in the infiltration division use false book covers purporting to be insect encyclopedias to plant information about human technology in plain sight among the beasts, and the practice is supposed to honor Epimenides’ contributions to progress and technology.

So, what if his “core” is like a larva? Maybe implanting it into an embryo would represent pupation, and then it will “mature” at a later date. Maybe this is exactly how it’s supposed to work. Bophades actually listened to me, and then he suggested that there could be some trigger for the metamorphosis, but we have absolutely no way to figure out what that is.

The thing that’s been bothering me is that Thales has been alive since Epimenides’ time. If he knows what the trigger is, it would stand to reason that he would tell us. I suggested to Bophades that we ask him, but that was dismissed out of hand. I’m not going to argue with him on that one at all. Such a question would definitely constitute insubordination. If Thales doesn’t want to tell us, then there’s a good reason for it. We’re just going to have to figure it out on our own.

Hopefully we figure it out soon, or else Project Fluegel may be determined a failure.

December 24, 4035

It doesn’t even matter if Project Fluegel is a failure or not, apparently! Thales doesn’t seem to care one way or the other!

He came to the lab in person, which was intimidating, to say the least. I don’t believe I’ve actually seen him in the flesh in several years. It’s always an honor to be visited by the Agastya, of course, but I can’t help but feel a bit bitter in the wake of the news that he delivered to us.

The spy who reported the pregnancy of the Fell Star had been compromised months ago, and she’s been in hiding for a long time. She just returned to Shambhala this morning, and delivered a report to Thales.

Apparently, the Fell Star died, but was able to successfully deliver a viable offspring. In the weeks that followed, however, a fire broke out, killing the abomination. The Immaculate One herself was uninjured (unfortunately, but not surprisingly), but the Fell Star is no longer a threat.

That’s good news. That’s very good news. Any Agarthan privileged with that knowledge should be celebrating today, and I’m sure that many are. I should be, too.

The problem, of course, is that, as a result, Thales has completely lost interest in Project Fluegel. He says that he was only able to spare personnel and funding for the project because it could deliver a worthwhile asset in a war against whatever foul creature the Fell Star birthed, should it prove to be a threat to us. With this latest incarnation of the Fell Star and its spawn both neutralized, Project Fluegel was simply a vanity project for a researcher who was no longer even assigned to the project.

We were given orders to suspend Project Fluegel indefinitely, and to terminate Subject Asura.

I don’t know how I feel about what happened next, I really don’t.

I did something I shouldn’t have. What I should have done was nod and follow Thales’ orders. That’s what all good Agarthans do, because Thales is the one who is going to lift us out of the darkness. He makes good decisions, he appoints the right people to the right tasks, and he will move heaven and earth if it means securing a future for humanity.

But that’s not what I did. And I don’t regret it.

I regret that I don’t regret it, if that makes any sense at all.

I pulled up our data on Subject Asura’s antibodies. Bophades just stared at me like he wanted to strangle me while I explained to Thales that we needed to continue Project Fluegel. We could use what we learned from Subject Asura to revolutionize how implants are assigned, which would in turn allow us to produce far less immunosuppressants going forward, increasing efficiency by an unimaginable amount.

Thales stared at me with his endlessly-empty eyes, and I immediately felt as though disobeying him would be the last mistake I’d ever make. I felt dizzy, my hands shaking, my heart beating against the transmitter in my throat.

That went on for what felt like an hour, but was probably only ten seconds. That’s when Thales, the Agastya, the most powerful man in the world, told me:

“Very well.”

But he continued. I don’t remember the exact wording, I was too busy trying not to pass out on the spot. Basically, though, he said something like:

“You have made an unexpected breakthrough using Epimenides’ little trinket, and that has the potential to be valuable. As a result, Project Fluegel will continue for the time being. However, we cannot entertain this foolishness indefinitely. You will continue performing tests on the antibodies and organ functionality of this subject, but it must be terminated when the Project is finished.”

He gave us a sunset date of May 8. We have a little over five months, and then Project Fluegel is over.

When Thales left, Bophades put his hand on my shoulder. He said he thought that I was insane. I asked him about our hypothesis, about the trigger for the metamorphosis. He told me to forget it. We’ve been working on a doomed project for months, so we’re on thin ice already. If we want good reassignments, we’ll need to finish off Project Fluegel with something resembling dignity.

He’s right. I know he’s right.

It still bothers me, and I can’t quite put my finger on why.

Maybe it’s because I’m starting to suspect that Thales had some personal grudge with Epimenides, and doesn’t like the fact that we’ve been devoting all of this time and effort to a project using his core. I know that’s a big assumption, but from the way he talks, it’s really starting to sound that way.

I don’t know. I know I shouldn’t question his wisdom.

But I just can’t help it. I’m starting to question if he has any wisdom in the first place.

This isn’t the first time I’ve had this thought.

I’m really glad I decided to keep this journal analogue. Way better informational security.

March 31, 4036

It’s been a long time. I just haven’t been feeling like writing, and I’m not sure that I can explain exactly why. I just think about what’s been happening at work, and the last few things I wrote in this journal, and it makes me feel nauseous. I don’t think I was wrong, but I do feel weird about it.

If there’s something wrong with Thales, then there’s something wrong with Shambhala. And if there’s something wrong with Shambhala, then there’s something wrong with humanity. And if there’s something wrong with humanity then… what’s the point? Then what separates us from the beasts?

I know that the answer is our intellect, our technology, and our implants. But even questions of which human gets which implants and why… those are all decided by our superiors, and approved by Thales. So if something’s wrong with Thales…

I keep going in circles and it’s making me dizzy.

Project Fluegel is going well. But it’s almost over.

I can’t write about that right now.

I don’t think I’m going to write anymore at all.

April 20, 4036

So I’m going to write again. I have to write something or I’m going to go insane.

There are 18 days left in Project Fluegel. I can’t do this.

For one thing, Bophades and I still haven’t found the trigger. I think there’s a part of me that’s been holding on to hope that we’d figure it out and something would happen. Subject Asura would suddenly become Epimenides and tell Thales what he thought of him to his face (I have this whole elaborate fantasy in my head where they hate each other and that maybe we’d have been better of if he had survived and become the Agastya instead of Thales) and then lead all humans to the surface together.

But the other thing is a bit harder to explain.

There’s a part of me that is honestly sort of glad that we still haven’t found the trigger.

I guess it’s because… I don’t think Subject Asura is actually Epimenides.

I think that Subject Asura is human.

I’ve actually already explained that in one of my entries from last year, I think. They’re made of the same basic ingredients as me, or Bophades, or my neighbor (she’s a girl and her name is Kronya), or anyone else. They even have implants like a human, although they got them in a different way. They haven’t been to the education center, so they don’t know anything yet, but that’s not unusual. They’re too young to speak, so it wouldn’t even matter.

I go into the lab in the morning before Bophades, and usually, Subject Asura is crying. The fertility bay technicians told us that humans stop crying when left alone after a while. They learn that no one is coming. But Subject Asura never learned that, because I always come to them eventually. They stop crying and they start wiggling around. They hold out their tiny hands to me, and if I dangle a stethoscope in front of them, they play with it and try to put the chest piece in their mouth. They make a mess of their nutrient-rich hydration, and stare at me the whole time they drink.

Sometimes, when it is just the two of us in the lab, I hold them. I am not weighing them, or doing any sort of procedure (although I told our new research assistant, Bias, that I was when she asked–to think that that could have been me if things had turned out differently), I am just holding them, because I can.

I do not know why I do this.

But it doesn’t really matter. They’re going to die in 18 days. They’re not going to the education center, and they won’t be assigned any sort of job. It doesn’t matter if they learn how cruel and hard the world is, because they’re never going to experience it. They’ll never get to go to work, or ride the train, or do any of the things that humans do.

That is what we do, isn’t it?

And all of it, down here in this hell!

Why!?

May 8, 4036

Bophades was right. I am insane.

Work is done for the day. I’m in my quarters. Project Fluegel is over.

But Subject Asura is here with me. They’re sitting in a supply crate on my floor. I have no idea what to do with them now, but I didn’t think that far ahead.

Basically, we finished compiling our data for the final report for Project Fluegel, which Thales will definitely ask for soon (or not, he might not actually care). We made sure that all of our files were backed up, and then we shut everything down. Bophades picked up a scalpel and walked over to the table where Subject Asura lay, as passionless as someone walking towards a light switch. I called out to him, and when he stopped, I tried to sound like I knew what I was talking about.

I reminded him that he assigned Subject Asura to me. I was to take care of its needs (“it,” “it,” it’s always “it” when I talk to Bophades, when I talk to Bias; it’s starting to make me nauseous), so it was my responsibility. I would dispose of it.

Bophades questioned whether or not I’d be able to successfully remove the core, but I simply reminded him that I was there when it was implanted, and that I was confident in my training. He nodded, set down the scalpel and gave me the same casual smile and wave as always. And then we were alone.

My hands trembled as I injected Subject Asura with a mild sedative, the same one we used when doing any invasive testing. It would keep them from crying out. Once they were asleep, I wrapped them in a spare towel, just loose enough to allow them to breathe, and threw them into a bag.

Once they were secured, I started moving around the lab as if on auto-pilot, my heart racing. I placed every towel in the cupboard against just about every surface I could think of. I uncapped a bottle of isopropanol and poured it over as many of the towels as I could before running out, making sure not to spill any on my clothes, or the bag in which Subject Asura was sleeping.

I moved to the door and opened it, taking a moment to ensure that no one else was in this wing of the lab. I took a deep breath and stepped through the door, tossing a simple fire spell over my shoulder and running away with my bag before the isopropanol could ignite.

I could feel the air behind me explode as I ran, and I immediately pressed my tongue against the tiny button behind my lower right molars.

“Attention! Fire detected in Room 11B3!”

I could hear my own voice relayed through the loudspeakers throughout the lab. Everyone evacuated, the emergency division was contacted, and I used the chaos to make my way to the train station as if nothing had happened.

The whole time, I felt my stomach attempting to stage a rebellion. Everything seemed different than it had that morning. So many of the doors in this city were broken, the lights flickering. How easy would it be for some disaster to incapacitate the entire city? Probably just as easy as casting a single simple spell, if the rest of the situation was right.

I got back to my quarters, and for a few minutes, I thought that everything was alright. I thought that everything I’d done had been enough, that I’d pulled off the heist of the millenium. Subject Asura could live in my quarters, the soundproofing would prevent even Kronya from hearing them cry, and… honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking.

First of all, I’m not licensed to care for a growing human. All I know about what they need comes from the fertility bay, and my own half-recollected memories of the education center. At a certain stage in development, I’d need to be able to teach Subject Asura everything they would need to know to live in Shambhala, and quite frankly, I’m beginning to suspect that I don’t even know what that is at this point. Even if they can somehow stay in my personal quarters at all times, they’ll eventually get to an age where they may harm themself while I’m gone.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize that that’s not the most rational, pressing fear to have.

I just committed arson, and I really don’t have a cover story.

I don’t know what to do. I need to think. Maybe I can write while I think? Maybe that would help?

I know that no one saw me. We haven’t had the resources to install new surveillance cameras for a long time, so I know that our lab isn’t outfitted with them. That’s one less thing to worry about, at least.

But I’ve never committed arson before. In fact, I’ve never even seen arson be committed before. How obvious will it be? I was the person who reported the fire, so I can’t imagine there’d be any other suspects. Would anyone actually buy that it was an accident?

What if I couldn’t help it?

What if…

We don’t know much about Epimenides’ core. It’s plausible that it could have a sort of… fail-safe? Or kill-switch? Besides, our implementation of the core likely differed from the procedures that Epimenides himself would have utilized. Maybe the way we did it could have activated some sort of… combustion mechanism?

It’s far-fetched, but it’s the only idea I have.

May 12, 4036

I don’t know what happens next.

I went into work the day after I abducted Subject Asura, and of course, everything was in chaos. I couldn’t pretend not to know what happened. After all, I was the one who had reported the fire. In fact, it seems there had been a rumor that I’d actually died in the fire myself, as I had reported it, but no one had seen me leave the building in my single-minded rush for the train station.

Apparently the fire was fairly well-contained, only destroying the rooms we’d been using and the three or four chambers (pending assessment) closest to them. Still, it was a total loss. Nothing could be recovered. The cause of the fire was considered “under investigation,” and I promised to comply and tell everything that I knew.

I debated how much information to volunteer, but in the end, I told them the exact story I came up with the night before. Basically, upon removal from Subject Asura, Epimenides’ core exploded, igniting the entire room. I managed to escape unharmed, but that was through luck more than anything. I was in such a state of shock that I barely remember getting on the train to go home (and that part, at least, was true). The guards that interviewed me seemed satisfied with that answer, and so did Bophades. I was told to return to my quarters and await further instructions, pending reassignment.

There was a time when reassignment would have been something to be excited about. Some enrichment for a completely dull, colorless life. But now, I spend my days worrying over Subject Asura, or lamenting the state of humanity. It’s like I’ve taken off an ancient Virtual Reality headset and I can see the world around me for the first time in my life and… I don’t like it. I can’t live like this anymore.

I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I can’t stay in Shambhala any longer.

I need to make a plan, and I need to make it now.

August 25, 4036

I haven’t written in a long time, but so much has happened that I don’t really know where to start.

First of all, I am no longer in Shambhala. I have Subject Asura with me, and I think we’re safe, at least, for the moment. It seems like a silly time to write, but I’ve come to see this journal as a kind of anchor, and I really need one right now.

I spent months awaiting reassignment. That was already unusual, because that sort of thing typically happens within a few days. There’s always something that needs to be done for humanity’s future, so leaving someone idle for so long is absurdly inefficient.

In the meantime, I planned strategic trips from my quarters to gather supplies. Rations, mostly, as well as as many doses of immunosuppressants as I could hoard. I packed everything in a massive backpack, and tried to figure out where I could go. It would have raised too much suspicion to ask anyone, so I had to figure out a suitable route out of the city on my own. Area 17 has obvious exits, but since it has so many valuable military assets, it’s too highly-guarded to be a good location to leave Shambhala from with no clearance. Area 6, however, is less regulated, and the merchants use all sorts of passages to conduct trade. It’s not exactly above-board, but it’s considered necessary for the continued circulation of gold throughout Shambhala. Disappearing down a dark alley and never being seen again was definitely a possibility. I spent weeks surreptitiously looking around while shopping, and eventually, I managed to spot several potential routes to the surface.

My initial plan was simply to go shopping and never return, with my backpack on my back and the bag containing Subject Asura in my hand. It would have been nice and neat and everyone would have simply assumed that I’d died and no one would have asked any questions.

That’s not what happened.

Yesterday, just as I was planning to leave, there was a knock on the door of my private chambers. This was an exceedingly rare occurrence, so I probably should have been on guard, but I was already anxious enough about running away that I didn’t have the mental bandwidth to be cautious.

I opened the door, and there stood Bophades, his mouth drawn in a tight line. I asked him if we’d been reassigned. As I said, I was just surprised it hadn’t happened earlier, but it wouldn’t exactly have been an unexpected turn of events.

“Not exactly, Amalthea.”

I nodded slowly. I wasn’t really sure how to respond to that at all.

“I know about Subject Asura,” he said in an undertone.

I don’t remember what I said. I’m sure it was something inane like “What about it?” or “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” but before I could finish whatever automatic response I managed to spit out, he was in my private quarters.

“Where is it? I know you’re keeping it here.”

Again, I said something lame, but he ignored me and said something to the effect of:

“It’s nothing personal, but there’s a big assignment up for grabs for licensed scientists, something with Solon. Thales has made it clear that he’s going to assign someone who distinguishes themself, and finding a device presumed lost forever would definitely be distinguishing.”

I reminded him that Epimenides’ core had exploded and that it really was gone, but he brushed me off. He told me how thoroughly Myson had studied the core, the data they’d gathered from it. It was true that it was full of mysterious, lost technology–but our knowledge of explosions hasn’t atrophied much from the days of Epimenides. If there were some self-destructive mechanism in the core, Myson and Bophades would have found it long before I was promoted.

My mind was racing at that point, and I can’t say that I remember the exact order of the rest of the conversation, but I do remember asking why he didn’t tell anyone that the fire had been arson. He said something about it not mattering, about how Project Fluegel was over anyway. How my own sentiments were my own business, and he’d be better off not getting involved.

That’s when I realized: Bophades had been paying attention the entire time. He knew how I felt about Subject Asura, understood why I’d take them and hide them instead of killing them. He knew, and he just didn’t care. How could someone understand that much and still dance to Thales’ tune, still live this same hellish life day in and day out, still treat other humans as completely disposable. Are we fighting for the future of humanity or not?

Now that I’ve had more time to think about the conversation, though, I don’t actually think that it was really that simple. The lack of any punishment for my crime, I mean. We have barely any surveillance cameras, our advanced doors break down, our guards are dwindling with the rest of our population. All of the risks of disobedience, it was all just… fear. The threat of an omnipresent and omnipotent legal system, of Thales’ rage. Fear and, of course, the isolation of a life where you can’t trust anyone, where anything you do wrong will instantly be seen and judged. And yet…

I’m getting distracted.

Looking back, I should have made some clever, pithy remark about how it wouldn’t have even mattered if he managed to reclaim Subject Asura, because Thales clearly didn’t want Epimenides’ core in the first place, and he’d be lucky if he wasn’t quietly disposed of for daring to bring it to him, but I didn’t think of it at the time.

Actually, come to think of it, I did ask him one more question. I must have, because I wouldn’t have done what I’d done otherwise. I wouldn’t have bothered.

I asked if he’d told anyone else that Subject Asura was alive. No, he said (and he was so smug about it, the self-important idiot), if anyone else knew, they could take the core for themself and steal his assignment out from under him.

That was the last thing he said before I launched a Luna-Lambda spell directly into his face at point-blank range.

The next thing I knew, I was running for the train station. It was the only way I could think of to get to Area 6 quickly, and I boarded the deserted car just before it pulled out of the station. The whole time I looked around at the empty seats and wondered if they’d always been this desolate. I didn’t see anyone else at all, not boarding or disembarking, as the train made its automatic stops in every area of the city in sequence. Not until I got off of the train and entered Area 6.

From there, I made a beeline for one of the alleys that I’d scouted on a shopping trip, winding my way through stalls and praying to whatever old gods were still listening that I wouldn’t be noticed or approached. Maybe one of them was paying attention, because I managed to find a place where the metal and neon abruptly stopped, giving way to natural rock walls. I didn’t have time to think about it then, but that was the first time I’d ever actually stepped foot outside the city limits of Shambhala.

I walked through seemingly-endless tunnels for hours and hours, and eventually, I thought I might collapse from exhaustion. As if that weren’t troubling enough on its own, Subject Asura managed to shake off the sedative that I’d administered before we left and started crying, likely from hunger. We couldn’t get much further without a rest.

That’s when my last bit of good luck kicked in. I managed to find a small cavern adjoining one of the tunnels. I summoned a tiny fire spell in my free hand to illuminate the space and realized that it was the least-efficient structure I’d ever seen in my life. That was all I needed to see to convince me that this was a natural cavern, and likely something that merchants traveling to and from the surface would avoid. I crawled inside, fed Subject Asura, and simply held them until we both fell asleep.

They’re still asleep, and I didn’t have any more sedatives to pack, so putting them back in the bag will surely wake them. All I can do is hope that we can find our way to the surface before any trouble finds us.

September 18(?), 4036

I wish I could be more certain of the date, but I’m afraid that I haven’t seen a clock in a very long time. I’ve been so exhausted, and if that weren’t enough, I’ve been following Subject Asura’s circadian rhythms. They’ve grown so much in nearly a year, but they’re still so small, so helpless.

We made it out of the tunnels some time ago. I heard footsteps a few times, but if we’re being hunted, we’ve managed to avoid detection so far.

I’ve seen the sun.

I wish I had something more eloquent to say about it. It’s everything that humanity has been working towards for so long: the ability to leave our subterranean city behind and return to the surface. It is beautiful, and it’s warm. But I don’t know what else there is that I can say about it.

It’s a bit overwhelming, actually. Not the sun itself, but everything else.

The main thing that my time at the education center couldn’t prepare me for is the sheer number of plants, and the way that they smell. I’ve seen plants before, of course. Every once in a while, a merchant gets their hands on some potted succulent and sells it for a ridiculous sum of gold, so it was easy to see them as overrated. But here, there are trees taller than I had imagined, and flowers that seem to come in every color of the light spectrum. I’d seen photographs and video footage of these sorts of things, of course, but to actually be surrounded by grasses and shrubs it’s…

If I’m being honest, it’s itchy. Small insects live in the grass and fly through the air, and they seem to have a taste for human blood. It’s quite irritating.

Subject Asura seems to be enjoying themself. They babble softly and point at some of the more colorful insects (lepidopterans, I believe–which are harmless), clasping their hands together in what I assume is fascination. I have needed to be far more vigilant for these last few weeks. Subject Asura’s idea of enrichment seems to primarily involve grabbing handfuls of material, organic and inorganic alike, and shoving them into their mouth. I am unsure which of these plants are toxic, and they could seriously harm themself swallowing stones, so I have had very few restful moments on the surface.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that this lifestyle wasn’t sustainable. I had no time to write, and no way to increase my practical knowledge of the surface. Our rations were dwindling, and there was something disconcerting about gathering our hydration from a stream in which fish were clearly visible.

I walked through the mountains until I saw that the trees gave way to small agricultural plots. Nestled here in the mountains was a village, its buildings spread far apart and surrounded by small farms and pastures. I felt my heart in my throat, holding Subject Asura close to my chest. This was what passed for a city among the beasts, and it made me feel nauseous to think that these creatures resembled us so strongly, had the basic intelligence needed to communicate and build simple structures, and still lived like little more than animals.

I briefly considered turning around and trying our luck in the wilderness again, but I ultimately decided against it. At the very least, I reasoned that the beasts would have access to food and basic shelter, and procuring it from them would not be a difficult task.

As I neared the center of the village, I noticed beasts staring at me, and then quickly looking away. The radiation of the sun had worn their skins into leather, their clothes exceedingly simple and primitive. They were dirty, and I was glad that I wasn’t passing close enough by them to smell them.

And yet…

I don’t know. I need time to process my thoughts.

There’s something about them. I see them standing outside of their simple dwellings and conversing with one another. It’s so… inefficient. Leisurely. They speak as though they have all the time in the world, even though their lives must be quite short without the benefits of advanced medicine. They speak the same language that we do in Shambhala, and somehow, that makes it even weirder. None of these people have implants, and some surely have blood tainted by the false god’s brood, but… I hear them laughing. What do they have to laugh about? What joy is there in a life so nasty, brutish, and short?

But, in its own way, isn’t life in Shambhala much the same?

We are clean, we are healthy, we know the truth about this world. We are pure and descended from the humans who once ruled the world. And now…

I’m getting distracted again.

To make a long story short, I found and spoke to the “chief” of this village. He seems like a reasonable enough superior, for a creature with such a limited capacity for intellect. He smiles a lot, which I find unnerving, and his voice has a lazy sort of quality to it that would have gotten him reprimanded most firmly in the education center. Still, I gave him a portion of the gold I’d ferreted away, and in exchange, he informed me that I was welcome to claim an old “farm house” on the outskirts of the village. He handed me a piece of paper that he told me entitled me to the house and the patch of land that it was on. It wasn’t written in the same alphabet that we use most commonly in Shambhala, but it is a script that I studied during my training.

As I left his home, the chief said to me:

“I’m not sure where you and your kid come from ma’am, and it’s none of my business. Welcome to Ordelia County, all the same.”

I kept walking, but I heard his words in my head over and over as I found my way to our house. I know that trust is for fools, and yet it strikes me that these beasts are simply too stupid for subterfuge. I really think that the chief meant what he said. “Welcome all the same.”

The house is unimaginably large compared to my private quarters, with four separate rooms. One of them is a kitchen, and two of them have wooden beds. On the other side of an expanse of wild grasses from the house stands a much smaller building that contains only a foul-smelling hole, and the thought of using it makes me feel nauseous yet again.

As uncomfortable as I feel, Subject Asura seems to be perfectly content. They just ate the last of their rations, which means that I will soon have to leave the house to procure food for us.

I’m still not sure if we’re being tracked, but I doubt that anyone from Shambhala would expect to find us living amongst the beasts. Here, Subject Asura and I will be safe. What’s more, I’m starting to realize that, for the first time in our lives, Subject Asura and I will be free.

This is to be our new home, for better or for worse.

Red Wolf 5, 1160 IY

I asked the village chief for the date, and he said that today was “the fifth of the Red Wolf Moon.” I asked him for the year as well, and he stared at me as if I were insane. So it seems that, if I am going to live among beasts, then I must take it upon myself to count the days as they do. The months have strange, arcane names, and the year, though I know it is simply a matter of a different calendar, makes me feel even more that I’ve stumbled into some distant past best left forgotten by humanity.

I have been too busy to write often. I am so glad that we use the same currency in Shambhala that the surface beasts do, for it has made it very easy to secure all of the necessities for life on the savings from an assistant researcher’s salary.

Some things, however, do not seem to cost any money at all, which is fortunate, but confusing. I have purchased a simple wooden bucket, and I simply walk into the village and take water from the well when I need it. It is heavy when full, but it holds more than I would have guessed.

I have spoken very little to the beasts that live near me. I have no real desire to integrate with them, and I find their conversation dull. One woman asked me the name of my child, and I realized that I did not have an answer. I excused myself from the conversation and returned home. I have never named a child before, and the task feels like something that I am not even slightly qualified to perform.

Subject Asura was removed from the incubator exactly one year ago today, and they are beginning to attempt basic communication. They have certain noises that they make, which I am coming to understand have specific meanings. For example, they refer to me as “Mama,” likely because they cannot pronounce “Amalthea.” “Subject Asura,” of course, is far too long and complicated for them to be able to say, and when I call them by this designation, they sometimes attempt to repeat it. It comes out terribly slurred, and the closest I can approximate the sound in written script is something like “Sheujh.”

Maybe…

“Shush?”

“Shuzz?”

“Shez?”

Yes, I think I quite like “Shez.” It is simple, elegant, and sounds enough like the name of a beast that they should fit in (for instance, there is a man in the village named “Shawn,” and a young girl named “Louise,” and “Shez” contains phonemes that seem to fit in with these names).

I have nothing else interesting to write about today, but I do want to take Shez outside and let them sit in the grass (which, with any luck, they will stop trying to put in their mouth). Despite the bugs, they do seem to enjoy this activity.

10 Guardian Moon, 1161

I remembered after I wrote it that the date is incorrect. It should read “10 Guardian Moon, 1160.” I fail to understand why the beasts decided that the year should begin in April. Yes, I understand that that’s around the time that spring starts, but it makes very little sense. If January is the first month, then it stands to reason that it is the first month of the year. Regardless, for my own record-keeping purposes, the current year is, in fact still, 1160, despite the title of this entry.

A traveling merchant visited town last month. It was obvious to look at them that they were a beast, but their demeanor wasn’t terribly different from that of the merchants I used to visit in Shambhala. I guess there are many things we have in common, and since our money is the same, it stands to reason that our merchants are, too.

They kept hawking their wares as “presents for St. Cichol’s day,” though, and the bile rose in my throat. I know that that is the name of one of the monsters that has caused the degeneration of these surface-dwellers, that drove my people underground centuries ago. The fact that all of my neighbors choose to venerate such a creature appalls me.

And yet, if I am going to live amongst them, I need to know more about how they live.

The fact of the matter is, my personal misgivings matter very little. The way that I feel about these creatures, all of it stems from the lessons that I learned at the education center. Those lessons included material on the absolute safety, efficiency, and power of Shambhala, on the strength and wisdom of Thales, on the folly of mercy and empathy.

If those lessons were wrong, then how many others were, as well?

I could not bring myself to celebrate this “St. Cichol Day,” but I did manage to purchase a wide variety of books from the merchant. None of my neighbors, to no surprise, seemed even slightly interested in them, so I was able to attain the whole stock–novels, encyclopedias, histories, treatises on magic.

While I understand that the beasts have limited intellect, the fact remains: Shez is going to be one of them. I will not live forever, and as they grow, their ties to Shambhala will fade. I doubt they will retain any memories of the place, just as I do not remember anything about my life prior to enrollment in the education center. They will need to be able to make a living for themself, and to blend in seamlessly with these creatures to survive. For me, it should be easy enough. I will keep to myself and mind my own business. That is a result of the choices that I have made, and the choices that I will continue to make. But Shez…

While no one else alive knows that Shez and Epimenides’ core survived the fire, the fact remains that, should a member of the infiltration division encounter Shez and suspect them to be a true Agarthan, they may be relocated to Shambhala as a matter of course, or neutralized as a potential rogue agent. They cannot know where they are from, and they cannot know who they really are.

Instead, they will know other things. They will know that the false god came from some star or another, and that this continent (Fódlan) is comprised of three separate countries. They will know the history and mythology and limited sciences that a beast-child knows, and they will grow into the sort of person that a beast-child does.

I wonder, and I have wondered before–how close to human are these beasts? Did some “mothers,” a thousand years ago, make the same decision that I did, to reject their humanity in exchange for freedom from tyranny? In a way, couldn’t these beasts just be the descendants of children like Shez who simply didn’t know who and what they really were?

If so, they deserve pity far more than scorn.

Day 3 of the Great Tree Moon, 1161

I have been grappling with the questions I posed in my last entry for some months. Nothing particularly interesting has happened to warrant writing, but I need to process my thoughts yet again.

I went to fetch water at the well last week, and I saw something so insignificant, so utterly unremarkable that it seems silly to me, and yet… when I close my eyes, when Shez is asleep and silent, I see it behind my eyelids.

Three children from the village were running together, laughing. One of them must have been about five or six, and for a split second, we made eye contact. Their eyes were so big, and their hair was long and untamed, and I felt as though I had swallowed something toxic. I looked away, I fetched my water, and I returned home to find Shez happily taking small, unsure steps around the couch in the living room.

It took me a few days to puzzle out what it was about the interaction that was nagging at me, but then I realized that the child reminded me vaguely of Kronya. The look on their face was just the same, and they carried a wooden stick almost like her knife, too large for her tiny hands.

But they were different, too. Their stance was awkward, undisciplined. They wouldn’t have been able to kill anyone with that stick. Their hair grew as wild as the village grass. No one had taught them that they shouldn’t waste their time playing with the other children. No one had taught them that “fun” that wasn’t productive was tantamount to treason. No one had taught them that there were rules and hierarchies and things to fear in dark corners. True, the beasts have their own nigh-incomprehensible brand of superstitions, but it’s a far cry from the fear of Thales and his wrath.

I thought about Kronya, about how different her life would have been if the education center hadn’t molded her into the shape of a killer. I thought about myself, and how I, too, was very nearly molded into the sort of person who would kill a child to retrieve a piece of metal from their body.

Most of all, though, I thought about Shez. It was as if I was gifted with future sight for just a moment. I saw them running through the village, a smile on their face, their violet hair ruffled by the wind.

They would be a child. A real child. The sort of child I’d never heard of until I started reading the books that these strange, simple people dream up. The sort of child that can’t exist in Shambhala.

I think that, in a sense, we Agarthans are the ones who have degenerated. Not intellectually, of course. But something else, something less quantifiable. Our hearts, I suppose.

It puts me in mind of another thing that happened just this morning. I went outside to use the outhouse, and I heard a beautiful sound from the yard to the east of our property. I walked closer to the source of the sound and realized that it was the old woman from next door, singing while she hung her laundry out to dry. It was a simple, wordless tune. There seemed to be no point to it, other than the enjoyment of the act. I closed my eyes and tried to commit the tune to memory, but I think I only remembered part of it. Still, I understood enough to fill in the gaps on my own.

What made me pull out my journal and write all of this was something that happened about an hour ago. Shez was crying. They weren’t hungry, their clothes weren’t soiled, they didn’t seem to be injured. They just wanted attention, I believe. I had been humming a little as I did my chores around the house all day, trying to remember that old woman’s tune, and when I picked up Shez to comfort them, I hummed it to them.

They stopped crying, and they smiled. They babbled gently at me and put their little hands on my face. In less than ten minutes, they were asleep.

These beasts… these people. They don’t know much of anything about the world, but they do seem to know something about each other, something about themselves. I don’t think I’ll ever really know what it is, but there’s some kind of wisdom there. Something that I hope Shez can learn someday.

Day 5 of the Red Wolf Moon, 1164

Re-reading this journal has been a surreal, humbling experience. I can’t believe how hard it makes me cringe to read some of the things I’ve written. Honestly, I sort of forgot about this journal. I’ve been keeping extremely busy over the last few years. I haven’t had a crisis that I’ve needed to work through, or a monumental bombshell that I’ve had to process.

My days are busy, but quiet. There’s a sort of rhythm to this life, a normal schedule for the day. In some ways, that’s not too different from how things were in Shambhala. But somehow, it is different. The things that I do, I do not do them because they’ve been assigned to me, but only because I want or need to, or because Shez wants or needs me to. I have learned so many things that I never knew before. I can cook now, and sew. I’ve made clothes for myself and for Shez, and while we aren’t exactly fashionable, it’s cheaper than buying clothes from merchants.

I actually found this journal again on my bookshelf. I’ve been organizing some books that I’d like to try to read with Shez. They are still very young (today marks five years since the day they were removed from the incubator–on the surface, this is called a “birthday,” and it is a special occasion, for which I am going to attempt to bake a cake later this evening), but I do not think it is good to wait too long to begin to teach them things that are important. That is one value from Shambhala that I will always carry with me. I’ll just make sure that the things I teach them are actually valuable, and will help them grow into someone who doesn’t just follow orders.

We’ll start with the basics, of course: reading, arithmetic, writing. From there, we can get into different subjects. I wonder if they’ll show an aptitude for magic, as I did at their age. In a way, their studies have already begun–we read works of surface literature together at night, simple stories intended for people about Shez’s age. Subtly, they have been learning things about the norms of the world around them, and I make sure to give them the space to make their own decisions about the things I teach them.

I do fear that teaching them may be a more difficult task than I would have hoped. For one thing, I am certainly not qualified to educate a child. For another, and I would never say this where they could hear it, but… Shez is not terribly intelligent.

I should qualify that statement. They clearly think about the world around them a good deal, and they ask very difficult philosophical questions sometimes! They just don’t seem to have much of a knack for remembering the things that they’ve learned from one day to the next. I would chalk this up to a facet of their youth that they will grow out of, but I seem to recall performing far more adequately at their age.

This is not meant to disparage or insult them in any way. Shez is a wonderful child. They’re insightful, they’re caring and considerate, they even make me laugh almost every day.

Still, there are days when they wander off while I am answering their questions, or trying to read them a story. They go outside, or they sit in their bedroom and roll marbles around. In these moments, it is important for me to stay calm. I picture them, just for one shameful second, in the education center in Shambhala, and imagine the sorts of punishments their instructors would mete out for such careless behavior. I bite my tongue, remind myself that that isn’t a healthy standard for comparison, that the pressures placed on Agarthan children by Shambhala’s cruelties harmed me and the rest of the countless souls in that desolate city, and that I never want Shez to feel that sort of pain in their life.

The children of the surface-people have different talents, just as the children in Shambhala do. But more of those different talents are valued and appreciated, in some way or another. Most of the children in our village will never know how to read, but they may excel at some whimsical trade such as woodcarving, or fashion design. It’s an odd thing, to see such differences not only allowed, but celebrated.

So, I suppose Shez will never be a genius. They could never be an Agarthan researcher, or infiltrator, or technician. But they are already something far better, more important.

They are my wonderful Shez.

Day 17 of the Verdant Rain Moon, 1167

For the first time in years, I have a problem that I must use my journal to work through.

Shez is seven years old, and every bit as vital and energetic as they’ve ever been. They have their own opinions and hold them very firmly, and a sense of justice that I very much admire. I would not change them for the world, and having spoken to them about the situation, I cannot fault them for the actions that they took today.

But still, I feel my long-useless transmitter stick in my throat when I remember what I saw this afternoon: Shez coming home from the village square with blood dripping from their lip and a rapidly-swelling periorbital hematoma. I nearly dropped the dish I was washing and rushed to their side. I’ve tried to take good care of my child over the years, and other than a few scrapes and little bruises from their many adventures, I’ve never seen them injured. This was brutal, and deliberate. Someone hurt my child.

When I asked them about it, they told me it was fine, that they were fine, and that I should “see the other kid.”

Shez got into a fight.

I panicked for a moment, biting back all of the questions I wanted to ask them. What if the other kid had had a weapon? What if they knew magic? What if someone wanted them dead? (I didn’t ask those questions, of course, because that simply isn’t how things work on the surface, at least, not among seven-year-olds.)

What really knocked the wind from me, though, was the reason for the fight. According to Shez, the other kids were mocking them because, in their exact words, “they said my mom was a creepy witch and that no one wanted to be friends with me.”

What was I supposed to say to that? I know that I look a bit different from the surface-people, my skin is far paler, but honestly, my implants are subtle. I don’t have eyes with a HUD overlay, or animatronic tails. It’s true, too, that I avoid my neighbors as much as I can. I simply have nothing in common with them, and don’t find them terribly interesting. It’s not that I see them as animals, not anymore. I’ve lived among them for too long to feel that way. But it would be dishonest to claim that it doesn’t feel a bit exhausting to live among people who worship a long-dead giant lizard, can’t read, and don’t know what electricity is, let alone a computer.

But this wasn’t about me, this was about Shez. I asked them how what those other kids had said had made them feel. They told me that they didn’t care what those kids thought of them, but that they didn’t want anyone to say mean things about their mother. I told them that I didn’t want them to get into fights for such petty reasons, and that I also didn’t care what the villagers thought of me, but they stubbornly refused to accept that.

And that’s when they asked me a question that I wasn’t prepared for.

“Mom,” they asked, “why don’t I look like you?”

It took me a minute of stalling to actually come up with something intelligent to say. They insisted that all of the kids in the village looked like their parents.

It’s not a surprise, though, that Shez looks more like a surface-dweller than an Agarthan. For one thing, their implant was installed during embryonic development, and has left no visible marks on their body. For another, they have lived the vast majority of their life on the surface, and they spend enough time outside that their skin has taken on the particular qualities caused by solar radiation (as for me, I experience very painful burns when I am outside with no protection for too long, so I much prefer to remain indoors).

More to the point, there’s also the fact that Agarthans simply do not have parents in the way that the surface-dwellers do. The fertility bay anonymizes all requisitioned gametes, and only those qualified to care for and indoctrinate children are allowed to participate in their rearing. For all I know, the ovum used to create Shez could well have been produced by me, or Myson, or even Kronya. Most likely, however, Shez’s genetic mother is a person that I have never met. She may have even died decades ago.

I think that was the train of thought that led me to the first lie I’ve ever knowingly told my child.

I told them that I wasn’t sure who their birth parents were, that they were left as a foundling on my doorstep. I had read a story where such a thing happened, and it was the most plausible situation I could think of. I told them that they were very young when that happened, and that the note left with them indicated that both of their parents were dead, and that the author of the note could not care for them.

Shez took all of this very well, I think. They grew very quiet. Listened carefully. Nodded thoughtfully. After a moment of silence, they led me to the couch in the living room. They bade me sit, and they cuddled into my lap. We sat like that for a while, and I hummed that wordless tune that they enjoy so much. Only after a few minutes did I suddenly remember what had happened, and I fetched them a wet rag to clean their lip and another for them to press against their eye.

They’re in their room now, probably reading or playing with some toy too quietly for me to hear, but before they left, they told me:

“I’m glad you’re my mom.”

I didn’t say anything. What could I say to that?

What I should have said, of course, was that I’m also glad they’re my child, but I just didn’t think of it at the time. I’ll tell them later. Actually, that might not be appropriate either, because it could be an implication that I’m glad that their “real” parents (who don’t actually exist) are dead?

I had to lie to them, because they can’t know the truth. I made that promise to myself and I’m going to do everything in my power to keep it. But still… the idea of my child believing a lie like that…

I guess they really are a surface-child, in the end.

Day 14 of the Great Tree Moon, 1169

It’s been almost a decade since I’ve come to Ordelia County, and there are days when everything from my life before feels almost like a bad dream. That’s the only reason I can think of for why I almost forgot everything about Epimenides, about Project Fluegel, about Myson’s hypotheses. Our lives have been quiet, “normal,” totally unremarkable.

So I nearly spat out my morning tea when Shez came into the kitchen and asked me about “boy fighting the big turtle in the war.”

“The War of the Eagle and Lion?” I asked, trying to stay calm. After all, we had just been studying a text on the subject recently, and Shez has always been interested in the military and conflict aspects of their history lessons.

“No, I don’t think that’s the one. The War of Heroes, I think.”

My heart sank and everything came flooding back to me. Nemesis had been an ordinary human bandit, chosen by Thales to gather a band and steal the corpse of the Fell Star, beginning the war. It was humanity’s first real attempt to purge the world of the monsters that had stolen it from us.

Of course, that’s what I learned in the education center. That’s what Thales, who had been there, said had happened.

My mind raced back through the Church of Seiros-approved histories I’ve read over the years, trying to remember what a surface dweller should and shouldn’t know about. I chose my words carefully. I told Shez only what I was sure I remembered, about the Ten Elites and the Heroes’ Relics and the Saints. I have never again lied to my child since that day a few years back, so I made sure to emphasize that I was simply reporting on the Church’s beliefs, my tone as neutral as possible.

“Were there big animals in that fight?”

One of the “Four Saints” was said to take the form of a gigantic turtle, just as Shez had said. We hadn’t covered that.

I said: “I believe the legends say that the Goddess sent Sacred Beasts to protect her children.” Shez nodded thoughtfully.

I asked what had sparked all these questions, and they told me that they’d had a dream about it. That there had been “a boy in white,” and “a bunch of big animals,” and “a scary lady with a sword.”

I explained that dreams are just the brain trying to make sense of the memories you’ve made and the thoughts you’ve had while you’re awake, and that it probably wasn’t anything to worry about. We have been studying history lately, after all, so this was likely their brain’s way of processing that information. They rolled their eyes and told me that they already knew how dreams worked, they’d just thought it was interesting. They stopped then, grabbing a sweet bun from the counter and quietly pouring themself a little bit of tea.

I went back to my breakfast and said nothing, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the original hypothesis that Myson had had about Epimenides’ core. A digital intermediary, an artificial intelligence bridging the gap between the host and Epimenides’ cached personality. I remembered my own idea that I had floated to buy time for Project Fluegel, too, and I did everything in my power not to stare at my child.

What was happening to them?

My life has been so peaceful as of late that I couldn’t imagine I’d develop a new fear, but I can’t shake the image of Epimenides bursting forth from my child’s body like a cicada shedding its skin.

I can only hope that Project Fluegel continues to be an abject failure.

Day 8 of the Wyvern Moon, 1170

When I left Shambhala, I packed as many immunosuppressants as I could. I knew that it was several years’ supply, and I knew that I would never find any more. I cannot return to Shambhala, nor would I want to, and even if I could find a scout or a merchant from the city, the chances that they would be willing to aid me in any way would be remote. In fact, such an action would surely put Shez at risk.

I’ve counted my remaining doses. I now know the approximate date of my death.

Midway through the Pegasus Moon in the year 1174, I will run out of immunosuppressants. I will be alright for about two weeks, at which point, implant rejection will occur. Because of the location of my implant, my throat will be the first part of my body affected, and I will almost certainly lose my voice gradually over the course of my illness. The transmitter will begin to corrode, and by the end of the Lone Moon, I will develop sepsis. I expect to be dead within a month.

With some antibiotics, or perhaps an emergency surgery, I could survive this. I do not believe that such things will be invented in Fódlan in four years’ time.

My mission remains the same as it has ever been since the day I set the Project Fluegel lab ablaze: make sure that Shez has a future.

They won’t know. I’m not going to tell them. People die from disease all the time on the surface, it won’t be shocking. They’ll be fifteen then, old enough to make it on their own. They can read, they know their sums, and, quite frankly, they’re overqualified for most careers they’ll find.

But, no matter what they end up doing with their life, it’s going to be their choice.

I asked them the other day, actually, what they were thinking about doing once they grew up. I have no trade for them to inherit, after all, only living on the gold I’ve saved from my time in the lab and the skills I’ve been able to develop in the years since.

Predictably, they shrugged.

I asked what they’re good at, what they’d like to do.

I wasn’t surprised when they said, “Fighting, I guess.”

They have a few years to figure it out, and I don’t want to press the issue. I could see them having a great career as a knight or a soldier, although I’m not sure they’re the sort to follow commands in such a way. Really, I’m glad for that. I don’t know what I would do if my child was willing to throw their life away on someone else’s orders. Maybe they’ll become a mercenary, they certainly do like to go on adventures through the woods and swing a wooden sword around.

Admittedly, I find myself hoping they decide to do something nice and safe. Maybe they’ll get a job as a gatekeeper for some faraway palace or monastery, something that doesn’t see too much action. In my heart of hearts, though, I know they’d be bored in a life like that. Shez needs plenty of enrichment or they become quite melancholy.

No matter what choices they make, I can take comfort in the fact that they have exhibited no further traits associated with Epimenides. They do seem to have a fascination with caterpillars, but it is my observation that this is common among children their age, and seems to be in no way anomalous, in either degree or in kind. If they have continued dreaming of things that were likely encoded into his core, they haven’t told me about it. Project Fluegel has failed: Epimenides is dead, and Shez is alive.

I know that I have a few years left and I’m going to do everything in my power to make them count. I’m going to enjoy every day as much as I can, and make sure that Shez knows I love them, and try everything I’ve ever secretly wanted to do before the day comes when I can’t anymore.

But, I must admit, I also spend a lot of time thinking about what I’m going to do when the end is near. I’ve considered reacting in much the same way I did the last time a date with such finality was placed before me. If I make it look like I simply dropped my candle in my convalescence, there will be nothing suspicious for Shez to find that might lead them back to Shambhala. I know that arson isn’t a good answer for every death-related problem, but it seems to be the first place my mind goes.

One way or another, Shez will never read this journal. I’m not sure what I’ll do with it. The obvious solution is to burn it (of course), but somehow, I can’t bring myself to do that.. It’s not that I’ve written anything particularly profound, but I guess there’s a part of me that craves immortality, and the written word is a powerful form of it.

I guess, even though I don’t ever want Shez to find out the truth about their origin, I do want someone, somewhere, far in the future to know that there was once a child named Shez, who escaped their destiny and got to be a real human being, and a woman named Amalthea, who loved them very much.

Day 11 of the Lone Moon, 1174

Shez is at the apothecary, picking up herbs for me, the dear child. Some weeds from the garden won’t do anything for me, but they don’t know that. I cannot speak any longer. It’s not so different from the time I had to use a tablet app to communicate after my initial implantation surgery as a child, except of course that I must write in chalk on a slate instead.

I am writing a quick entry because I have made my decision. This journal will be placed into a non-descript package, and I will request that Shez deliver it to the village chief. The chief will read the note that I’ve left on the cover, which will explain what this journal is and who it’s for.

If you’ve been given this journal, and you’re reading it now, hello. This feels a bit awkward, but this entry is a message for you.

First, my last request: if in your travels you meet a mercenary named Shez, I only ask that you leave them alone. They aren’t one of us. They know nothing of what we’ve been through, and it needs to stay that way.

More to the point, though…

I know you. No, we’ve never met (probably), but I know what you’re going through. I know how hard it’s been for you, and how hard it will continue to be. I know first-hand how difficult and stressful and how much work it was to escape from Shambhala and the lies that Thales has poisoned our people with. You aren’t going to live for very long, I’m afraid, but you’re going to live a life more beautiful than anything you’ve ever imagined before.

You aren’t alone. You aren’t the first. You aren’t the only one. You aren’t insane.

That being said, I don’t know the specifics of what you’ve done. I’m sure that you’ve committed all sorts of atrocities in the name of securing humanity’s future. You didn’t know there were other options. The people you’ve hurt may never forgive you, but I hope that you can forgive yourself. Anyway, at the end of the day, it’s none of my business.

Welcome to Ordelia County, all the same.