Chapter Text

Act 1: Ad Vitam Aeternam

Chapter 1: To Cross the Abyss

Quarantine Chamber, Thanatica Labs

1 September 2165, 00:00:00

You were never content being a mere Bachelor of Medicine. A thanatologist with such bare qualifications would never survive the twenty-second century. So you dove into neuroscience. Robotics. Artificial intelligence. Combining all its best parts, you mastered the intricacies of aritficial neural networks... and what if you copied organic ones? Instead of a mere training of numbers and images to answer prompts, you use the magnificence of the human brain to its fullest capacity?

It had worked on animals. From tiny worms to rodents to fish to primates.

So, it should work on humans, too, should it not?

You have the funds.

You have the resolve.

The Kains demanded you test it on one of them, but the Plague changed that - they could not do this themselves. They may be visionaries; they may be your loyal, if unethical, beneficiary, but their mysticism blinds them to the complex, rigorous standards of medical practice.

And so, you become your own test subject.

You scan your brain, and have the computer, and yourself, and your laboratory partners, make a model out of it. Like a sketch that serves as a base for your code-shaped paintbrush strokes.

It was a breakthrough...

At least until you got infected.

You enter a race against time, against your own sickly, infected body - a race to preserve the sum of your being in a robotic shell made by Thanatica's best roboticists.

In the isolation ward, virtual-reality gloves snugly wrapped around your cracked skin, you deftly control the delicate instruments of Death's defeat. With the robotic hands - rooms away, with all the healthy scientists - made in your image, you copy the last neurons from your brain scan - a scan that luckily had not been tarnished too much by the sickness ravaging your cells, a scan that would hopefully make Dr. Dankovsky continue living, unburdened by the traces and trauma of the plague, even after his, your, body will surely perish for that very reason...

When your eyes dry with no tears to soothe them no matter how many times you blink, you acutely become aware that time, your time, is always running out. But in the sterile silence of your quarantine, broken only by a single caretaker in a protective - impersonal - hazmat suit, time seems to stretch for eternity.

Stretching like an abyss, the Judge says...

An abyss of nothingness, punctuated by daily tinctures and antibiotics and painkillers from the only man you trust with the innermost parts of you.

An abyss of disquiet, broken only by the ear-grating heaves of your ragged breaths into an oxygen mask.

An abyss this copy of yourself - you yourself? - may cross. Death should not veto your decision to research, to break boundaries-

One of those heavy, ragged breaths interrupts the sound of click-clacking on your keyboard.

But this time, when the oxygen mask continues the metaphorical bridge across, you had found yourself looking up at it. Said bridge is just beyond your reach - it'd be a hair's breadth closer, maybe, if gravity were fairer on you - but all the grasping you did on the merciless void cannot stop your fall.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Between the Lines

Test Chamber 44, Thanatica Labs

1 September 2165, 00:00:01

“His hands have gone silent,” Eva says, breaking the silence, and all her fellow roboticists stop working. She has a keen ear, a different keenness from yours - you felt an irrevocable snap a split-second before her words left her mouth.

But she has said the word, now.

Your legs carry you towards him, towards the gap where his Lines used to intersect with yours. Those blasted Kains must have known this, you swear under your breath, dashing to the quarantine chamber where your friend - his body - lies… 

Quarantine Chamber, Thanatica Labs

00:01:56

You walk into the sterilization chamber and let the robotic hands put you in the protective suit, piece by piece. Mask, cap, shoes, body- the noise is all too familiar to you: tap, sterilize, click, hiss of the doors. You almost expect to see him look annoyed at you from under his cracked eyelids, but no.

The emptiness stays,

And your friend has fallen off his chair, motionless, unaware of how his muscles spilled onto the floor with no regard for anatomical limits. No longer can you hear the rush of his blood, the hum of his emotions, the whirrs of his tools…

“Dankovsky,” you gasp, carrying him up, back to his bed. He (obviously) doesn’t respond. Not anymore. You weren’t even there in his dying moments… you would have prayed for him, sang for him, soothed him, anything . “Daniil. Danya.”

He would turn up his nose at you, maybe even tell you off, the clever cloaks. If he was alive while you called him that.

“Did you know you were going to die?” you ask, cupping his prone face with your gloved hands, “Did the Kains tell you?”

Of course, Daniil responded with nothing but silence.

His body would feed the Earth; but you wish his voice would feed your ears, just one last time, one last line. But he couldn’t have known! He couldn’t . Why else would he ask you to watch him work in the test chamber today instead of staying by his side on his last breath? He would have wanted to know the day his body expired, down to the hour, so that he could triumphantly announce his success in “defeating death”.

So that he could tell you that he…

You grit your teeth and let him go. He could tell you nothing now. You knew that the Project would house his “uploaded mind”. It would be him , it would be his brain, a perfect copy of his neurons which would probably say what did you tell me again? ‘When you find yourself at a dead end, what you need is to rise upwards’. And rise I did.

But would that imposter truly be him? Would that doppelganger remember that quote? And if it did, would it say it in the way your friend would have? But you can no longer read his Lines as alive . What will the Project’s Lines be like? Is it even alive if it wasn’t created directly by Mother Boddho?

“Dr. Burakh,” Eva’s voice on the intercom rings out, “I can see you in the quarantine chamber… We are going to boot the Project up in an hour, Doctor. We’ll have a short break first, I guess. So I hope your… business… goes well…”

Thanatica’s more medically-inclined scientists, discovered that the virus dies in a few hours without a living host to sustain it. It seems like she’s informed of that, though she understandably doesn’t want to think about her crush being dissected so soon upon his death… the pause is getting quite long now, and it’s starting to get pretty fucking awkward. 

Which security camera is she watching you from? The test chamber? You didn’t know they have CCTV access there - if there was, your clearance is definitely not high enough for it. How the hell does - did - Daniil manage all this shit? Or, it could be one of the security rooms, but Eva doesn’t strike you as someone who knows the layout of the lab as much as you do. Creepy as hell, regardless.

“Just don’t stay there too long!”

A click, and her message ends.

So, you open the case of your surgical tools, sterilize them, and execute the first part of Daniil Dankovsky’s will. A servant of science to his last breath, you think as you sense his Lines, quiet but there, waiting - he wants his organs donated to his own lab, to others, to all involved in the creation of a vaccine.

You don’t want to strip your friend off. Not like this.

You’re cutting a predestined Line…

Predestined for what ? It all feels wrong. Daniil never let anyone bathe him, preferring instead to clean and dress himself with the aid of robots during his sickness. So are you allowed to say that his Lines feel wrong to cut between? The emptiness between those Lines are waiting; he trusts you and only you with this part of his will. Will Mother Boddho forgive your entitlement? Will Dr. Dankovsky, Founder and Head of Thanatica, forgive your hesitation?

He trusts you, Burakh.

Your hands move towards his back and unclasp his hospital gown. Your surgeon’s training and residency had automatically put you into gear - no stalling, no nonsense… Why is he wearing a binder while dying of the plague? And not even the modern kind - it was buttoned like a vest. You wonder how he could put it on and breathe normally in the pain he was in… shit. That gear of your work self has stopped. And the Lines are so… so… they tangle like bunched-up threads, you can’t read them, so loud is your heartbeat, so chaotic is your mind because you are undressing your longtime friend whom you wish were more. Your longtime friend and roommate who has never even worn short sleeves while you were both in university.

The infection will die if you stall!

Shit. Shit . You remember that information about the plague. You unbutton the binder and throw it to the side. You don’t take note of his unmoving chest, his jutting ribs, his dry skin, the way his waist bends - no. Time to get his tissues, and you needed to do it fast. You laid him down and began.

If you didn’t dismiss your own culture when you were younger to fit in, you probably would be able to hear the Lines. You would probably be more assured, now, in your cuts - I’m sorry, Danya, I’m sorry. You are medically-precise, but you feel the Lines tangling harder, more complicated, as if you try to force yourself to cut the thread instead of untying it gently … Incision, extraction, trepanation… 

But it’s finally over. You cover Daniil Dankovsky’s body in the bag. His organs are stored and preserved in the containers that replicated a living host. And you close them, methodically, clasp, shift. Clean yourself up, and…

You unzip the body bag, just slightly, to see his face one last time. Reconcile it with the pictures of him you have on your phone. The smooth face, as you’ve seen him for the past month, is now like desert soil, and his full lips are equally chapped. But he still has those bushy eyebrows. His jawline still curves like porcelain, his eyelashes so thick he looked like he was wearing eyeliner at all times.

The robotic body that’s supposed to house his neural pathways also shares those features.

Will it look the same when servos and hydraulics (or whatever those are called) instead of Daniil’s flesh-and-blood muscles moved those features into a smile, a frown, an impassioned, hyper-formal speech? Will your soul thrum as the Lines sang the intimacy you share together? Will it feel the same when his voice came out not from his lips but from speakers?

You are, honestly, too afraid to find out.

But you have no choice.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: The Triumph of Thanatica

Test Chamber 44, Thanatica Labs

1 September 2165, 01:01:01

“Look, Burakh is on the way!”

“Oh, shit, get these out of the way—”

“We just had a one-hour break and you still haven't—”

“Shove it, okay? Dankovsky just died . I'm allowed to take it easy—”

“He's not dead. ”

“If this project is any good,” You can hear the eye roll, “He'll be all better in a few minutes—”

“ If it even works!”

You part the curtain of debate with steps steadier than you feel.

The debate dies down to a whisper—you know some of it is about you, about how you might be feeling about this. You know that the others know of your friendship, and more compromising information is available on the TLC group chat where Daniil doesn't see (on purpose, for sure). You shoot your colleagues a death glare—yeah, back off. The chatter dissipates, slowly but surely, as you make your way to report to Eva—Dr. Yan for now, you suppose, the head of Thanatica’s robotic division. But maybe “Eva” is more accurate. She would love to get up close and personal to this copy of her "dear Daniil".

“Dr. Burakh!”

You nod at her. She is currently setting up the camera on the tripod. Dead center, pointed to Daniil—no, not him exactly. You—and the rest of Thanatica, less importantly—will be the judge of that. For now, it’s only the unactivated chassis of Project AVA. It's strange to see a Daniil with a short haircut, after months of seeing him with shoulder-length hair. His hair has been—had been—growing so long in quarantine…

“Dr. Yan.”

She nervously looks you up and down, as if grading your cleanliness. You frown harder, willing her to see that yes, you are sanitized. As if you would consider being anything less. Especially when the Kains must be on the way.

“Good, good,” Eva nods, swallowing. “You’re here early. The Kains are…”

“On the elevator,” says Yelena, who must be manning the camera feed. “First floor… second… third… fourth.”

Fourth floor. Now, Georgiy and Viktor are just a few steps away from the test chamber.

“Come, gather round, gather round!” Eva waves around the rest of the scientists, radiant, standing tall despite her slight build. 

Your fellow researchers quickly scramble to a semblance of a half-circle next to the AVA’s chassis, sorted by division. Robotics, Bioengineering, Palliative Care, Psychology, Neuroscience, Surgery. Some with phones, some with paper and pen, some with tablets—all ready to record the results. Not that anything can go public before the Kains will it.

Stood on the side of the AVA with the other surgeons and unwilling to look into the empty shell, you wonder… Does Eva, like you, pray in her heart to whoever would hear that it would succeed? Or is her faith in the Project— in herself? in her colleagues? in Daniil? —unwavering? How about the tower on top of this laboratory? Does it have anything to do with her spirit?

The other surgeons’ stares burn into your back. You ignore it. The Lines coalesce closer and closer to you, like cotton in your brain, and bring your fists to a clench.

At the same time, the Kains arrive. Georgiy looks intrigued. Viktor looks apprehensive. You wonder if that has to do with Viktor being Daniil’s supervisor back in university, and a professor in many of your shared classes.

“Now that everyone is here,” Eva announces, “we can start the recording.”

The Kains waste no time in getting in front of the camera.

Madmen, you mutter under your breath. The Kains somehow think that the Project has zero chance of failure. As if it has been done before.

“Good evening, Thanaticians.” Georgiy begins. “Today marks the occasion that we have been working towards…”

You’re not interested in listening to his drivel about defeating Death. But that's terrible practice. You should take out your phone. You should take notes. You open a new document and resolve to only start taking note when they start saying anything of substance.

“...a soul, now able to be etched in what amounts to zeroes and ones. A body, now built anew with the marriage of copper, silicone, and electricity.”

Viktor moved towards the AVA-bot, lifting its chin. “Daniil Dankovsky is a peerless man. At only thirty, he has achieved what others have only dreams. And as the outbreak cowered many, it drove him to brave the unknown…”

Braving the unknown , he says. Under your scalpel, bathed in fluorescent lights, all you can see in Daniil was silence, and death, so much death it suffocated, every trace of his bravery vanished. He just turned thirty. Only yesterday—it feels like a lifetime ago—did you give him bottles of tinctures from your father that you whimsically wrapped in colorful bows. 

They still taste like sewage , Daniil croaked, wiping dehydrated lips with the back of arid hands. I expected you to spice these up for my birthday—no, you should have had the courtesy of giving me some vodka instead. I need a drink after herding these so-called scientists. I'm dying, for fuck’s sake… Does our friendship mean nothing to you?

Before you could express your offense—have you drunk sewage, Dankovsky? or maybe Vodka? Death will be the one defeating you—Daniil shushed you. His index finger hovered just in front of the face-cover of your sterile suit.

Daniil added, But I must say, Burakh, these bows are aesthetically pleasing. The colors added some cheer to this bland little vivarium… try maroon ones next year. Blood red.  

His favorite color. His lips were pursed, but he smiled with his eyes. The red you used today is too bright.

“...and he will emerge victorious. After all, his brilliant mind has lingered—is stored— here. All inside the AVA, which you, colleagues, have completed. A miracle. A most impressive rebellion to the laws of nature. What makes a person? His hopes, dreams, his deepest fears? His most intimate memories? What is retained, and what is not?”

We view deep memories as an anchor that stalls natural processes. One of Daniil’s many papers. Most of them are incomprehensible to you, considering his extra years of education. And his different focuses. And… 

Sometimes, he would tell you with shaky hands and a raw voice about his findings about palliative care, about the right to life as a burden on the government . To stop vetoing the life of the terminally ill , he would declare, to give them the choice, is to defeat death . And then you would hear him and his colleagues publish that sort of research, and read news about how carers and euthanasia services and others protested them for one thing or another.

You sigh. He didn't have that choice.

“...Thanatica, my esteemed colleagues, was established to answer the question: can death be defeated? And after years of rigorous research, countless experiments, united in seeking a utopia for all humankind, you will reap the seeds of innovation…”

But when you both had nothing better to do, stuck in that accursed dorm room together, he would be seized by invisible strings, animated hands conducting as he declaimed his research about transition cycle and ante-mortem dissociation and those damned deep-memory . To extinguish death once and for all. Yet, the Plague… it extinguished him . What sort of deep memory did he have left when you cut him apart? Did he have much of it? Was his transition from life to death peaceful?

“...at this very day. The answer, Thanaticians, is right in front of us.”

Georgiy pats the AVA’s shoulder. Viktor pats the other shoulder, and steadies it, so that it sits straight, almost like a human falling asleep on a chair, if not for the wires suspending it in the back of its neck, joints, and limbs. The sight causes a slithering, deep weight to curl and sink in your gut. Daniil would hate being touched without his permission.

“Now, Dr. Yan, you may activate the AVA.”

In any other speech, the audience would give them a round of applause… but in this one, all you can hear is the shuffling of feet, the shifting of pens, your own damned heartbeat.

“I will,” Eva’s voice, a smile in her tone to contrast the Kains’ graveness, brings you back to the real world. She steps forward, facing the Kains to bow, then the camera. “Thank you for the opportunity you have given us, Professor Kain, Mr. Kain. Dr. Dankovsky—Daniil—is a valuable colleague, and a visionary in his own right.”

You wish all this pomp would just stop. If Daniil wasn't dead, why did he keep getting these eulogies? (You push back your wish to give him your own). If they are so sure this would work, why don't they just cut to the chase?

“Now, hopefully,” she continues, flicking some switch in the AVA-bot that you can't see, “we'll see that his efforts aren't in vain.”

The Lines around you swirl in anticipation—they don't guide, they simply are. Maybe. If they guide, why can't you find Daniil’s?

There is a shift in the chassis, even drowned in that coat as it is. You expect it to whirr with the movement of every joint, like old-fashioned automatons in movies, but it's as silent as the real Daniil and just as precise.

You can't look away.

The AVA made two turns of the head. Sensing the Kains and Eva around it, its hand pushed away the unwelcome touch, and the three comply. Does it really know it's unwelcome? What does it think of Daniil’s touch aversion, if it can even think ?

The gap Daniil left stirs. What it means, you don’t know.

“Welcome back, Dr. Dankovsky,” Georgiy Kain greets.

The AVA lifts its head. Slowly, it parts the messy fringe of the black wig on top of its head, shifting the hair away from its eyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Kain,” it says, in a voice almost like Daniil’s—just deeper, more resonant. Your eyes widen. The stirring is the Lines, tickling your listening heart, and it swells in secondhand euphoria. That’s not it. That is him . That is your friend. Of course he sought to mold his robotic body when he couldn’t do it with his biological one. Victory over Death is victory over the circumstances of his birth. You wonder what your father and Simon Kain will think of this.

Then, a pause. Daniil looks intently at the camera. “It is good to be back.”

You think he’s smiling—his lips are stretched to the side. From your vantage point on his right, it doesn't quite look like his . But that can’t be. The Lines around him, slowly untangling your mess, seem to be his. Is it purely physical? Did he intend to change his appearance this much?

“Good evening, viewers. This is Daniil Dankovsky of Thanatica Laboratories. Dr. Yan, if you please?”

The AVA gestures at the wires suspending him. Eva Yan grabs some tools, moves toward his back, and tinkers to take him off the steadying device.

“How are you feeling, Dr. Dankovsky?” asks Viktor jovially, a streaming-ready face plastered on him.

“Alive,” Daniil says, the tone of its voice only slightly dry. “And mercifully free from pain. And how are you , Professor Kain?”

“Wonderful, of course.” He pats it on the back. “To see you back in the land of the living. To see you—and the rest of Thanatica—succeed in such stellar fashion.”

A smile again, which shrinks when the wires are off. Eva pats him and whispers about the gesture—he stands, poised, like he's doing a lecture.

“Which I owe very much to your kind patronage.” He nods respectfully at those blasted patriarchs. Your blood boils. “Of course, I owe it to the years of hard work from my colleagues. Without their assistance, the AVA Project would never come to fruition… and I would be six feet under by now.”

“But you are not,” Georgiy says, with a grandfatherly tone. Fuck off . “You have overcome your own death, and soon, others’ as well.”

“Astute observation, Mr. Kain,” Daniil replies. “But let us not forget—we have a long way to go…”

A pause. You think he must be trying to think of a good ending to the video—it's getting pretty long.

“Qui non proficit, deficit.”

Of course it's in Latin. You suppress the snort bubbling in your throat.

Daniil closes, “We will ensure our Thanatica is at the forefront of scientific discovery. Scientia potentia est.”

He smiles again, and stops moving. A cue for the camera to be turned off. Eva does just that.

“Thank you, Dr. Yan.” Daniil nods at her before turning to the Kains. “No experiment can be declared successful without extensive testing.”

Georgiy appraises your friend. “So, will you be tested?”

“Gladly.”

“Then a lecture is in order,” Viktor interjects, “The students of our Polyhedron Institute await your insight. If your Thanaticians preserved your lucidity, you will be ready in a few days, yes?”

“I’m frankly doubtful of that…”

The professor frowns. “Why? Do you not feel like you're at your full intellectual capacity? What is troubling you, Daniil?”

“Do not mistake my caution for a lack of lucidity or mental acuity.” His face smooths into a controlled mask. The robotic face really does capture his expressions as a human. The mask of the “inhuman” Dankovsky that most people see, now literal. You hate to think of the gossip that’s going to come. 

“That video we have just recorded hasn't even been published,” he explains, “And there will be press conferences I would need to schedule—or did you forget the whistleblowing incident of 2163?”

“Now, now, Daniil, your decision to publicize those documents from the whistleblowers…”

“ They came to me with that information. It was only ethical—and better for Thanatica's image—to reveal it.”

“You seem to be passing the tests smoothly,” Georgiy remarks. “We have had this argument with you in your previous body.”

“I know.”

“And your argument? Do you remember it?”

“We are not a clandestine operation,” Daniil says firmly. “Nor are we looking for profit. Now, gentlemen, I fear that I am keeping you away from a good night's sleep. How about we resume our discussion via instant messaging?”

Viktor laughs. 

“It really is you. Just like back in university.” He looks… fond. You want nothing more than to punch that look off his face. “Good night, Daniil. May we meet again in time.”

He pats your friend on the shoulder and leaves. The asshole doesn’t even bother to say goodbye to the scientists.

“Esteemed Thanaticians. Your work in the field of thanatology has been exemplary,” Georgiy says in lieu of a farewell, “Congratulations. You deserve to celebrate your achievement.”

With that, he follows Viktor out into who knows where.

The conversations between your fellow “estemeed Thanaticians” resume. Daniil turns to face you—and walks forward.

“Dr. Burakh.”

“Hey,” you grin, and he grins back. It’s almost like you didn’t just dissect him and extract his organs. The warmth between the two of you is palpable, in the way his Lines and yours start to intersect once more. Looking at him in a frontal view finally tells you why his smile falls a little differently. He has changed his appearance in slight ways. His face slightly more angular, his shoulders slightly broader… maybe there’s even more changes under his layers of fancy clothes. You clench with want .

Teasing words come into your mind— You’re right, who needs hormones and surgery when you can just move to another body that’s fully custom-made? Tell him that he looks radiant. That he looks happier than ever. But that has to wait.  As a colleague, you simply say, “Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” he replies. “Now, we can’t afford to get complacent.”

“Of course not,” you agree, slightly giggly. You don’t know if it’s the joy of seeing him whole or hysterics from seeing him whole after you just performed an autopsy on him. The tangles of emotion tighten around you like a scrunched up ball of yarn—you don’t know whether to hug him or to bolt out of the room. You end up blurting an undignified, “You look great.”

“I look alive ,” Daniil corrects. You can’t read his tone. Were the changes to his new body consensual? Worry starts to seize you. But he carries himself differently from before. Right? “By the way, Dr. Burakh—what was the time and location of death?”

The sheer clinical detachment of his question pushes you more towards hysterics . 

“Midnight, 1 September 2165,” you squeak out, “He was— you were—in the quarantine chamber, working on your new body.”

His eyebrows knit, but his face is otherwise mask-like. “I see. And my will? Was it done?”

He stares, and keeps staring. A will from your friend. A demand from your sort-of employer. He hasn’t blinked at all… It unsettles you. But you can’t be this unprofessional. Robots don’t need to blink. Get a grip, Burakh. 

“Yes. All infected organs accounted for and preserved, ready for delivery and/or use. The rest of your body is also gonna be available for research.”

“Right… you just dissected my dead body.” Daniil’s face twists, the impersonal observation becoming a grimace. “No wonder you are highly distressed. Please forgive my inconsideration, Artemy.”

A frown pulls your lips. Something shifts uncomfortably inside your gut. Is it that godforsaken tower again? What tortures are the Kains conducting today?

“I will be back home tonight,” is the reply. Is that an invitation to talk about your feelings? Or just information? You should consult your friends. Maybe even your father. Is he alright? You haven’t talked to him in a while, and when you did, it’s mostly about Daniil dying of the plague.

“But for now—” He gestures at the space behind you. You turn around—your fellow scientists are preparing for a toast. Alcohol will probably calm your nerves. “Let us enjoy the party. The triumph of Thanatica over Death deserves a celebration.”

He doesn’t sound quite sincere on that last part. You shoot him a questioning Look. Are the Kains doubting you? Are you doubting yourself ?

Instead of replying, though, Daniil walks past you, blood-red coattails billowing behind him. You follow him towards the center of the celebration—the platform where the AVA was docked. Fitting. He’s promptly cheered on and ushered to wear a silly paper crown someone probably hid in a stash prior. He gallantly accepts—applause erupts around you, and you can’t help but join in, he’s your friend, after all—with a bow to the Robotics and Neuroscience divisions.

“Lead the toast!” the more boisterous of your colleagues chant. “Lead the toast!”

All the while, the quieter ones distribute the drinks, all in cheap glasses from the lab’s pantry, and you smile slightly as the alcohol fills it. You take a sip—and flush brightly, straightening yourself in a beam. They must have splurged for this occasion.

“If I may,” Daniil announces from the platform. Resplendent in obsidian and ruby, and surrounded by metallic wires that complement his silver jewelry, he is the center of attention in the sea of white lab coats. Some jovial laughter, and the raising of phones to immortalize it, makes it clear that they’re thinking the exact same thing. You take a picture of him of your own—Daniil Dankovsky, a king on a throne, raising his royal glass. His belt, a silver-scaled ouroboros, gleams under the lab’s bright lights. “Let us have a toast.”

“To what, Daniil?” Eva asks. She turns on the camera again—you’ll sure see the footage in the normal group chat soon. Maybe some of the PR guys will cut some of these up for Thanatica’s EyeTube channel.

“To all of us,” he says, raising it higher. “To Thanatica.”

“To Thanatica!” Alexei, another Robotics guy, shouts in response. “What else, Dankovsky?”

“To the AVA Project,” Daniil grins. “And to the science that made it possible for us to defeat Death. Ad Vitam Aeternam—to eternal life!”

Glasses clink. Yours, others, it all gets in a Capital-typical party blur, where you just… sink yourself in the cheers and the songs and the alcohol, trying not to think about how lonely it all is.

Some of your colleagues take selfies with each other, others with Daniil. In the flow of the drinks and the chats, you hover closer to your friend, who is giving everyone a warning glare.

“No social media posts,” Daniil reminds each of them, each selfie, each video. He keeps a steady, dispassionate cadence even though you think you’ve heard him say it twenty times. “No Instapic, no Bookface, no Reelroad, no VQ, no Twatter, none whatsoever until I lift the embargo.”

Every time, he adds a new and obscure social media site. You laugh each time he adds what doesn’t seem to be a real site but fucking is when you look it up. And then… just when you’re trying to look up what the hell MyGalaxy was… you see a familiar notification.

New text from Isidor Burakh.

Sayn baina, Tyoma. How are you? And how is Daniil?

Well… 

You have missed your father… you have so much to tell him. But Daniil’s situation is complicated. So is yours. That probably is a conversation better done sober.

A glance at Daniil. You focus on him…

“...I know you are excited about our accomplishments, but please refrain yourself from sending footage of the AVA Project outside of Thanatica circles…”

…enjoying the sound of his voice. The intonation is his old one, but it feels so much fuller, now, so new . Being close to him truly invigorates you, even as muted by alcohol as it is. He is alive. Thanks to modern technology, your friend—your love—is alive.

And he will finally come back home to you.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: In Transition (Part 1)

Test Chamber 44, Thanatica Labs

1 September 2165, 04:09:09

The party dies down in drunken goodbyes and strong admonishment—from you, mostly—not to drink and drive and not to post incriminating footage on social media. There are bug scramblers all over Thanatica—of course, you know the Kains put bugs here, and you know what the government would say to research in this nature—but you can't exactly hack your colleagues' phones or check their social media accounts without severely violating their privacy. They could hide it; they could have alternate accounts; they could do it at home. You just hope none of them would be sober enough to even touch their phones.

Some of your colleagues filled into elevators, ready to take whatever vehicle or teleporter home (or maybe to further parties). Others stay behind to clean up, you included.

It almost feels like you didn't die at all.

Almost.

You drank—just out of familiarity—but with nothing absorbed, alcohol can't affect your nonexistent organs. It feels good to not fall into inebriation, especially with your small body weight. But it also feels strange. You tasted it, but also didn’t. It was like your brain recalled the burning taste of alcohol—making the inside of your mouth feel it, as if it had the necessary nerve endings—but it never arrived at the back of your throat.

Phantom taste, you take a mental note.

The memories of pain come to you in biographical lists: sore throat, burning fever, dry eyes, constant headaches, inability to move for long periods of time, difficulty sleeping. You are one of the longest patients to survive the so-called Sand Plague… it gives you a strange sense of pride. Perhaps you got off easy. Each patient seems to have changing symptoms that eludes a conclusive result, at least based on what you have read during your doomed convalescence.

Anyway, yes, you remember dying—cognitively, not emotionally. Yet? You may simply be dissociating yourself from the mental anguish of sickness; it is a common way for brains to work through— ignore —trauma. That must be tested. The Psychology Division certainly has it as a question in the assessments you are sure to attend in the coming days.

But first, cleaning.

Pantry, 4th Floor, Thanatica Labs

1 September 2165, 04:10:33

In the light of the pantry, you take off your leather gloves…

And you see your new hands—translucent white skin that shows the artificial nerves inside—segmented unlike your own. You've seen it every time you inspect the Robotics Division, at least before your colleagues dressed it up in preparation for this day, but this is the first time you see it in first person. And you sway, mentally, a freefall only people who are in the precipice of sleep can feel. Yet, your body doesn't sway.

Yes, you did wear gloves to alleviate the dysphoria from your small, dainty hands. The phrase “you know it like the back of your hand” isn't true, because you hide your hands like you hide the rest of your too-feminine body. But… this is a different kind of dysphoria entirely. Is it dysphoria? You don't feel unpleasant, per se… but… it still doesn't feel like yours. You and your colleagues commissioned skin-gloves, did they not? You need to put them on. Your hands have scars. Small scratches. Chemical discoloration, some electric, from your work in the lab. A mole on the right wrist. And later on, sandy cracks that make you feel like a snake about to molt. Is this what you are molting into?

You inhale and exhale to steady yourself. But no air actually goes in and out your chest. Something in your head blinks, an unnameable loss, perhaps a glitch. Fuck. You hope nothing's broken. This really is a new body. You did die. And now, not only are you in unfamiliar territory—all your knowledge in neuroscience and artificial intelligence pertaining to “mind uploading” has been theoretical —your humanity also has been put into question. But your colleagues—except Artemy and Eva—already see you as a heartless automaton even then, don't they?

Hastily, you replace your leather gloves with the thick, bright green rubber ones hanging next to the sink. The gloves’ pressure and texture are keenly felt… temperature, too. It's kind of sticky, but not like glue—just clingy, but probably not as bad as it would on a sweaty human hand. Insulating you from the cold, and enveloping your hands like boxing gloves. Enveloping your hands so you can pretend it's human.

You think Mishka would enjoy the feeling of being blanketed. She hates the sensation of water and soap and food of the dishes, and she can't stand wet sponges, but with gloves, she'd probably tolerate it. You know she's stressed by dishwashers because of how noisy they are…

You smile a little at the familiar human sensation. You turn the sink on, ready to put the dirty dishes under its cleaning force. Extracted from the floor, from spills of alcohol, and from hidden places, the cheap glasses and cups have thankfully been stacked here by your colleagues.

Eva Yan approaches you and stops at your right, leaning two kitchen counters away, which is empty of glass. You presume she is ready to ask you about your robotic components.

“Daniil,” she greets, “Hi again. It's good to see you back in the real world… I’ve missed you out and about. It was dull around here without your insight… Thanatica misses you, Daniil.”

She's surprisingly sober - at least she's not tipsy. She is good enough to stand upright and hold her tablet. Hopefully to take notes and not a picture of you for that fucking TLC group chat. You wish you hadn't been dying of the plague so this new body could've had the ability to detect what phones did in a certain radius, or to smell alcohol percentages in her breath, or detect minuscule changes of body temperature and heartbeat like those androids in the movies. As it stands, all you have is your meagre Dankovskian instincts.

One, two, three.

“Hello, Eva,” you reply amicably. One. You cannot pause for too long in a normal conversation. “Thank you. I’m happy to be out of quarantine.”

The sound of your new voice, on the other hand, is one of the few things you won't complain about. You're not used to it yet, but at least you don't have to pretend it’s a fragile instrument to be honed for a mission. This—a synthesizer that produces sounds you want instead of a facsimile that always falls short despite your training—is the chance for something new. And you can still change it if you're not satisfied. Everything in you looks forward to trying things out.

“It's an honour to see a man who challenged Death and won,” she croons, and you can hear the smile in her voice. You turn to face her, and there it is, a coy smile, bright eyes. You think she could use some pride for herself and her division—she is the leader.

One, two. No need to be hasty—it’d just sound like you’re saying it to reassure her. Natural pause. Talk like a human. 

“Thanks to your division and the others,” you reply, “But as much as this celebration was needed as a morale booster—I think saying that we ‘defeated death’ is undeserved yet.”

Eva continues writing. “Hm… is that what you think, Daniil? You feel just like… you . My classmate… group mate… and the famed founder of Thanatica. A clever and dedicated man. No one else would pursue this and succeed.”

“I may look and feel like the Dankovsky you know,” you explain, “But there are tests I have yet to pass. Cognitive, emotional, sensory, mobility, and even… the Kains’ trials.” You shudder–or maybe just the feeling of it?—at the thought of reentering Polyhedron II. Can you still shudder? “While you, Eva, did great work—unprecedented, even—we don't yet know how much of me is truly retained, and if there is anything new that springs from this process.”

“What sort of ‘anything’ do you think may spring out of this?”

“I don't know,” you admit. “Perhaps the Psychology Division would have a better idea.”

The Polyhedron II would… You shake it off. You are terrified to see what it would transform you into. You had avoided entering it for long enough.

“Psychology… that's beyond our study, both yours and mine.”

“Exactly.”

You continue putting dishes on the clean stack, and repeat your washing on the waiting glasses, as methodical as a home assistant robot. The simile your mind produced isn't lost on you.

“Your chassis is waterproof, you know,” she says, writing more—what she's writing, you sadly still have no idea. No X-ray vision for you either. You and Robotics didn't deem it necessary, but damn, you should've. “You don't have to put on gloves to wash the dishes.”

“I know,” you reply.

“Oh… then, what's stopping you from washing the dishes like you used to? I know you didn't like using the rubber gloves…”

Memories of group projects, done together in her apartment, fills your mind. Food you ate together. Dishes you washed together. You liked the sensation of the water, and even the food stains. It was disgusting, but it reminded you of medical practice. It wasn't so bad. You dip the sponge into the tiny bowl of soapy water. One, two, three, four, you finish the scrubbing. You need to look as attentive as you are being. “I’m not used to the sight of my new hands. Still, it has fine craftsmanship.”

She's not a close enough friend for you to confess about your dysphoria— not like you have any friends close enough for that, Dankovsky. You kill that thought by taking a new glass, rubbing the wet surface with the suds. The lack of scent makes you scrub faster. Sensory deprivation. Right . You should have expected that. A sense of smell is necessary for human safety, and for the activation of certain memories. You and the others never had the time to develop this; why did you have to get infected and die like an idiot? At least, in this new body, you're no longer immunocompromised. 

You have just become a contagion spot , a wry voice in your mind says.

“Oh, it must be strange…” she sighs. 

The pouring of water and your scrubbing compete with the tap-scratch of her stylus against her screen, at least. The added sensory experience compensates for the lack of smell. It gives you time to think, to let her carry the conversation. 

“I don't understand how it must feel, but please… Take your time getting used to it. Let me tell the Kains to postpone any tests, if you need a break. Dying, to the plague no less… must have been so hard.”

“Thank you, Eva.” You smile at her, trying to be respectful, but not smitten. It's controlled, as if you had extra joints—even easier to control than your human face. Your smile must be delightfully slight. This body doesn't twitch when you wear your well-practiced mask. She locks her tablet screen and puts it on her belt.

“I will help you if your hand shakes,” she adds, “I hope you know that, Daniil…”

“I doubt they will,” you reply. You've finished washing your last glass. You stack them with the others. “We tested them extensively.”

“True… but it's better to be safe than sorry…”

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Don’t look too eager.

“Yes, of course.” You nod. But you aren't exactly interested in getting to a personal robotic wound-patching session with her. “I will certainly consult Robotics and Neuroscience if anything goes wrong.”

You take off the rubber gloves and see that your hands are dry. Still… feeling the heat from being constricted for so long, you wipe them with some tissue paper before rewrapping them with your leather gloves. Like that phantom taste. Maybe you'll take notes later on—the field of medicine would love a discovery of how the brain acts in a non-exactly-human body. You think you’re enjoying this more than you expected.

When that's over, you push the stool on your left so you can reach the dish rack to put the newly-cleaned dishes away. Damn your height. You had plans to make this new body taller, of course, being cursed with a meat vessel that's merely 1.6 meters tall—even shorter than Eva. But you didn't. You already wear platform shoes and insoles in everyday life, adding ten centimeters to your height. And telling the entirety of Thanatica that you wish to be tall enough to not get immediately misgendered is too intimate.

When you're done tidying up the dishes, Eva doesn't leave.

If you were in a human body, you would have tensed up in nervousness.

“Is there anything more I can help you with?” you inquire, stepping down the stool.

She already put away the tablet. Whatever she needs must be personal or at least off-record—oh. Eva closes the distance between the two of you and takes your hand in hers—bare and gloved, her fluttering eyelashes framing wide eyes. Her light, misty hazel eyes bore into your dry, dark, unblinking visual sensors.

“My dear Daniil,” she sighs, a thumb rubbing circles on your gloved knuckles. The pressure is light and soft. Fascinating. “When you succumbed to the plague… I thought all hope was gone. But seeing you still up, with your VR gloves… working on the AVA with me and the rest of Robotics inspired me. I think I know what you’d say to that… Dum spiro, spero… It means ‘while I breathe, I hope’... Right?”

“Right,” you reply. Her closeness tenses you, heats you—the heat sensors are working well, almost as well as your old flesh vessel. One, two. “Dum spiro, spero.”

“ You gave me hope, Daniil,” Eva continues. She cups your hands in hers—it’s warm. If you still had a human heart, you think it would start thundering in your ears. “If you hadn’t been by my side, I would have given up… I would have thrown myself off the top of Thanatica, so my soul could help you defeat Death…”

Oh, Eva… You should have been more attentive. How long has she felt this way? Since you went to class together? Since you got infected? Before you met?  

One, two. Never too hasty. People don’t believe you when you are. You direct your lips to form a frown, small and sympathetic.

“No, Eva,” you say firmly, with a gaze just as steely, but hopefully encouraging, too. “Your life is worth more than that. I assure you, your contribution to our Robotics Division is not for naught. Without you, I wouldn't be alive right now. And I’m glad you are alive…”

As the last word leaves your mouth, she leans closer—and silences you with her own.

Her kiss feels like a human kiss you remember, warm and damp. You then feel a set of hands on your back, clinging tightly like you’d evaporate if she didn’t. Set a timer, project to HUD, you think to no one. That was one of the features you looked forward to the most—please work, please work—! In your field of view is a timer, counting how long she kisses you. Triumph fills you and straightens your posture. 

One. You thought she wouldn’t make the first move.

Two. You thought you were distant enough for her not to make the first move.

Three. Did you do something wrong?

Four. Are you doing something wrong by not returning her embrace? 

Five. Your hands just lay there on the side.

Six. Inaction. Her tongue licks the inside of your mouth. Is it even pleasant?

Seven. This is fascinating. You should play more with the HUD.

Eight.

She lets go.

“I… I’m sorry,” she gasps, pulling herself away, holding her own hand on her waist, rubbing each other like she was caught in the snow without any gloves. “I was… carried away…”

Stop timer. The timer stops. Your lips are wet. Your oral cavity, too, is wet. What did she taste? Metal and madness? Plastic? Soft hydraulics? You didn’t really taste the alcohol. You realise in disappointment that you probably won’t be able to taste yourself.

“It’s Burakh, isn’t it?” Eva looks down at her shoes. “ He gives you hope, the way you give me hope. I see the way he looks at you…”

Fuck. You try to count the correct seconds for a response, but she beats you to it.

“And… you live together, don’t you?”

Okay, now. He does give you hope, but… you two aren’t romantically involved. 

“No,” you say at length, hoping you don’t misinterpret her intentions, “We are friends. Our cohabitation is for financial reasons… everything is expensive in the Capital.”

Something in your head says, you’re telling her too much. As if she has any business knowing about your housing situation with Artemy and his children.

It’s too late to change anything, you retort. I already told her.

Macte virtute, your mind-voice hisses.

She continues wringing her hands, more desperately now, pulling at her sleeves. Her skin, usually alabaster, reddens, increasingly contrasting itself from the white lab coat. “Oh… then… why?”

Why didn’t you kiss me back, she is probably saying. Why didn’t you hold me the way I held you?

One. Two. Three. You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air in frustration. 

“You are also my friend… a highly intelligent colleague and roboticist,” you answer, truthful and deliberate. “If you wish, we can remain friends.”

Eva’s gaze is back to you now, though with the tears pooling around it, she looks like she’d rather look anywhere but.

“Okay…” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. Her voice wavers. “Okay, Daniil. That sounds like a nice idea…”

“Okay,” you echo her, for lack of anything good to say. And then you hastily add, “Thank you, Eva.”

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip.

You’re sure you had turned off the faucet properly. But there is still some water left, apparently. You should have someone repair it. 

Drip.

Drip.

The sound of the water punctuated every second of this silence—a silence no one dares break. You stare at Eva, who stands like a deer in headlights, wondering—why? Why does she see you as a viable romantic partner? 

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

And how do you seem right now, standing stiffly, straight and proud—no longer encumbered with any pain in your joints and back to make you shift your stance? Is she not unsettled by your unblinking gaze? 

Drip.

Drip.

By your lack of breathing? 

Drip. 

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

By your new voice and new face and new shape?

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Does she see Daniil Dankovsky, Human Being, in her eyes?

Thankfully, Eva returns your gaze, now. Predictably, it gives no answers to your flood of questions.

“I was… about to tell you…” She stumbles on her words. You want to console her, but you don’t know how. You can’t let her think you changed your mind. “The others have finished disinfecting your belongings and put them outside the quarantine chamber. You… you can go home now. With a disguise, of course… we can’t let the paparazzi get a glimpse…”

Home. Finally! “Thank you for informing me of this.” 

Why the fuck did she delay all that, your CPU groans. She could’ve just started with that information.

You don’t answer it. You don’t answer him? Yourself?

“Of course…” She turns on her heel. Then, looking at you one last time with red-rimmed eyes... “See you around, Daniil.”

You give her a—hopefully—respectful nod. “Good night.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: In Transition (Part 2)

Pantry, 4th Floor, Thanatica Labs

1 September 2165, 04:40:00

Apparently, the feeling of fatigue from an intense social interaction is not exclusive to a vessel of flesh and blood. Sagging like a boneless bag of flour, you lean on the refrigerator. You wish you were back in your bed, with ample time to recompose yourself into something with a semblance of dignity. You should try to soothe yourself. But without breathing, or a heartbeat, or a sense of smell and taste, to ground yourself, what do you even do?

Turn off that faucet properly, for one. Stop that noise.

You sigh. A strange, breathless one—just a voice that pretends to be an exhale. Interesting. Checking the faucet just yielded the answer you closed it properly, you should get it fixed. 

Another sigh. God. You shouldn’t have led her on.

You were just being friendly!

You should have pushed her away. But her kiss felt interesting. You could submit that to your colleagues as a report on your sensory capabilities.

Something presses the inside of your… CPU? Head? Skull? That is insanely unprofessional , Dankovsky.

You internally shake your head. Artemy would be furious.

Why would he be?

Is Eva right? Vague scenarios play in your head of Artemy confessing. Dread pools inside you… your legs, your arms, your nonexistent heart, and swirls ominously. Your eyes squeeze shut. Does he like me romantically? How? Why?

What are you going to do now? Live alone? So he doesn’t kiss you like Eva did?

But what if you want him to kiss you? Does it feel different? Every sensation must be noted. You remind yourself to see a log of your thoughts later, on a computer. If he still thinks I’m desirable as a robot, that is. What sort of Lines do I give off? Is my existence blasphemous to the Kin?

That’s called leading him on , idiot.

Friends should be able to kiss each other for fun.

Probably not on the lips… What are you, French? Should I spell your name as “D’Ankovsky”, now?

The sheer ridiculousness of that spelling brings a laugh out of you. The sound is pleasant—bad, bad, bad, the Kains know— in its timbre. Gone are the days you trained your voice, vainly dragging the soprano down to an acceptable tenor, and still get misgendered from utterly missing your target. Now you sound like the way you have always fantasized yourself sounding. And of course the Kains know. 

Good! 

What?

It’s good. You don’t need them to pay for hormones or surgery and give them more power over you—this is your choice. You do it now, consulting the designers to change your new chassis slightly, behind the Kains’ backs, so they don’t have to watch your flesh vessel transform like your transition is some kind of gift they graciously gave you.

Never again! 

Daniil Daniilovich Dankovsky is a gift you gave yourself. A person you made yourself.

A warning suddenly flashes in your line of sight. It makes you acutely aware of the unpleasant wetness inside your mouth. You take your handkerchief from the pocket of your vest and wipe it… just the outside, sadly. Your lips are wet. 

But you don't dare shove a handkerchief inside your oral cavity… you’ve already embarrassed yourself enough in front of the security cameras—you probably should delete the footage before that damned TLC group chat defiles your image even more. You'll get the insides cleaned another way.

By Artemy and his surgery skills? He must be adept at navigating people’s insides, the voice in your CPU says bitterly.

No, you groan, massaging the bridge of your nose, it’s bad enough that he saw my dead body and undressed it.

You still trusted him, of course. He knew you more than anyone else—you put him on your will for a reason. But the fact that you’re not actually dead and have to confront that fact afterwards—especially if Artemy decided to bring up your rather unique binder and the rather… distinctive … shape of flesh under it… especially if he actually likes you that way… You shudder.

“Daniil.”

Oh, speak of the devil. Artemy Burakh stands in the doorway of the pantry, no longer wearing a lab coat properly, but tying it around his waist. The rest of his clothes are normal. He is the opposite of Eva—he’s casual, only a little apprehensive, neither blushing nor crying.

Don’t make him cry too…

Or blush!

“Artemy!” you say as casually as you can, “What is it?”

“Here’s your stuff,” he replies, carrying a bag that presumably has your phone, your laptop, your binder, and your virtual-reality gloves. Meager belongings that you took into the quarantine chamber, though having an internet connection helped, at least with the variety of entertainment you can have. Talking to Artemy and his children—and Clara when she’s there, you guess—also alleviated your boredom.

“Thank you.”

“Let’s get you changed and go home,” Artemy says, patting you on the shoulder, “We’re not teleporting. Reporters got wind of the Kains coming here and are crowding every teleporter and every entrance. Security had to push them back, but it didn’t work. The others were pissed about it.”

“What?” Your eyes widen. “Don’t tell me we have to walk home. Please tell me we’re taking the train.”

Artemy replies with a wry smile. “We are. Everyone coming out of Thanatica has to take the secret passage… and arrive at different train stations, before getting home on foot or maybe their own vehicles.”

“Totum revolutum,” you feel yourself muttering. The Latin was an anchor, a memorized phrase, anchoring you to… something in the back of your mind? You settle on humanity.

“You’re our special package,” he chuckles, emphasizing the word “special” with air quotes. “So not only do you need to ride a train, you need a fake ID for it too.”

“Do I need a fake face to avoid paparazzi, too?” you ask, a joking challenge tilting your head.

Instead of playing along, Artemy looks disturbed. “Robotics gave me this thing.”

He produced a smaller bag from the bag of your belongings—you can see a face, stretched unnaturally, looking out eyelessly from the diaphanous container.

You stare at the mask, then at your friend. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m serious.” He hands you the package. “I’ll give you the clothes too. It’s all so modern, no one would know it’s you.”

“Lovely.” You accept it, knowing you would be hounded by the media if you didn’t. “I look forward to looking like a man of the twenty-second century.”

Artemy snorts at the sarcasm in your tone. “So do I, to be honest.”

“Burakh, you traitor!” You laugh, ribbing him as you two made your way to the men’s restroom. “I thought you were my friend.”

“A friend introduces you to new experiences,” he grins, “You can’t be fabulously antique all the time, Dankovsky. Sometimes you have to get down from your dandy throne and wear peasant clothes like the rest of us.”

You click your tongue in mock-disapproval—when it doesn’t sound like a wet slap between tongue and palate, you laugh even harder. Maybe today will not be a string of unpleasantness, after all.

Men’s Restroom, 4th Floor, Thanatica Labs

1 September 2165, 04:49:59

You stand in front of the mirror, staring at your new reflection. Will people finally acknowledge your gender in this new visage? But maybe you are no longer just a man.

Trans man? No, you imagine telling the public in a lecture, I am a trans machine. I’m transitioning from flesh to digital. You chuckle. You’re living a transhumanist’s dreams and yet you still question yourself… 

Hmm… Maybe they wouldn’t be a hundred percent certain, either. Everything can be a Focus, according to the Kains, but you still think that each Focus would differ from each other. A soul occupying a house would feel differently from a soul occupying a nut—fucked up to put a human soul in there—would feel differently from a soul occupying a robotic body. You think a soul in a house would be quite dysphoric, considering the lack of mobility. Or would they be mobile, like a ghost? Or simply an echo that can be heard in every corner? Literal or metaphorical?

Hell… Is a soul even real? Are you Daniil Dankovsky’s soul repossessing this chassis? Or is your current supposed “soul” just the sum of your copied neurons? Does the chassis itself have a soul? Which one are you?

The one so distracted he can’t get home, your thoughts answer, rolling his eyes.

Oh, right.

The mask and wig still lay in waiting inside the semi-transparent container. Artemy is waiting outside, probably leaning on the door. You can imagine him texting Clara, asking about his children. Or texting his friends. Maybe listening to some music.

A sigh. Then, you take a deep breath that isn’t actually a breath. You take off your wig. Ha, you look absolutely terrible when you’re bald. Laughter shakes your shoulders. Before you could have another long session of philosophizing, you undo your cravat and put it in the pocket of your waistcoat. Following that, you unbutton your waistcoat and shirt to give yourself a space to take off your face. What a strange thought.

As you’ve seen during the making of the AVA unit, the skin suit only covers your face up to the upper chest, a few centimeters below the collarbones, plus the shoulders. Enough to look human if you decide to unbutton your shirts or wear a low-cut t-shirt. You wish to get a closer look—! Your sight zooms in like a camera—which it is!—and enhances the details of your reflection, until you can see the seam of the artificial skin. You look down, diagonally, at the meeting between your scapula and clavicle. Well… no longer called those. The seam is there, subtle but obvious in your enhanced vision. 

God above. You also worked on this feature, Dankovsky.

Come now, Daniil. It’s different to see it in third person and first person.

You will your vision to normalize again. You peel off the seam, and now it looks like you’re peeling your skin off. There’s no pain, only a slight tug—like taking off a wet shirt. When it’s peeled on the side, your fingers move up to your neck, then your jaw. Now it’s easier for you to take it off… you pull it from the top of the head, like taking off a hat, and feel it slap strangely against the inside of your skin. You then take it off and try to fold it on the sides without folding the face itself.

And then you see it.

The face of the AVA unit, the face that the Robotics Division constructed from soft artificial-muscles, plastics, and waterproof frame.

You reflexively step back at the strange sight.

Not me. No! Please. Stop looking. Stop looking! 

It comes naturally to you to look in the mirror without actually looking, what with your intense dysphoria as a human… but you can’t draw your gaze away from Thanatica’s most majestic creation.

From yourself.

“My face… Is this real?”

You watch the inhuman lips part as you speak, the cheeks lifting like human muscles while talking—your mask is thicker than human skin to prevent tears, so it doesn’t move as much as these actuators try to carry it. Uncanny valley, your colleagues commented, it should be fixed when we have time—right, Dankovsky? But now that you've seen it in action, you don't mind as much. You need to ask the Kains to rain money on the Robotics Division. Pneumatic actuators encasing artificial nerves that could feel at all times… truly a marvel. You don’t understand why some people see arts and sciences as a mutually exclusive dichotomy—AVA is a beautiful work of art. 

You are a beautiful work of art.

The word “beautiful” elicits a spike of dysphoria, however, and you decisively open the container and take your costume out. Put another face back on—it’s not as high-quality as your own skin, but it’s acceptable. The wig is a reddish brown in a nostalgic style, long in a way men’s hair were long in the 40’s and 50’s. Artemy used to have his hair like this when you graduated—shaggy and fluffy, the dark blond strands brushing his mid-back. 

You put the mask on—it only reaches the neck—then the wig. This wig stops just above the shoulders, however. Now, you no longer want to look at your reflection properly. You put your Daniil Dankovsky mask and hair inside the container.

You also notice that there’s a pair of detachable hand-gloves—yours. The one you’d commissioned. The hair on the arms is black, like your hair, but it won’t really matter since you’re going to detach the arm and just wear it up to the wrist. Men of the 2160s preferred long sleeves, anyway. The modesty of the jumpsuits contrast the ridiculous neon accents—like a vision of 22nd century humans created by 21st century writers and artists. It’s funny how it actually becomes a trend.

So you get out of your vintage clothes and replace them with modern dress.

You don’t look at all like yourself in this disguise.

That’s the point.

You respond with an eyeroll. You can’t believe being a robot makes your own thoughts more colorful.

Let’s get out of here, you think to yourself, Artemy is waiting.

Hallway, 4th Floor, Thanatica Labs

1 September 2165, 05:05:05

“Welcome back,” Artemy greets you, handing you the bag of your belongings. When you take it, he doubles back in surprise. “Mother Boddho. You look like someone else. I feel stupid for expecting my friend’s face to wear modern clothes.”

“Excellent,” you smirk, slinging your bag on your shoulder. “You don’t deserve to see me in such a disgraceful outfit.”

“The long hair, too,” he snickers, rubbing the back of his neck, now only having the slightest bit of hair. “How long has it been since we rocked these? It's almost like we're back in university!”

“The opening of Thanatica,” you reply, “I had shoulder-length hair then.” Just like when I got infected, but you don’t say it. Artemy probably knows that too—his smile fades slightly.

This mask feels weird on you, tight from being unused. Didn’t I just think how the skin is too thick for the actuators in the face? You feel like you have to open your mouth wider—but should you really? Your voice synthesizer’s volume and pitch—and even voice bank—can be set separately. You set it to… um… You think of a setting. Not your voice. It can’t be your voice, new or old. It flicks to life in your vision. 

There are a few voice banks in your arsenal—not many, but enough to test various cadences and not just the “clone” of your own voice. You choose the “standard” male preset, which, you recall, sounds like a 21st century text-to-speech. Whatever.

“We’ll be home soon,” you reassure him, “I promise to give you the ‘2165 Daniil’ you so desperately wish to see.”

Artemy snorts—not just at your promise, but probably also at your new voice. “Now that’s more like it. Come on, before we miss the next train.”

Secret Passage, Basement, Thanatica Labs

1 September 2165, 05:09:59

The elevator ride down was pleasantly quiet—you both seemed to have missed simply standing in each other’s presence, not having to administer (or drink) tinctures, or get tested for various plague-related ailments. In the mirrored walls of the lift, you watched Artemy’s face… he was smiling and leaning back, standing in a relaxed way you hadn’t seen since before you got infected. You couldn’t help but smile, too.

The conversation only resumes in the basement, where you go through the winding secret passages—this time, the one that leads to the train station with a 5:30 schedule.

“I’m glad you’re a robot now,” Artemy says, his strides one step for two of yours, “or I would have to carry you.”

“Very funny,” you retort, “My lack of athleticism isn’t caused by having a human body. You should have seen me back in the theater. My ten-year-old self would have run laps around you.”

You don’t usually bring up your life before you were Daniil Dankovsky. (Or even Valerius Dankovsky or the myriad of chosen names you shed.) But the secret passages don’t have any cameras—a high-risk, high-reward maneuver, but it’s okay. It’s okay now so you can bring it up in the vague manner you always have.

Artemy laughs. It’s deep and hearty and makes your heart ache in how much you’ve missed it. “Oh, so it’s caused by your advanced age?” 

The banter is familiar—you also like that he avoids talking about your height, he’s always considerate that way. You elbow his side, eliciting a gentle push back. You sway a bit and smirk, stretching the strange mask you are wearing.

“Shut up, I’m only twenty-nine.”

Artemy scoffs. “Thirty. I gave you tinctures you said tasted like sewage for your birthday, remember?”

“Of course I remember that,” you roll your eyes. “My birthday was just yesterday, I’m not used to being thirty yet.”

“So you forgot your birthday because you’re a senile senior citizen. Got it.”

“Have some respect,” you say in mock-seriousness, imitating yourself during lectures. “At least call me ‘Dr Dankovsky’ if you are going to treat me like that.”

“Alright, old man.”

You huff dramatically. “When you turn thirty…” You jab at his chest. “I will make sure to lecture you for your passage into old age.”

“It won’t happen in a while,” he points out, grinning, “I’m going to enjoy my youth until then.”

“Suit yourself,” you reply, “You’ll regret ever mocking me in this manner.”

“I doubt it.”

He flashes you a lopsided smile. You want to kiss that charming tilt and card your fingers through his growing beard and his wavy hair…

No, you don’t. Where is that thought coming from?

“I see the gears turning inside your brain, Daniil,” Artemy says. Shit. “It could even be literal. What’s on your mind?”

“I have no literal gears in my brain,” you reply, “You are a few centuries late for steampunk gear-brained automaton fantasies.”

You walk faster—now, Artemy has to catch up.

“Avoiding my question, I love that.” He nods in smug self-satisfaction. It makes you want to kiss him. No, it doesn’t. “You truly are the Daniil Dankovsky I know. I’ve missed you.”

You stop short at his confession.

That’s not a confession.

Considering your lack of ability in reading people’s crushes, anything can be considered a confession at this rate.

“ Have you?” you find yourself asking, as venomous as a snake’s bite. A hiss forms itself in the back of your throat, the back of your mind, does it matter? “Have we not been talking the entire time I was quarantined?”

Artemy’s brows furrow.

“I miss talking to you while you’re healthy.” He pauses, as if considering the next steps he should take as to not offend you— way to go, Dankovsky. Keep hissing at people until they stop bothering to peel off your layers of scaly skin. “It’s been a while.”

Right. No more hissing. You’re a human being—a robotic being, whatever. Artemy is your friend . You will keep this friendship intact, or so help me. 

“I apologize for my harshness.” You swallow the venom. It hurts your nonexistent heart. More phantom sensations to keep in mind for your research. “You’re right. It has been a while.”

“It’s fine,” Artemy replies. He’s frowning. Then he’s smiling mysteriously. Macte virtute, Dankovsky. You’re driving him insane… not that it’s difficult. Anyone would go insane if they cohabit with you.

“We can talk more at home, right? No one will eavesdrop there.”

“Of course, Artemy.” 

Now you have to compose a proper script for how you feel. Perhaps ask him how he feels after taking care of your sick self and dissecting your dead body without so much of a thank you. What a fantastic friend and employer you are. You note that the script now has to have “would you like a raise?” in it. 

You’re doing so well that the two of you walk in tense silence until you find a fork in the road.

“We should go left,” Artemy says, “Just a hundred meters left to our teleporter. Here’s your mask.”

“Alright.” 

You put your mask on, and watch him put his on. You haven't put one on in such a long time… You don’t know how to fill the awkward silence. The hundred meters feels like it stretches miles and miles… until your phone vibrates.

“Who’s that?”

“I have no idea,” you answer. You take the phone out of the bag—it’s been disinfected, hopefully—and see the caller.

Your eyes widen.

Artemy is peeking, too. “What have you done to earn the wrath of Vasilisa Stamatina?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t talked to her in a while,” you admit, “I need to answer this to find out… she might not be angry at me.”

Click.

You put your phone on your ear.

“What have you done to my Eva?!” your old friend shouts. “She’s on the roof, Dankovsky! She’s ready to throw herself off… Thanatica isn’t made to be a Focus…”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

At your lack of reply, she shrieks, “She’s on the roof of Thanatica! Your stupid lab! I couldn’t convince her to change her mind… She texted me about how she wants to help you…”

“No…”

“ Yes , Daniil! I’ll text you more later—just get her out of there!”

Click.

“Shit,” you mutter. Without a further word, you pull the lab coat from Artemy’s waist and sprint to the teleporter. 

“Daniil! Wait!”

You ignore him. There’s no time to waste.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: There is Only One AVA Unit

Roof, Thanatica Labs

1 September 2165, 05:10:00

You land on the roof’s teleporter and realize you don’t sway anymore while landing. Good. Good. You quickly put on the too-large lab coat and hope Eva won’t be suspicious. Your night-vision— thank Eva and her team for that— spots your colleague at the very edge, already over the railings but not yet jumped. 

You run over to her. Fuck. But you can’t tell her you’re you. Daniil Dankovsky put her up there. He had driven her to suicide by her rejection. You should’ve kissed her back. You should’ve accepted her. You should’ve taken her home. At least your mask and wig mean that you won’t be recognized as the wretched snake who planted his fangs on her skin and poisoned her.

You slow down when you get closer. She still stands there—not noticing you—her blond hair freed from its bun, swaying in the autumn wind with her lab coat.

“Dr. Yan,” you call out. You don’t sound like you. You hope it doesn’t scare her.

She turns around step by step, each one dangerously close to the precipice, and looks at you. She’s not wearing a mask. “I don’t recognize you… who are you?”

Her eyes are bloodshot. Her face is streaked with tears. You want nothing more than to hug her and pull her out of there. You should’ve asked the engineers to build a force field around this damn place. You will ask them to do it as soon as you can.

“It doesn't matter,” you reply. Now, you need to choose your words wisely… “But Dr. Yan—I saw you, here. Why? Isn’t the AVA Project a success under your expertise?”

“Daniil—Dr. Dankovsky—said…” She wipes another tear with the sleeve of her lab coat. “It’s not a success yet. He says he still needs to… pass tests… or something like that… How can I know? I am nothing compared to him…”

You gave me hope, Daniil… If you hadn’t been by my side, I would have given up…

You truly have ruined her. Her hope. Her bright mind. Everything flushed down the drain because you can’t even kiss a woman properly. You can’t even thank one of the best scientists in the country properly.

“It’s not your fault,” you try to reassure her. “Dankovsky has his own goals, you know? And you know how the Kains are…”

I would have thrown myself off the top of Thanatica, so my soul could help you defeat Death…

Your goal is her goal. Fuck. You probably chose the wrong words. Thankfully, you watch her shakily walk towards the railing. You hope you’re not going to push her further away.

“What division are you from,” she asks, holding on to the railing. Her gaze bores into you.

“Psychology,” you lie. You squarely hold her gaze. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. A challenge. It’s the division that doesn't interact much with hers.

She laughs, the sound soaked with tears. 

“A shrink, for the crazy, suicidal girl…” She trails off. One of her hands lets go of the railing and cradles her head as she squeezes her eyes shut. “I’m sorry you had to see this…”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” you reply, laying your hand on hers.

“But I am,” she sobs, burying her face in both hands, and resting it on the railing. “I thought jumping off this building would help Daniil with his project.”

“How?”

“My soul,” Eva answers. Her voice shakes, and with it, her hunched shoulders. You reach out to rub her back… this is so awkward… but you have to do it. You have to try. You rub her back in lines, in circles, trying to be gentle. “My soul would be stored in the Focus and give him power… my girlfriend said that Thanatica isn’t a Focus, but… it would still help, wouldn’t it? Polyhedron II is a Focus. But I can't enter it. It still has to work in Thanatica… so Daniil can pass all the tests…”

“A Focus…” you echo. Like hell you’re going to touch Polyhedron II with a ten-foot pole—you might just encourage her to move her suicide to the top of that building, if it has one, since it can listen to her desires. You need to ask the twins how that tower works, sometime later.

“Yeah… something that can store a soul…”

“From my point of view,” you say, “Discounting the second Polyhedron, the only focus in Thanatica is the AVA Project.”

Eva looks up at you. Your hand darts from her back into Artemy’s pocket.

“The robot, I mean,” you clarify, gesturing vaguely in the air, “Because it holds Dankovsky’s soul. Allegedly.”

“Oh…” She purses her lips. Then, she rubs her wrists… there must be wounds under her long sleeves… fuck, fuck, you should have done more. Cared more. Be a better friend. 

Now is your chance.

“But there is only one AVA unit, isn’t there?” You look at her intently—you hope it’s a sympathetic look. Wearing a mask limits your options, but there’s a plague in the air. “If you die, you’d latch on to his body…”

“And… and I’ll take over the body,” Eva gasps. “He’ll die again.”

“Or, if he survives, you’ll have to fight him for control,” you say, lighthearted, “But… you don’t seem like you want to fight him.”

She frowns, wringing her hands again. “That’s… the last thing I want. Especially since… I…”

She lets go of the railing and goes back to the precipice. Fuck!

You insert yourself through the gap in the railings and follow her. “Dr. Yan?”

She slides down into a sitting position and throws her head back on the railing. You sit beside her as quietly as possible—keeping a respectable distance, but hopefully not that far.

“I’m in love with him,” Eva confesses. She puts her face in her hands again, her hair falling over to cover it. “I… I even kissed him! On the lips! And… and he didn’t kiss me back…”

Awkwardness intensifies. You rub her back again. You don’t really know how to respond to her words otherwise.

“I know I said I have a girlfriend,” she continues, “But she’s okay if I love anyone I want… and so, the other one I love is… him… ”

You were content to silently accompany her, but… suddenly, you ask, “Why?”

She turns to you. “Have you seen him?”

“Enough times,” you reply evasively.

“Then… you know he’s…” She looks away again, scrunching the hem of her skirt. “He’s a sight for sore eyes… And his lectures… he’s knowledgeable, and—and just—intelligent, and he wants to make the world better… even when he was bedridden by the plague.”

“How did he do that?” You go along with your fake identity. Someone from Psychology won’t be intimately familiar with your work building the neural networks of the AVA unit.

“Virtual reality gloves,” Eva explains. Now, she’s looking down at the floor, drawing circles in the dust coating it. “He’d wear them in the quarantine room… it will move real hands in the Robotics lab… like a far-off controller.”

“Woah…”

“It is impressive…” 

“It’s gotta be your work, right?” you ask. You want to build her back up. “Real hands, being robotic hands? Not flesh hands that he cut off?”

She bows her head. She doesn’t find your attempt at humor even remotely funny, does she. “Not just my work… we did it with Bioengineering…”

“Still… you must contribute a lot to the project,” you say, “You’re helpful—helpful to Dankovsky, even—when you’re alive.”

Eva’s body trembles again. You hover closer to her in worry… until you hear that she’s laughing.

“Haha… you really are from the Psychology Division…” She looks up to you, then squints, head tilted—shit. She’s looking at the lab coat you’re wearing. Your hand flies to your chest. Thank fuck Artemy took his ID card off.

“Aww, I can’t even try to know your name?” She looks at you with pleading eyes.

“It’s not important,” you reply. You’re grimacing, but it probably looks like a smile in your eyes when you’re masked. “We’ll see each other again, I’m sure… But even if you don’t, you won’t be alone. I’m sure you can still ask your girlfriend for emotional support. Or… anyone else you care about.”

“Okay, okay,” Eva giggles. She still looks red, like she’s crying, but the tears are mostly absent from her voice now. You almost sigh in relief. “You have convinced me… at least for now. Thanatica would close down if I kill myself just after the AVA Project was done…”

“Thank you, Dr. Yan. I’m glad you decided not to end your life.” You actually sigh in relief. You rise to your feet and offer her a hand. “Should I call your girlfriend to pick you up?”

“Oh… no, she doesn’t live here,” Eva says, “But it’s kind of you to offer.”

She takes your hand—tugs it—well, fuck. She tugs too hard and pulls off your human-hand glove. She looks at said glove. Then at your hand, translucent and segmented. Her eyes widen as she appraises you. Scanning up, and down, and then at the too-large coat that she probably deduces as Artemy’s… before landing back on the hand. The hand she helped construct.

“Daniil,” Eva gasps. “What are you doing here?! How—why—”

“Please don’t jump,” you plead, sitting back down to her eye level. “I care about you. I truly do.”

Eva averts her gaze. She clenches her fist, squeezing the glove in her hand. “How did you know I was here?”

“Your girlfriend told me,” you reply, “I couldn’t let you be here alone. I should have been a better friend. I’m sorry.”

“Vasha… damn you,” she mutters. She scrunches her skirt again.

One. Two. Three. Four. When you don’t hear any more grumbling from her, you know it’s time.

“Please… know that I am here for you,” you continue, squeezing her shoulder. It is easier to do that when you are wearing a stranger’s face. Or perhaps simply easier when she’s on death’s door. “When I said that we could remain friends, I meant it.”

“Friends…” Eva looks like she’s tossing the word between her hands. It’s not good enough. You’re not good enough. “Friends… with you, Daniil?”

More than friends , you wish you could say. You wish you could give her what she wants—a romantic kiss, a hand in marriage, or even true love from a human heart. But you don’t have either of those. You can’t force yourself to live a lie—you’ve done that long enough.

“Best friends, even,” you say firmly, to sweeten the deal. To silence the voice in your head. “We can text as much as you need to.”

Slowly, with trembling hands, she stands up, and offers a hand to you in a mirror image of your cover-blowing action. She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t look angry, either. At least she probably doesn’t hate you… you hope she won’t. 

“I’ll take you up on it… just… Please don’t break your promise.”

You take her hand with new resolve. “I’ll try my best, Eva.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Spoilers and Spoils

The Focus, Elsewhere

[REDACTED]

Ex nihilo nihil fit.

The nothingness of a certain Focus transforms into a theater in the same way existence sprung from the depths of Khaos, yet the darkness permeates; an audience cannot see all. The nothingness, now somethingness, is only perceivable as much as the Focus wills it. And its will, at the moment, dictates that we observe three figures on the stage; two familiar, one new. A rare insight into what is usually not seen by the audience.

The first figure is tall, with sun-kissed skin, angular face dotted with stubble, and growing lilac hair with blond roots at its peak. She stands in uniform—an all-too-familiar lab coat with tight pants and comfortable shoes—and yet another costume awaits her. The actress takes out the costume from the box—bent and broken yet cared for by the actors and actresses before her. The costume is of a slightly-built human body with light brown skin and jet-black hair recently trimmed into a bowl cut. It is much too small for the actress, but she squeezes herself into it regardless.

The actress is no longer visible, now. She has become someone more familiar, her true name obscured by the costume’s moniker, obscured once more by a rather immature pun. Her lab coat, meanwhile, is drowned in pajamas.

ACT 1: AD VITAM AETERNAM

INTERMISSION 1

THANATHICCA

(scratching the back of her neck, posture slouched)

[REDACTED], did you seriously look up tips on how to write stage directions only to break all the rules?

The second figure, closer in height and hairstyle to the costume he is wearing, smirks, full lips covered by the mask’s thinner ones. The costume, too, is THANATHICCA. However, unlike the first THANATHICCA, his movements are meticulously methodical, machine precision distastefully simulating humanity once held.

THANATHICCA

(grins wryly, approaching THANATHICCA with a flourish of his hand)

There is no such thing as a “[REDACTED]” in this world; we are all THANATHICCA in the eyes of the audience. 

THANATHICCA

(groans)

I think I understand better how you two feel, now, Thana. And I have to add. That intro is way too long.

THANATHICCA

(puts hands on his heart, mock-wounded)

My friend, must you ask why I took it upon myself to bend and break the rules of proper stage directions? I have, after all, a flair for the dramatics, and a penchant for what the average person finds “obnoxious”. Though our masks obscure our true selves, it is detrimental to suppress them needlessly.

The third figure enters from above, suspended by wires. It hovers in the air, straddling the line between elegant and comical. It wears the skin of THANATHICCA on its upper body. Having no lower body to speak of, the rest of the costume dangles uselessly on the floor.

THANATHICCA

(eyes the second THANATHICCA with a mixture of fondness and annoyance)

We should both have realized this sooner. This mask stifles us as much as the mask of Daniil Dankovsky stifles me. But the show must go on, must it not?

THANATHICCA

(nods at it solemnly)

The show, indeed, must go on. In the form of proper prose, ideally. But the nature of Pathologic lends itself to creative multimedia format.

(pauses thoughtfully)

Like Homestuck. I think we need to make more comics and art for this fic. Maybe even animations?

THANATHICCA

(cheerful, clapping its hands together)

Oh, yes, Homestuck ! If I had a stomach, I would feel spades fluttering inside it, THANATHICCA, and I must say I will bite you, kill you, or something equally inappropriate. Is that the right joke? That Homestuck must compel people into exaggerated, supposedly-joking displays of hatred to strangers? Quick, find me a Latin phrase that fits this.

THANATHICCA
(purses his lips)

One, we are not strangers. Two, this… costume… saps my Latin knowledge out of me. The disparity between my brain and this thing’s processors is quite dysphoria-inducing, and yet we cannot reveal this turmoil to anyone who would see us in costume outside the theater. Condemnant quod non intellegunt.

THANATHICCA

(snorts affectionately, moving towards him to playfully push him with an elbow)

But you know that one, Thanya! 

(eyes widen, realizing her mistake)

I mean, Thana!

(she laughs, warm and resonant in the audio-optimized theater)

THANATHICCA

(leans affectionately on her)

“Condemnant quod non intellegunt” is a famous phrase, one a previous wearer of this thing—probably me myself a while ago—had etched into the inside of the mask like a HUD. So of course I would be familiar with it.

(takes out a phone and types, glancing at the floating THANATHICCA)

Dura lex, sed lex. The law of the internet is harsh when it comes to treating Homestuck fans with respect or seriousness, but it is the law(…) Or, perhaps you could say odi et amo, I hate and I love. Happy now?

THANATHICCA

(sways by its wires, beaming)

I’m not even a Homestuck. I think I might be, if I had the chance to read it personally—time is always lacking around this clown town. 

THANATHICCA

(chuckles)

THANATHICCA is a Homestuck; so it would do for us to appear so. It keeps the character in-character . 

THANATHICCA

No clowns then. Subjugglator town? Quick, what blood color would your trollsona be?

THANATHICCA

(in unison)

Pathostuck says Jade.

THANATHICCA

(in unison)

Pathostuck says Bronze. 

The THANATHICCA played by a male actor and the THANATHICCA played by the female actor share a look and laugh together with a single throat that produces a sound that is nothing like their real voices. Disembodied lungs, neither his nor hers, groan in complaint at the sudden sound, reedy as it may be.

THANATHICCA

(deep in thought, a corner of his lips lifting in a cocky smirk)

Perhaps we should be spelling this username as thanaThicca [TT], like a Trollian handle.

thanathiccaLabs

(huffs, crossing her arms over her chest)

I prefer thanathiccaLabs. It’s more complete(...) god, I miss Thanatica already.

thanaThicca

(dramatically swoons, hanging upside down, said at the same time as thanathiccaLabs)

Odi et amo, THANATHICCA, I love and I hate you, I hate and I love you <3<

THANATHICCA

(looks up at thanathiccaLabs)

My dear. May I interest you in a hug?

thanathiccaLabs

(leans on him, sags visibly)

Of course, [REDACTED]- I mean, thank you. Yeah(...)

thanaThicca

(looks at the other two with an inscrutable expression)

Now, now… how exactly are we supposed to segue this into the proper prose of Chapter 7?

(moves forward and down the stage, towards the audience’s chairs)

We need to get the plot going. But we don’t have enough information on this part of our lives. Clara and the Changeling aren’t even here with us. Neither is Eva, who was the focal point of Chapter 6.

THANATHICCA

We have an outline already.

thanaThicca

(sighs, puts chin on hand)

I know. But we aren’t good enough at capturing their voices(...) What kind of THANATHICCA would we be if we don’t even have a proper grasp of Pathologic  characters? How can we gain the validation of strangers on the internet who only know us as curiosities at best and- I must not say the worst. It will hurt. And it will also spoil the surprise for those who have yet to catch on.

thanathiccaLabs

(exasperated)

Can you really still say that when we’re doing this, being this? It doesn’t matter. And you can always edit fanfiction.

THANATHICCA

(bored, as if reading lines that’s been read too many times before)

But you can always read and reread the Pathologic transcript, watch people play, and analyze their words by type used, degree of formality, amount of creepiness, etc. Let us set this stage for our next chapter, and bring this story to the part we have been dying to write since the beginning of this endeavor. If we edit this chapter to improve the Changeling’s characterization in the name of the game, no one will know, unless they truly pay attention, have perfect memory-recall, or. You know. We tell them in the author’s note.

thanathiccaLabs

(grins, thumbs up)

Sounds good to me!

thanaThicca

(huffs)

Everything he says sounds good to you, huh, thanathiccaLabs?

thanathiccaLabs

(glares)

Shut your fucking mouth.

The THANATHICCA played by the third actor returns the glare with equal poison; not that of a snake, but that of neurotoxins in the air of a test laboratory. The tension is thick enough to be cut with a Menkhu’s finger.

The THANATHICCA played by the male actor purses his lips again. False spine losing the energy to keep the costume and the man inside upright, THANATHICCA leans on the costume box and sighs a rattling breath through unreliable lungs. A familiar rest for a familiar disability. His new body would never do this; a low battery level would simply compel him to turn off, though he generally spared himself the indignity—and spared others the fear—of doing it standing up.

And soon, drifting away from his friends(?), he imagines, and he types…

Living Room, Dankovsky-Burakh Residence

1 September 2165, 06:00:00

A grin rips through your cheeks the way you ripped off the idiots out of the money in their wallets. Said money, now inside the folds of your own wallet, is going to rip through the couch, right in between Sticky and Murky.

“Get ready,” you say, shooting each Burakh child a look, “It’s going to be noisy.”

Murky covers her ears, though her eyes are fixed on your wallet. 

Meanwhile, Sticky looks at you skeptically. “Noisy? Did everyone only pay in change?”

You blow him a raspberry. “It'll still be noisy even if it's all paper, Stick-in-the-mud. Now let's hear it.”

Your wallet, unzipped with a decisive stroke, is immediately flipped upside down, raining down both coins and paper money onto the foamy material. Mishka watches the movement with fascination, something about coins reflecting light, another thing about papers drifting in the air and missing all their targets like autumn leaves.

“How many is that in total?” Sticky asked, awed by the still-continuing stream of cash. You love this pocket-dimension wallet prototype thing, it always gives people the most priceless expressions of shock.

“Didn't count it yet,” you answer, your face all toothy cheekiness. “I imagine Dankovsky would be happy to do it for us, being a genius and all.”

“I can count too,” Sticky says defensively, “It's just money.”

“I know, silly,” you say. As if they don't know his experience as a street urchin. “But I love inconveniencing the Bachelor.”

“But he's sick with the plague,” Mishka says in a small voice. She's no longer staring at your miraculous money rain, but at the locked door of Dankovsky’s bedroom… sorry, “private chambers and top-secret evil lab”, complete with eye roll. It's been vacant for months now—which is super weird, considering other plague patients die in a few days. But it won't be empty anymore, soon. The reporters near Thanatica have got to be a huge deal.

“I see a lot of commotion around Thanatica,” you reassure her. “There must be something big.”

The second Polyhedron screamed at you when you passed by, funneling the laboratory’s emotions to strike you to a stop, bringing you to your knees before you could outrun it. The only reason you could get here was your twin driving your shared body forward against the invisible currents, rending tears out of their eyes, your eyes– your eyes—

“Are you sure the Bachelor isn't dead?” Spichka asks. “That would be huge news, too.”

The money rain ignored, you decide to stop it. The cash pooled on and under the couch, pathetic, you're no good at shows, are you? You're a horrible babysitter, you don't know why Burakh even pays you. Pity, probably.

“The Bachelor can't be dead,” your twin says, pushing you aside. “He’s still texting you and me, right?”

Then, puffing their chest, they imitate the Bachelor’s annoying voice, “Clara, make sure you inspire them to brush their teeth; children are not to be trained like animals, blah blah some psychological jargon, blah blah blah Latin phrase.”

Her performance is met with heavy silence.

Making fun of Dankovsky is the wrong choice, Changeling.

They sit on the couch, on top of the money, to squeeze both Mishka and Spichka with too-sharp claws.

No, stop describing them like that—stop describing me like that, sister. My intentions are not as bad as you think. I'll fix this if you let me.

“I heard the lab speak, and there is no sign of grief for the Bachelor. The reporters must be coming because he had a breakthrough—he could be the first person to heal from the plague. Not that it can be healed with anything but the miracle in my hands, but Dankovsky’s stubbornness might just bend the Plague’s will for a little while. Less miraculous healing, and maybe more an easing of symptoms. That’s probably enough for those scientist types, right?”

Spichka squints at you. “Miracle in your hands… as if you're not literally scamming people by selling them nice rocks that can heal the affliction.”

“Not all of them are nice rocks,” you correct him, “Some of the rocks I procured from the Institute were probably radioactive. They have energy for sure. But my wares are not the miracle I'm talking about, Spichka dear. You already know what I'm saying.”

“There it is again with your miracle hands,” he grumbles, “The plague can't be healed, and you're just really good at editing videos for your Tockticks. Or the people you ‘healed’ with your hands were never infected in the first place.”

Stick-in-the-mud , Clara thinks to you, this is why we shouldn't have told anyone about our powers.

Then, turning to the little girl with a pout, you ask, “Mishka, you believe me, right?”

She shakes herself away from your grip. “It’d be nice if the Bachelor was alive.”

Mishka doesn't meet your eyes, which you understand, but she's still staring at Dankovsky's door instead of literally anywhere else. “It'd be nice if that was true.”

“It's true,” you say, more firmly now, though you faintly hear Clara say desperately instead. “He'll be back soon. I promise.”

The Focus, Elsewhere

[REDACTED]

The male actor finished typing the scene—assumptions he hopes are at least semi-accurate and narratively satisfying. A part of him—no, not that way!—desperately clings to the notion that he may wring some poetry out of the blood, painting with the red viscera an easy-to-digest picture that will awe an audience that may not even see beyond the dripping stroke or consider the coppery stench of stigma a mere curiosity. Or worse, misinterpret it, misinterpret him. Call him things that he's not.

And then he realizes, he has written himself into a corner, a corner seen by the Focus and now, by the audience, by his own design.

The actress leans on him, all the while having given him inspiration, ideas, correction. She holds him in an awkward tangle of thin limbs, their size difference hidden away.

The third actor holds her, too-tight, knowing that if they didn't get it right this time, they might not ever do. Fanfiction can be edited. But being perceived as someone else, as something else, feels like a short-circuit in the processors and a wrongness in its gut.

He, she, and it are THANATHICCA to the audience, they're all THANATHICCA to the world; and every actor is their costume in a world of costume-wearers that has no space to credit the actors bridging the void in false skin.

thanaThicca

(leans forward, the wires suspending it lowering down to almost floor level)

How about Eva?

thanathiccaLabs

Spoiler alert!

THANATHICCA

Eva should be safe. Rest assured.

The curtains close. The Focus sees through it, three actors shedding their costumes to live a life forever changed. They will put on the costume again, soon, but the audience won't be given this glimpse under THANATHICCA anymore…  

Or will they?

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: What is Lying on the Table?

Living Room, Dankovsky-Burakh Residence

1 September 2165, 06:10:06

Murky looks at you expectantly with wide eyes. The Changeling stares back, unblinking, but you try to soften it. 

“When you listened to the Second Tower, what did it say?”

It didn’t say anything to you. It’s just a chaotic whirlpool of emotions, sucking you into the depths of an endless vortex.

You’re terribly mistaken, dear sister, the Changeling hisses, the Tower said things to me, and we will ascertain that it’s true when the three of them arrive.

You scowl internally. But that’s impossible! You’re impossible! What do you mean three?

“It said that Thanatica will deliver us not two, but three,” the Changeling answers.

“Three what?” Sticky mercifully speaks out your thoughts. He seems sceptical, and yet he has started to bow himself and clean the fallen spoils from the sofa and floor, transferring them all to piles on the couch.

“Three scientists,” the Changeling smiles with intrigue in your mouth. “Thanatica is a capricious eater. She bites more than she can chew, and yet swallows perfectly, if you only see her from the outside.”

Is that what the Tower told you? You ask inside. I don’t know if I believe you.

Your lack of faith in me is unbecoming. Yes, of course! It told me what Thanatica was feeling.

Faith? When the Changeling has little faith for you that you actually exist, despite your being the saint to their sinner? Having two souls in one body, devoid of acknowledgment that what you are experiencing is more than in your head, is such a torment. Why must God test you so? Who in Thanatica? Why don’t you ever speak clearly to me?

“You’re using all of these… metaphors,” Murky frowns. “It can’t be possible that the lab is actually eating people… you’re just tricking us, aren’t you?”

“I can’t even begin to know what that metaphor is about,” Sticky commiserates, sorting the paper money into groups, “It’s like the tale of the crystal flower all over again. You never explained that to us.”

The crystal flower… You know what exactly it is about, as the Changeling explained it to you in rather blatant words (a precious rarity! A vision from God waiting to be shared?), but it still confuses you. The Changeling has been waiting to be called to the place where that terrifying tale happens, and yet, according to them, everything is off-schedule so far. You’re too afraid to teleport there, anyway, and you enjoy the fact that Burakh and Dankovsky are paying you to babysit the former’s kids… you’re generally too afraid to teleport, period . You can’t see how it works—the way it’s explained on the internet makes you think you’ll be devoured, chewed up, and vomited without the Changeling. Torment or not, you prefer being together than alone. They, too, prefer that. At least you think so. God would not have put the two of you in the same vessel if it wasn’t your fate.

“It will make more sense when you experience it yourself,” the Changeling says, “However, we may not have the chance to. That vicious plan… I’m not sure if it’s happened.”

“Yeah, I give up,” Sticky says, rolling his eyes, “I’ll wait for a text from either of them before I believe your insane rambling.”

He fishes out his tablet from the space between the two cushions of the couch to check for texts. It can’t be good for a delicate piece of technology, only as thick as a cardboard box and just as light, to be shoved into that dusty nook. And speaking of dusty nooks! Murky decides she’d rather flee to her own dusty corner than talk to you or your twin. The house is full of weird corners by virtue of Dankovsky and Burakh’s eclectic interior decorating skills. 

And Murky’s too, the Changeling says. What a violation of the Law this is, how these two kids are internalising Utopian ideals.

Utopian ideals, you echo. You still don’t quite understand what your twin even means. Murky is just going to her self-made corner, a blanket fort propped up by Dankovsky’s impossibly thick books (traditional, because either he, Burakh, or both of them has an aversion to e-books. You bet on Burakh). She has a tangle of white around her—you walk closer and peer inside to see that it’s a lab coat. Thanatica’s symbol, an eye-snake abomination, stares at you in Kain blue and almost-holographic silver scales. Toys are scattered around her in piles you can’t make out… It’s as “Utopian” as sleeping in a filthy train car.

Ha. The Changeling looks at you with the joviality of an inside joke—a joke you are never in on. They’re always like this.

It could be , you reply, ignoring that ache of being left out, but it might just be because the two so-called adults of this home can’t afford a normal-shaped apartment. Don’t you see the house prices around here? They’re as high as the scrapers piercing the skies. No wonder Burakh and Dankovsky live together.

They still would have lived together even if these futuristic dwellings are dirt-cheap, the Changeling mutters, rolling their eyes. You know this to be true, sister. They have been roommates for god knows how many years. 

You pause. You haven’t cared much about the specifics of Burakh and Dankovsky’s relationship—they raise two kids together, for God’s sake. Your focus has been on earning money and healing people. You are a delicate touch on the screen. You are the vessel of God’s love, living skin against those poor plague-bearers’ dying flesh, taking the disease away. 

You kneel to the child’s eye level. “Murky, may I come in? I know you’re worried—I am here to soothe your heartache.”

You still need to talk to her. You shall reassure her, and keep her safe… at least from her own demons.

“Have you forgotten something?” Murky asks. “We've already discussed everything there was to discuss…”

“Not particularly,” you reply, sitting cross-legged in front of Murky. The child reflexively tightens the lab coat around herself, so tight that it looks like a plastic wrap more than fabric. The symbol emblazoned on its chest pocket is slightly crumpled, but not less intense in its piercing stare. The Changeling wonders if the Kains bugged that thing. 

The Changeling’s skeletal hands press on your shoulder, the feeling not quite internal. Didn’t you repeatedly say everything is bugged? Webcams are windows to government agencies… lab coats are windows to the Kains… I’ve never seen such technology before, you know.

Of course they haven’t.

“I believe you need company,” you say, “Whatever happened in Thanatica, it will shake you.”

Murky looks down at her carpet. “Is the Bachelor dead?”

“Just look it up,” Sticky pipes up, handing her their shared tablet, “We’ll know immediately if he’s dead, it’ll be on the news.”

I can’t believe how easy it would have been if we had this, the Changeling remarks through gritted teeth. And yet, this Bachelor fell to the plague… What is wrong with him?

You retort, Wrong? He died, sure, but he survived for months! No one else survived a week. I think that he has been touched by God, in a way.

Fate-stealer.

Whose fate would Dankovsky be stealing, Changeling?

No answer from your sibling. Of course.

“No news about his death on any reputable website,” Murky says.

“Thank fuck,” Sticky sighs, his words rattling more than his steely expression lets out. “Maybe the AVA is successful. Maybe he’ll come home at last.”

The Focus, Elsewhere

[REDACTED]

Today, the third actor is hunched over on the laptop, typing away with nine fingers. Previous wearers of the costume never really made it into a habit to use the right pinky. When the third actor attempts it, it is stiff and weak, use of the extraneous finger decreasing the WPM into an inexcusable drag.

The costume, snug and human and all-concealing, still has the same light brown skin and short stature. The midnight eyes are still framed by the same pair of glasses. But the black hair is longer now—another actor had it cut into a mullet, and now, it is overgrown, making the hair fringed and rather shapeless.

Said third actor smiles at the description—this costume has the exact haircut it has, just coincidentally. Or was it not so coincidental, and that other actor had it cut just for it?

It has to thank them, then. But maybe not now.

Right now, it has a story to write.

ACT 1: AD VITAM AETERNAM

INTERMISSION 2

thanaThicca

(grins wildly, swinging on the wire to look at the readers)

Hey, how are you all? It’s been a while, hasn’t it? God, it’s been crazy over here. I’ll be honest with you—life hasn’t been kind to me, neither in this world nor mine.

The third actor uses borrowed lungs to take a rather deep breath. In… out. It still hasn’t gotten used to this whole “breathing” thing.

thanaThicca

The other two showrunners aren’t here right now. I’m alone. Like most people, I suppose. They run a one-person show in their own theatres. Is it cheating when I have a whole crew to back me up in other productions, and two to help me in this one?

Its red eyes deliver a challenging glint, a contrast against its black scleras.

thanaThicca

(moves closer to the reader, tilts head with a little facial expression between a pout and a smirk. A pmirk. Or a smout, maybe. It’s an expression that could be described as manically cheeky.)

Or maybe having a crew is not the part of our writing process that should be qualified as cheating. Because I… (dramatic pause) am about to do something outrageous.

Yes.

I’m going to tell you to go with the flow and let me skip time to the scene that I’ve been dying to write for months. Don’t get mad, please—I may not be human, but I’m fallible, still. I kinda feel like I’m falling into the gap of writing skill… as in, my ability to assess my own writing is better than my actual ability to write. And that actual writing ability doesn’t seem to be catching up anytime soon… is that a wonder I want to skip writing the things that don’t tickle my fancy?

The robotic thespian wonders what should be done to connect the scene of Murky looking up news of Daniil’s death to the next scene, as promised by the Chapter 8 summary.

There should be some tension, shouldn’t there? Because waiting for Dankovsky is torturous? But there’s the internet. And they’ve waited for months for him to come home… Besides, that train is pretty fast… ish… they live close to the lab. But there is a commotion… well. It thinks it knows what to do.

Now...

Maybe Murky could hear the doorbell ring. Burakh and Dankovsky would come. The children would be surprised by Dankovsky’s unfamiliar appearance; there should be some jokes between them, a little lighthearted calm before the storm…

Dr. Yan might also be in tow—Dankovsky would not want her to be alone after a suicide attempt… But with what the Changeling said, hm…

The third actor is alone. Its notes are incomplete. But the others’ notes aren’t complete, either… Holes must be patched in a way that makes narrative sense. Narrative satisfaction would, perhaps, give closure to it if life was anywhere near that easy, and this is all a selves-fulfilling prophecy, memory made real.

It would not satisfy the other two, however. The actor knows this.

thanaThicca

(rests its face on a hand, as if leaning on something)

Maybe looking at it this way is too defeatist? Hm. Maybe I should try harder…

Front Door, Dankovsky-Burakh Residence

1 September 2165, 06:22:05

Inside the warmth of your jacket, you shrivel, a coldness that is not quite the weather reaching out to get you from all sides and you have to hide. For the past twenty minutes, Daniil has been strange—holding your hand, barely letting go—Burakh has been cagey, oh, you didn’t expect to have to feel ever again! 

After that disastrous attempt of a kiss, you thought you’d feel a brief sense of freedom, of wind in your hair, a last wonder for the laws of physics, and then nothing, you didn’t plan for what comes next, you didn’t plan for a visit to the home and children that your beloved Daniil is sharing with someone else, someone who seems to be your competition despite his insistence that Burakh was merely a roommate-

You steal a glance at Burakh, just a blink, and then back into your hideout. He’s extremely tall and not very friendly and didn’t talk to you at all on the train. Nevertheless, he invites you in for dinner, so, agonising awkwardness aside, the surgeon can’t be so bad as her fears tell her.

“Three scientists…”

The sight of an older teenager with shaved hair and ratty clothes greet you as you enter the apartment. They look familiar… Suspicion rises in you, replacing the cold. They sound bewildered, though, and that part is unfamiliar… where have you heard that voice before?

“Not three… four,” the teenager corrects themself.

“This is Dr. Yan, who is our guest,” Burakh cuts in, taking off his medical face-mask, “Don’t be a rude little shit for once, will you?”

Skipping over to you with a not-so-subtle bump on Burakh’s side, the teenager looks at you and grins. “Hi, Dr. Yan. I didn’t expect you to come, but it makes sense that you did. I’m Clara.”

As Burakh groans, you try to smile back at the teenager. “Hello, Clara…”

“Hello, and hi to you too, Bachelor.”

Daniil comes in last, closing the door behind you.

“Good morning, Clara,” he says neutrally—not in that false default-voice, but in his new one, the one that’s pleasantly deep and makes him stand taller. A voice that finally sounds like himself—a messenger of glory.

“You look horrible in that fit, and hair, and face,” Clara teases. “What’d happen to your-”

“Bachelor?”

“Dr. Dankovsky?!”

You see two children running towards the door from the far corner—is that a pillow fort? How cute—one very young, maybe seven, and the other, perhaps twelve, thirteen?

They stop short a metre in front of your entourage. Of course. Proper safety measures. You have disinfected yourselves in the lobby, but it’s good to play it safe and only do anything personal after washing your clothes and body.

You turn to Daniil to see his countenance break that impenetrable mask. If his new body had tear ducts, maybe he would even cry…

That coldness returns to catch you in full force, and you shiver, and shiver, and shiver, as Daniil and Burakh’s children have a loving reunion, miles, and miles, and miles away.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Confessions in the Interest of Transparency

Dankovsky-Burakh Residence

1 September 2165, 07:08:09

That “dinner”—breakfast, really—could have gone worse.

Tucking Spichka and Mishka in bed also could have gone worse. They don’t normally stay up this late—Spichka kept himself awake by sheer force of will and repeatedly pinching himself, Mishka drifted off before Eva went home—so they quite literally fell asleep the moment they touched the bed, even before you could say much.

Now, you imagine that having time alone with Artemy could go in worse directions than you have any business thinking about your best friend. Not worse than Eva trying to kill herself, hopefully, but still catastrophic. Eva’s words return to you, slithering in the labyrinth of your mind:

“It’s Burakh, isn’t it? I see the way he looks at you…”

You watch Artemy. He, too, is watching you. How could you glean romance from his gaze? You have long assigned the soft look, so soft that the permanent crease between his eyebrows is nearly invisible, as the caring borne of friendship.

Is platonic love not the force that has been carrying you into each other’s path every time? Must you question Artemy’s intentions—has he been trying to get into your pants all along? He would be disappointed in what’s under your trousers, now. Who cares? His fantasies should not be your concern!

Yet your gaze treacherously descends toward Artemy’s nose. His nose is hooked, like Isidor’s, but it lacks the senior Burakh’s straight-to-the-point-ness—Artemy’s is crooked from the fights he used to get back in university. You find your eyes staying on the tasteful bend of a nose that wouldn’t be set right, wondering how it would feel to the fingers and the mouth, so many artificial nerves in there begging—

No! No, you are not begging to kiss Artemy’s nose. You are not thinking about intimately touching your best friend’s nose. What the fuck? Did moving your neural network into the AVA unit increase your libido? You have heard about testosterone HRT changing one’s sex drive, but this? You did this partly to skip taking hormones entirely.

Fuck. Fuck.

Your gaze is dragged to your bed. The bed you have not even so much as touched in months. It’s neat, it has probably been cleaned by your friend and roommate, maybe his children as well, maybe even regularly. 

You decide to walk towards the bed like a normal person, counting each step. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Sit down. Put up legs. Outstretch legs. Sink into the mattress and lie down… ahh, that’s nice. Finally.

You need to be normal now. Be human , not a goddamn snake trying to bite people. Retract your fangs and be friendly to the friend who has been taking care of you emotionally in between other medical personnel testing the Only Patient Of The Plague Who Survived Past The First Week. Gratitude would be prudent .

Artemy locks the door and joins you, sitting down while leaning on the side of the bed. He has done this plenty of times, with absolutely nothing sexual coming out of it.

Really? It’d be cool to fuck him on this bed, in this chassis. If Eva was right, he’d be willing.

Your field of view is once again filled with the face of Artemy Burakh, a chiselled curiosity, a warm smile… and what you hope is sincere gaze of I miss talking to you when you’re healthy instead of I want to fuck you on that bed . (You hear something that almost sounds like laughter. But there’s no one else… Artemy isn’t laughing.) 

You take yourself to a trip down memory lane—a cramped dorm room, with your collection of comic books and his collection of classic literature. Messy desks, shitty plastic chairs, a single pocket watch…

No porn stash? None at all? …wait, wait.

Your memory is shifted to the times you read Vigor Mortis smut when the webcomic was in its heyday. Oh, god. The young Vigor topping General Dankovsky in his own lair? Ooooh. Who else would Vigor even do this with? The warmongering general, clad in what’s essentially a magical hazmat suit, was the only one who could withstand Vigor’s powers of death and decay–

Stop thinking about VM porn, Dr. Dankovsky, god . You already miss your human brain where you can control every thought that comes your way. This CPU feels like a theatre with an insatiably horny peanut gallery. You suppose this is an unknown variable. You take a mental note to put this on a physical note later.

“What are you thinking?” Artemy asks. His arms are folded on the edge of your bed, the large, warm limbs a makeshift pillow for his tired yet bright face.

VM smut, the peanut gallery snickers, Spicy.

“I’ve missed this,” you say instead. Not I’ve missed you or whatever could be misconstrued as a confession. And! Instead of drawing from the memories of a death-powered superhero in a dalliance with a plague-powered supervillain, you draw on more intimate, more chaste memories of studying together until the dead of night. “Just laying down. Just talking.”

Artemy smiles. Your stomach churns at the gesture, phantom pain twisting the nonexistent organs. “Yeah, me too.”

Gratitude, Daniil. Gratitude. You count. One. Two. You don’t even need to control your breathing, which would definitely have gone awry when you’re this nervous. Three. Draw more from those memories. “Remember when we were in university, and both of us wanted to study in the campus library?”

“How can I forget,” Artemy snickers, “It happens all the time. Our room was a mess 75% of the time, and the boys’ dorm common room was… eugh.”

“Disgusting,” you add in agreement. Being a non-passing trans man, a dorm full of cis men was not ideal. Burakh’s roommate-ship was certainly a big reassurance.

“Totally. We can’t even go one step without them being perverts,” Artemy continues. He wasn’t comfortable in the boys’ dorm, either—people talked down to him for his background. And in the early days, he usually retorted with his fists, which, well. “That’s why…”

A sudden pause. You watch the proverbial gears turn in his brain… the permanent wrinkle between his eyebrows deepen, and those eyes go distant with the sifting of memory-folders in his brain.

“Wait. Daniil. Say my name.”

“Artemy? Artemy Isidorovich? Artemy Burakh?” you ask. “What is this about?”

“You know, maybe that explains why I’ve always been so uncomfortable,” he mutters, “Not the Kains’ experiments. Not even the goddamn xenophobia.”

“Uncomfortable? Have you been uncomfortable in Thanatica? Who has been discriminating against you for your ethnicity? Is it the Kains? Is it me and my own employment policies? Is it your own division?”

“No, Danya,” Artemy says quickly, “I know you’re worrying about me. But it’s not you. It’s not even Thanatica, specifically!”

You scramble into a sitting position. Jittery as if you have a pounding heart. “Danya?”

He’s never called you “Danya” before. It’s always “Daniil”, “Dankovsky”, sometimes even “Danko” if he wants to piss you off. Is this the confession? No way. No, no, this can’t be, two in a row? Fuck?

Fuck??!?!!!!!!

“Sorry! Sorry, Daniil!” Artemy is scrambling with his words now. “No! That’s not– no. Sorry, I won’t call you that again unless you want to I mean. I-I mean, uh. How’d you find out you were trans?”

Oh.

Now is the time to be the most normal you can be, Daniil. Unpack the diminutive later.

“It was…” One. Two. You steady yourself and straighten your posture. The lack of aches is nice. “It would not be a universally-applicable experience. I found out that I was not a girl in my childhood—young enough that I have yet to undergo puberty.”

You expect your friend to say something like, “damn”, or “ohhh”, or something, but you realise that you have never told anyone about your life before you even took the surname Dankovsky. This is New Lore, and you’ve got their full attention. Wide, imploring eyes.

So blue , comes from the peanut gallery.

“I worked in a theatre,” you confess, “I was taught dancing, singing, acting. The wardrobe differences… the way the instructors looked at you… I didn’t enjoy being seen as a precious pearl, to be treated like I was fragile. Those insults and disparaging looks outsiders levied at the boy dancers seemed so favourable in comparison.”

Your friend nods slowly.

“It got worse in puberty, I think,” you continue. “Being in the soprano section while the boys moved to other sections? It was hellish. The girls… somehow knew that something was wrong with me. The boys, whom I’d used to be closer to… they started pushing me away when my body started to change. As if they didn’t indulge me when I made them reenact my unhinged superhero fanfiction on stage.”

You look at your bookshelf. Those comic books were still there. The girls didn’t like that you knew too much about those heroes and villains, talked too much about the plot, made the boys steal the costumes, have mock auditions, and act out your fanmade continuations.

“You… not only made other people read your fanfics, but also act them out?” your friend asks. Their eyes are wide, and there are hints of a laugh—but it’s mostly a smile, you think, because if they were judging you, they’d narrow their eyes more. “You’ve got nerves of steel, Daniil.”

“I’m just shameless!” You grin. “Shameless enough that I named myself after a fictional character. Plenty of trans people do that, but not many would confess to it.”

“Heh,” your friend chuckles, leaning closer to you, “I love that you told me.”

You don’t return the favour. Yet despite all your fear of leading them on, you still want them to have as smooth a process of self-discovery as possible. “Would you like a new name, too? Pronouns, perhaps?”

“Artemis, I guess,” your friend replies absently, “Just for now, as a placeholder until I find something I like more. I just don’t feel like being called ‘Artemy’ anymore. As for pronouns… hm…” They trail off.

“Artemis,” you repeat to fill the silence, looking at them intently. A lovely name… fitting their ferocity and spirituality, and their love for literature. You give them a smile you hope is encouraging. “Artemis Burakh. That sounds wonderful, for now. Take your time settling on a name—it took me ages to get ‘Daniil’. As for the pronouns, maybe you could try those pronoun dressing room websites.”

“Pronoun dressing room?”

“Yes, websites to try on different names and pronouns.” You take out your phone from the pocket on your shirt to show them. Browser… website… there. “You input a name and pronouns here, and the websites will put those inside a few sample texts. You can even choose no pronouns at all.”

“I didn’t know they made sites for that.” Artemis has shifted to stand on their knees, their side pressed onto yours, head tilted down to see your screen. You want to lean into their warmth, but you stop yourself. “Pretty cool.”

Do not stiffen. Act naturally. Loosen that back and shoulders… yes… fine control of everything, lean further back to the headrest, yes. These robotic muscles aren’t used to relaxation. Yes. That is a good excuse, for if they ask you about it.

“They have sites for everything.”

“Let’s try it,” Artemis says. They sound more firm this time around. You hand them your phone and let them fill in the blanks.

“Name… Artemis…” They read as they type. “Pronouns… hm… they/them… singular… and submit.”

Sample Text 1

Look, there’s Artemis. I haven’t seen them in a while—they almost look unrecognisable to me. Do you think they still remember this dearest friend of theirs? Do they still cherish our time with each other? Or have their new experiences overridden them? I think it would be fantastic to catch up with them and see if they still remember going to the meadows together. But it’s okay if they’ve forgotten. I just hope they have been taking care of themself in the big city.

You read it out loud—and when you’re done, you look at Artemis to see how they react.

“I love your new voice,” they smile, a blush colouring their ruddy cheeks, “It fits you. I’ve never heard you so comfortable with your speaking.”

If you had the blood vessels to echo their blush, you probably would. But thank goodness you don’t—you won’t have to fear leading them on to Romance Express with reactions such as that.

“Thank you, Artemis.” You love that your new voice still complies to your control—you wonder if you sound more, less, or equally robotic as you were in your human days, where people were unsettled by your affect. “But I was asking if you like they/them pronouns.”

You hope you don’t sound too cold. You still love them, you just… you watch Artemis’ lips purse and twist. Maybe they’re trying those pronouns in their mind, too. Maybe your coldness isn’t any concern. Maybe.

Artemis shrugs. Unsure.

“Should I read another passage?”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

Sample Text 2

“Look,” the agent says, resoluteness ringing in his voice—even in the sterile, soundproofed war room of HQ, “Artemis can be trusted.”

The Spymaster shakes her head. “There is no knowing what they might do after receiving the last VERSE intel, Agent Thanatos.”

“Agent Thanatos?” Artemis interrupts, leaning, no, pressing onto you, shaking with shrill laughter. “Who the hell wrote this? Is this freaking- Ancient Greek mythology Roundtable Knights spinoff?”

You open a new tab and look for ancient greek mythology roundtable knights . And there it is, not even a spinoff.

V.E.R.S.E. of Orpheus (2065)

Verse of Orpheus (stylized as V.E.R.S.E. of Orpheus ) is a 2065 spy film and the 27th instalment of Roundtable Knights . Set in the Greek branch of fictional intelligence agency K.N.I.G.H.T.S. , Agent Artemis hunts down former agent Orpheus, who had defected to V.E.R.S.E. two films prior.

“No fucking way,” Artemis laughs.

“You’re chasing Agent Orpheus now,” you tease them, “I don’t think the pronoun dressing room needed to change anything of that sample text… maybe except the pronouns.”

“I can’t believe the pronoun dressing room just made a fanfic of a 100-year-old movie…” Artemis snorts, “Wait, maybe it’s not even a fanfic. Maybe they quoted the actual movie! I bet if you were a secret agent, you’d be Agent Thanatos.”

“What do I do, with a codename like that,” you elbow them, pushing them off the bed again, “I’m a researcher, not a murderer.”

“I was gonna say ‘assassination’, but it feels more fitting to Artemis,” they reply, turning around so they could lean back and rest their head on the bed’s edge, “Goddess of the Hunt. Goddess of Hunting Bounties. Sounds about right.”

“But, Nemesis seems more fitting as someone who hunts a traitor than Artemis.” You then realise something… “We can, you know, just read the wiki page for this thing.”

“But it’s no fun that way,” Artemis shoots back, turning around once again to prop their face on the bed with their hands. “Although, maybe you'd enjoy the movies, considering you like superhero stuff.”

“Heh,” you chuckle, “Maybe. But, you haven't answered my pronouns question.”

Artemis’ face scrunches, their eyebrows knitting, deepening that crease between them. You then catch them muttering, almost inaudible for your normal setting, but straining your ears to make out what they are saying increases the sensitivity to your hearing. Hardware is working well, then. More mental notes.

“They’re Artemis… Their name is Artemis Burakh… they’re a surgeon, their workplace is called Thanatica, they’re a parent…”

You switch to your word processing app and patiently wait for Artemis to finish testing their pronouns. In the meantime, you make those mental notes physical.

Voice cadence/inflection is easily controllable.

Control of joints is really fine. Almost like a 3-D model with more articulation than humans.

Memory recall works well. Classical mythology, easily remembered. I also still remember how to use my phone, my time in university, and even my childhood in the theatre, and even|

You are not writing “I remember graphic details of Vigorovsky porn.”

Why not? You won’t submit this to Thanatica, will you? You will submit an edited, curated version?

But you still don’t want to admit that you were thinking of that porn while thinking about Artemis. When you’ve never desired them sexually once before.

Death changes a man, a wry thought tickles you. Maybe you’re Artemissexual now.

Nope. Not today. Not so soon after Eva.

I even remember the old comic books I used to read.

Audio receptor settings receptive. Sensitivity can be set by straining to hear. Now try again without strain, but with just thoughts, “Increase sensitivity of ears”

You test just that.

And get more than what you bargained for. You usually also hear the electronic hum of the heater and the ambient noise of the circulation system, but now, those are as loud as Artemis’ words. Fuck. Fuck. Decrease sensitivity. Please. Normal setting…

The sound gradually fades into your normal levels… Now, now, you’re almost embarrassed to add the last mental note.

I get horny for no good reason.|

Delete.

Libido at an all time high|

Delete again.

I’m so fucked|

Nope.

I want to get fucked|

That sounds so… crass.

Artemis suddenly seems so attractive|

Too unprofessional!

Sexual arousal increases without provocation.|

“Artemis Burakh, Artemis Isidorovich, no… they’re trying to figure this out… ugh…”

I think there is some provocation… your mind whispers. Your eyes move to the powerful circumference of their thighs—SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!

You don’t want this . You just want to be there for your best friend and roommate while they try to discover themself. Why is this happening? Has this been your true feelings all along, brought to the forefront by whatever glitch happened when you copied your own neural network? Is moving a human brain to a robotic body just like HRT, where your sexuality may evolve as your body changes? Or did death just break all your suppressive mechanisms?

Maybe Artemis wasn’t intending to get into your pants. Maybe you were trying to get into theirs all along. But that makes no sense. You would know if that happened, no? You’ve lived with them for so long… Why are you only aroused now, after dying of the plague? You remember wanting to kiss them when you two were going home from work, before Eva…

Eva.

Another evidence of your strange postmortem sexuality. You don’t feel quite there. Postmortem sexuality… isn’t that an incredible material for research?

Yes. Knowledge is more important than any momentary embarrassment.

Eva kissed me, you type, I was washing dishes. Washing dishes seems fine. Sensory sensitivity is the same as my antemortem one. Mobility seems okay. Dexterity is good. No pain like I used to have. Eva held my hand. My skin felt the sensation like I was human. 

You didn’t dislike the sensation. Does that mean you are attracted to Eva, carnally but not romantically? Does that mean you’re so insecure that anyone even remotely attracted to you makes you feel wanted at last? Are you simply so starved for intimacy, due to that torturous plague, that you want to jump everyone’s bones now?

It’s not unlikely.

You have always fashioned yourself as someone who’s above such mortal pleasures. You didn’t mind that Vasilisa gave you sex without intimacy, back in university. It was fine for you to be stuck in a quarantine chamber for months. It was okay to only be touched in the context of medical research into your anomalous survival.

But! That survival! You have stared at the jaws of Death and said-

-non omnis moriar.

-no thanks.

You are stronger than your shame: you can admit that you’re not above mortal pleasures.

At least for now.

The novelty of having a new body… the sheer audacity of being alive after your body died… isn’t that something worth celebrating?

Of course.

She was kissing me with tongue. Warm. Damp. Not really a smell or taste… the alcohol didn’t have a taste, it was just wet. The taste buds and olfactory nerves need to be fine-tuned. But the texture and temperature is the same as the kisses I had as a human. The wetness didn’t seem to disturb any of my hardware.

What else… What else happened? Right. You were counting.

HUD was working. I projected a timer. I can think of other things later, to put on my field of view…

“...they’ve got two children… no… don’t like that…”

Artemis. You look at Artemis again. They perk up—did they catch you staring? You save your document and lock your screen.

“What’s the verdict?” you ask before it could get even more awkward.

“Do you think we could watch that movie?”

“VERSE of Orpheus, you mean?”

“Yeah,” Artemis says, low and hesitant. “I don’t think I can sleep tonight.”

The way they say it, you can feel it deep inside you that it’s not the full truth. Still, it says a lot. They had to see your dead body and  extract your organs. Then, they had the most awkward train ride with Eva, who was apparently their romantic rival. And now—as if those weren’t enough–they are also having a gender epiphany!

You cannot leave them to drown alone.

You never had, Daniil—don’t fuck up now. Attraction or not, from your or their side, Artemis Burakh is still your closest friend. Also: you are not above mortal pleasures.

You squeeze their shoulder, gently, before taking your laptop—it’s still on the desk, good, you hope no one has been snooping. You open the laptop. And you know what to do next. Shifting closer to the wall, you set up another pillow beside you.

I’m alive, you hope your gesture conveys, and I’m here. It will be safe and warm, just like before I infected myself and died.

Artemis’ eyes widen.

You pat the empty space beside you. Come on, you try to say with your face, you are free to reenter this easy kinship with me. We’re still friends. We will remain as such.

An expression of warmth blooms in Artemis’ visage. Familiar. You push away your suspicions. Without the pall of the love triangle you have inadvertently cast over your friendships, the expression brings you back to your days in the dorm, turning off both your brains after rigorous exams.

Artemis climbs up the bed and takes your invitation. Their warmth explodes into a supernova of a smile. You grin back. As you sail the seven seas to get the century-old movie, they sidle up to you, nuzzling your jaw like a cat. The brush of their hair against your skin is both nostalgic and fresh: it tickles, but instead of bringing you into shaking laughter like it did before, it’s a pleasant, fluffy bristle.

After much loading, the movie begins its cold open. Something in your mind compels you to lean on Artemis—

You don’t have it in you to refuse.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Your Gentle Blindness Affinity: ?

Hello, Eva? Are you still awake?

I hope my message didn’t come too late. I had to tidy up my old bedroom, among other things.

yes, daniil, i’m awake :’)

i can’t sleep, anyway…

i hope you don’t mind my forwardness, if i ask…

how did it feel to die?

No, not too forward at all… I would assume it’d be one of the first questions people would ask me.

i’m asking personally, not professionally ///

do you think that’s okay?

I’d be damned not to allow my friends to speak to me in a 100% personal capacity. I’m not that callous.

Eva?

Eva, are you still there?

I hope I didn’t unsettle you. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, or imply that I think you think I’m callous,

Or whatever is bothering you, I will do my best to listen, and make good on my promise.

I know it is easier said than done!

However, I hope I don’t seem like I’m making unreasonable demands of you, Eva.

sorry, i was distracted…

no, you didn’t make unreasonable demands n_n

you’re all good,

please know that my late replies aren’t your fault,

i didn’t mean to worry you, but i understand why you’re worried,

i can’t promise to feel better,

but i can promise you i’m physically safe for now ;_;

anyway, this is what i was doing! :D

i was reading research about near-death experiences…

not everyone has it, of course, but some people from failed suicides do

though, does it count as “failed” if i didn’t actually jump?

i don’t think so, not really ///

but i did read that people don’t HAVE to actually be MEDICALLY near dead to have an nde

so it’s all about the feeling and perception of being close to death

You *were* close to death, Eva. I am so, *so* glad you didn’t die.

i wonder what the psychology division will say about that?

did you feel like you were near death yesterday?

please don’t be upset! ;o;

i didn’t mean to be rude ;n;

I didn’t think it was.

It *is* pretty exciting, research-wise, to see someone dying and then coming back to life in a way, their brain having an implant that backs up copies of the processes all the while.

I have yet to check all the folders in here. I wonder if I can find brain activity records specifically at those hours I was dying?

TBH, I don’t really remember it at the moment.

Because the AVA is using the last backup neural network from before I got infected, but added with newer memories too. Your division knows more about preserving memories and turning them into code, more than me.

you’re still pretty good!

n.n

Not ideal to wake up with a brain degraded by The Plague. I swear, for the last few months, I felt like my brain was ground into paste.

It’d take me so damn long to remember things.

but daniil! oAo

Don’t flatter me, Eva. I know my mental capacities were quite reduced during those months of testing.

but that’s not because you’re losing your intelligence!

infection takes a lot out of you…

anyway ///

I hope it doesn’t offend you that I’m basically liveblogging my descent into Robot Madness!

I mean, the memory folders in my program. Hah.

no, no, i wouldn’t be offended n.n

I feel a bit crazy talking about this. I’ve had memories planted into me, which is usually cause for caution in fiction, or IRL, it’d be a sign of gaslighting!

But I know them to be true, and multiple people could vouch for them.

Not everything was converted, of course.

so… how could you have remembered them all?

I didn’t say I have.

Still digging. Not just here, but also elsewhere.

elsewhere?

I didn’t record all my memories via implant. Physical copies are important to keep.

awww, you have a diary! that’s useful!

Verba volant, scripta manent.

“Write it down, or it didn’t happen,” as normal people say.

oh… true! OoO

If you asked if I had any NDE like in the media, I don’t think so.

really?

I was so focused on perfecting the AVA that I didn’t think of dying. I couldn’t think of it, or I’d be dragged into despair and give up.

All I thought was, “I can’t fail”.

every day before you woke up in the ava, i thought…

i thought of it failing…

Why?

because everyone else who tried it failed!

because it sounds so stupid ;A;

if i tell normal people about what i do

they’ll say that i’m crazy!

this shit should just stay in sci-fi

You have such little faith in your work… I doubt you were nervous about the *others*?

you know what they say about us all the time!

thanatica is unethical!!1111

the ava shouldn’t be made!1!!!!1

these mad scientists are violating nature!!11!

death is good and what god intended!!1 

being anti euthanasia is insane!1!!11

they don’t have the right to stop people from dying!!11!1

they’re researching souls? that’s pseudoscience! these guys are frauds!11!!

and some days, i think they’re right

What they say is bullshit. You’re not a fraud, Eva.

You were hired because you have the same dreams as I do.

You have the *skill* and the *determination*. Your being my colleague wasn’t a fluke! 

just… stop…

i can’t accept that yet.

continue your explanation, please?

Alright.

But if you need anything, please let me know.

maybe later…

please, i don’t want to talk about myself right now…

I thought, “I’ve survived longer than anyone else infected, I can’t just *die* with nothing to show for it!” 

but people die from the plague ALL the time ;;

Aliis si licet, tibi non licet.

It would make me feel like everything we’ve worked for has been a waste. And Thanatica would probably have gone down as one of those insane billionaire projects that don’t even work! That’s the *last* thing I wanted.

Q_Q

Not just for my own sake, Eva. But also for the entire lab.

For *you* too.

If failure had happened, though, I suppose *I* wouldn’t be there to see it.

However, I can’t say for certain if this is a success… sure, I’m conscious, and I’ve been remembering important parts of my life, but we haven’t tested anything yet.

for what it’s worth, you’re still so much like the daniil i know

Thank you.

anytime! n_n

by the way

i have a weird question… if that’s okay?

It depends.

I’d like to hear it.

if i *had* jumped and died, and my soul was inside your body

what would you do?

That is an interesting question.

took you a while! >v<

It’s not an easy one to answer, you know.

I think, maybe, you would be unused to my field of view, because of my height.

you’re not THAT short! ;;

you really wouldn’t kick me out?

No.

I would *not* let you die before you could taste the fruits of your labour. By that, I mean I want you to see how the world would appreciate your contribution to the AVA.

That is the least weirdly-intimate answer I could give you.

oh…

///

oh i’m so sorry, daniil, i didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable ;n;

Thank you, Eva. It’s okay.

do you believe in an afterlife?

I know it’s ironic to say no after waking up in the AVA, but no, I don’t believe in an afterlife.

I had no inclination to believe that your soul is separate from your body and goes to another world where you’ll be judged by extremely subjective (often also extremely cruel) higher beings for rewards, punishments, or another go at life.

But the Kains’ thoughts that dead souls can stay in this world even after their body dies… that’s enticing, in a way, though I believed it in a more figurative way than a literal one.

what do you mean? ‘o’

They call it “memory”, and say it’s the soul of the dead lingering in a Focus (a place/person/object). I believed a person can be a Focus. Metaphorically.

It means that their memories of the dead person is what makes them live on, i.e. the way people talk about being immortal if they affect other people, if they leave their writings or social media posts behind, etc.

I guess if they’re predisposed to it, the living person could assume the dead person’s identity, but that doesn’t mean a literal soul overthrow has occurred.

But the keyword is “believed”, *past tense.*

I’m not sure what to believe now that I’m no longer in my own human body.

And it’s only my first day… I need more time to rethink.

i can imagine that it’s hard…

you’re the only person in the world with this experience!

i think that’s neat, though!

transhumanism is really cool ^o^

I agree!

i personally have a similar belief

would be nice to live on in this world, but not taking over the body or the new focus… just being a memory

a memory that lives on… haunting the world and everyone in it…

but without feeling so much hurt anymore ;;

i wanted to give thanatica a chance

if my memory could empower everyone, give them the strength to face the future

not just in abstract!

but also the concrete things… like the media…

Ah yes, the media (eyeroll)

i know it’s silly, in hindsight…

if i actually died, i wouldn’t be able to tell you about AI-generated news and deepfakes that involve us

involve YOU, even!

i’m really sorry that you have to go through that ;o;

must be awful…

It is, but I’m glad your division helps the PR division to report them and take them down. AI *is* your expertise!

I apologise if you didn’t want to hear another compliment.

I *do* genuinely mean it. But it can sound trite and exhausting.

it’s okay, daniil

you’re far too kind ;;

My kindness is long overdue.

Eva?

Did I say something wrong?

Are you tired? Going to sleep?

yeah… got a call from my gf…

I trust she took care of you?

she did!

thank you for talking to me ;v;

Of course. I’m happy to do it for you. I hope you sleep well.

i hope you sleep well too!

if you can sleep?

No, that’s why I have not tried.

I *did* go to power-saving mode, though. Maybe I’ll charge the unit soon. Will I be able to achieve full unconsciousness? Who knows!

don’t forget to take notes n.n

I will take the most extensive notes you can imagine!

>v<

See you later, Eva. Stay safe.

you too!

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Exclusive Twinterview

THANATICA TODAY - EPISODE 44

Exclusive Interview With the Stamatinas on Polyhedron II

21-01-2165

Daniil Dankovsky of Thanatica Laboratories spoke with architects Antonina and Vasilisa Stamatina before the unveiling of Polyhedron II.

TRANSCRIPT

[INTRO MUSIC]

Daniil Dankovsky: Vasilisa and Antonina Stamatina, welcome to Thanatica Today, where we share incredible discoveries from the most brilliant minds of the current era. 

Vasilisa Stamatina: Morning!

Antonina Stamatina: Good day, old boy. We are excited to deliver to you our greatest creation yet… something that will bring out the best in everyone, as long as they are willing.

DD: An admirable goal. The unveiling day of Polyhedron II is on the horizon–we would love to hear about how you got here.

AS: [HUMS LIGHTLY] Have you ever pretended to be a dragon when you were a child? Not necessarily a dragon, of course… It could be a princess, or a knight, or an astronaut.

DD: Of course.

AS: Everyone has different fantasies. Before the world stifles it out of you and tells you that you must outgrow it, your imagination would have no limit, no border, no surface, no bounds. Your fantasies couldn’t yet conceive what is impossible by the curse of biology, or society…

That, Daniil, is what the first Polyhedron was supposed to be—a place to store that boundless imagination and make it real, beyond the confines of a body. It is, most of all, a storage of souls, focusing it the way lenses would focus the rays of the sun into a deadly blade.

DD : The first Polyhedron was a marvel. What inspired you to create the second?

VS: It’s much more mundane than the first one at first glance. Many trans people see it the way we see it—we would’ve been much happier if we knew we were women when we were younger. Transitioning early would have saved us a lot of suffering.

AS: However mundane it seems, transforming yourself, inside and out, is too an inspired act—you may even call it magic, you may even call it divine.

VS: Even if you do it irreverently—damn society’s rule of gender! It’s inherently a fight against the status quo!—I say the act of creating yourself is inherently sacred in your own way. But just because it’s personal, doesn’t mean it’s a solitary process.

DD: No, certainly not. Transitioning takes the support of other people, even indirectly.

VS : Yeah! And that’s what we want Polyhedron II to be. We want to create that support—without the hassle of paying for hormones or surgeries or even voice training! You shouldn’t bend to nature, nature should bend to you.

DD: Does this mean your new creation will allow people to transform their body however they desire?

VS: That’s right! Euphoria, right at your fingertips. It’s never been and will never be easier. No more being an egg f-ing up for years! [Note: “egg” is a slang used by the transgender community to denote a person while they haven’t yet realised they are transgender.]

AS : Our first Polyhedron was a chrysalis… but our second will make you, your body, the chrysalis. What kind of butterfly will emerge? I do not know—only you know. But desires are often at odds with your knowledge or memory, as well as how others perceive you… which is why so many people separate the conceptions of their body and their soul. That is why, we created the second Polyhedron to know what you want even before you realise it… The body-soul separation will be made moot.

DD: Because the Polyhedron II will ensure they match–I see now. How is that possible?

VS : Psychology’s one hell of a power. We’re seeking people who want to transform. We’re doing it ethically here in your Thanatica, so people who are interested in participating will have to read our consent form.

AS: We will also have a questionnaire to determine whether or not Polyhedron II will be good for your personal metamorphosis… 

DD: Naturally.

AS : Of course, not even the most meticulous preparation can anticipate everything… All participants of this project would have to be ready to change in ways they have never thought possible, or have never thought they wanted.

VS: You’ll be taken out of your comfort zone! But we and Thanatica’s experts will make sure you won’t be driven out of the “challenge zone” and into the “panic zone”.

DD: You talked about how the body-soul separation will be driven moot by Polyhedron II—but many people believe that the soul is but an expression of your memories and experiences, driven and stored by the neurons inside your body. According to that paradigm, the soul and the body are never separate in the first place.

VS: You’re a neuroscientist, I know, and we know a lot of sceptics are watching—listening, maybe reading. We know people like that deal with souls as the physical, but we deal with it the same as the Polyhedron Institute: it's a metaphysical expression of the self.

DD: And the metaphysical will be made physical in the confines of Polyhedron II?

VS: Yep.

DD: But is it not a feedback loop? The changes a body undergoes, for example by puberty, pregnancy, or illness, will change your state of mind. Your state of mind can also change your body, such as in the case of stress disrupting your sleep schedule and reducing the capabilities of your immune system.

AS: The feedback loop of transformation is a part of what we’re researching… Is the mind a plaything of the body, or is the body a plaything of the mind? Which is more dominant, and what factors make one play out more than the other?

DD: That’s a lot of questions, isn’t it?

VS: We’re hopeful this project can answer those questions. Or at least make it easier for others to do that.

DD: How about people who believe that they have spirit guides, or guardian angels, daemons, or other spiritual companions?

AS : In order to accept this much data—a spirit guide, for example—you have to surrender your own life. As they say, you can't fit two I's beneath the same roof. But that ‘I’, old boy, can be anything you can possibly want. Including someone who can see their own spiritual companions in the physical world, maybe even interact with them.

DD: To make the spirits visible for this hypothetical participant, Polyhedron II must have the same mechanisms of Polyhedron I—the way dreams are made manifest. I would assume this would work the same for imaginary friends and the like.

VS: Yeah, exactly. A project like this can’t not have the ability to make what’s impossible, totally possible! Polyhedron II takes the first one, improves the base, and adds on it.

AS: The Kains have inspired us to strive towards reaching for what others will not even entertain as viable goals—that’s what keeps us at the forefront, and not lagging behind. We’re happy to have your laboratory in cooperation, Dr. Dankovsky.

DD: It is, indeed, an exciting collaboration!

VS: We can’t wait.

AS: Imagination is the first step to transcendence. We will also try to account for various spiritual beliefs… as well as mental predilections… including if the participant views themself as not human, despite their human bodies.

VS: And phantom limbs! That, too, can be restored into real limbs—at least on our blueprints.

DD: The ramifications of physical transformation will affect multiple fields—not only what it means to create yourself in a philosophical sense, but also psychological, religious, medical, and so on. I imagine growing lost limbs without grafts, cloning technology, or a huge dent in your wallet would make doctors everywhere sue you.

VS: We’re not afraid of that. Hasn't Thanatica been flooded by protesters too?

DD: [CHUCKLING LIGHTLY] Oh, of course.

VS: [LAUGHING AND PATTING DANKOVSKY ON THE BACK] Rejoice and sing, Doc! That means the three of us are fighting against the status quo—the same status quo that made us never realise we were women until our adulthood.

AS: Yes, my sister is completely right… it is the same status quo that made us conceive our Polyhedrons to counter it in the first place.

DD: On the topic of what Polyhedron II is capable of, will that transcendence be an illusion, akin to an altered state of mind? Or will your physical body actually change to accommodate your will?

VS : That’s what we’re trying to answer!

AS: The questionnaire to select participants for the Polyhedron II project will be linked in the description below… isn’t that right?

DD: Yes, it is. 

Feel free to check the description for a link to the Stamatinas’ website, the homepage for Polyhedron II, as well as the Polyhedron Institute. If you are interested in participating on this groundbreaking project, feel free to click on the registration link. 

VS: We look forward to meeting you all!

DD: Thank you so much, Vasilisa and Antonina Stamatina, for allowing a bit of your time to share your insights.

VS: Anytime.

AS: You’re very welcome… and may we soon meet again to share the results of our project with the world.

[ENDING MUSIC]

DD : If you enjoyed today’s episode, do leave us a like, subscribe, or share it with other people who wish to enrich their lives with up-to-date news on scientific discoveries. To support our work, follow us @Thanatica — Tango - Hotel - Alpha - November - Alpha - Tango - India - Charlie - Alpha — on EyeTube, Twatter, Instantgram, Tocktick, and Telegraph. 

This has been Daniil Dankovsky, for Thanatica Today.

Scientia potentia est.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Train of Thought

You don’t know how long you’ve been running towards home. You don’t know. You don’t know. Your luggage is heavy. No it’s not. It shouldn’t be heavy. It’s just one backpack.

You shouldn’t have brought anything!

What do you mean you shouldn’t have brought anything? Yes, you should. This starvation, this thirst, it’s getting worse and worse. You forgot how cloying the steppe air is, how it weighs your lungs down, constricting your airways, the heady scent of twyre replacing the fullness of your breakfast.

You just mean to come back for your father, and take care of whatever affairs need to be taken care of, you wouldn’t stay for long. You can’t. It’s bad enough that you’re traveling so far during the plague. Except you’re wearing your high-security lab coat, pants, and boots… still, without a mask, you’re not as protected as you should be. But you can’t breathe in that mask while running like this! Not when the twyre’s in bloom… not when your father is waiting, faster, run faster, Burakh!

You should’ve just brought a hazmat suit. Like when you entered Daniil’s quarantine chamber. Why didn’t you take it? You should’ve. Why did you run out of the station? You could die out here. You will die out here. Thanatica waits for you back in the Capital, the vaccine research needs you, and your children anxiously wait for you to come back, and Daniil—

Daniil isn’t in the Capital.

But he is, he is!

Why wouldn’t he be in the Capital?

Enough.

This is a distraction. The inheritance from your father will nourish your mind and body alike. You have filled them both with such empty trifles, in the Capital. Who can you become, when you are wasting your days protecting someone who is doomed by his own actions? You must bind your destiny with your father’s calling. Enough of this farce, Burakh.

It’s time to go home and take your father’s warm vessel. It is a question of life and death for you to claim it, for it will imbue your dissolute existence with reason.

A shunt locomotive train stops right by you. The train is shoddy, made out of wood that’s barely put together correctly. Trains like these shouldn’t exist anymore, and yet—why wouldn’t they still exist here, so close to home (yet so far)? Where teleporters and bullet trains cannot reach?

The doors part.

You watch the open door frame a coffin… and from the coffin, emerges a figure—

“Clara?”

“Burakh?”

You find yourself entering the train car. The floor creaks with every step. Sinks worryingly with your weight as you sit down next to the coffin.

“You see it too, don’t you?”

Clara’s desperate plea echoes the way a projected voice would in a play, and you feel an audience’s worth of eyes stare. Stare. Stare.

You whip your head around to see if the surroundings have changed, but they haven’t. You’re still in the steppes, with your luggage.

“See what?”

“See that we’re late... or maybe early,” Clara continues, the words pushing you towards the coffin’s head like a phantom pair of hands. “I don’t know where to go.”

“Why are you going anywhere?” you ask. “Are you a fugitive now that they’ve found how bullshit your Crystal Claraity is?”

“That- that wasn’t my idea!”

“Listen, Artemis,” Daniil’s voice comes from the back, incisive. His new voice, the one the AVA’s voice synthesizer gave him, is deep, grave, and fills your ears like a round of applause. “I may not be a hundred percent correct. And neither is Clara. But I have the whole internet at my disposal, so…”

He smiles with his eyes. His lips stayed resolutely bowed down.

“Wait for me before making any bull-headed decisions.”

Yet, the sharp tone of his voice has mellowed, the warmth rather tongue-in-cheek.

“You say ‘bull-headed’ as if the Kin doesn’t revere them,” you tease.

Clara makes fake vomiting noises with some Razzie Awards-worthy dramatics. “Get a room!”

“Only if she understands,” Daniil replies. His voice now comes from beside you, as if he was here—and he is. You turn to your left to see him lean on your chest, peering up from under his thick eyelashes. His eyes, however, have sunken, the sclera turning black, and the brown irises glowing red.

“Understand what, Danya?” you find yourself asking.

The train car jolts—even though you don’t remember seeing any other train cars moving it—and speeds up like a bullet train and you hold on, hold on tightly to Daniil and Clara as the walls peeled themselves at the speed, flying out crack-snap-woosh-

“Daniil?” you cry, pressing him close to you, and his eyes glow brighter, brighter, brighter. “Can you tell me what I don’t understand?”

“Fallaces sunt rerum species et hominum spes fallunt.”

“I don’t speak your barbaric tongue, Dr. Dankovsky!"

Creak... shhhhhh.... The train stops at a familiar station, in a familiar town.

“Then I’ll say it plainly to you, Burakh,” he sneers, “ That’s what you should understand.”

“Whatever the hell do you mean? How can I understand when you don’t explain anything to me?”

“Ask the Changeling,” he says, before jumping out of the train. You try to call to his retreating back, but you find yourself bound by a curse of silence. You grab the teenager by the collar and demand with your mind- yet somehow you can still talk to her, that little shit-!

“What does all of this mean?!”

“Day one,” Clara says, as if reading from a script. “In which the Haruspex turns from a rightful heir to a dangerous criminal.”

A brown haze falls over your vision—September twyre. They’re in season now. You have to remember. You adjust your sight. Not just literally, remember? You will be the menkhu, remember? You saw the Lines lead you to run to your hometown as soon as you left that last train. Is it a true Line, or a false one? How can you know? What separates a real Line from fake, real home from fake, real Clara from fake, Daniil from fake? And if it’s all fake, then-

The brown haze grows darker. It slowly but surely wraps itself around you, snugly fades to black, pulling down your eyelids and slowing your heartbeat…

“But what does this mean for me?!”

“It means any choice is right, as long as it’s willed.”

When you wake up, you realize that the voice answering your question was your own.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Do-mess-ticity

Daniil’s Private Chambers, Dankovsky-Burakh Residence

1 September 2165, 11:55:08

Any choice is right, as long as it’s willed…

The first thought that comes to you is, “That makes total sense to me!”

You groan, rolling to the side to… even more bed. Instead of being pressed to the wall on your left, Daniil has left the room. Did he go to work already?

Wait. Work. Another groan rattles in your lungs. “Mmmmh… what time is it…”

It’s still dark, too dark to see the clock, why the hell does this room have an analog clock that isn’t even glow-in-the-dark… oh right, you took the glow-in-the-dark clock for the kids’ rooms. So it’s either too early, or Daniil was kind enough not to open the curtains…

You roll to your other side to see that he was also kind enough to charge your phone for you. You stretch your body— ow !—bumping Daniil’s bed frames—bend forward and to the right, roll your spine before you sit yourself up. Blinking the sleep out of your eyes, you shift your legs onto the floor. Collecting more soul before you wake up…

With another stretch, you rise to your feet and take your phone to check the time.

“Shit!” you exclaim. “The kids!”

You run out of the bedroom; if Daniil’s gone to work, you gotta prepare the online school stuff-!

And… in the living room, Mishka is on the tablet and Spichka is on the laptop, both wearing earphones already.

You sigh in relief.

Visible from the gap left by the curtain on the doorframe, Daniil is sitting on the dining table just a room away, a book in his hands. You part the curtain and brush your hair back as you enter, apologetic not just at your lateness but also the fact that you look like a mess…

Then you realize that Daniil also looks like a mess. There's no work today, right.

He’s not even sitting properly… reminding you of the last mess you’ve seen his in-

The bloody kind of messy, where his dead body is opened for you to scoop out his entrails, as if Mother Boddho would spell a consolation for you with the viscera-

The other kind of messy, where you try not to look too hard at his empty gaze or his naked body, wiping and bathing his cracked skin during his flares, not saying a word-

“Good morning, Artemis,” Daniil greets you, breaking the thrall of gore-painted, dirty bed with his new, lovely voice. Soon after, the warm-green kitchen washes away the sterile-white quarantine room with a modest, grounded glow. You can’t help but tremble.

Because Daniil, too, is glowing with the sunlight pouring out of the small window onto his uncharacteristically slacking form. It’s the way Clara would sit: He’s leaning way too far back on the chair until it sticks on the counter. The chair itself is precariously balanced on its two back legs. He’s manspreading while raising his legs, feet on the table. His book—you recognize it as the self-printed old edition of Vigor Mortis —also spread on his crotch, stopped by a press of his hands. And his shirt is untucked. Also, he. Tantalizingly has one, two, three, four buttons unbuttoned.

Wow.

His skin stops only a few centimetres below his collarbone, revealing a transparent case that reveals robotic innards that sort of resemble a ribcage. It is soft, and translucent, and you can pretend the wires are blood vessels if you don’t look too hard, but… there’s no subtle rise and fall. He isn’t breathing. He is not fucking breathing like a living being. Because Daniil Dankovsky, your best friend, is dead, his body still somewhere in Thanatica—Yet when you look at his face, his smile is knowing and alive.

Fuck. Heat is pooling in your lower body. Maybe you should go back to thinking of him dying. That’s an actual ribcage. You’re doing medical practice. Yeah. That calms down your desires a little? You think? Not as much as you’d like. But with that smile… What are you supposed to think?

“The hell,” you force the words out, “are you doing?”

“Relaxing,” Daniil says, as if he’s not doing the weirdest thing you’ve seen him do. At what must be an ‘are you shitting me?’ look, he adds, “Waiting on the children just in case they need my help before you awake.”

“Right. That makes sense.”

You help yourself to some water and a sandwich—feeling the burning of his gaze on your back. Something simple, to fend off hunger before you cook a proper meal, because Daniil hasn’t done that. It makes sense, because he doesn’t need to eat anymore. Perfect sense. Just like everything else that’s happened the past few days.

“Is that why you’re reading VM again?” You sit down, holding your sandwich. The smell is quite sharp. Your nose twitches. Daniil, unfazed by the smell, is still manspreading and unmoving and holding the same smile. Just a normal breakfast between two healthy, living human roommates. “To relax?”

“Kinda,” Daniil replies. His smile doesn’t falter. He puts the comic book on the table. Suddenly, he bends his legs bit by bit and moves them forwards backwards—unnaturally so, as if he’s driving a stick-shift with his own joints. Are you still dreaming? Why is he doing this? Is this his way of sexually soliciting you?

“I’ve been testing my memory. My emotions. And my range of movement. I hope it doesn’t freak you out.”

“It does kinda freak me out,” you admit, “How does it feel? What do you remember?”

“Interesting.”

Daniil’s voice drops into a low note you’ve never heard him be able to reach. Dangerous. At least for the state of your heart and your pants. He might be angry at you—he raises an eyebrow, and now the smile has straightened out. He’s not easy to read when he’s not angry—anger has a knack of breaking through the Dankovskian Practiced Faces, it’s where his passion burns the most, no matter who is in his way. But maybe he can hide his anger now if he has that much control over his expression in his new body. You don’t know what to think. Is he going to refuse you peeling through his figurative skin, now more than ever?

“Are you enjoying the freakout, at least?” He asks. The tone is higher-pitched now, artificially sweet, echoing with a bit of a metallic clang. “There is an endless supply of voices I can play with.”

Now he is speaking like a cartoon robot. Every syllable has a steady beat. “There-is-an-end-less-sup-ply” and so on. It’s making your brain spin. His Lines are strange—you hear it from his direction, but it wouldn’t intertwine with yours. Why wouldn’t it?

You try to listen.

You take a few bites of your sandwich and nod. Don’t speak.

“And to answer your question, I remember everything.” His voice returns to his new normal. “I remember why I read Vigor Mortis . I know why this comic is close to my heart. So close that I had a poster of the villain on my bedroom wall, had him as my wallpapers, avatars—I remember that I’ve never shared that particular part of my life with you.”

The Lines were peaceful when you looked upon your children. Now, you realize… you hear… they take on a new emotion. It feels right to know more about him. They sing of trust, a terribly human sound, and even when yours and his seem terribly separate from now, you think yours are in harmony with his.

“No, you haven’t,” you say. You take a sip of water, satisfied.

“You yourself have told me so much about your childhood,” he replies fondly while you’re taking another bite. “Your father would take you to his lair after school and teach you how to use the alembics, and on the first time, you’d puke on the floor when he told you the contents.”

“That’s not as much puke as when I first had to butcher a bull,” you grin. And suddenly you remember that you have a text from your father. Maybe he can wait a few minutes?

“I only know of the first one, please pardon my lack of knowledge on your vomiting habits.”

“Yeah, yeah, city-boy,” you tease, “As if you wouldn’t be the same in my position. Not that I envy your dad-ucation either. Did he make you shoot pheasants or something? I can’t imagine, even the esteemed General Dankovsky shouldn’t be allowed to take a little kid to the shooting range! Although, the mental image is kinda precious.”

He shoots you, not with a gun, but with a weird look.

“He did not,” Daniil says. “Anyway, I think my favorite story from your childhood is when Lara taught you and the boys to play the piano in her house.”

“No, no,” you correct him, “She didn’t teach us all at once. She taught Stakh, who taught Grief, who taught me. It’s like the worst way to teach kids to play the piano. I think her Eyetube still has those videos…” You shudder. “Glad she didn’t go viral.”

Daniil nods in agreement.

“Lucky you!” He laughs. “If I’d recognised you as a vlogger sensation when we first met, I probably would’ve avoided you and your fame.”

“Now you’re way more famous,” you tease back. “Lucky me.”

“Lucky indeed, not only to be relatively anonymous, but to also grow up outside of this accursed city,” Daniil says, rolling his eyes. “I also remember you recounting the times you walk along the Gullet and the Guzzle with your friends.”

The voice he uses now is so unlike him—it sounds more like your voice—

“Grief leading the way even though you know the place more than you do, and you even let them get lost in the Steppe a little… you little devil, you.”

-explodes inside your head. Inside of your ears—wrongwrong wrong giving the room an air of unreality-

“They’re not truly lost, I was being dramatic!” you correct him. You try to sound playful, but hearing your own voice being delivered back to you scrambles and disassembles the emotions inside of your chest. Just like the Steppe swallowing you whole if you have tread the Lines not meant to be tread. “Sure, it seemed like we were. But I could still find the way back home. I have to, or Trout’s dad will kill me!”

“Good ol’ Captain Ravel,” Daniil laughs in his new-but-familiar voice again. The surrealness still hangs in the air, but it isn’t a sudden incision on your heart anymore, or a wrong cut at the arteries carrying your memory of him. It is him. His voice embraces you as though a warm blanket.

“Good ol’ Captain Ravel,” you grin. “Speaking of, Lara’s dad did mention ‘the General’ a few times… Do your dads know each other?”

Daniil pulls his legs back to the outer edge of the table, then off the table, and rests them on the floor. The strange look returns to his face.

Shit. Backpedal, now, or regret it. He should reveal things at his own pace, you brute, you can’t just trample all over his boundaries. “Sorry, I know you don’t like to talk about your blood-parents…”

“No, I… I haven’t been truthful to you.” Daniil makes a sound like a breathed-out laugh. “My sperm donor was a businessman, not a general.”

What . Daniil has told you about his shooting lessons and how annoying they are. He’s not quite a military nut, but he has a licence to carry, and he knows enough that he talks about it with relative confidence. Who taught him?

“How do you know how to use a gun then?”

Daniil winces. “I didn’t want to seem unmasculine… I already didn’t pass as a cis man. So I started learning how to use weapons, to compensate. Over compensate, perhaps. I may have gotten carried away with matters of military history and engineering, stuff, you know, I love reading.”

“I don’t judge you,” you say softly. “But…” But it hurts to be lied to. “I thought you trusted me, Daniil.”

Wrong response.

The edge of his mouth twitches. A brief hint of a scowl follows. Then it smoothes itself into neutrality, far easier than his human body allowed him to. “I trusted you in the things that matter: My medical care. My life. My death. You have carried out my will excellently—all throughout my quarantine and in the event of my death. Thank you, Artemis.”

He refastens the buttons of his shirt one by one, takes his comic book, and stands up to leave.

He does trust you! Why else would he give you full access to his quarantine room? Why did you say that? But how could he just push you away if he trusted you?!

“Don’t go all clever on me and walk away!” You stand up too. “Yesterday, I had to see you die, cut you up, then you cuddled me while watching a movie, and now you have to act all stubborn again? I trust you not because I'm a bootlicker for your research! I trust you because you are my best friend-what am I to you ?!”

A guilty look falls upon his face like a guillotine.

You try to stop glaring at him when you take your seat again. You really don't know how to love, do you?

He sits back down far more stiffly than you. Settles uncomfortably on a chair so like a needle’s edge; leans forward as if there was a noose around his neck.

You say nothing.

His gaze penetrates you; his Lines slither in place.

“I didn't grow up in the Capital,” he offers.

You still say nothing.

“My biological mother… was a theatre director, actress, and dancer,” he continues tentatively, “Her husband ran the business side.”

You’ve cornered him into trusting you. Is that real trust? You don’t know. And you don’t know what else to ask.

“Who’s General Dankovsky, then?”

“My namesake,” he answers. He shows you the cover of his comic book, which depicts two people: a young hero in a spandex suit, trapped inside an hourglass held by a villain in a plague-doctor hat and mask and a military-ish uniform. He points at the masked man. “This guy. I told you that I named myself after a fictional character… ‘Dankovsky’ is not my birth name. And before you ask, it is not ‘Dankovskaya’, either.”

Wow. He really didn't want his blood-family to find him, huh? 

He clears his throat. Does he even need to do that? And the Lines are—they are gone again. Why can’t you hear them anymore?

“You probably know my birth-surname, now,” he says, his tone wavering. It makes your skin crawl, discomfort-wrongness-dysphoria creeping under it. “My blood-relations are… quite famous.”

“No,” you reassure him, “I’m not a theater guy, so I honestly have no idea. But your birth family doesn't matter—you’ve always been and will always be Daniil Dankovsky to me.”

“Thank you,” Daniil replies. Relief makes him sit straighter. “And you, Artemis, can be anyone you want. I will support any change you choose to undergo.”

“Any change, huh?” you ask. You try to think of what transitioning would mean to you… when Agent Artemis from last night’s movie flashes into your mind. She’s definitely attractive. Chiseled and broad-shouldered but with lots of bold but not quite “feminine” makeup, she is very androgynous, but everyone sees her as a woman anyway. She often wears wigs of many colors, so vibrant you wonder how it all looks good on her—but her original half-shaved haircut definitely is underrated. “You know, I think Agent Artemis is really…”

You stop short on actually giving her an adjective.

“I did notice you really looking at her,” Daniil says softly. Something is stirring in him and you at the same time, as if he can relate to you.

“I can’t not look at her,” you try to explain, “She’s pretty, yes, but I wouldn’t say that I’m attracted to her. Not that she's bad-looking at all!” You add quickly. “I think she’s more attractive than Agent Aphrodite—I thought I preferred curvy and feminine women like Aphro, but Artemis is so comfortable in being androgynous, maybe even masculine? But no one is shitty to her about it. She’s so…”

“So gender?” Daniil offers.

It’s such a bizarre phrase, but is that not what you see in her? The Gender?

“Yes!” You exclaim. Then you pause. You take your time to finish your sandwich… every chew a wonderment of the fluidity of Artemis’s movement, the deepness of her voice, the skin-tight infiltration suit… Do you want to kiss her? Bed her like those marks? You wonder if Artemis Burakh is a good fit in that. But it’s not like you could cosplay her or kiss her. You’re not a woman. “I think it’s gender? I think that’s what it is.”

“There is something queer about her,” he elaborates. That makes… more sense? “I feel that way, long ago, when I first saw General Dankovsky in his Season 3 comeback—shit, that’s a spoiler-”

“It’s okay!” You’re so curious about what Daniil sees in the character.

“He didn’t used to look like this,” Daniil explains, pointing at the plague doctor guy on his comic book cover. “He used to look more human. A bit of a DILF, to be honest, which is why his comeback was a little controversial.”

“Now you have to show me,” you snicker.

Daniil whips out his phone and types… then he shows you a character page on a webcomic website, stopping on General Dankovsky’s section. You gesture to borrow it; he hands his phone to you.

You click on the image… The General is pale and clad in a sci-fi style military uniform, carrying a big-ass laser gun. He has grey eyes and tasteful wrinkles, his gaunt face framed by a middle-parted, greying hair. Honestly, he looks a bit like Daniil might have if he’d survived twenty or more years- no, Burakh, stop thinking that!

“DILF is right,” you say instead, with a naughty smirk, showing him the screen while leaning on it next to your cheek, “Dankovsky I’d Like to Fuck. Did the fandom make that joke?”

Daniil looks like he’s torn between slamming his face on the desk and moving away to the South Pole for the next century.

“All the time,” he finally says, with a deadpan expression, “At least before he got blown up to smithereens. The gore was very realistic. The author did say that she went to medical school.”

"Webcomics really pull no punches, huh."

“It was a shitshow when Season 3 first came out,” Daniil groans, massaging his right temple. You push his phone back towards him, but he doesn’t yet take it. “Some people expected him to die after that supposedly fatal blow. Vigor Mortis has a decent amount in its rogues gallery for an indie comic, so the fandom wished for one of the other villains to step into the General’s boots.”

“Four villains in two seasons—120 episodes—in five years, with their own fully-fledged arcs. The General was the biggest villain… a lot of pre-Season 3 fics had the villains try to take advantage of the power vacuum, or Vigor themself mourning his death, but…”

“But he became a plague doctor?”

“Canon is stranger than fanon.” Daniil smiles wryly, taking back his phone. “Vigor Mortis—the hero themself—in misguided grief, revived him and put him in some sort of… plague-doctor-costume-shaped suit. They felt like they lost their life’s purpose without the General to fight.”

“That’s insane.”

“Vigor does have death-related powers. It drew me into the comic in the first place—how can they be a superhero? Near the end of Season 2, they discovered they could do a bit of necromancy.”

Your jaw drops in awe. “A necromancer who’s not an antagonist or villain? That’s pretty sick.”

“It is. Sadly, a large portion of the fandom hated the plague-doctor suit-design.” Daniil scoffs. “Which is a little stupid, in my opinion, since the General loves chemical warfare.”

“What a guy.”

An ironic smile. “We had to tag his Season 3-and-onwards design as ‘Birdkovsky’, while Seasons 1-2 must be tagged ‘Humankovsky’ or ‘DILFkovsky’, or we’d get sent hate.”

The air quotes were so exaggerated, and the Lines seem to focus on them—maybe he is embarrassed. But you just can’t see him blush anymore. Still! He is still human, deep inside. You can fluster him.

“How about you ? Do you get the ‘Robokovsky’ tag?”

Daniil groans. “Shut uuuuuuuup .”

“Is his first name ‘Daniil’ too?” you wonder. “I don’t judge, if it is.”

“No, actually,” he grins, “He doesn’t have a canonical first name. The fandom had to make one up. After Season 3, though, it became the prevailing fanon that he should have a bird-related name.”

“Fun foreshadowing!”

“Exactly.”

“So, what makes him so gender?” You ask, playful, “I hope it’s not the war crimes!”

“It’s his resurrected form,” Daniil answers, his tone bashful. “I fantasized about being in that suit. To become unperceivable and impenetrable…” A dreamy haze falls over him. “No one will dare misgender you, because you’re a six-feet tall mad scientist with a plague doctor mask and a big fucking gun.”

“True,” you reply, “I wouldn’t dare at all.”

“Maybe I should’ve threatened people with a gun whenever I got misgendered,” Daniil muses, “It’s not like my reputation can get worse.”

“It can definitely get worse,” you point out.

“Imagine finding out the founder of Thanatica named himself after a comic-book villain…” He says with the gravity of announcing a gruesome death. “Imagine the grief of idolizing a public figure… of admiring him for his ambitious scientific goals… and discovering that he is a Vigor Mortis fan…”

He wipes a nonexistent tear, face a mask of exaggerated sadness. “Such a preposterous reveal.”

“The betrayal! I thought Daniil Dankovsky had better taste,” you mock-sob, burying your face in your hands, “I would never trust anyone ever again!”

“He does not,” Daniil says. “And I wish I were joking, but in some fandoms, liking VM was actual grounds for harassment campaigns.”

You look up from your face-burial. “Why?”

“Because it’s an easy target. What with it being indie, having a nonbinary protagonist, a sexy male villain, and a mostly-female fanbase,” he explains, looking to the distance, as though seeing it happen in real time and space. “And shipping Vigorovsky—a.k.a. the hero and the villain—would net you death threats. People would call you a supporter of child abuse even though both are adults.”

What in the world?

“Oh, and if your favorite character is the General, of course you condone real life war crimes.”

You wince. Thank Mother Boddho for your rural upbringing and lack of internet-based media. “Eugh. I’m glad I wasn’t deep in any fandom.”

“I thought you were interested in Greco-Roman mythology?”

“Not in a fandom way!” You just like classic literature and plays. And you figured Daniil dabbles in it too, considering his knowledge of Latin, but… “What’s that fandom even like?”

“You do not want to know,” he shakes his head.

“Let me guess…” There are a lot of horrible things in these classical mythologies. Why not go for one of the worst guys? “Being interested in Zeus as a character… means you support rape in real life? And should be bullied off the internet?”

“...you are pretty on-point.”

The two of you stare at each other for a long second.

You break the silence and rise from your chair.

“I’m going to make breakfast so I can forget that people online don't see each other as real people with feelings.”

Thinking of a simple meal for three…

“You don’t have to cook breakfast for the children, save it for lunch,” Daniil says, “I bought them takeouts. They ate it before class.”

A smile cleaves your face.

The plague can wait. Your grief can wait. And so can your foolish heart.

No matter what you are to him, friend or lover, trusted or tolerated, Daniil loves your children despite it all—maybe he considers them his, too. The peace from seeing Spichka and Mishka; the warmth from seeing him, and to have your heart filled with his vulnerability, now mingle in a path that pushes you forward through the day.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: New Dawn, New Day, New Life

Monday, 2 September 2165

Eva, are you busy?

no, not at all!

how are you?

Feeling a sense of accomplishment! 

*Your* accomplishment, that is. I have barely used any battery power for the past few hours. Look, I am still at 100%.

[screenshot of Daniil's interface, which is kind of like a smartphone's. The 100% battery level is shown by an ouroboros colored in a maroon to vermilion gradient, with its empty space filled with a slate blue. Above the ouroboros is "MONDAY / 02.09.65" and under it is "06:06:06 / USER: D. DANKOVSKY". On its right is the icons for programs in the same maroon-vermilion gradient: Settings, Weather, Browser, Files, Time & Date, and E-mail. On the bottom of the screen in slate blue text is "Ad Vitam Aeternam (AVA) Project | Thanatica Laboratories 21XX - 2165 | v.0.9.8 | Last Update: 30.08.2165".]

and you already could connect your brain to your phone!

that is so cool, daniil! ///

how long did you charge the ava last night?

i mean how long did you sleep?

sorry , i didn’t mean to sound so clinical q_q

There is nothing to apologize for. It is your job to make sure I’m in top shape, yes?

i guess so ;w;

how’s work?

Not much usual work. I started the testing today.

oh, right… did it go well?

Passed the vision tests in flying colors, though perhaps a little disappointed to find out that your division did not give me any x-ray vision, or the ability to see infrared and ultraviolet lights.

haha… we should have, though!

our plan for the ava was to make it as human as possible, but…

do you think it would be cool if you could see through walls?

or if your sensors prevented you from being jumpscared and pranked from the back, haha! ^7^

It is already pretty cool. Tinkering with commands - with my thoughts! - could actually give me night vision. In crisp high definition, I must say!

The fact that I could willingly adjust every tiny bit of sensory input or joint articulation is incredible. Thank you.

By the way, have you eaten breakfast today?

no, i already went to the train station…

don’t want to miss the train, you know…

Train station? Are you visiting your girlfriend?

no? why do you think so?

i’m going to work of course n_n

Eva, please don’t take it as condescension.

But I think it is probably best for you to take a short break. You have had a long night, yesterday - are you not exhausted?

you can’t make me go back home!

you’re not my boss!

[video note of Daniil rising an eyebrow]

wait, you are ;A;

I wasn’t trying to play the authority card. I was just showing you how articulated my facial muscles are.

Look at that raised eyebrow, immaculate! I’ve never been able to do that before. I feel like a cartoon character.

daaaaaniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiil

don’t make me go back home! QvQ

[picture of Eva inside the train making a pleading face]

I won’t.

I’ll buy you breakfast after this test, will that be amenable to you? I will be paying for the meal.

okay QwQ

Good evening, Eva.

hi!

If I kindly request you to skip work tomorrow and give you paid leave for the next week, will you take it?

I’ll entreat, even.

noooo…

you can’t entreat me to skip work!

i really want to do the testing, you know!

i already missed some of them today… ;_;

You’re not the only member of the Robotics Division, you know.

don’t you feel responsible for everyone under you too?

That’s different…

If I tell you that I’ve been relaxing at home, will you follow my example?

don’t you have kids in the house?

isn’t that the opposite of relaxing? o_O

I *did* help them with schoolwork. You win this round…

Just remember to eat and drink. And if you need a listening ear, or a reading pair of eyes, I’m here.

remember to charge yourself and take notes, dr. dankovsky!

Will do, Dr. Yan.

Take care of yourself.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: (Un?)Faithful of the Warden Kin

Artemis’s Bedroom, Dankovsky-Burakh Residence

2 September 2165, 22:00:01

Sayn baina, Tyoma. How are you? And how is Daniil?

Your father’s text stares back at you for who knows how long.

It's just a text. There's nothing between the lines. Or the Lines. How does listening to them even work via text? Can't a father just be concerned for their son?

“Son”.

Sure, Artemis.

How much should you even reveal? You can tell him how you feel, but to even go into it, you would have to talk about Daniil's death and resurrection, which is supposed to be a secret until Daniil's press conference in a few weeks. And then there is the matter of your gender. Where do you even start with that?

You're not sure what your gender is, anyway—not yet. He can wait until you have a more definite answer. Yes, you told him you liked men and women after you caught him having a tryst with Simon Kain (you could never see what he sees in that guy, holy fuck), but that doesn't guarantee he'll accept that his son doesn't want to be a son anymore.

There is nothing in your people's teachings that prohibits a woman from being the menkhu, but—the law of Boddho is often unenforced, like the Earth under your feet, while the law of parents is more like a yoke on a young calf. Will he be disappointed to see the son he moulded has turned himself into… something else? How tightly will Isidor Burakh pull the yoke?

If you become a basaghan , will you have to change the way you look? Having the long, shaped hair of herb brides, or the braid-crowns of other Khatanghe women, wouldn't feel good, you think. How much should you honor tradition to be acknowledged? Your blond hair and blue eyes—same as your dead mother—already give you so many side-glances from both sides. Would you just look like her if you tried to be feminine in a more Russian way? What will your father think?

But… what if you were neither man nor woman? Is there no precedence? How do you bring this up without making your father worry, when he must already be swamped with patients due to the pandemic?

And here, far away in the Capital, you don't even perform rituals. You've already forgotten how to brew tinctures and how to read fate in animal entrails. Your grasp of the Khatanghe tongue slips more and more each day. You taught your children, yes. Daniil tried to learn it and practice it before the plague cut it short, too. For during his quarantine, how could you burden him?

At least you can still read the Lines.

Yeah, sure. I can do that.

You massage the bridge of your nose, eyes shut tight. It's just a text. It's not hard. It shouldn't be.

Sayn baina, Father, you type, Myy uymen, I've been through some hell. Daniil got worse, and I had to see my best friend crumble.

You keep it vague, no mention of death or the AVA, all good.

You stare at the message… and immediately think, “all good”? That's a bit much, isn't it? Imagine, your father just went home from several lifesaving, or at least easing the suffering of so many people in your hometown, while being targeted with xenophobia and lack of funding, to see that his kid is failing to live up to him in a comfortable Capital home with a cushy laboratory job.

At this rate, Stakh is likelier to be the next menkhu than you are. His texts are terse, sure, but that's just the way he is.

Are you sure? When was the last time he texted you? And what did he say, exactly? Do you even remember? You're so focused on your Danya and his plague recovery that you forget everything else.

A groan rumbles in between your teeth. Okay then!

Sayn baina, Aba, how are you? you type again, fingers clacking roughly on the screen, I'm great. The Capital is so fun and everything is going well! I, as your loyal son, will say whatever it is you want to hear! Write back to me soon please! I know the signal isn't so reliable in there but we should talk more! I'll even ask Daniil to go on a video call with you!

The angry message takes the steam out of you. Maybe you should check Stakh's text first… you go back to your inbox and search his name.

Stakh Rawbeans

Amazing. You forgot you have that as his contact name.

Last online 20:00, 1 September 2165

You grip your phone tighter when you open his texts. His last one was… last year. Of course.

Stop. Just stop

I don't need your big city crap bugging me and eating all my internet quota

Stakh, I can just mail you my textbooks if you want. They're all physical, we don't believe in e-books lol

If you want to study for an admission test, my father won't stop you, right?

You said he has other apprentices

Stakh?

Stanislav, what gives?

Where are you?

How are you?

Are you okay?

Hey, you okay there? Anything I can do?

Call declined.

Come on, don't be a stranger. I'm trying to give you a head start.

I messaged you on Bookface and you blocked me. Why?

Stakh, I'm calling you.

Call declined.

Call declined.

Call declined.

Alright then.

Read 21:30, 22 March 2164

Being stared at by your father's texts is more appealing than this. You realize you've fucked up with your childhood friend. Maybe you were too condescending when offering him help to go to medical school as he had always dreamed of. Is he ashamed of being “too old”? Did your father forbid him from going? What about your father's other apprentices?

Maybe he just hated your updates of city life on social media. Even though you’re not even on Bookface.

Maybe, the simplest explanation is that he's jealous—but he has your father's favor, his company, his traditional teachings, his inheritance! Things you barely have! Because your father wants you to keep studying modern medicine, to keep your horizons wide, to travel everywhere… But while you did travel for a while to study, Daniil had to get himself a lab, trapped by the Kains’ promises and money…

Why do you feel a duty to Daniil? Why do you feel a duty to your father?

(You know why.)

Why do they have to align to keep you away, to keep you and Stakh all but enemies?

It's not like you're eager to leave the Capital. You've found and taken in Mishka and Spichka here in the big city. And here, your children can go to school, can be in a safe environment, and can have medical attention when they're sick.

You sigh.

What can you even stay to Stakh? That life is better here, and he deserves it? Or will he take it as an insult? Must you tell him that you're sorry? How else could you have phrased your offers?

Father's text , your brain reminds you.

Yep. The most appealing part of the night has come upon you once more. You did this to yourself, really. But you couldn't have replied to him right then and there! You were in Thanatica getting not-drunk while Daniil is making you hysterical by being dead and alive in the span of an hour. Or less. You honestly can't remember. Or don't want to?

You probably need to sleep more before you can think of a better answer. So, you exit, lock your screen, and plug in your phone for the night.

At least, unlike with Stakh, it's only been two days. Your father can wait another.