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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The Illness Spreads

The weight of the book presses against my lap, its density a constant reminder of the time slipping through my fingers. Theoretical Immortality: Genetic Reconstruction and Cellular Regeneration. A collection of hypotheses, all meticulously worded, endlessly debated, and yet—entirely untested.

I skim through the familiar passages, my eyes narrowing as they settle on one of the more promising theories:

"If cellular decay could be halted through programmed genetic correction, we could theoretically extend human life indefinitely. However, ethical concerns and the unpredictable nature of widespread genome editing prevent large-scale human trials."

Ethical concerns. Caution. Hesitation.

I snap the book shut, the sound sharp in the quiet library. Science shackled by fear is useless. What value do theories hold if they are never tested? Potential locked behind the bars of morality and regulation might as well be fiction. If the technology exists, then it should be used. Must be used. But humanity clings to its illusions of order, of control, of restraint.

I exhale slowly, fingers tightening around the worn cover. If the research I need doesn't exist, then I will create it. I will not wait for permission, nor will I waste time lamenting the failings of those before me. If no one else will take the necessary risks, I will.

A sudden shift in my vision pulls me from my thoughts. The room tilts, the words on the spine of a nearby book blurring into indistinct smudges. My pulse stumbles, erratic, and a cold sweat prickles at my skin. I grip the edge of the desk with both hands, forcing my body to steady itself. Not now. Not yet.

The air tastes stale, thick with dust and old paper. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, willing the dizziness to pass. Slowly, the pressure in my chest evens out. I loosen my grip, flexing my fingers to restore circulation. My body betrays me at every turn, but I refuse to acknowledge its victory.

The notebook lies open beside me, its pages filled with erratic handwriting—proof of the strain and urgency behind every equation, every hypothesis. The formulas start neatly, methodically, but the further I go, the more the ink scratches into the page like frantic footfalls in the snow. It doesn't matter. The clarity is there. This isn't about philosophical debates or moral hesitation. This is a problem. And problems exist to be solved.

I cast one last look at the discarded textbook, its theories stagnant and incomplete, then push it aside. I don't have time for speculation. Theory alone is meaningless without application.

The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock reminds me how much time I don't have. I exhale, bracing myself before I rise to my feet. The walk to the lab is short, but every step feels deliberate, measured—as if my own body resists me at every turn. Still, I push forward. The automatic doors remain open as I approach, a small concession Gerald has made for me—not that I acknowledge it aloud.

Inside, the lab hums with the quiet sound of machinery, the air sterile and heavy with the faint scent of metal and ozone. Gerald stands hunched over his workbench, papers strewn around him like fallen leaves. The harsh fluorescence above casts sharp shadows over his face, emphasizing the exhaustion that has long since settled into his features. His attention is elsewhere, eyes lingering on a photograph resting near his notes.

It takes me a moment to recognize it—an old picture of myself, clutching a diploma, beaming with something that resembles triumph. A relic of a different time. A different Maria.

"Grandfather," I say at last, my voice even despite the tightness in my chest.

Gerald looks up, startled from his thoughts. The moment of surprise passes, replaced with something softer—relief, perhaps. Or maybe pride.

"Maria," he murmurs, sitting up straighter. He takes in the sight of me standing there and immediately frowns. "You should be resting."

"There's no time for that," I counter, stepping forward with purpose. The weakness in my limbs is an annoyance, nothing more. I press my hands onto the edge of the workbench, grounding myself as I prepare to speak. "We've been approaching this problem the wrong way. If my body cannot handle Chaos Energy, then we must force it to adapt."

Gerald's expression shifts, the weight of my words settling in. "You mean genetic modification," he says, his voice low, cautious.

I nod. "Organisms evolve in response to stress. We know this. If we apply controlled mutation sequences, we may be able to accelerate the process—to make my body more adaptable."

His fingers lace together as he considers it. He does not dismiss me outright, which is a start. "Maria, forced evolution is unpredictable. We can't anticipate how your DNA will react. You may gain resistance, but you could just as easily develop complications—new failures we can't control."

"We don't have the luxury of playing it safe," I say, keeping my voice firm but measured. "If Chaos Energy won't work with my body naturally, then my body must change. We've exhausted every other option, Grandfather."

A long silence stretches between us. Gerald presses his fingers against his temple, the flicker of resistance still present, but I can see it—the gears turning, the calculations already forming in his mind. The risks are there, but so is the potential.

Gerald exhales, rubbing his fingers together in thought, his gaze distant as the weight of my proposal settles between us. He is already calculating, already mapping out possibilities, but the hesitation lingers, a final tether to caution.

"If we do this," he says finally, his voice quieter now, more measured, "it has to be controlled. Precise genetic markers, minimal risk."

Not an argument. A concession.

I incline my head slightly. "Then let's begin."

Pain tears through me like an electric current misfiring through every nerve. My breath hitches, my chest locking as though an iron band is constricting my lungs. The sterile glow of the lab feels distant, blurred, unreal.

"Her cells are destabilizing—shut it down, now!"

Gerald's voice cuts through the haze, sharp and commanding, but I barely process the hands that grip my shoulders, steadying me as the room spins. I focus on one thing—forcing air into my lungs, one breath at a time. My body isn't adapting. It's unraveling.

The energy was both giving me a high as well as burning through my nerves.

"So… not an improvement, then," I manage, my voice thin but laced with dry amusement.

Gerald's grip tightens, his fingers trembling against my skin. "Maria, stop joking," he snaps, his voice edged with frustration, with fear.

I tried to hold in an involuntary chuckle, but was unable to hold in the laugh. Worrying.

I let out a weak chuckle despite the searing ache in my ribs. "If I stop now, I'll have to think about how much this hurts."

His expression darkens. I can feel it in the way he's holding onto me, the way his voice loses that sharp precision and wavers at the edges.

"We're done with this," he states, voice unsteady. "No more."

I want to argue. I want to tell him we adjust the approach, that we analyze what went wrong and try again. But the truth is undeniable.

My body has failed me again. The realization gnaws at me, but the resentment burns hotter than the defeat. No matter how much I fight, how much I push, reality remains indifferent.

And yet, I am not.

I lack the strength to argue now, but that doesn't mean I've accepted this. Not yet.

Gerald sits across from me, arms crossed, expression firm, the weight of failure pressing down on both of us. "You can't force harmony, Maria," he says, his voice measured but unyielding. "That's not how Chaos Energy operates."

I arch an eyebrow. "Then we stop treating it like an external force and integrate it properly. My nervous system already runs on bioelectricity—we attune it to Chaos Energy's frequency instead of treating it as something foreign."

He exhales sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose, a telltale sign that he's already considering it despite himself. "You're suggesting realigning the fundamental energy signature of a human body." His voice is quieter now, not dismissal, but caution. "It's theoretical at best, and at worst—"

"At worst, I'm still dying," I cut in, blunt, unwavering.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue. There's nothing to say against the truth.

I press forward. "We've approached this wrong. Every test, every failure—because we've been trying to force my body to accept Chaos Energy instead of making it part of me. But if we synchronize it to my body, if we find the right resonance—"

Gerald exhales again, long and slow, his fingers tapping against his arm. The scientist in him is intrigued, the grandfather in him is terrified. But he knows me too well to think I'll let this go.

Finally, reluctantly, he nods. "Fine. But we proceed cautiously. Low energy levels. The moment anything destabilizes, we stop. Immediately."

"Of course," I agree easily, though we both know I would push past that limit if given the chance.

The pain is different this time. Not fire, not the brutal tearing of flesh struggling against unnatural change. No, this is something else—cold, electric, like static crawling under my skin. A disconnect. My body is moving, but the signals aren't mine.

I try to lift my hand, but it twitches instead, a jagged, unnatural spasm. My vision flickers—one moment sharp, the next hazy, like an old screen struggling to hold an image.

Something is wrong.

Gerald notices before I can speak. "Cut the feed—now!" His voice is urgent, near frantic.

I try to tell him I understand, to confirm what we already know—another failure. But my voice doesn't come. My mouth doesn't move.

The signals are lost.

Then—darkness.

When I wake, I know before he says anything. Gerald is beside me, his expression drawn, his hands gripping his notes too tightly, as if the force of his will alone can stop them from slipping through his fingers.

This wasn't just another failure.

This was the worst one yet.

The rhythmic beeping of the monitors fills the silence between us, a quiet metronome counting down time I no longer have. The lab is still, save for the hum of machinery and the subtle rustling of blueprints as Gerald grips them too tightly. His posture is rigid, his expression unreadable, but I know him too well. I see the desperation buried beneath the layers of logic, the way he clings to those designs as though they hold the answer to everything.

They don't.

I fold my hands in my lap, fingers cold but steady. "No."

Gerald exhales sharply. "Maria, listen—"

"No, Grandfather." My voice is calm, but there's no room for argument. "I am not becoming a machine."

"This isn't about—"

"It is about that," I cut in, nodding toward the skeletal prosthetic frame resting on the table. Cold steel, motionless. A crude imitation of life. "Piece by piece, you'll replace what's failing, until there's nothing left of me. And then what? What exactly do you think you'll have saved?"

His grip on the blueprints tightens. "Maria, this isn't about replacement. It's about preservation—about ensuring that you survive."

I hold his gaze, unflinching. "You mean ensuring that something wearing my name survives. But do you really think I want that?" I gesture to the plans, the circuits, the empty promises of continued existence. "If I can't move, if I can't breathe, if I exist only because of programming and machinery, then I am not alive, Gerald. I am just... something that was Maria Robotnik."

His jaw tightens, but his eyes betray him. The man of logic, the man of reason—backed into a corner by a truth he can't refute.

"I don't want to lose you," he says at last, barely more than a whisper.

"You already are." The words land heavier than I intend, but I don't take them back. I see the way they cut into him, see the weight settle in his shoulders. But there is no comfort I can offer. Not for this. "And I can live with that. But I won't accept becoming something I'm not. If I die, I die a human. I decide what that means. No one else."

Gerald swallows hard, looking down at the pages in his hands as if willing them to contain the argument he needs. But there isn't one. He knows it.

"Maria..." There's something raw in his voice now, something fragile.

I shake my head. "I'd rather be dead."

And for the first time since this fight began, Gerald Robotnik has no answer.

The lab is quiet, save for the faint hum of machinery and the rhythmic tap of my fingers against the metal desk. Files are spread out before me—pages of calculations, experiment logs, results that should have been breakthroughs but are instead just more evidence of failure. I stare at them, expression unreadable, exhaustion clinging to my body like a lead weight.

Behind me, Gerald stands silent. I don't need to turn around to know that he's watching me, waiting for me to speak first. We both understand what this means. This is the end of the road.

I exhale sharply, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping me. "Well, we've confirmed one thing today," I murmur, flipping a report closed with the edge of my knuckles. "Chaos Energy functions just fine on everything—except us humans."

Gerald remains quiet. There's nothing to say.

I glance at him over my shoulder, forcing a faint smirk despite the fatigue pulling at my body. "So, Grandfather… what now?"

He meets my gaze, and I see it—his mind still turning, still searching. Even in the face of repeated failure, he isn't done. I know that look. It means he has an idea, but is unwilling to share it yet. That's fine, I have my own theories.

I straighten, pushing through the sluggish ache in my limbs. "I've been thinking about Chaos Energy," I say, my voice measured, controlled. "About how it stabilizes and destabilizes. I believe there's a pattern we've overlooked."

That catches his attention. His eyebrows lift, interest flickering past the exhaustion in his eyes. "Go on."

I take a slow breath, steadying myself as I sort through the scattered thoughts in my mind. "The Resonance," I say simply, tracing the cool surface of the workstation as I speak. "Chaos Energy doesn't just react to its environment—it harmonizes with it. Like a symphony. Every instrument plays its part, but the true power comes from their connection, their balance."

Gerald leans forward slightly, his curiosity fully engaged. "That's… an interesting perspective." His fingers tap absently against the desk as he thinks. "It aligns with some of my earlier observations, but I hadn't considered the resonance factor itself."

I nod, encouraged by his response. "We need to test it. If we can manipulate the resonance, we might be able to stabilize the energy at its core. No need for external regulators—just harmony between the energy and the organic system itself— we can't force the chaos to mimic us, and our bodies cannot function by only using chaos…"

His gaze shifts to the scattered files, the weight of repeated failure still lingering in the room. But beneath that, I see something else—the spark of hope, of possibility.

"It's risky," he admits, his voice measured. "But it's worth exploring. We'll start small. Study different materials, controlled environments. Observe how resonance interacts under varying conditions."

"Exactly," I say, and for the first time in hours, anticipation rises above my fatigue. "We need to isolate the variables, refine the conditions, control every factor. If we can master the resonance…"

Gerald exhales, shaking his head slightly, but a rare, genuine smile crosses his face. "You never cease to amaze me, Maria. Your mind is a marvel."

I return the smile, though mine is smaller, subdued. "We're a team, Grandfather," I say softly, meaning it. "We'll find a way."

For a moment, the lab feels less oppressive.

For a moment, the weight of our failures is lighter.

We return to our work, the exhaustion still there, but for now, it doesn't matter. The pursuit of understanding takes precedence.

The sterile air clings to my lungs as I lean over the counter, my fingers lightly tracing the smooth, crystalline surface of the Chaos Emerald resting before me. It hums—softly, almost imperceptibly—but I can feel it. The resonance is there. Gerald was right. There are more of these scattered across the world, concentrated vessels of Chaos Energy, and this one is our test subject.

Ever since it arrived, I've felt… something. The energy doesn't reject me outright, not like before. It's subtle, but there's a connection. Faint. Slippery.

Gerald stands beside me, deep in his own thoughts, scribbling notes as he flicks his gaze between the emerald and his papers. I barely register his movements, too focused on the energy thrumming beneath my fingertips.

Then, without warning, the world tilts. My breath stumbles, and I grip the counter's edge, my knuckles whitening. My vision blurs for half a second, the hum of the emerald swelling in my ears.

I close my eyes briefly, inhaling, grounding myself. Not now. Not yet.

When I finally steady myself, Gerald is already looking at me. His concern is subtle—he says nothing, doesn't ask if I need help—but I see it in the way his hand twitches toward me before stopping short. I give him the smallest of nods, silently telling him to move on.

He does. "Maria," he says, turning back to his notes, "if we amplify the resonance slightly, we might see a more pronounced effect. What do you think?"

I force my body to still, pushing aside the exhaustion gnawing at the edges of my consciousness. "Agreed," I say, keeping my voice even, steady. "But we need to control the amplification carefully. If we increase resonance without stabilizing first, we'll lose control of the reaction."

Gerald nods, and for a brief moment, pride flickers in his tired eyes. "Spoken like a true scientist."

I exhale, a quiet breath, almost a laugh. But there's no amusement in it—just recognition. Of the unrelenting work, of the precarious balance we walk between desperation and discovery. Of the inevitability pressing down on us both.

We continue, methodical and unyielding. My body is failing, but my mind remains sharp. And as long as I can think—analyze, adjust, refine—I am not done.

But my body betrays me sooner than I would like.

A sharp dizziness cuts through my concentration, my breath hitching as my balance wavers. I grip the counter's edge before my knees can buckle. The lab's sterile glow smears in my vision, a blur of cold steel and blue light.

Gerald notices immediately. He doesn't speak, doesn't draw attention to it—just retrieves a stool and sets it beside me.

"Sit," he says, neutral, practical. A simple solution to an unavoidable problem. No sympathy, no fuss. Just an adjustment.

I hesitate, then obey, lowering myself carefully. I hate it—this forced concession to weakness—but I hate wasting time more.

I shift my focus back to the emerald before me. It hums, soft and rhythmic, its energy pulsing in a way I almost feel beneath my skin. The connection is faint, but it's there. The emerald doesn't reject me outright, not like before. There's something—something to work with.

Then, footsteps.

Heavy. Measured. Not a scientist's stride.

Not a coincidence.

I feel my fingers twitch, my grip tightening against the workstation. Not even a full minute after I sit down, after I show a moment of weakness, they arrive. Of course.

G.U.N. isn't just watching our research.

They're watching me.

It's infuriating. A part of me seethes, simmering beneath the surface. They wait. They time this. They come when I am sitting, when my breath is still evening out, when I look at my most fragile. It is not an accident. It is a calculation.

And I despise them for it.

I don't turn to look as they approach, but I feel their eyes on me—cold, observant, and impersonal. One pair, maybe two. Always watching. Always waiting for… something.

For what? For me to falter? For me to confirm whatever theory they whisper about in the halls, in their locked meetings beyond our ears?

They don't see a dying girl.

They see a variable.

I know this is their doing. This precision, this ever-present weight of surveillance, it is intentional. It is theirs.

I feel them.

Even when they are not here, I feel him.

Their directives shape the way soldiers move, the way officers speak, the way the scientists hesitate before sending reports—because in the end, they all answer to something unseen.

But I will not give him what he wants. I will not give them what they want.

I do not move. I do not acknowledge them. I will not let them see irritation, frustration, exhaustion—because I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

Gerald straightens as they enter, smoothing his coat, his expression falling into unreadable professionalism. I follow suit, steeling my posture, schooling my face into something calm, detached. I refuse to let them see anything else.

"Gentlemen," Gerald greets smoothly. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

The lead officer steps forward, his gaze sharp and cold, scanning the lab, scanning me.

"Dr. Robotnik," one of them says, a voice I do not recognize. Meaningless. Forgettable. Another pawn sent to report back to the unseen hands that hold our chains. "The higher-ups want a more detailed update on the latest phase of the project."

I stay silent, but my blood boils. Not our progress. His progress. They will never acknowledge me. Not as a researcher, not as a scientist. To them, I am nothing more than a factor, a variable in their equation. A dying girl attached to a project they want to control.

"As I said in my last report, progress is being made," Gerald replies, not looking up from his work. His tone is clipped but polite—just enough to avoid confrontation, just enough to dismiss them. "We are refining stabilization methods. These things take time."

There's a pause.

Then the officer speaks again, slower this time. Measured. "The higher-ups expect more than 'progress,' Doctor. They expect results."

I stare at the emerald, watching its faint glow, feeling the pull of Chaos Energy through the layers of containment shielding. I wonder, briefly, if it understands—if it knows the pressure bearing down on this room, on this project, on me.

Gerald exhales through his nose. Not a sigh, not frustration—just another careful calculation. "Then tell them," he says finally, "that results take patience. If they want something reckless, something flawed, then they are welcome to find another scientist. But I doubt they'll have much luck."

There is silence again. I wonder if the officer is reconsidering his position, if he is questioning whether this verbal game is worth playing with a man as intelligent as my grandfather.

Then, a step back. A shift in posture.

"Understood," the officer says after a beat. "We will inform command."

Footsteps retreat. The door slides shut.

And yet, the presence lingers.

They expect results.

They expect control.

They expect that when the time comes, we will hand over everything.

And I have no intention of letting that happen.

I rest my hands over my notes, keeping my expression neutral, distant. But beneath it, my mind is already working. Calculating. Preparing.

The air in the lab is heavy, thick with tension that lingers long after the G.U.N. officials have left. The hum of the machines should be comforting, familiar—but tonight, it feels suffocating. I sit still, my fingers curled against the edge of my notebook, the pressure grounding me. My mind is already at work, analyzing every word, every look exchanged in that meeting.

Because if they think they can use my illness as leverage, they are wrong. If they think my frailty makes me theirs, they are mistaken.

I may be dying.

But I am not powerless.

Gerald exhales, long and slow, rubbing a hand over his face. His movements are controlled, deliberate, but I know the weight of their threats is pressing against him like a vice. "They're tightening their grip," he mutters, more to himself than to me. "Pushing harder, watching closer." His eyes flick toward the security cameras lining the lab's perimeter, his expression grim.

I remain silent, letting him process. The truth is, I felt it too. The way the lead officer's gaze flicked to me, calculated, assessing. It wasn't simple impatience—they were measuring, watching me as much as they were Gerald. Not a coincidence.

"They expect results," I say finally, my voice steady despite the quiet anger simmering beneath it. "They don't care how, as long as they get something useful out of us."

Gerald meets my gaze, his expression darkening. "Science doesn't work like that," he murmurs.

"No," I agree. "But power does."

Silence stretches between us. I know Gerald despises this—the politics, the manipulation. He was always a scientist first, a man who pursued knowledge for its own sake. But G.U.N. does not care about knowledge. They care about control. And right now, they think they still have it.

Gerald sighs and turns to his desk, rifling through his notes with a touch more force than necessary. "We need time," he says, more to himself than to me. "More freedom to conduct research properly."

I watch him, calculating. "Then we give them something that looks promising," I say carefully. "Not everything. Just enough to keep them focused on the work—not on us."

Gerald's fingers hesitate over a page before he sets it down, leveling me with a look. "You're suggesting we mislead them."

"I'm suggesting we survive," I correct. "If we give them a breakthrough, even a partial one, they'll be satisfied. It's misdirection, Grandfather. A game of chess."

He exhales sharply, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "You're not wrong," he admits, albeit reluctantly.

I lean back slightly, feeling the tightness in my lungs. I refuse to show how much today has drained me, not when there's too much work left to do. "If we present refined data on Chaos Energy stabilization, it should be enough to appease them," I continue. "It's not a breakthrough, but it looks like one."

He nods slowly, considering. "It buys us time. But not indefinitely."

"Time is all we need," I say, my voice even. "Once we develop my cure, G.U.N. won't be able to control us anymore."

The lab is silent while I let the sentence sink in.

Gerald leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his eyes. The weariness in his movements is different this time—not just exhaustion, but something deeper. The weight of compromise, the slow erosion of his ideals.

"I never wanted this," he murmurs, almost too quiet to hear. "This game. These lies."

I watch him for a long moment, fingers resting idly on the notebook in front of me. I understand his exhaustion. I understand his frustration. I understand that he is a man who has spent his life in pursuit of knowledge, only to find himself forced into a game of manipulation, trapped under the watchful eye of men who see no value in discovery unless it serves their interests.

But we don't have the luxury of idealism anymore.

I flip to a blank page, picking up my pen with deliberate intent. "Then let's make sure it ends, Grandfather," I say. "On our terms."

The hum of the lab surrounds us once more, the sterile air heavy with ozone and the scent of old paper. G.U.N. has its expectations, its demands. But as I begin to write, reshaping our data, crafting the illusion they need to see, I remind myself—

They do not own us.

Not yet.

"Maria," Gerald says, his voice steady but burdened with something unspoken. "I've been considering alternative methods. More radical approaches."

I glance up from my notes, studying him carefully. His fingers tap absently against the desk, the way they always do when his mind is already moving faster than his words.

"What kind of methods?" I ask, measured.

He turns toward me fully, his expression unreadable. "A living experiment," he says. "A being capable of harnessing and stabilizing Chaos Energy. If we understand how it does so, we may be able to apply those findings to your condition."

I don't look away, don't flinch at the implications of what he's saying. A solution. A breakthrough. A desperate gamble.

"You're talking about an artificial human," I say. "But designed specifically to sustain and regulate Chaos Energy. To be something my body can't."

Gerald nods, the gears in his mind already turning. "Yes, and no. We don't need a human, any creature would do. More than that however—it would have to be something stable, something that could serve as a foundation for testing. A controlled, deliberate construct rather than reckless experimentation."

I exhale slowly, my gaze flickering toward the Chaos Emerald resting within its containment field. Its glow pulses in a steady rhythm, a presence so familiar now that I almost forget how unnatural it is.

Would it work? Could we truly create something capable of handling Chaos Energy when I have failed time and time again? If it was possible, if this was the missing piece…

Then why does it feel like a line we can't uncross?

The weight of the question settles in my chest, and yet—I do not reject the idea.

Because I am dying. And if this is what it takes to survive…

The ethical boundaries blur into irrelevance. We passed the point of hesitation long ago.

I fold my hands on the desk, my voice even. "Then we give them a weapon."

Gerald's eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't immediately argue.

I continue. "G.U.N. wants power. Fine. We tell them we're developing something to revolutionize warfare—an artificial soldier designed to harness Chaos Energy. A superweapon."

His expression tightens, but he listens.

"This buys us time, resources, and the freedom to work without their constant interference," I say. "They'll fund it, they'll protect it, and they won't realize what we're actually trying to accomplish until it's too late."

Gerald exhales, dragging a hand down his face. "Maria…"

I shake my head. "This is where we are now. This is the game we're playing. If we frame it as a weapon, they'll let us proceed without question. And we will get what we need."

A long silence stretches between us.

Finally, he leans forward, bracing his hands against the desk, staring down at the scattered research papers between us. His fingers tighten, knuckles pale.

"They'll expect results," he says, voice grim.

"Then we'll give them results," I reply.

I meet his gaze, and there is no turning back now. This is what's left to us.

And if this is the price of my survival—

Then so be it.

Classified Field Report – Ensign D. Walters
U.S.S. Hyperion | G.U.N. Research Oversight Division

Subject: Maria Robotnik | Project Oversight

Status: Ongoing Observation

Report Entry #003

Date: [REDACTED]
Location: Robotnik Estate, Research Facility

This is the third time I've been assigned to watch her. The orders always come down from someone faceless—an encrypted directive, a discreet glance from my superior, a reminder that Maria Robotnik's activities must be monitored closely.

For security reasons, they say.

Because a dying girl is such a threat.

I sigh, adjusting my grip on the clipboard I barely bother to write on. I already know the routine. Maria doesn't do anything suspicious. She reads, she studies, she sometimes works herself into exhaustion. But mostly, she endures.

That should be enough for them. But it isn't.

I stand at my usual post near the library, pretending to review my notes, though my attention is drawn toward the girl in question. Maria sits in the oversized chair by the window, bathed in the dim afternoon light, a thick medical textbook resting on her lap. Her fingers move idly over the pages, but her eyes aren't reading. She's somewhere else—lost in thought, calculating something behind those sharp blue eyes.

I've been here long enough to know that look. It's the same one her grandfather wears in the lab.

The same one I saw last night when I was assigned to escort her back to her quarters. She could barely stand. Gerald had all but carried her, barking orders at his assistants, ignoring the way Maria clung weakly to his sleeve. He had been experimenting on her again—I could see the symptoms clear as day. Tremors in her hands. That vacant, disoriented stare. The way she swallowed every ounce of pain without complaint.

And yet, she had looked up at him with trust in her eyes.

That had been the hardest part to watch.

I don't know what he's doing to her. Not exactly. The official logs say medical treatments, experimental therapies, genetic modifications to slow her condition—but I've been a soldier long enough to know when I'm being fed half-truths.

And the things I've seen in that lab?

No one should be doing that to their own granddaughter.

I know I shouldn't care. She's just a target to observe, another name on a long list of reports. And yet… she's still just a kid. A sick kid, yes, but still young enough to deserve something better than being trapped in a facility crawling with men like me—armed, watchful, waiting for her to do something G.U.N. deems unacceptable.

Like what?

Collapse from exhaustion?

Bleed out on a medical table?

I tighten my jaw, returning my focus to my notes. I am a soldier, not a scientist. I am here to do a job—to stand watch, to report activity, to ensure security. Nothing more. But I've started to realize something over these past few months:

Maria Robotnik is not a security threat.

Gerald Robotnik is.

A brilliant mind, yes. But I've seen brilliant minds go dark before. I've seen what unchecked genius can do. I've seen what desperation looks like.

And it looks like him.

The faint scratch of a turning page pulls me back to the present. Maria still hasn't noticed me. Or maybe she has, and she's just ignoring me. She does that sometimes, her way of pretending the soldiers in the hallways don't exist. I don't blame her. I wouldn't want to acknowledge us either.

Still, I can't help but wonder if she knows.

If she knows that G.U.N. isn't watching her because they're afraid of what she might do—they're watching her because they know what Gerald will do.

Because they know that she's his breaking point.

And I think that I don't want to be here when that day comes.

Ensign Walters
G.U.N. Research Oversight Division
End Report.

AN: I was considering holding onto this chapter for friday, but I already have 3 others ready in the pipeline, and people seem to actually be excited for this to continue! Enjoy it!

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chasing Shadows

I watch from the far side of the room as Grandfather signs the final documents, his signature sharp and deliberate. The G.U.N. officials across from him exchange pleased looks, some barely concealing their satisfaction. The funding has been secured— not just for the ARK, but more importantly for them "Project Shadow."

On the surface, this is a victory. A testament to Grandfather's genius, a step toward something greater.

But I see it for what it truly is.

A transaction. A leash disguised as an opportunity.

The Federation wanted my father to discover eternal life. G.U.N. wanted weapons. They both wanted power—wanted control. And Grandfather? He gave them exactly what they wanted, in the way only we could.

When they demanded a project for their ultimate weapon, he had given them a shadow. A flicker, an idea, an illusion of what they sought—something untouchable, something always out of reach. A weapons platform in space to conduct hidden experiments.

Chasing shadows on an ARK, he had commented dryly when presenting the name.

And these fools had thanked him for it.

The pen barely leaves the paper before the highest-ranking officer—Commander Sloan, a man with graying hair and an air of self importance—extends his hand. "Dr. Robotnik, the Federation and G.U.N. appreciates your cooperation. We look forward to seeing results from Project Shadow and the ARK."

Grandfather takes the offered handshake, his grip firm, his expression carefully neutral. "Science is an endeavor of patience, Commander. Breakthroughs cannot be forced. It will take time, but I am sure you will be pleased with the results."

A small, thin smile crosses Sloan's lips. Thin, humorless. "Just make sure that time is well spent."

The officials rise in unison, their movements crisp and orderly. They exchange clipped formalities, shake hands with the authority of men who believe themselves to be in control. Then, one by one, they file out—Sloan the last among them, casting a final glance toward Grandfather before disappearing down the hall.

The door clicks shut.

The room exhales.

Grandfather sits still for a moment, his hands resting lightly on the table, his fingers barely twitching against the smooth surface.

I do not move.

I do not speak.

I simply watch.

Then, slowly, he leans back in his chair, tilting his head up toward the ceiling. He lets out a breath—controlled, steady, but not relief.

Never relief.

Because this was only the first step.

He finally turns his head, eyes settling on me across the room. His expression is difficult to read, but I catch the flicker of something behind his tired gaze.

Understanding.

The faint hum of movement in the corridor draws my eye to the door. Through the glass panel, I see a figure lingering just beyond—stationed at the far wall but unmistakably positioned to observe.

Ensign Walters.

One of the lower-ranking officers assigned to oversee the facility's security. Not high enough to be privy to true classified information, but present enough to be trusted with orders.

His posture is neutral, professional. But I notice the way his gaze lingers, shifting between Grandfather and myself.

Watching.

I school my expression into something passive, something expected. A scientist's granddaughter, a quiet observer, a figure of no consequence.

I do not let it show that I am watching back.

The ARK was being built, but that did not mean G.U.N. was letting us wait to begin. Project Shadow was to be already in its final stages by the time the ARK was scheduled to be launched.

The early discussions for the Project however are… inefficient.

The hum of flickering monitors and the sharp scratch of pens against paper filling the silences between heated debate. Papers litter the table—proposals, genetic sequencing models, feasibility reports—all in varying states of rejection. The gathered scientists, each an esteemed figure in their field, are too busy talking over each other to make any real progress.

"The logical approach is a humanoid design," one of them insists, tapping his pen against the table in frustration. "Adaptable, familiar structure, and integration with existing weapons would be significantly easier."

Another scoffs, shuffling through a stack of hastily scribbled notes. "If we are designing from the ground up, why limit ourselves to the weaknesses of human physiology? We should be improving, not mimicking."

"Agreed," a third scientist chimes in, folding his arms. "Speed, raw strength, heightened senses—nature has already provided us with better models. If we are building a supersoldier, should we not create something naturally superior?"

The room buzzes with quiet agreement. Someone scribbles calculations onto a nearby whiteboard, equations detailing muscle density, metabolic efficiency, energy consumption rates. They argue over evolutionary adaptations, citing predatory species that have perfected survival over millennia. Faster, stronger, more resilient—every suggestion is met with counterarguments, the meeting devolving further into chaos.

Grandfather listens. He does not interrupt, does not offer his opinion, but I see it in the way he leans back in his chair, arms folded, fingers pressing thoughtfully against his chin. He is letting them talk, letting them exhaust themselves. Because, ultimately, their opinions do not matter. His mind is already made up.

Finally, someone makes the mistake of challenging him directly.

"Doctor Robotnik," a researcher speaks up, a younger man whose name I do not bother to remember. "With all due respect, your insistence on control is short-sighted. If we create something truly superior, wouldn't its loyalty be secondary to its effectiveness?"

Grandfather adjusts his glasses. "Superior is not synonymous with control. The military doesn't understand the nature of Chaos Energy," His voice isn't loud, but it is final. The room falls silent. "Our objective is to create something controllable. Not a mindless beast. Not an unrestrained force of destruction. If we sacrifice control for power, we will have already failed."

I see the way some of them hesitate. The way their gazes flick toward one another, small, fleeting moments of defiance quickly buried beneath professionalism.

The weight of his words settles over the room like a heavy fog. He does not raise his voice, but he does not have to. His presence alone is enough to quiet the dissent.

I glance around at the gathered scientists, cataloging their reactions. Some nod, accepting his authority without question. Others remain rigid, their silence a quiet act of defiance. They are loyal to G.U.N., not to Grandfather, and they will push for what the military wants if given the chance. I take note of them, committing their faces to memory.

This project is meant to be a scientific breakthrough, but to some in this room, it is nothing more than a weapon to be forged, perfected, and handed over to their true masters.

I say nothing. They do not ask for my opinion. They never do.

Instead, I listen. I watch.

And I remember.

The project begins smoothly at first, but then the first deviation happens.

A correction, they call it. A necessary adjustment to the genetic code—a slight modification to compensate for Chaos Energy instability. It appears in the project logs without fanfare, buried beneath the usual updates and refinements, as if it isn't even worth mentioning. No alarms. No discussions. Just a line of text in a report, a change slipping past unnoticed.

Then another.

A slight alteration to muscle fiber composition. A recalibration of cellular regeneration rates. An enhancement to ensure "optimal resilience."

It is not in the models Grandfather and I designed. Not in the projections, not in the approved sequences. It is subtle, insidious, creeping in under the guise of optimization.

I do not see it happen. But I see the signs.

The shift in the way the researchers murmur to each other, the way their eyes flick toward Grandfather like guilty children waiting for punishment. The hesitation in their voices when they present their findings. The quiet reluctance in the project updates, phrased carefully, vaguely, like they are hoping he will not notice.

They think he will not see.

They are wrong.

I am there when he finds out.

The lab is quiet, save for the hum of machines and the faint electronic beeping of the project logs scrolling across the screen. The monitors bathe the room in a sickly green glow, casting shadows over Grandfather's face as his eyes scan the sequences.

His fingers hover over the keys.

Pause.

Then they curl into fists.

I watch as his jaw sets, his shoulders tighten. The stillness in him is something I have seen before—a deep, seething calculation, cold and precise. I feel my own anger build alongside his.

"This was not an accident."

It is not a question.

It is not an accusation.

It is a fact.

I take a step closer, fists clenched at my sides. I don't need to say anything. We both know. We both see it now.

They have been tampering.

Behind our backs.

I trusted these reports. I trusted the process. I sat through hours of simulations, studying the way synthetic DNA binds to Chaos Energy, analyzing every single sequence for stability, and these idiots have been tweaking the foundation of our work without our knowledge. All that work is now worthless.

Grandfather exhales slowly, his fingers tightening against the console. His voice is quiet, measured. Dangerous.

"They think they know better."

I do not need to ask who. We both know.

We are surrounded by brilliant minds and complete fools—scientists who should know better but are too proud to follow instructions. They play God in a project they barely understand, making alterations like children scribbling over a masterpiece because they think it is not good enough.

Grandfather does not move for several seconds. Then, slowly, he straightens.

His hands unclench, and the stillness solidifies into something else. Purpose. Calculation.

"We will proceed," he says, and there is no uncertainty in his voice, no hesitation.

He does not yell. He does not storm into the research labs and demand explanations, though I almost wish he would. That would be easier. That would at least feel like something.

Instead, he turns back to the console, his fingers moving over the keys with a calmness that is more terrifying than rage.

"Starting over is inefficient," he murmurs. His eyes scan every modification, every unwanted enhancement. He is already adjusting. Already calculating.

The Experiment's DNA is no longer his original blueprint.

So we will work with the flaw. I will spend another few sleepless nights reworking the numbers.

Failure is not an option.

But I will not forget this.

And I will not forgive it.

I have been here before.

Different walls, different uniforms, different faces—but the same stifling incompetence.

The same blind, arrogant men masquerading as visionaries. The same bureaucratic puppets pretending at intelligence. The same idiots who believe authority is the same as wisdom, that their titles grant them insight they do not possess.

The first time I sat across from the upper brass, I had still been naive enough to hope.

Hope that they would understand, that they would listen, that logic would outweigh politics. I had explained theories to men who barely understood how electricity functioned, let alone Chaos Energy. I had presented projections, proof, only for them to brush aside my findings in favor of outdated strategies and personal agendas.

I had watched them discard intelligence in favor of brute force, sacrifice strategy for immediate gratification.

And now, once again, I am forced to work alongside people with the intellect of small children.

These scientists—they are no different than those officers. Unfit. Unworthy.

I watch as they argue over the simplest of principles, their voices rising and falling in waves of circular debate, throwing theories at the wall to see what sticks.

I despise them.

I despise the very fact that I must share air with them, that I must tolerate their incompetence and feign patience while they stumble through calculations they barely understand. They are parasites, clinging to the work of greater minds, blind to the reality that they are nothing more than tools—tools that are neither precise nor reliable.

They think themselves in control.

They believe that their hands shape Project Shadow, that their decisions will define the pinnacle of Grandfather's work. That their expertise holds any weight in this endeavor.

They are wrong.

They are fools who have already proven their true loyalties, altering genetic code without approval, betraying their supposed purpose to appease their real masters. They did not consult, did not seek validation—because they do not serve knowledge, do not serve science. They serve G.U.N., and that makes them dangerous.

I do not trust them with my life. I never will.

They waste hours running redundant tests, rechecking flawed equations, proposing theories they cannot even articulate correctly. And I sit there, silent, as they dismiss my presence, as they convince themselves that their work is progressing as planned.

They do not see the way I correct them.

They do not notice how their faulty projections suddenly align, how their unstable calculations miraculously stabilize.

They do not question why their failures become successes overnight.

Because they do not think of me at all.

They do not see me.

And I allow it. I allow them to disregard me, to write me off as a fragile, dying girl, as the scientist's granddaughter who observes from a distance but contributes nothing of value. I let them exist in their delusion.

Because when they finally realize the truth—when they understand that I have been the one shaping the foundation of this project, the one ensuring their negligence does not cost me everything—

It will already be too late for them to stop me.

The corridors are silent at this hour, the sterile hum of the station's systems the only sound accompanying my footsteps. I move without hesitation, without the need to glance over my shoulder. I know the shifts, the patrols, the blind spots in the surveillance. No one should be here.

And yet, as I step into Lab 03, I feel it—an intrusion in my space. A presence just out of sight.

Looking around I don't spot anything out of the ordinary. I exhale slowly, steadying my breath before I turn my focus forward.

The lab is dim, bathed in the eerie green glow of the central containment vat. The Biolizard—if it can even be called that yet—floats within, its malformed body curled in on itself like an infant in the womb.

I step closer, my fingers brushing against the workstation for balance as I take it in.

It is still growing, still developing, its skeletal structure reinforced with cybernetics even at this early stage. The organic tissue is soft, barely defined, yet wires already pulse beneath the surface, feeding it energy, attempting to stabilize what should not be stable.

It twitches, and the motion is wrong. Not the sluggish movement of something alive, but the mechanical jerk of an experiment responding to external stimuli. A forced reaction. A puppet on strings.

I feel something tighten in my chest.

This is what they wanted isn't it?

A living weapon. A creature built purely for destruction, without even the pretense of a soul. The scientists call it a prototype, a stepping stone toward greater advancements. But I see what it truly is. A failure before it has even drawn breath. This thing is forced to survive with machines, the chaos energy barely being controlled by the regulators.

The thought alone is enough to irritate me.

My grip tightens against the workstation. This is what happens when control is taken from us, when the fools at G.U.N. interfere.

They call Grandfather the mastermind, but they do not trust him. They want their own influence embedded into his work, their own strings woven into the project. They do not care about perfection, only about power. And if that power is unstable, uncontrollable? That is not their concern.

I shake my head. Not in horror. Not in disgust.

Disappointment.

A movement in the periphery catches my attention.

I shift just slightly, not turning, not acknowledging it fully. But I know someone is there. I catch a glimpse of the figure before they shift into shadows more.

Ensign Walters.

The dedicated guard dog of this facility. Always watching. Always trailing just far enough behind to pretend it's a coincidence.

I glance once more at the creature in the vat before turning on my heel, walking past him without pause, without a word.

Let him think he has caught me in something. He would not understand even if I explained.

He stands near the corridor intersection, positioned just outside the security station in shadows. At first, I think he is simply another watchful set of eyes—one of many placed throughout the estate to ensure we do not forget who is truly in control.

But then I realized.

He isn't watching Grandfather. He isn't watching the labs.

He is watching me.

The dim lighting hides most of his expression, but I catch the shift in his stance, the way he straightens slightly as I pass.

I do not acknowledge him. I do not break pace.

But I feel his gaze remain on me until I round the corner.

Classified Field Report – Ensign D. Walters

U.S.S. Hyperion | G.U.N. Research Oversight Division

Subject: Maria Robotnik | Project Oversight

Status: Ongoing Observation

(DRAFT) Observation Report: Lab 03, Unauthorized Entry

Filed by: Ensign Walters

Date: [REDACTED]

Location: Robotnik Estate, ARK Module 02, Research Facility

Or at least, it would be filed.

If I had any reason to believe this was worth reporting.

But I don't.

Maria Robotnik is not a security threat. She is not the problem on this station.

So why did I follow her?

Because something felt… off. Not in the way that warrants concern—more like a lingering instinct, a need to understand. She doesn't roam the estate without reason. She isn't like the others who have the luxury of wandering without consequence.

So when I saw her tonight, slipping down the halls in silence, I told myself it was just routine. Just an officer ensuring that everything was in order.

That's a lie.

I followed because I was curious. Because I needed to see.

She walked with purpose, her little white coat over her blue dress drifting behind her, the fluorescent glow of the corridor lights catching in her golden hair. There was no hesitation in her stride, no uncertainty. Just quiet intent.

And she led me straight to Lab 03.

I nearly called out to her then. Stopped her. Asked her why she was there.

But I didn't.

She must have left something in there today.

Instead, I stood outside the observation deck, eyes sharp waiting. A few minutes pass and she didn't return to the hallway.

I moved over to get a glimpse of her in the room and watched.

The vat dominated the center of the lab, pulsing with a sickly green glow. The fluid within swirled, casting shifting, ghostly light over the sterile walls. And within it… that thing.

The Biolizard.

It drifted, its grotesque form suspended in the containment fluid, cybernetic augmentations glinting under the soft illumination. A nightmare given flesh—if it could even be called that.

And Maria stood before it.

She wasn't taking notes. She wasn't studying it like the other scientists did, like an experiment meant to be refined and perfected.

No, she just looked at it.

I couldn't see her expression clearly from where I stood, but I could feel something heavy in the air, something I couldn't quite name.

Sorrow?

Disgust?

Pity?

Maybe none of those. Maybe all of them.

Her posture was rigid, hands lightly curled at her sides. She didn't touch the glass, didn't move any closer than necessary. She just stood there, unmoving.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, she shook her head.

Not in fear.

Not in revulsion.

Something else.

She turned, and I could have sworn for a moment she saw me in the shadows.

I inhaled sharply.

For a fleeting second, I expected surprise—maybe even alarm.

But there was none.

Without a word, she turned away and walked past me, her footsteps light, effortless. Gone as swiftly as she had come.

She didn't see me watching her.

I remained standing outside the lab for a long moment, looking at the now-empty space where she had stood.

Then, slowly, I turned back toward the vat.

The Biolizard twitched again. I felt my stomach turn.

Maria doesn't belong here. Not in this lab, not on this station, not anywhere near her grandfather's madness.

I will speak to the scientists tomorrow about securing this lab properly.

Maria doesn't need to see this.

No child should have to.

And god willing she won't have to when the ARK launches.

G.U.N. has decided she and the other civilian workers will be assigned to live on the garden module far from the labs.

The less time she spends around that madman, the better.

Ensign Walters

G.U.N. Research Oversight Division

End Log.

Click  here  to file report.

AN: Its the archaeologist father. The sidestory says so as well.

Hope this chapter doesn't get missed on the friday!

Chapter Text

Days Since Last Incident: 0

The countdown has begun.

Through the reinforced windows of the estate, I can already see the other shuttles being prepped, the final systems checks underway. The ARK, our ARK, looms above it all, suspended in the upper atmosphere like a dream just beyond reach. It is nearly time.

And yet—

"You need to take your treatment before the launch."

Grandfather's voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. He stands over me, arms crossed, watching for even the slightest sign of defiance.

I hate this.

"I don't have time for this, Grandfather," I say, though I already know it's pointless. "I can take the treatment once we're aboard—"

"No." The finality in his voice makes my fingers curl into fists against the armrest of my chair. "There are too many variables in the launch sequence. Your body is already strained, and I won't risk complications once we're in orbit."

I grit my teeth, frustration simmering beneath my skin. We are hours from leaving this place, from finally breaking free of G.U.N.'s oversight, from building something that belongs to us, and he wants me to waste precious time lying in a medical bay?

But I know him too well. There is no point in arguing.

"…Fine," I mutter, pushing myself to stand.

The medical bay is cold, the sterile scent of antiseptic clinging to every surface. I hate it here. It reminds me too much of wasted time, of waiting while everyone else does work.

The IV drip is steady, a faint hum of machinery lulling the space into silence. Grandfather sits nearby, his datapad in hand, but I know he's watching me more than his work.

I fight to keep my mind sharp, but the familiar weight of fatigue is already pressing down on me.

Too fast.

I blink hard, forcing my eyes to stay open, but my limbs feel heavy, sluggish.

"Grandfather," I say, my voice quieter than I want it to be.

He sets the datapad aside, standing as he moves to my side.

"You need to rest, Maria," he says gently, and there is something in his voice—something I don't like.

I try to push myself up, but my body does not obey. The world tilts, the edges of my vision blurring.

"Wait—"

His hand presses lightly against my shoulder, easing me back down.

"It's alright," he says, smoothing my hair away from my face like I am still a child. "I'll wake you when it's time."

But I already know the truth.

I won't be awake for the launch.

The thought burns, and I try to fight it—try to force myself back to full awareness, but the sedation is already there, pulling me under.

I am so tired.

There is no sound in space.

When I open my eyes, I know immediately.

The air is different—cleaner, weightless. The sterile white of the walls is wrong. There is no hum of the medical bay back on Earth, no distant sounds of the launch facility.

I inhale sharply, bolting upright—too fast. The movement sends a wave of dizziness through me, but I push past it.

The window.

I turn, and there it is.

The Earth.

Hanging in the void, impossibly vast, impossibly distant.

I missed it.

I stumbled forward, shoving the blankets off me, limbs slow and uncooperative. My head swam, my body still sluggish from the treatment. The sterile white walls of my quarters were wrong—too clean, too still. There was no hum of the launch facility, no distant rumble of engines firing into the sky.

My body is sluggish, still recovering from the treatment, but I don't care. I have to find him.

A hiss of air.

The door slid open before I reached it.

And there he was.

Grandfather stood in the doorway, calm, composed, as if he had done nothing wrong. As if he had not stolen this from me.

I stopped short, my breathing ragged, my body shaking from more than just the lingering effects of sedation.

"You drugged me." My voice was hoarse, but the accusation was razor-sharp.

He didn't flinch. "I did what was necessary for your health." His tone was maddeningly even.

I clenched my fists at my sides. "I told you—I wanted to be awake!"

"And I told you, you needed to be safe."

His voice was maddeningly even, the kind of calm that came from certainty—from believing, without a shadow of doubt, that he had done the right thing. That he was justified in stripping me of my own agency.

He stepped further inside, measured, unshaken. Unmoved.

"Your body needed rest, Maria. The launch would cause too much strain—"

"It was mine to bear!"

The words ripped from my chest before I could stop them, raw and furious. My nails dug into my palms, sharp and punishing. My heart pounded with the force of my anger, my betrayal. "It was my choice!"

He didn't flinch. Didn't argue. But I saw it.

The twitch in his fingers. The slow, deliberate breath. The brief flicker in his eyes, as if—just for a second—he understood exactly what he had done to me.

And yet, he didn't apologize.

He simply turned away.

Leaving.

Just like that.

I didn't follow.

Not at first.

I needed space. A moment to breathe, to adjust, to push down the frustration gnawing at my ribs like a caged animal.

I was supposed to be awake for the launch.

To witness it. To feel it. To stand there, at the precipice of everything we had worked for, and watch the sky break open around me as we ascended.

But instead, he stole it from me.

Left me sedated. Strapped to a medical bed like some fragile thing, too weak to handle my own fate.

He meant well.

That's what makes it worse.

I am angry.

But more than that, I am off-balance.

The artificial gravity is stable, but not right. Each step feels calculated, off by a fraction. My body expects Earth's pull, the weight of real gravity, and yet it never quite comes. I keep my fingers grazing the cool metal walls as I move, adjusting in measured increments.

I will not stumble.

I will not look weak.

The last thing I need is a team of researchers fussing over me like a child or some G.U.N. officer offering unwanted assistance.

A viewport stretches along the corridor. Beyond it, Earth looms. A vast, untouchable thing, hanging in the void like a memory already too distant.

I am not sentimental.

And yet, something lingers in my throat.

A tether that will never fully snap.

"Miss Robotnik?"

The voice is cautious. Measured.

I turn my head and find Ensign Walters standing at the junction, watching me with that same concerned expression I have seen before.

A soldier. A watchdog. A pair of eyes assigned to track my every move.

He does not move like he is adjusting. His footing is solid, balanced—he has had time to grow accustomed to the station's gravity. Unlike me.

I narrow my eyes. "What do you want?"

He shifts slightly, hands clasped neatly behind his back. "Just making sure you're alright. The artificial gravity can be disorienting at first."

As if I need him to tell me that.

"I'm fine," I reply, sharp and dismissive.

He doesn't look convinced. Of course, he doesn't. To him, I am just a child. A frail, sickly girl.

Patronizing.

Unbearably so.

Still, when I take my next step and my balance wavers—slightly—his hand lifts. A silent offer. A steadying presence.

I hesitate. Not because I need it. But because acknowledging weakness is something I cannot afford.

And yet, I take it.

His grip is firm, stabilizing. Not controlling. Just enough pressure to ground me as I adjust, as my body starts to understand the station's pull—or lack thereof.

The moment I find my footing, I pull away.

He doesn't comment.

He just nods. Like some officer watching a recruit get used to new conditions.

"You'll get used to it soon," he says, voice easy, like he's reassuring a child.

I resist the urge to scoff.

"Obviously," I say, already stepping past him.

I do not look back.

I have wasted enough time.

I needed to get into the labs and continue my work… but… Where are they even right now?

The ARK was a massive station, a space colony in the making.

I knew this, of course—I've studied the blueprints, memorized the layout, traced the station's construction from its earliest drafts to the final design. But knowing something on paper and experiencing it firsthand are two completely different things.

The map glows as I approach, its sleek holographic display flickering to life. The interface is crisp, clean, and infuriating.

Because I am on the opposite side of the station from the labs. Because I can see the red-marked zones on the map, with the words Restricted Access flashing in bold letters beside the microgravity research areas.

I can just hear Grandfather's voice in the back of my mind. "You're too fragile for microgravity exposure. Your body would not tolerate the strain."

Nonsense.

I'll have to swing by there after the labs and experience flight again…

I narrow my eyes, scanning the route from Residential Sector A, where my quarters are, to Research Wing D, where the real work happens. The path stretches before me like some kind of cruel joke. Even in standard gravity, it would be annoying. But with the ARK's lower gravity?

It's going to be a nightmare.

I shift my weight, testing the artificial gravity again. It's not weak enough to leave me floating, but it's just low enough that every step feels off—too light, too unstable. If I push too hard, I move too fast. If I miscalculate a turn, I'll overcompensate and stumble. Every movement has to be deliberate, controlled.

It's inefficient.

I can already picture it—stumbling through the station like an idiot, wasting time just trying to keep my footing while G.U.N. soldiers smirk behind my back.

Unacceptable.

I need a solution.

My mind runs through options. A transport system? No. G.U.N. barely approved the ARK's essential trams, and there's no way they'll let me take one whenever I feel like it. Weighted boots? Too restrictive.

No, what I need is something that keeps me grounded, while still letting me move fast.

My eyes flick down to my feet.

Skates.

The thought settles into place almost instantly. Skates with dynamic gyroscopic stabilization would counteract the gravity issue, keeping me stable while still allowing smooth, controlled movement. If I modify the wheels for the reduced gravity—I could glide across the station effortlessly instead of wasting energy trying to force normal movement.

It's practical. Logical. And nobody will be able to stop me.

A small, satisfied smirk tugs at my lips.

If the ARK is going to make me travel this far every day, I'll make sure I do it on my own terms.

I turn away from the map, already planning how I'll get what I need.

Despite the long walk to the lab, I find myself significantly less winded than I would on earth traveling even half the distance. The lighter gravity on the ARK seemingly helping me along.

The lab is already alive with movement by the time I arrive. Scientists weave between workstations, exchanging data, recalibrating instruments, and reorganizing the mess left in the wake of the launch. Equipment had shifted despite the precautions, and now they scramble to set things back in order.

None of them acknowledge me.

Good.

Grandfather does.

The moment I step inside, I feel his gaze on me. Not heavy. Not demanding. Waiting.

I don't stop.

I don't look at him.

I don't acknowledge him at all.

I am still angry.

He drugged me. He took away my choice, stole the moment from me—our moment—as if I were some fragile thing that needed to be protected rather than a partner in this endeavor. I should have been awake for the launch. I should have stood beside him, watched our creation rise with my own two eyes. Instead, I woke up to find it already over.

He betrayed my trust.

So, I walk past him, letting the cold silence stretch between us, and instead, I turn my attention to it.

The Biolizard.

I stop at the reinforced glass, staring into the containment vat.

It is bigger now.

Once, it was small—barely the size of my forearm. A concept made flesh, the first prototype of what was meant to be our greatest creation. I had overseen its development, analyzed its progress, written endless calculations ensuring its success.

It was supposed to be a cure.

It is not.

The sickly green glow of the containment fluid casts its shifting light over the creature's grotesque form. A macabre blend of synthetic flesh and cybernetics, its body struggles to exist, to function. I watch the faint twitch of its limbs—frail, weak, each movement just slightly wrong.

It is the size of a child now—my size.

But it is nothing like me.

With each passing week, another part of it dies and must be replaced. A new cybernetic limb. A reinforced spinal structure. A stabilization implant meant to counteract the Chaos Energy that keeps rejecting it.

Again and again, the same failures.

The energy is supposed to sustain it.

Instead, it damages it.

Destroys it.

I press my lips together, suppressing the urge to grimace.

This—this is supposed to be the answer?

This pathetic, twisted thing, clinging to life only because we force it to live?

This is the cure I want for myself?

A cold weight settles in my stomach, something dangerously close to doubt.

Not doubt in science. Not in our work.

Doubt in this method.

The Biolizard twitches again, and for the briefest second, its dark, unnatural eyes meet mine.

It does not recognize me.

It doesn't recognize anything.

I let out a slow breath, exhaling through my nose, pushing the thought away.

Today we will allow the creature to fully awaken— and subject it to external chaos energy. On paper this should stabilize the internal fluctuations in the beast. At least if all my calculations I gave Grandfather are correct…

Do I even want them to be correct if this is the result?

I must have been staring in thought for a long time, as one of the scientists approached me, "Maria, dear, why don't you go stand with your grandfather?" The voice is syrupy, artificial, and grating in its misguided sweetness.

I blink slowly, tearing my gaze from the milky white eyes of the experiment, to find Dr. Langley standing beside me, her expression that sickening blend of condescension and pity.

I school my features into blank neutrality. She sees a child, not a scientist.

A little girl, small and fragile, standing amidst a room of true researchers, as if I am just a spectator to something I could never understand.

I let the silence stretch just a little too long before answering. "I can see perfectly fine from here."

Her smile doesn't falter, but I see it—the brief flicker of discomfort, the way she wasn't expecting pushback.

"Oh, but dear," she continues, tilting her head, her tone softer now, like she's speaking to some helpless creature. "We're about to begin testing, and I'm sure your grandfather would want you by his side. You wouldn't want to miss anything, would you?"

Miss anything.

As if I am not already aware of everything that is happening in this room.

As if I do not already know more about these experiments than half of these idiots fumbling over their own equations.

As if I do not run calculations every night, picking apart their failures, correcting their mistakes, ensuring that this project—my project—does not collapse under their incompetence.

I force myself to smile, tilting my head just slightly.

"Wouldn't you rather be with my grandfather?" I ask, mimicking her own condescending tone. "You wouldn't want to miss anything, would you?"

She blinks, momentarily caught off guard.

Then, as expected, she laughs, like I've just said something adorable rather than twisting her words against her. "Oh, Maria, you're such a sharp little thing, aren't you?"

I do not dignify that with a response.

Instead, I turn my back to her deliberately, my attention returning to the dying Biolizard in the tank.

This thing is suffering. Not for any useful purpose, just suffering due to the systemic incompetence around me.

A sharp clap of hands rings through the lab, cutting through the quiet hum of machines and the bubbling of containment fluid.

"Attention, everyone."

Grandfather's voice.

Commanding, steady—unshaken by the weight of what is about to happen.

"The next phase of testing will begin shortly. I want all systems running at full efficiency, and I expect flawless execution from every one of you."

The scientists begin shifting—some nodding, some scrambling to finalize preparations, others gathering around the terminals that line the lab walls. The murmurs of conversation rise and fall as they review calculations, monitor the containment readings, adjust equipment.

I linger a moment longer, my gaze still fixed on the creature in the vat.

The Biolizard—It moves again—its malformed limbs twitching involuntarily, its unnatural body spasming not from pain, not from consciousness, but from the energy coursing through it.

It is the first living thing—if it can even be called that—created to sustain Chaos Energy at its core. And yet, every iteration of it has suffered the same failure.

And now we will watch it fail again.

I force myself to step back, my boots barely making a sound against the sleek metal floor. Slowly, I turn, making my way toward the control panel where Grandfather stands, watching the team with sharp eyes.

As I reach the group, I hear the faint hiss of hydraulics as the vat's lockdown sequence engages.

The draining process has begun.

I turn just in time to watch it happen.

The Biolizard's prison begins to empty, the thick, glowing containment fluid siphoning away in slow, pulsing waves.

The heavy liquid sloshes downward, exposing its pale, synthetic skin, its grotesque form now fully visible beneath the harsh overhead lights.

It doesn't react at first—doesn't move, doesn't struggle.

Then, a shudder runs through its massive, malformed body.

"Vitals are fluctuating," one of the lead scientists announces, her voice clipped as she scans the terminal in front of her. "We're seeing a spike in neurological activity—higher than the last trial."

Another scientist speaks up, barely containing his excitement. "It's adapting. The stabilizers are holding!"

For now.

I cross my arms, watching as the Biolizard's claws flex, its long, underdeveloped limbs twitching as if trying to move. The reinforced cybernetics attached to its back glow faintly, pulsing in time with the energy coursing through it.

It shouldn't be alive.

And yet, it is.

Grandfather watches, hands clasped behind his back, his face unreadable. I can see it in his posture, though—the silent hope he refuses to voice.

I grit my teeth.

He wants this to work. We all do.

"Initiate energy transfer," he finally orders, his voice steady.

The lab techs move swiftly, fingers flying over control panels as they engage the next phase of the test. A low hum fills the air, growing in intensity.

Then—

The Biolizard jerks violently.

Its body arches, spasming as the first controlled surge of Chaos Energy floods its synthetic cells. Monitors flare red, alarms flashing as the creature's vitals spike.

"It's absorbing the energy!" one of the scientists breathes. "Smoother than before—less rejection!"

For the first time, I feel something close to hope.

Maybe—just maybe—we finally did it.

Maybe this isn't another failure.

The Biolizard's breathing evens out. Its limbs stop twitching erratically. For the first time, it looks stable.

A success.

I exhale, relief washing over me—

Then, the screaming begins.

Not from the Biolizard.

From the machines.

Every alarm in the lab blares at once, warning indicators flashing across every available screen.

I whip around, scanning the monitors as they plummet into chaos.

"Cellular degradation detected!" someone shouts. "It's breaking down—faster than before!"

No.

I snap my head back to the Biolizard—

And feel my stomach turn.

It is coming apart.

Its synthetic skin begins to split, cracks forming along its limbs and torso as its cells fail to contain the volatile force ripping through it.

The augmentations pulse violently, the stabilizers struggling—failing—to regulate the energy.

Its breath is ragged now. Labored.

It is dying.

Again.

"Shut it down," Grandfather commands, his voice sharp.

The scientists scramble to obey, cutting the energy flow, engaging emergency protocols.

But it is too late.

The Biolizard convulses, its malformed body twitching as the last of its synthetic tissue gives way. Its exposed internals glow for a brief moment before the light flickers, dims—then dies.

The lab is silent.

Again.

I stare at the lifeless prototype, my fists clenched at my sides.

Another failure.

Another corpse.

Grandfather exhales slowly, his expression unreadable as he turns away from the ruined experiment.

"Begin analyzing the data," he orders, already moving toward his desk. "We'll find the flaw."

The flaw?

I want to laugh.

The flaw is that this was doomed from the start.

The Biolizard was never alive.

It was only ever a body waiting to fail.

And if this is the cure—the future that awaits me—

Then what hope do I have?

"IT'S MOVING!"

I whip my head back toward the containment vat, heart pounding.

The Biolizard's limbs twitch, spasming uncontrollably before— it stands.

Or at least, it tries to.

Its grotesque body lurches forward, mechanical braces straining, servos whining under the stress. One of its deformed legs buckles, its weight shifting dangerously, but it doesn't collapse.

It refuses to collapse.

A low, gurgling snarl vibrates from deep within its throat, and then—

It screams.

The roar that follows is inhuman, a sound that shouldn't exist, shouldn't be possible.

It is pain given voice.

The force of it rattles my ribs, a raw, shrieking wail of agony that makes my stomach churn. The reinforced glass around the containment tank trembles from the sheer force of it, cracks splintering outward like veins of fractured ice.

"Containment is failing!" someone shouts.

Grandfather reacts instantly, barking orders. "Feed it more Chaos Energy! If we stabilize its internal structure, we might be able to—"

"You want to give it more?!" Another scientist's voice cracks in horror.

But Gerald is already moving, hands flying over the control panel, overriding the emergency shutdown.

The stabilizers hum back to life.

The containment chamber flares with raw energy as the system floods the Biolizard's broken body with more Chaos Energy, attempting to jump-start its healing process.

For a brief, agonizing moment—

It works.

The creature stops shaking, its body absorbing the power, its glowing augmentations stabilizing. For a fleeting second, there is hope.

Then, it all goes wrong.

The Biolizard jerks violently, its spine arching in unnatural ways, cybernetic limbs twisting at the joints. The energy coursing through it overloads, spiraling out of control. The stabilizer ports along its back spark and rupture, spewing erratic bursts of uncontained Chaos Energy in wild, uncontrolled arcs.

Then—

The glass shatters.

The reinforced containment gives way, the transparent walls exploding outward as if struck by an unseen force.

Chaos Energy erupts from the broken machines, uncontrolled, volatile—wild.

The Biolizard's roar reaches a new level of anguish, a deafening, mind-splitting scream that sends a violent shockwave through the lab. The walls tremble. The overhead lights flicker, the power system failing as circuits overload.

I feel a hand grab my arm.

"Maria—!"

Grandfather's grip is iron as he pulls me back, forcing me away from the imploding containment zone. My feet barely keep up, the chaotic energy in the room making the air heavy, suffocating.

Behind us, the lab erupts into chaos.

"CONTAINMENT BREACH!" someone bellows.

Red warning lights flash, alarms blaring in deafening pulses.

Then, the G.U.N. soldiers arrive.

They storm past us, weapons raised, their boots pounding against the metal floors.

I hear it before I see it.

Gunfire.

Screams.

The Biolizard roars again, the sound ragged, maddened, no longer just pain but something primal, something wrong.

Grandfather doesn't stop running, his grip on me tightening as we turn the corner, metal doors slamming shut behind us.

The last thing I see before the lab is sealed—

Is a flash of blue energy, an arc of wild Chaos flaring through the air—

And the soldiers, one by one, vanishing– leaving only red mist.

The dust has settled, but the damage is done.

I sit in my room, waiting.

Not by choice.

Outside my door, the ARK is eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos that erupted just hours ago. No alarms, no gunfire, no screaming scientists. Just the low hum of the station's ventilation system and the faint, distant murmur of voices beyond the walls.

I should be down there.

I should be in the lab.

Instead, I'm trapped here like some helpless child while G.U.N. swarms the research levels, securing the aftermath of their own failure. Not ours. Theirs.

Grandfather enters without knocking.

His face is worn, deeper lines carved into his brow, his eyes sharp but exhausted. He closes the door behind him, the soft hiss of the pressure seal punctuating the silence between us.

I don't move from my seat.

"You're keeping me out."

He sighs, rubbing his temples. "Maria—"

"You're keeping me out of my own project."

He exhales, long and slow, before finally meeting my gaze. "You were there when the containment breach happened. Because of this G.U.N. is enforcing new protocols. No unauthorized personnel in the labs during testing, they fear you are a distraction."

"Unauthorized?" I repeat, the word bitter on my tongue. I am the one who corrected their mistakes. I am the one who ensured the project kept running. "I am hardly some outsider, Grandfather."

"They don't see it that way." His voice is firm but not unkind. "As far as they're concerned, you are still just a civilian."

I grit my teeth. A civilian.

I knew G.U.N. would use this as an excuse to tighten their grip. The containment breach gave them exactly what they wanted—more control, more leverage. And Grandfather…

He let them.

"How bad is it?" I ask, my voice colder than before.

Grandfather hesitates. Just for a moment. But I see it.

"It's under control," he says carefully. Too carefully.

Which means it's not.

I glance past him, toward the reinforced window that overlooks the stars.

"They're afraid," I murmur, watching the distant void. "They think they can lock down the labs, cut me off, and keep their secrets safe."

"Maria—"

"They should be afraid." I finally look at him, my fingers tightening against my armrest. "Because this was their mistake. They overstepped. And now they're afraid of what they created."

He doesn't answer.

Because we both know I'm right.

I push myself up, ignoring the lingering fatigue from the treatment I never wanted.

"How long?" I demand.

"Until what?"

"Until I'm allowed back in."

His jaw tightens. "...Until I can convince them you belong there."

I hate that answer.

I hate that he has to convince them of something that shouldn't even be a question.

But I let it go. For now.

Instead, I step past him, toward the control panel on my desk, fingers dancing over the interface as I pull up station-wide security logs.

They can lock me out of the labs.

They cannot lock me out of my own station.

My fingers glide over the control panel, swift, practiced movements bypassing the standard access restrictions. They think they can cut me off.

They're wrong.

The screen flickers, feeds shifting through live footage of the lab. What was once a carefully controlled research space is now a battlefield of order and chaos—scientists displaced, equipment scattered, G.U.N. soldiers moving like carrion birds over the remains of the Biolizard.

They're packing it up.

I zoom in.

The container is massive, reinforced, glowing faintly from the residual Chaos Energy still leaking from what's left of the prototype. Sparks flicker where its cybernetics once connected to life support. Twisted flesh. Burnt synthetic parts. Cracked, charred scales.

They're treating it like a threat, not a subject.

They don't understand.

Or worse—they do, and they intend to take it anyway.

My fingers twitch. This project is mine.

I shift the camera feed, scanning the rest of the lab.

Near one of the overturned stations, two figures huddle together. A man and a woman—both researchers. The woman's face is pale, her hands shaking as she wipes at her cheeks, the remnants of fear still lingering in her expression. The man beside her rests a hand on her back, his posture tense but steady, whispering something meant to comfort.

Weakness.

I watch them for a long moment, taking in the details. The scientist's bloodshot eyes, the way her fingers tremble against her own clipboard. The way the man looks over his shoulder, wary, as if expecting another disaster to strike at any moment.

They are not built for this.

They serve G.U.N., but they are not soldiers.

None of them are.

They were afraid. When the Biolizard moved, when it let out that horrific, broken scream, when its body defied every failed calculation—they panicked.

And now? They grieve.

But I don't.

I let my gaze settle on the container once more.

The Biolizard was a failure, but it was our failure to learn from, not theirs to steal. If G.U.N. thinks they can sweep this under the rug, erase the mistakes, sanitize the project into something more "stable," then they are bigger fools than I thought.

The lab feeds flicker one last time before I power down the terminal, my jaw tight as I lean back in my chair.

I hate this.

The Biolizard's remains—my project—being packed away under armed guard, treated like some classified disaster instead of valuable data waiting to be examined.

I should be down there.

Instead, I'm locked out like a child.

Grandfather had the nerve to tell me I "wouldn't be allowed back in for a while." As if I don't already know this is G.U.N. trying to reassert control. The containment breach gives them the perfect excuse—restrict access, reinforce security, keep me out under the pretense of "civilian safety."

It won't last.

They're only doing this because they're scared.

Scared of another failure, another mess to clean up. Scared of what they don't understand.

Fine.

Let them waste time setting up new protocols. Let them think they've won something. I will get my access back. Grandfather will see to that—he always does.

And in the meantime, I have work to do.

I push away from the desk and shift my attention to the materials spread across my workstation. Metal plating, servos, reinforced padding—all the components I stole from various supply shipments, all ready to be assembled.

I pick up a tool, turning it over in my hands as I let my mind settle back into the familiar rhythm of creation.

I can't study the Biolizard.

But I can prepare for when I do.

This station is mine.

They will not keep me locked out forever.

CONFIDENTIAL

G.U.N. Incident Report

Filed by: Ensign D. Walters

Date: [REDACTED]

Time: 03:42 Hours

Subject: Biolizard Containment Breach – Lab 03

[h3]Incident Summary:[/h3]

At approximately 0200 hours, a catastrophic containment failure occurred within Lab 03, where the Biolizard prototype was undergoing Chaos Energy infusion trials. The subject, previously deemed a failure due to instability, unexpectedly demonstrated unprecedented regenerative capabilities. The controlled energy transfer became erratic, overwhelming the stabilizing systems and causing a full-scale containment breach.

Despite emergency lockdown procedures, the Biolizard broke free from its restraints, exhibiting extreme aggression and uncontrolled energy output. G.U.N. security personnel responded immediately, initiating suppression measures.

Gunfire and non-lethal energy dampeners were deployed, but the subject displayed rapid adaptability, nullifying several containment efforts. The ensuing conflict resulted in multiple casualties before emergency failsafe protocols successfully re-engaged, allowing for re-containment of the Biolizard.

[h3]Casualties:[/h3]

[h4]Confirmed Killed in Action (KIA):[/h4]

• Lt. Belwin Hale – Crushed by collapsing equipment during containment breach.
• Cpl. Jeriko Zega – Severe internal trauma from energy discharge, pronounced dead on retrieval.
• Pvt. Mike Hatter – Mauled during initial escape, body recovered with extensive injuries.
• Pvt. Allie Tie – Disemboweled, found near exit corridor attempting to reach safety.
• Pvt. Mayrun Grant – Separated from unit, killed by direct energy blast from subject.
• Pvt. Robyn Ross – Neck snapped, likely from tail impact.
• Dr. Conbur Carter – Fatal blunt force trauma during lab collapse, body found under wreckage.

[h4]Critical Injuries (Immediate Medical Evacuation Required):[/h4]

• Dr. Felius Wexler – Severe burns from energy discharge, currently in intensive care.
• Sgt. Idrissa Carrey – Deep lacerations and fractured ribs, stable but unconscious.
• Cpl. Mihirr Hernandez – Spinal damage, likely permanent paralysis.
• Dr. James Elba – Broken arm and internal bleeding from being thrown against containment glass.

[h4]Minor Injuries (Treated on Site):[/h4]

• Dr. Alfred Biagi – Concussion, minor burns.
• Cpl. Thomas Topaz – Fractured wrist, lacerations.
• Pvt. Richard Schimtz – Superficial wounds, possible hearing loss from energy blast.

[h3]Current Status of Subject:[/h3]

Despite sustaining multiple high-caliber wounds, energy depletion, and significant system damage, the Biolizard remains alive. Post-engagement scans indicate rapid cellular regeneration and reabsorption of residual Chaos Energy. The subject is currently immobilized within a reinforced containment unit, though fluctuations in vitals suggest continued metabolic activity. The regeneration speed has slowed, but it is still recovering.

[h3]Additional Notes:[/h3]

• Unauthorized Civilian Presence: Maria Robotnik was present in Lab 03 during the event. This is unacceptable. A civilian, regardless of affiliation, should not have been in a high-risk experimental facility during active trials. Her presence posed a security risk, and it is unclear whether Dr. Robotnik permitted this or if she gained access by other means. While unharmed, her presence in the lab could have resulted in additional casualties. G.U.N. should reassess security protocols to ensure that unauthorized personnel—especially civilians—do not have access to classified research areas, particularly during live testing.
• Dr. Gerald Robotnik's Response:
  Dr. Robotnik was seen evacuating Maria personally. While he remains cooperative, his priority remains the preservation of the project over operational security. His judgment on containment matters must be closely monitored moving forward.

[h3]Recommendations:[/h3]

1. Increase Security Protocols – Review and reinforce lab access restrictions. No civilians should be allowed near active experiments.
2. Re-evaluate Biolizard Viability – Despite prior failures, the subject's regenerative potential exceeds initial expectations. Further study is required to determine if containment will remain feasible.
3. Command-Level Review of Project Shadow – The implications of this event warrant further scrutiny. If the Biolizard has adapted this drastically, Project Shadow may need immediate reassessment before further testing.

Final Assessment:

The Biolizard has survived what should have been a terminal failure. Its regenerative capacity continues to defy projections, and containment remains precarious. Given Maria Robotnik's unauthorized presence, security concerns regarding Dr. Robotnik's authority must be addressed.

G.U.N. cannot afford another failure like this.

End Report.

Ensign D. Walters

[h3]Personal Notes – Ensign D. Walters[/h3]

Subject: Maria Robotnik & Lab Incident

Date: [REDACTED]

I hesitated before adding Maria Robotnik's name to the report. It felt unnecessary, almost cruel, to list her alongside trained personnel and casualties. But in the end, I did it because it needed to be said: civilians should not be in the labs.

And that's exactly what Maria is—a civilian. A child. A sick little girl who shouldn't be anywhere near dangerous experiments, much less standing next to an active containment breach.

She was lucky. We all were. If things had gone even slightly differently, she could have been seriously injured or worse. If G.U.N. had any sense, they would have kept her out of those labs a long time ago, but somehow, she always ends up there. Somehow, Gerald lets her.

That's what doesn't sit right with me.

Gerald Robotnik is a brilliant man—genius, even—but his judgment when it comes to his granddaughter is completely compromised. He lets her linger in spaces meant for trained professionals, lets her sit in on discussions she has no business hearing. And maybe she listens well, it's unmistakable that she's bright for her age, but that doesn't change the fact that she is a six-year-old girl playing pretend in a room full of scientists and soldiers.

The others humor her, just like they humor Gerald. They smile, nod along when she speaks, but I can see it in their eyes—they don't take her seriously. They indulge her because they don't know how else to deal with her, because arguing with the granddaughter of their boss isn't worth the trouble.

And she doesn't seem to realize it.

Or worse—she does, and she doesn't care.

She carries herself like she belongs there, like she's one of them. But when things go wrong—when an experiment kills people, when soldiers have to be called in with guns drawn—she still just looks like a child in the middle of a warzone.

She shouldn't be there. I don't care if the little Robotnik has a high school diploma, and is probably smarter then half the ARK personel.

And if no one else is willing to say it, then I will.

Because next time, we might not be so lucky.

End Log.

Ensign D. Walters

AN: I was going to keep weekly updates, however I realized I will have to disappear again for a few months soon, so I will try to finish this... ARK...  before that.

For extra chapters, and more meme stuff, follow me on space battles, or join the community discord

Chapter Text

AN: My internet has been dead for the last three days, I have been forced to use my phone for writing and edits- let me know if we missed something. Though Yertosaurus has been doing a great job :)

This chapter is over 20k words, due to its length I decided to cut it up into seperate sections as voted on my discord.

This is part one of three, I will get the other sections posted from my phone over the next few days.

Edit: (Posting from my phone messed with formatting a lot more then I thought it would.)

AN2: decided to not be lazy and fix the formating here on Ao3 even though this site gives me so much trouble.

Years on the ARK

The Colony Takes Shape

Five Days Since Containment Breach

The doors refuse to open.

I stand before them, arms crossed, waiting.

The access panel flashes RESTRICTED ACCESS in cold, unfeeling text. I expected this. I knew this would happen. And yet, some small, foolish part of me had still hoped.

Hope is a mistake.

Grandfather told me he couldn't override the order. That G.U.N. refuses to allow a civilian into the labs after the Biolizard containment breach. That I am too young to be given clearance, even with his approval.

Lies? Maybe.

I don't know anymore. I want to believe him. He is still Grandfather. The only person on this station with a mind worth respecting. But the fact remains—I am still locked out.

And that is unacceptable.

I push away from the door, gliding down the corridor, my skates humming softly beneath me. The low gravity carries me forward, smooth and effortless.

Physical exertion is the only thing keeping me sane.

Five days.

That's how long I've been on the ARK. Not even a full week, and already I've been locked out of my own project.

Sure the first day was chaos. The Biolizard broke containment before I even got a chance to see the full labs in person. I spent hours watching the security feeds afterward, analyzing every second of the disaster. It wasn't just dying. It was learning. And now, even with it restrained and sedated, I know it is still adapting.

The second day, I reviewed all project files I could access from my personal terminal. Not much. Not enough. G.U.N. has tightened security around the research team, treating them like liabilities rather than scientists. I sent Grandfather my notes, pointed out flaws in the containment strategy, suggested countermeasures.

His response was hours late: "Focus on resting."

A dismissal.

I didn't reply.

The third day, I built. If I couldn't access the labs, I would focus on something I could control. I built and modified my new skates, adding and adjusting stabilizers for better momentum shifts. The ARK's artificial gravity isn't as uniform as it should be. I started to map out every fluctuation, every inconsistency, every corridor where the gravitational pull wavered.

I used them.

The fourth day, I adapted. If they wouldn't let me through the front door, I needed alternatives. Every vent, every maintenance hatch, every blind spot in security— I memorized them all. G.U.N. thinks they've secured the labs.

They haven't.

And now, on the fifth day, I wake up early. The exhaustion still lingers from the treatments, but I force myself to move. If I let myself dwell on the fatigue, I will only become frustrated.

I skate to the observation deck, needing something—anything—to quiet my thoughts.

The Earth hangs beyond the reinforced glass, vast and untouchable.

Down there, I was always sick, always dying.

Up here, I should have been free.

Instead, I am still waiting.

I turn sharply, pushing off the deck's flooring, launching myself down the corridor at high speed. I weave between panels, adjusting my weight to compensate for the inconsistencies in gravity. I cut through the station, untouchable. No one stops me. No one can.

I should be in the labs. I should be working. Instead, I am here, wasting time.

Grandfather said he would try to get my access reinstated.

But will he?

Or will he keep finding excuses for why I am not allowed to see my own project?

Two Months Since Containment Breach

The ARK is fully operational now, but it feels crowded, scientists, engineers, and G.U.N. officers crawling through the station like parasites, checking security, running diagnostics, ensuring "compliance."

Gerald meets with them often. I don't.

I keep out of sight.

The few times I am forced into their presence, they look at me like a fragile thing—delicate, breakable, irrelevant. The dying girl, the scientist's granddaughter. A child in their eyes, a statistic in their reports.

They still won't let me back into the labs. Gerald says it's temporary. That G.U.N. is being difficult. That they will loosen their grip soon.

I have stopped believing him.

I tell myself that it does not matter.

I could break in if I wanted to—I have the access codes, I know the systems, alternate routes—but that would only make things worse in the long run. Instead, I wait. I build.

Since the labs are off-limits, I've focused my work on Chaos Energy. We cannot rely on the Chaos Emeralds forever—they are rare, unstable, beyond our control. So, I have been researching alternatives. Synthetic Chaos Energy.

I have theorized a way to mimic the energy output of the Emeralds using naturally occurring crystalline structures, tuning them to resonate at the same frequency. If I can make this work, we will no longer need the Emeralds. We will no longer be dependent on the unpredictable.

It's not the same.

Reading numbers on a screen does not compare to seeing.

To understanding.

Experimenting would require a lab.

With my access to the network I could just bypass the security locks, but then they would fortify everything, and lock me out of what access I do have. Better to keep that secret. So instead I pass by the sealed doors every day. My fingers twitch at my sides, wanting to tear them open. But I don't.

Not yet.

Three Months Since Containment Breach

I sat across from Grandfather in his office, arms crossed tightly over my chest, foot tapping an impatient rhythm against the metal floor. The moment he finished reading the document, he sighed and rubbed at his temples, as if this were just another bureaucratic headache.

I, on the other hand, was furious.

Three months. Three months of G.U.N. keeping me out of my own work. Three months of watching from the sidelines while they stumbled around in the dark, making no meaningful progress. I had expected this meeting to be about correcting that mistake—about finally getting my access reinstated.

"Well," he muttered, setting the report down. "This is unexpected."

I grabbed the document and scanned the contents. Pregnant. One of the scientists—no, two—had apparently decided that if they couldn't make scientific breakthroughs, they'd make something else instead.

He called me in for this?

I scoffed, tossing the report back onto his desk. "This is what they've been doing in my absence? Since when did this station become a daycare?"

Grandfather gave me a pointed look. "Since humanity does what it has always done—persist."

I huffed, arms tightening over my chest. "G.U.N. must be thrilled."

"They are not," he admitted, leaning back in his chair. "They consider this an unnecessary distraction. But the Federation…"

That caught my attention. I snatched the report again, scanning further. The Federation had taken a very different stance. They saw this as an opportunity. They wanted to publicize it. To turn the ARK from an isolated research station into the first true space colony—a symbol of humanity's great leap forward.

I scoffed. "So they've decided to double down on making this place useless?"

"Not useless," Grandfather corrected, his tone carefully neutral. "It's just… shifting focus."

I could feel my frustration mounting, a tight, suffocating pressure in my chest. Shifting focus. Away from the research. Away from the Biolizard project. Away from the one thing that mattered.

"And how, exactly, does this help us?" I demanded. "Has anyone made any real progress on the Biolizard? Has anyone figured out how to keep Chaos Energy from tearing it apart? Or have they just been playing house while I've been locked out?"

Grandfather sighed, rubbing a hand through his graying hair. "Maria—"

"No, don't 'Maria' me." I pushed myself up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "I should be in the lab, fixing things. Not sitting up here, waiting for the next publicity stunt to roll in."

His expression didn't change, but I saw it—the faint tap of his fingers against the desk. A tell. One I had memorized long ago.

Something wasn't being said.

I narrowed my eyes. "You still can't get me access."

A pause. Then, a slow exhale. "I am working on it."

I clenched my jaw. "Because of my age," I said bitterly.

He hesitated. That was confirmation enough.

I turned away sharply, fists curling at my sides, resisting the urge to slam them against the nearest console. Useless. All of them. G.U.N. had never wanted me in the labs to begin with, and now they had the perfect excuse to keep me out. No civilians allowed during classified testing.

No exceptions.

And I—despite everything I had done, despite everything I knew—was still just a civilian in their eyes.

I took a slow breath and looked out the observation window. Earth hung below, distant and indifferent. My reflection stared back at me, faint and ghostlike against the glass.

Fine.

They wanted to keep me out? Let them.

For now.

But I was not wasting time.

With no access to the labs, I had turned my full attention to Chaos Energy. If they thought cutting me off from Project Shadow and the Biolizard would stop me, they were wrong.

I had access to the internal network, thanks to Grandfather's security codes. I couldn't interfere with their work directly—not yet—but I could study. I could learn. And more importantly, I could innovate.

Chaos Energy was the key to everything. To Project Shadow. To my cure. To our survival. However I needed to create my own Chaos Emerald. No more limitations. No more variables beyond my control.

I had already begun small-scale tests in my room. Using what little energy samples I had access to, I was running calculations, refining my designs. Progress was slow, frustratingly so, but it was mine.

I skated through the ARK's corridors now, my mind turning over the data, the next steps I needed to take. My skates hummed softly against the floor, carrying me effortlessly through the empty halls.

If they wouldn't let me back into the labs, I would make my own lab.

If they wouldn't let me work on the future, I would create it myself.

For now.

Six Months Since Containment Breach

I no longer ask about the labs.

Gerald no longer brings them up.

An unspoken agreement settles between us, one built on shared frustrations and diverging paths. I have given up pretending that patience will get me anywhere. He has given up pretending he can fix it.

But that doesn't mean I have stopped working.

The skates were only the beginning. A crude solution, but an effective one. The first step toward something greater.

Now, I have moved on to something else—something far more important.

Movement. Gravity is my enemy here.

The artificial field is stable, but not perfect. It fluctuates near the docking stations, near the outer rings, anywhere the ARK's rotation tugs at the delicate balance of force and inertia. Some corridors feel heavier, others lighter—enough that I can sense the shift with every step, every push forward.

Months ago, I simply observed. Marked the locations where the inconsistencies were strongest. Timed the changes.

Now, I experiment.

I have adjusted my movements, altering the way I push off, the way I distribute weight. My body is weak, but my mind is sharp. Adaptation is key. I am learning how to manipulate my own balance, how to ride the shifting gravity rather than fight it.

With my skates, I can already move faster than any of them. But there are places where speed alone is not enough.

The airlocks. The security checkpoints. The sealed corridors leading toward the labs.

I do not need access to enter the labs. I only need to find a way in.

Even G.U.N. cannot guard every door.

Every vent.

The ARK is vast. A city built in the void, a network of pathways and maintenance tunnels stretching beyond the reach of any patrol. And unlike the fools around me, I am willing to use them.

I have time.

I may not have access to the labs.

But I have never needed their permission to make progress.

The schematics for the Chaos Drives are complete.

A battery cell capable of storing and channeling Chaos Energy, refined through my own research into synthetic energy conduction. The theory is sound—if properly calibrated, the drives should be able to function as a contained power source, regulating the erratic nature of Chaos Energy without the instability that has plagued our previous experiments.

I sent the schematics to Grandfather. He reviewed them in silence, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against the console as he scanned the details.

Then, after several minutes, he smiled.

"Promising," he had said, his voice carrying the weight of genuine approval.

That should have been enough. That should have meant progress.

And yet—

I am still locked out.

I have given them a tool that could stabilize everything, and still, I am treated as if my contributions are secondary.

I have worked around every restriction, every obstacle, every dismissive handwave of my expertise, and still—still—they keep me out.

I know the reason.

I am not a scientist in their eyes. I am not a researcher, not an engineer, not a mind worthy of recognition.

I am a civilian.

I am a child.

I am dying, and to them, that means I am not worth investing in.

I grit my teeth and force my frustration into something productive.

They will use my Chaos Drives. They will take my research and build upon it, whether or not they acknowledge its source.

And when I finally enter the labs again, they will realize their mistake.

I will not be left behind.

Nine Months Since Containment Breach

I had given up hope.

For nine months, I had waited. Nine months since G.U.N. locked me out of my own work, barring me from the labs under the pretense of safety, of protocol, of age restrictions that never mattered before. Nine months of skating through empty corridors, dissecting project logs, innovating with my Chaos Drives, watching progress crawl as others stumbled through my research without me.

But then—Grandfather called for me.

I didn't hesitate.

Finally. I knew he wouldn't leave me out forever. I knew he'd find a way.

My skates barely touched the floor as I cut through the ARK's corridors, the artificial gravity carrying me forward in weightless strides, my mind imagining my boots without wheels… maybe air thrusters?

I cant wait to get back into the labs.

I was finally going back.

I reached his office, slamming my palm against the panel before the door even fully opened. "It took you long enough—"

But the words died in my throat.

I stare.

The room is wrong.

No files scattered across his desk. No datapads open with notes I could steal a glance at. No blueprints. No research.

Just a cake.

A cake.

And wrapped gifts.

A slow, horrible realization creeps up my spine.

I forgot.

Grandfather smiles, warmth in his eyes as he gestures to the table. "Happy birthday, Maria."

I stare for a moment before looking back to the coffee cake, golden brown and dusted with a generous layer of cinnamon and powdered sugar. Swirls of coffee-infused glaze drape lazily over the surface, pooling slightly at the edges of each slice. The scent of warm vanilla and espresso lingers in the air, rich and grounding—comforting in a way I hadn't expected.

But what catches my attention is the writing.

In careful, looping script, written in a deep chocolate drizzle across the surface, are the words:

Happy 7th Birthday.

The letters are slightly uneven, a little shaky in places—Grandfather's handwriting. Not a machine, not a lab assistant, him.

A single candle sits at the center, unlit, as if he knew I would scoff at it but included it anyway. The cake isn't extravagant. It isn't a towering, sugar-laden spectacle like the ones I vaguely recall from childhoods both past and present.

But it is real.

And, despite myself, despite everything, I feel something in my chest tighten.

The lockout. The endless waiting. The frustration. The wasted time. I had been so focused on everything else that I hadn't even realized—hadn't even cared to realize—that today was supposed to mean something.

And yet, here he is.

He remembered.

I could be angry. I should be angry. I could snap at him for wasting time when we could be discussing something important, something meaningful.

But…

Grandfather looks pleased.

Not in a smug way, not in the way he does when he wins an argument. Just… genuinely happy.

Fine.

Just for today.

I cross my arms, exhaling sharply, tilting my head with forced indifference. "You should know, Grandfather, that throwing cake at me doesn't make up for keeping me out of the labs."

He chuckles, unphased. "I'll take that as a 'thank you.'"

I roll my eyes but step forward anyway.

You only turn seven once…twice…

Three times.

The scent of coffee cake fills the office, warm and inviting. I take a small bite, the subtle bitterness of the coffee mingling with the sweetness of the cake. It's good. Really good.

Grandfather watches me with barely concealed amusement as he cuts another slice for himself.

"I can tell you are enjoying it more than you expected."

I scoff lightly, refusing to dignify him with an answer. Instead, I focus on my plate, letting the rare moment of peace stretch out between us.

Then, after a few moments of silence, he leans back in his chair. "There's something else," he says, his voice softer than usual.

I glance up, watching as he pulls up a video transmission on the monitor beside us.

"A message from your parents," he continues. "It came with their gift."

I blink, caught off guard for just a moment. My parents. I had nearly forgotten about them in the whirlwind of the past year—so caught up in my own work, my own goals, that their absence had been nothing more than a passing thought.

Their faces appear, clearer than I expected, framed by the dim lighting of their expedition camp.

My father sits straight-backed, his rotund frame wrapped in a dusty expedition jacket. His dark blonde hair is tousled from a long day in the field, and a shadow of stubble traces his sharp jawline, his massive mustache bushy as always. His brown eyes soften as he looks toward the camera, warmth blooming in his expression in a way that catches me off guard.

My mother leans forward, closer to the camera, her warm brown skin glowing softly under the camp lights. Her blue eyes shine with unmistakable affection, and a few curls have slipped from the braid tied at the nape of her neck. Her voice breaks through first, rich with emotion and touched by the familiar softness of her spanish accent.

"Maria!" she says, practically beaming. The warmth in her voice feels like sunlight through glass. "Mi cielo, happy birthday! I can't believe you're seven already."

The resemblance is clearer now—my blonde hair from him, my blue eyes from her. I can see the pieces of myself in both of them, yet somehow, I still feel distant. As if I'm looking at two familiar strangers from a world that no longer feels like mine.

My father glances at my mother before speaking, his voice low and steady. "We hope you're doing well," he says, his tone gentle but proud. "Gerald tells us you've been helping with his research." His smile, rare and genuine, stretches just a little further than usual. "We always knew you would do great things."

I swallow hard, blinking against the tightness in my throat.

I don't remember when I last heard them sound this happy.

"Seven years old," my mother says, shaking her head fondly, her voice warm and laced with the soft cadence of her Spanish accent. Her smile fills the frame, full of a love so bright it almost hurts to look at. "It feels like just yesterday you were so pequeña, clinging to my leg whenever your father had to leave for a dig." She laughs, the sound soft and musical. "You were always so curious. That hasn't changed, has it, mi amor?"

I don't respond. They can't hear me anyway.

My father sits next to her, his posture as straight-backed as always. His light brown hair is slightly ruffled, likely from another long day of excavation, but his usual professionalism doesn't waver. His voice, though typically reserved, is softer now.

"We're so proud of you, Maria," he says, tilting his head slightly toward the camera. "Your grandfather tells us about your studies. You've always been gifted, and now you have the chance to work with something truly remarkable."

His eyes—usually sharp and focused—warm with genuine affection. "We hope you're doing well up there."

"We of course knew you would do well," my mother chimes in, her hands clasped together as her blue eyes shine with pride. "You're a Robotnik, after all! It's in your blood, cariño."

I lean back in my chair, arms folded. I know this isn't just a birthday call. They wouldn't contact me just for that. They never do.

My father's voice softens further as he continues. "We wanted to send something special for your birthday. Something meaningful."

I blink, unconvinced.

"You've already seen the books we sent, of course, but we also gave your grandfather something else—a gift far more significant than mere reading material."

My mother's smile brightens, her excitement impossible to miss. "The Chaos Emerald," she says, leaning forward slightly. Her accent thickens, voice filled with the thrill of discovery. "The one we found on the last dig. It's… increíble, Maria. You should have seen it by now—G.U.N. would have shipped it up a month ago."

A weight settles in my chest as the words sink in.

I know what happened to it.

They gave it to G.U.N.

My father picks up from where she left off. "The energy signatures were unlike anything we've ever recorded—it was extraordinary. We handed it over to G.U.N., of course. They ensured it made its way safely to your grandfather."

My hands curl into fists beneath the desk.

"Gerald will be able to study it properly now, in an environment that can harness its potential," my father adds. "It's a great opportunity, Maria. You're right there, at the forefront of something monumental. You must understand how important this is."

I understand perfectly.

They handed it over. Without hesitation. Without even thinking about what G.U.N. would do with it.

My mother, as if sensing the silence pressing down on me, quickly adds, "Of course, there are more out there. We're sure of it now. That's why we're still searching."

"Which brings us to our latest discovery," my father continues, adjusting his glasses with the usual precision. "A landmass that shouldn't exist—an island that floats, seemingly untouched by time."

"Angel Island, we call it." my mother breathes, her excitement practically radiating through the screen. "Maria, it's incredible. The energy readings are almost identical to those of the Emerald we found."

My father leans in, his voice low and sharp with focus. "We believe it holds more than just another Emerald. If the readings are accurate, there could be an entire archive of lost knowledge here—ancient technology, entire civilizations built around Chaos Energy. This could change everything we know."

My jaw tightens.

They're moving on already. Another discovery. Another grand pursuit.

They say they miss me. They say they're proud of me.

But they're not coming back. They're not leaving their work.

They never do.

Before I can even process the swirl of emotions tightening in my chest, a voice crackles faintly from off-screen—distant, muffled, and urgent.

"Oh!" My mother's head jerks up, eyes glancing toward something off-camera before turning back to me. "Maria, we love you so much, mi cielito. We'll call again when we can, alright?"

My father offers a final nod, his voice calm and steady. "We'll call again soon. Until then—keep making us proud."

And then—

The screen goes black.

I stare at the empty space where their faces had been, my chest hollow and heavy all at once.

They won't call again soon.

I exhale slowly, my fingers unclenching from where they had curled against my leg.

Beside me, Grandfather remains silent. Watching. Waiting.

But what is there to say?

They are gone again, chasing their discoveries.

They only ever brought me along once, and I immediately became sick and had to return…

And then they left me behind.

What's one more time?

I sit there for a few moments before Grandfather cleared his throat, "Perhaps it's time for the gifts?"

Grandfather gestures toward the small pile of wrapped gifts beside the cake, his eyes filled with quiet amusement. "It seems you've made quite the impression on the station, Maria," he says. "Even some of the guards contributed."

I eye the presents skeptically. Neatly arranged, modest in size—small tokens from the people around me.

I reach for one, unfolding the paper carefully. A record player.

"From some of the researchers," Grandfather notes, his tone unreadable. "Perhaps they believe music will keep you entertained."

I set it aside.

Next, a tin of imported sweets.

"The guards," Grandfather adds before I can ask. "Some of them have grown fond of chasing you down through the station."

I suppress the urge to scoff. Fondness. Or guilt for following orders that lock me out of my own research.

A few more gifts—station-made puzzles, a set of notebooks, small trinkets. All polite, expected. None of them truly mine.

Then, I spot Walter's gift.

It's wrapped with care, more so than the others. I hesitate before peeling back the paper.

A guitar.

I blink, momentarily thrown. The wood is smooth beneath my fingers, the strings pristine and untouched. Beside it, a book on how to play.

A small note is tucked inside the pages.

"So you take some time to relax and not run around the entire ARK."

I exhale sharply—something between a scoff and a laugh. Typical.

I run my fingers over the strings, plucking one lightly. The note hums through the quiet room. I don't know how to play, not yet. But it's a challenge I can accept.

And then, the final gift.

Grandfather pushes a small, finely wrapped box toward me. "And this," he says, voice filled with something almost expectant, "is from me."

I pull at the ribbon, unwrapping the paper with deliberate care.

Inside—a red keycard.

I stare at it. Then up at him.

My breath stills.

"I pulled some strings," Grandfather says smoothly, watching me closely. "You may not have full access yet, but I will not have my granddaughter kept from the pursuit of knowledge. With this you won't have to keep that keylogger on my workstation, you can just access it normally."

His grin tells me he wasn't upset, despite his discovery. So I let the words settle. My fingers tighten around the keycard.

It's not full access.

But it's a start…

The keylogger is staying though.

One Year Since Containment Breach

The first year aboard the ARK had been a battle of patience. A battle I had, in many ways, lost.

G.U.N. had locked me out of the labs from the very first day. Security reasons. Age restrictions. Civilian status. Excuses. But even without stepping foot inside, I had made sure my presence was felt.

They couldn't keep me from learning.

Even without direct access, I found ways to work. My Chaos Drive schematics had reached the labs, slipping into the hands of scientists who barely acknowledged my existence. They had studied them, tested them, and—eventually—put them into production. My work, built and distributed from the labs I wasn't even allowed inside.

The first batch of Chaos Drives had been sent to Earth just a few weeks ago. A new power source. A "breakthrough" in energy efficiency. Something G.U.N. could use for their mechanized units, for their weapons, for their wars.

I had no illusions about what they would do with them. But I let it happen.

Because this was only the beginning.

They could claim my research, manufacture my ideas, stamp their insignia onto what I had built—but they could not stop me from making more.

I had adapted. Found new projects. New ways to understand Chaos Energy, to shape and refine it, to mimic the resonance of the Emeralds in artificial materials. And as G.U.N. sent my designs to Earth, I kept working, designing, theorizing, waiting.

And in between?

I moved.

The ARK's corridors had become my domain. With my new 'Air-Shoes', I cut through the station like an arrow, streaking through empty hallways, pushing past the weightlessness of low gravity. I had memorized the fluctuating fields, the odd shifts near the docking bays, the places where momentum carried me just right, letting me glide with barely any effort.

It was not true freedom.

But it was the closest thing I had.

It was in these moments—when the world blurred around me, when my feet barely kissed the metal floors—that I felt alive. That I felt untethered from expectation, from frustration, from the weight of everything I could not control.

And lately, I had found a new addition to my routine.

The guitar hung against my back, the polished wood warm beneath my fingertips as I plucked at the strings. At first, I had ignored the thing—just another distraction, another waste of time. But time was all I had waiting for calculations to finish. And so, I played.

The notes followed me down the halls, smooth and quiet, bouncing off steel walls. Sometimes, I swore I caught Walters watching as I passed, the barest hint of approval in his expression. I ignored it.

Tonight, I skated—flew?— past the observation deck, slowing as I approached the massive glass panes.

Beyond them, Earth loomed.

A distant, untouchable thing.

I kept playing, my fingers finding a melody that was neither joyful nor sorrowful—something in between. Like how I've been feeling these days.

And then—

"Attention: Dr. Collins has entered labor. Medical personnel report to the designated maternity ward immediately."

My fingers faltered.

The announcement echoed through the empty hall, sterile and clinical.

The child was being born.

I exhaled, adjusting my grip on the guitar, the weight of the moment settling over me.

One year on the ARK.

And now, its first child.

They named him Abraham.

Personal Notes – Ensign Walters, Year One on the ARK

The Biolizard containment breach was worse than anyone wants to admit.

Soldiers dead, scientists wounded, entire sections of the lab torn apart in minutes. The thing shouldn't have been able to move, let alone fight. And yet, we watched it tear through everything we had, forcing us to put it down with enough firepower to level a battlefield.

Except we didn't.

It's still alive. Barely contained, in the lower decks of the ARK. G.U.N. won't say what they plan to do with it now, but it's clear they aren't stopping the research. Too much money, too much investment. Too much at stake.

Maria Robotnik was there.

I saw her in the lab that day—she shouldn't have been there. She stood frozen at the observation deck, watching as the creature thrashed and screamed, watching as soldiers were cut down, as chaos unfolded around her. She didn't run. Didn't scream. Didn't do anything but watch, until Robotnik dragged her out.

She was locked out of the labs after that. I thought it was the right call. A research facility—especially that facility—is no place for a child, sick or not. She disagrees.

Every day, she walks up to those doors. Places her hand against the access panel. Waits. As if sheer will alone will make them open for her. They never do. Eventually, she turns away, skates off down the hall like she has somewhere better to be. But I see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers twitch like she wants to tear through the barriers keeping her out.

She wants in.

And not just in the way a curious child wants to see a forbidden room. There's more to it. She understands something about what's happening in those labs, but I don't know how much. Gerald doesn't talk about her role in the project—not in any way that makes sense to me. But I see it. She is like him.

She watches everything, listens to everything, remembers everything.

She was already restless before the lockout. Now? She's worse.

She's always moving, always skating through the halls at impossible speeds, as if staying still for too long is a kind of death. The skates were her own design, engineered to counteract the ARK's shifting gravity, keeping her balanced where others struggle. I tried to keep up with her once. I couldn't. Then she removed the wheels— I have no idea how she managed to make hover shoes of all things.

But I can tell she's working on something bigger. I know it.

The scientists talk about a new development—Chaos Drives. A way to store and harness Chaos Energy. Clean energy for all of mankind. The first working schematics?

Hers, I would bet on it.

No one says that outright, of course. They treat it like some happy accident, like something Gerald handed down. But I've seen how she carries herself, how she holds conversations without needing anything explained. She understands far more than they think she does. Maybe even more than I do.

She got a guitar for her birthday. I gave it to her, thinking she needed something—anything—to slow her down. Something to focus on that wasn't running herself ragged. I left a note with it: So you take some time to relax and not run around the entire ARK.

When I next saw her she gave me a look like I had handed her a puzzle she didn't know how to solve. I thought I had miscalculated with the gift.

Then, the next day, I heard it.

Soft, unsteady notes drifting through the corridors, a melody with no clear direction. She wasn't good, not yet, but she was trying.

Maria Robotnik is nothing like any seven-year-olds I've heard of before.

How someone so pure is related to Gerald I will never know.

End log.

Federation Intelligence Report

Subject: ARK Status Update

Agent Designation: [Redacted]

Date: [Redacted]

Summary:

Following the Biolizard containment breach, I was dispatched to assess the current state of the ARK, its research operations, and the continued viability of Project Shadow. Additionally, I was tasked with evaluating the status of Gerald Robotnik's work on immortality and determining whether recent developments align with the Federation's long-term interests.

Biolizard Containment Breach – Aftermath

The incident was more severe than reports from G.U.N. indicated. The containment failure resulted in multiple casualties among both research personnel and G.U.N. security forces. Structural damage to several lab sectors remains under repair, and security measures have been significantly tightened. G.U.N. maintains that the situation is under control, though there is clear evidence of lingering instability within the project.

Officially, the Biolizard is still "contained," but field observations suggest otherwise. The organism is adapting. The research logs indicate unexpected resilience and regenerative properties, leading to speculation that it may still be evolving despite being sedated. This is troubling—especially considering its foundational purpose as an early-stage immortality prototype.

Regardless, Project Shadow has now taken full priority, with the Biolizard being treated as an obsolete failure. Given the substantial resources already poured into the project, this pivot suggests that Gerald and his team may have finally found a more viable solution.

Dr. Gerald Robotnik – Compliance & Status

Gerald remains cooperative, though not necessarily by choice. Intelligence confirms that G.U.N. is leveraging his granddaughter, Maria Robotnik, as a pressure point. Her condition continues to deteriorate, and as long as Gerald believes a cure is within reach, he remains an asset willing to comply with the Federation's objectives—namely, the continued development of Chaos Energy-based research.

There is no indication that he is resisting, though his recent work has drifted further from the originally sanctioned immortality project and deeper into weapons applications. This shift is expected, given G.U.N. and the Federation's need for an edge in the geopolitical landscape. However, there is growing internal debate as to whether allowing Gerald unrestricted scientific freedom poses a long-term risk.

G.U.N. remains confident in their ability to control him, but history has shown that scientists pushed to desperation can be unpredictable. If Maria were to die before a viable solution is found, Gerald's compliance may become unstable.

Maria Robotnik – Strategic Assessment

Maria's role in this situation is unique. While officially classified as the sole non-essential civilian presence aboard the ARK, her existence serves two primary functions:

• Control Mechanism: Her deteriorating health ensures Gerald's continued cooperation.

• Public Relations Asset: Her presence allows the ARK to maintain the illusion of being a civilian-led research initiative rather than a military installation.

There have been discussions within G.U.N. regarding whether Maria's continued survival is necessary. Some factions argue that without her, Gerald may no longer be reliable. Others believe that her inevitable decline will force him to finish his work faster.

Current intelligence does not indicate that Maria is involved in active research. However, she has been observed closely monitoring ARK operations and frequently attempting to access restricted areas. There are also indications that certain G.U.N. personnel—most notably, Ensign Walters—are maintaining an unofficial watch over her, though it is unclear to what extent.

The primary concern is whether she remains an asset or a liability. If she lives long enough to see Project Shadow succeed, the Federation may have to reassess its handling of the situation.

Political Considerations & Future Alignment

The Federation and G.U.N. remain aligned—for now. The ARK's official purpose is still publicly framed as a civilian research endeavor, but behind the scenes, its shift toward military applications is becoming increasingly difficult to obscure.

The current administration is still supportive of G.U.N.'s control over the station and its research. However, political currents are shifting. If the next administration leans toward demilitarization, the Federation may be forced to reconsider the degree to which it allows G.U.N. autonomy over ARK operations.

There is also concern over the long-term implications of Chaos Energy weaponization. If Gerald succeeds in stabilizing it for military use, the balance of power could shift dramatically. Some within the Federation view this as a necessary advantage. Others see it as a Pandora's box.

For now, the directive remains unchanged—Project Shadow must continue, Gerald Robotnik must remain compliant, and the ARK must maintain its operational status without drawing undue political attention.

However, contingency plans should be developed should the situation on the ARK become unstable.

Recommendations:

• Continue to monitor Gerald Robotnik's progress closely to ensure his work remains beneficial to the Federation's interests.

• Maintain Maria Robotnik's survival for as long as she remains a viable means of control. If her condition worsens to the point of rendering Gerald unstable, reassessment will be necessary.

• Prepare political contingencies in case the next administration takes a more cautious approach toward ARK operations. G.U.N. may need to be brought under tighter oversight to prevent independent military escalation.

• Investigate alternate methods of securing Chaos Energy technology that do not rely on Gerald's continued cooperation.

The ARK remains a critical asset, but its future is uncertain. For now, stability is maintained. How long that stability lasts is another matter entirely.

My replacement should be someone with more extensive background working around G.U.N. security to get a more thorough understanding of the situation on board.

End Report.

AN: Part 2 of 3

Years on the ARK

The Return to the Labs

One Year and Three Months Since Containment Breach

I sit across from Grandfather, my hands folded neatly in my lap as he finishes reading the latest transmission from the Federation. His fingers tighten around the tablet just slightly before he exhales and sets it down with deliberate care.

"They're making the announcement today," he says, his voice unreadable.

I already knew it was coming. The murmurs from the administration staff, the subtle shift in tone from the higher-ups at G.U.N., the sudden influx of non-classified personnel requests filtering through the system. But hearing it confirmed makes my stomach twist in something close to disgust.

The first child born in space.

And suddenly, the ARK isn't just a research station anymore.

"The ARK is humanity's future now," I murmur, my voice flat.

Grandfather chuckles, though there's no real humor in it. "It seems they've decided to rebrand us. No longer a research station—now, we are a colony. A symbol of progress."

I scowl, resisting the urge to dig my nails into my palms. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not yet.

The Federation took the wrong lesson from this. Instead of maintaining distance, instead of preserving the ARK as a controlled scientific endeavor, they saw an opportunity—a political tool.

They saw a headline.

"They're sending civilians," I say, the words sharp, cutting. "Civilians, Grandfather."

"Families, engineers, medical staff—'support personnel,'" he clarifies, rubbing his temple. "Their goal is to make the ARK a true settlement. To prove that humans can live beyond Earth."

I exhale slowly. "Because some idiots had a child where they weren't supposed to."

He doesn't correct me. Because he knows I'm right.

The child was never meant to be here. The ARK was supposed to be ours—a place for research, for work, for the cure. A place away from the Federation's laws, away from G.U.N.'s restrictions. But now? Now it's a spectacle.

"G.U.N. isn't pleased," Grandfather admits, tilting his head slightly, watching me carefully. "They fought it. Tried to classify the pregnancy. But the Federation got ahead of them. The public already knows. The story has spread."

I let out a slow breath, controlling my expression. "Which means they have no choice but to play along."

"They've been ordered to cooperate." His lips twitch slightly. "I imagine they aren't thrilled about it."

Good.

I press my fingers together, my mind already racing ahead.

Civilians change everything. More eyes. More oversight. Less control.

This is a setback.

But setbacks can be managed.

"They'll bring media," I say coldly. "Scientists, diplomats, politicians—tourists, even. They'll want to hold a ceremony. A grand announcement to show the Federation's success."

"The Federation will ensure it happens," Grandfather agrees, leaning back in his chair, eyes distant with thought. "They'll use this to strengthen their political influence—especially with elections approaching back on Earth."

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply before exhaling through my nose. Adapt. Adjust. Take control where you can.

Fine.

If they want to turn the ARK into a spectacle, I will ensure it remains ours.

"I need full access back into the labs," I say, opening my eyes to meet his gaze.

His brows lift slightly. "You think they'll allow that?"

I tilt my head. "They're bringing in children, Grandfather. If a baby can live on the ARK, then surely a seven-year-old girl is no longer a concern in the labs."

He chuckles at that, amused despite himself. "A clever argument."

"One they can't refuse," I counter.

He studies me for a moment, then leans back, nodding. "I'll see what I can do."

Good.

The soft hum of machinery fills my room, accompanied by the occasional sharp click of a screwdriver adjusting the delicate balance of the stabilizers on my skates. Each adjustment is precise—every screw turned with care, every wire reconnected with practiced ease.

But my eyes aren't on my work.

They're on the screen in front of me.

The live broadcast of the Federation's ceremony plays across the monitor, streamed from one of the ARK's public observation decks. The feed is smooth, clear—perfectly curated propaganda for Earth's consumption.

I watch as the Federation's representative, a polished woman in a tailored navy suit, stands beneath the shimmering glass dome of the observation deck. Behind her, Earth hangs in the void like a distant, indifferent god.

"Today, we celebrate not just scientific progress, but the beginning of a new era for humanity," she announces, her voice carrying that practiced confidence politicians wear like armor. "The ARK is no longer just a research station. It is a symbol of our potential—a place where humanity can thrive beyond Earth's boundaries."

I don't bother muting the feed. The words are meaningless.

Instead, I focus on tightening the last bolt on the left skate's stabilizer. The vibration sensors hum briefly as I test the pressure, ensuring that they're balanced perfectly for my weight.

The camera feed shifts to show the reason for this whole charade—the child.

A soft spotlight falls on the tiny figure nestled in their mother's arms, wrapped in a white blanket like a living emblem of innocence and political opportunity. The Federation couldn't ask for a better headline: The first child born in space. A new life for humanity's future.

My jaw tightens.

I glance down at my hands, fingers tightening around the screwdriver. The skates are finished. Perfectly tuned. Ready for when I need to move—really move.

The crowd on the broadcast applauds.

The representative raises her arms like a conductor commanding a symphony. "This is the dawn of humanity's expansion beyond Earth. And it begins with the ARK."

I lean back in my chair, the hum of the skates' stabilizers fading into silence as I shut the power down.

One Year and Six Months Since Containment Breach

They thought they could keep me out forever.

They were wrong.

It took a year—a year of waiting, of memorizing every weak spot in their security systems, of cataloging every guard rotation, every blind spot in the surveillance feeds. I had been ready to force my way back in if necessary.

But I didn't have to.

The moment the United Federation labeled the ARK a colony—no longer a research station but a symbol of humanity's ambition—the rules changed. Civilians arrived in droves: families, engineers, medical staff, bureaucrats. Suddenly, the ARK wasn't just a hub for scientific progress—it was a political trophy. A testament to the Federation's vision for humanity's future beyond Earth.

And with that shift, they had no choice but to let me back in.

Grandfather made it happen, of course. He played the perfect role: the concerned, brilliant scientist, advocating for the inclusion of his "brilliant young assistant." He framed it as a victory for progress, as proof that even a sick little girl could contribute meaningfully to the future of humanity.

G.U.N. couldn't argue against the optics.

The public didn't see me as a threat. They saw me as a symbol—the frail granddaughter of the ARK's chief scientist, embodying the hopeful narrative the Federation wanted to sell. A testament to resilience and human spirit.

I let them believe it.

When I stepped back into the lab for the first time in over a year, I expected to feel victorious.

I didn't.

The sterile air still hummed with the familiar whir of machinery, the layout remained unchanged, and the terminals blinked with lines of code and data streams I could interpret in seconds. But the atmosphere was wrong.

The scientists—those who had survived the Biolizard incident—moved with caution, every action measured, every glance laced with paranoia. Conversations were quieter now, clipped and full of pauses. No one spoke without checking to see who was listening first.

And then there was security.

G.U.N.'s presence had multiplied. Armed guards at every checkpoint, new biometric scanners, layers of clearance even Grandfather struggled to bypass. The laboratory wasn't a place of discovery anymore—it was a fortress.

But the most glaring change was the tank.

Gone.

The containment pod that had once held Shadow—the heart of our project—had been removed entirely. Not relocated. Not hidden in another section of the lab.

Erased.

I turned to Grandfather, my eyes narrowing. He didn't need to say anything. I could already see it in the way he avoided my gaze, the tension in his shoulders.

The project had been moved.

Buried deeper within the restricted sectors—beyond my clearance.

They hadn't let me back in because they trusted me.

They let me in because they were already hiding something bigger.

I forced myself to move, to pretend everything was as it should be. I scrolled through the current research logs, expecting to see updates on Project Shadow's progress—its development, its vital signs, something that indicated the work was continuing.

But instead, I found a backlog of reports detailing something entirely different.

Weapons development.

The Chaos Drives I had helped design—originally intended to store and stabilize Chaos Energy for medical and scientific use—were being mass-produced and shipped back to Earth.

They weren't being used for research anymore.

They were being weaponized.

The Federation had realized the potential of Chaos-based technology, and they didn't care about curing disease or advancing humanity's understanding of the universe. All they saw was a chance to arm G.U.N. and cement their political dominance.

Funding for Project Shadow had been quietly siphoned away. Research teams were reassigned. Manpower was redirected toward military contracts. The ARK wasn't a beacon of progress anymore—it was practically a war factory orbiting above the Earth.

And Grandfather had let them.

I clenched my fists so tightly my nails bit into my palms.

Project Shadow was supposed to be the priority. It was supposed to be my cure—the culmination of everything we'd worked for.

I had fought so hard to return to the labs. I had outmaneuvered their politics, their security, their carefully constructed public image.

And yet, everything was still slipping out of my control.

One Year and Nine Months Since Containment Breach

Grandfather tells me the project is moving forward.

But I know better.

The Biolizard has been written off. A catastrophic failure that left more than just shattered data logs and ruined containment pods in its wake—it left fear. The labs remain under G.U.N. lockdown, every terminal, every experiment now monitored more closely than ever. The air is thick with tension, a silence that hums louder than any machine.

The project isn't moving forward. It's stagnating.

They think I don't notice.

That I don't see the way the Federation's representatives observe everything with that cold, clinical detachment, pretending to be mere administrators while their eyes linger too long on the restricted sectors. That I don't notice how the flow of civilians onto the ARK has accelerated—engineers, technicians, and families—flooding in under the pretense of turning this place into a beacon of human progress.

But I see it all.

The ARK's purpose is being reshaped, twisted into something it was never meant to be. Once a sanctuary for scientific advancement, now little more than a political theater. A living symbol of humanity's so-called "destiny among the stars." A bargaining chip for the Federation's ever-expanding influence.

And yet—there is cake again.

The tradition continues. A small, sterile celebration in Grandfather's office, the same room where research notes clutter the shelves and data streams flicker across the monitors. It feels as if the walls themselves are trying to suffocate any sense of joy—clinical, cold, and indifferent to what should be a moment of celebration.

But we go through the motions anyway.

A small cake sits in the center of the desk, its single, flickering candle casting a soft glow that doesn't quite reach the shadows pooling in the corners of the room. Grandfather stands nearby, trying to conjure some semblance of warmth, but I can see the exhaustion in his posture, the weight of failure and the burden of unfinished work etched deep into his expression.

Outside, the ARK is changing. The air is thick with politics, every hallway a silent battleground between the Federation's ambition and G.U.N.'s tightening grip. Civilians flood in, their smiles naive, oblivious to the undercurrents of power shifting around them.

But inside this room, we pretend everything is normal.

Then the screen flickers to life.

Another message from my parents.

Their faces appear as if no time has passed at all, yet the evidence of time's slow erosion is written in the deepening lines around their eyes. My father's light brown hair has grown longer, messier, while my mother's skin is kissed darker by the sun, the corners of her blue eyes softened by exhaustion.

"¡Feliz cumpleaños, mi amor!" My mother's voice is warm and rich, her Spanish accent curling softly around each word like a familiar melody from a forgotten place. Her smile, though tired, radiates pure affection.

"Eight years old already," my father adds, his voice carrying that usual reserved pride. His gaze is steady, though I can see the weight of distance behind his carefully composed expression. "We hope you're doing well. Gerald tells us you've been excelling in your studies."

The same reassurances. The same well-rehearsed affection. Words spoken out of duty, not understanding.

But then, something shifts.

"We made an incredible discovery, Maria," my mother says, her exhaustion replaced by genuine excitement. She leans closer to the screen, as if trying to close the vast distance between us. "Ancient murals, thousands of years old—depicting creatures, battles, and… something remarkable."

My focus sharpens.

A glance passes between them—unspoken communication honed through years of shared research. My father picks up the explanation with the careful precision of a scientist delivering unsettling news.

"A machine, deactivated but remarkably intact," he says, adjusting his glasses with a practiced motion. "We found it deep within a sealed chamber, buried beneath centuries of stone. The energy readings suggest a connection to Chaos Energy—but we won't know for sure until further analysis."

A machine tied to Chaos Energy. An ancient artifact from a civilization long extinguished by forces beyond their control.

"We've sent it to the ARK," my mother adds, her eyes practically glowing with anticipation. "Gerald will have the proper facilities to study it."

My hands curl into fists in my lap, nails biting into my palms.

The Federation will want to study it. G.U.N. will see it as yet another potential weapon.

I won't let them have that control.

My parents continue, oblivious to the storm building behind my quiet demeanor. They speak in detail of the ancient murals—each word like a knife cutting deeper into my thoughts.

Symbols of destruction.

Scenes of war.

Warnings carved in stone.

Entire civilizations reduced to ruin by forces beyond their understanding—chaotic energies so powerful they reshaped entire landscapes. The murals depict battles waged with unimaginable technology, and creatures wielding power far beyond human comprehension.

And then the most familiar image: something falling from the heavens—a shape surrounded by violent energy, bringing devastation with it.

A pattern I've seen before.

"We believe it could be one of their war machines," my father says, his voice clinical and measured, though I catch the hint of unease beneath his words. "Or something… more."

More.

The same silence that followed the fall of the Fourth Great Civilization now echoes in my mind—an extinction event written in forgotten languages and hidden warnings.

A voice cuts through the transmission—distant, urgent, drawing them back into the depths of their expedition.

"We have to go," my mother says, her voice softening with regret. "Maria, te amamos mucho. We'll call again soon, sí?"

"Be well," my father adds, the familiar certainty in his voice carrying an almost painful finality. "And keep making us proud."

The screen flickers.

Then black.

I exhale slowly, unclenching my fists and forcing the tension from my muscles, though the tight coil of frustration doesn't ease.

They've sent a machine to the ARK—a relic of a civilization that wielded Chaos Energy so recklessly it brought about its own destruction.

How much of that devastation was self-inflicted?

And how much of it serves as a warning the Federation will ignore?

The Federation will study the machine. G.U.N. will try to weaponize it.

But for now—there is cake.

There is another gift and note from Walters.

A collection of music records for my record player.

"You should learn to enjoy something other than research, Maria."

He still does not understand.

But I accept it.

Because it is easier to pretend.

Two Years Since Containment Breach

Gerald doesn't speak of it.

Not in front of me.

The air in the labs feels heavier now, thick with unspoken truths and quiet failure. The hum of machinery that once felt like the pulse of progress now drifts aimlessly, like a dying breath stretched too thin across metal walls.

The scientists move like ghosts, shadows of the men and women they used to be—careful, guarded, silent. Conversations that once flowed freely now stop as soon as I enter the room. Words fade into the sterile air, cut short by sharp glances and tight-lipped caution.

Screens flicker off. Displays are wiped clean. Data disappears before I can glimpse the results.

They think I don't notice.

That I don't already know.

But I do.

I've seen it in the way they hunch over their terminals, double-checking calculations that won't change the inevitable. In the way they avoid meeting my gaze as if my presence alone is a reminder of the stakes they're failing to meet.

The Experiment is failing.

Just like the Biolizard before it.

And they have no solution.

It didn't start with catastrophe. Not this time. There was no violent rejection of Chaos Energy, no sudden collapse of cellular integrity. This failure crept in quietly, like a hairline fracture spreading through glass—imperceptible at first, but growing larger, deeper, unstoppable.

At the beginning, it was barely noticeable. Just a minor instability—an anomaly in the synchronization with Chaos Energy, a flicker in the vitals, a reading that could be dismissed as an error.

But now?

Now the evidence is written in every scan, every fluctuation of its vital signs. Its once-stable energy patterns are splintering. The genetic degradation is accelerating, its cells breaking apart slowly but inevitably.

I am allowed back into the labs now. Allowed to walk the hallways where breakthroughs were once made, to pass the observation windows and listen to the quiet hum of experiments running on autopilot.

But I am never allowed where it matters.

Gerald keeps me busy with distractions—running diagnostics on outdated machinery, analyzing energy fluctuations in systems that have long since stabilized. I run theoretical models that I know will never leave my terminal.

Useful work. But not essential.

He's keeping me away from Project Shadow.

And I know why.

He thinks it will spare me.

As if shielding me from the collapse of his grand design will soften the weight of failure pressing down on us both. As if I don't already feel the suffocating realization that my cure is dying—right there, behind locked doors and layers of security clearance I can't break.

But I see the signs in Gerald's face.

The way his hands linger on reports longer than they should, as if hoping that if he reads the numbers just one more time, they'll tell a different story. The way his fingers press into his temples when he thinks no one is watching, his body heavy with exhaustion.

The other scientists won't meet his gaze anymore. Their conversations, once full of cautious optimism, are now little more than quiet prayers murmured over data that refuses to comply.

There is nothing left to fix.

Nothing left to salvage.

Project Shadow is supposed to be the perfect lifeform. The ultimate breakthrough. A being of unparalleled power and control—capable of harnessing Chaos Energy without limitation.

It isn't.

And they have no idea how to save it…

So now there is nothing left to do but to start over from scratch.

Two Years Four Months Since Containment Breach

I can see it now, every time I look at Gerald.

The tension in his shoulders, the sharp lines deepening across his already-aged face. His hands curl around the edge of his desk, gripping the metal just a little too tightly before he forces himself to release it. A small gesture, but one that speaks louder than any words could.

He's losing hope.

I wait for the right moment, the silence between us stretched too thin.

"How is the project progressing?" I ask, keeping my voice measured, steady. I need him to believe I still trust him. That I still believe in the narrative he's feeding me.

There's a hesitation—brief, but I see it. His hand twitches. His breath catches just slightly before his carefully crafted façade returns.

"It is a process," he says, voice even and practiced. "There are always setbacks."

Setbacks.

Is that what we are calling it now?

As if the first prototype wasn't ripped apart from the inside out. As if the same fate isn't crawling up the experiment's spine with every passing test.

Project Shadow is failing.

And he knows it.

I want to shake him. I want to force him to admit what we both already know:

We're running out of time.

That every hour spent trying to stabilize Shadow's deteriorating body is another hour closer to the end of this project. That every failure pushes my cure further out of reach.

But I don't.

Because despite my frustration, despite my growing fury, I need him.

Gerald is the only one left who still believes this project can succeed. The only one who hasn't yet surrendered to the reality clawing its way toward us.

If I lose him—if he falters, if the weight of his failures finally breaks him—

Then I lose everything.

I will not allow that to happen.

Not yet.

Two Years Nine Months Since Containment Breach

My body is failing me.

I still skate through the endless, sterile halls of the ARK, the soft hum of machinery echoing off metallic walls. The smooth glide of my skates across the cold floors brings with it a fleeting rush—an illusion of freedom I cling to with every ounce of stubbornness I have left.

But each month, it gets harder.

The weight builds slowly, creeping up like a shadow at the edges of my awareness. What was once effortless now demands focus. Determination. Pain.

At first, I dismissed it as exhaustion. A longer breath to catch. A small ache in my chest.

Then came the stumbles—minor slips I could hide by gripping the smooth, steel walls just a little too tightly.

Now?

I count every step, every push forward. I catalog the strain in my muscles, the burning in my legs, the deadened ache in my arms that lingers even when I rest. My limbs feel like strangers, disconnected from the commands my mind gives them.

I am crumbling.

Just like the Biolizard did.

The thought coils in my stomach like ice, bitter and sharp.

I no longer fight Grandfather when he insists on longer treatments.

No more sharp words, no more stubborn refusals to let him see how weak I'm becoming.

I no longer argue when he tells me to rest—when his voice drops to that low, weary tone, thick with desperation masked as concern.

I hate it.

I hate him for the pity in his eyes, for the way his hand lingers on my shoulder a second too long as if that fleeting contact could hold me together.

But I am too tired to fight.

The needles dig deeper. The treatments stretch longer. The recovery periods blur together, leaving me in a haze of exhaustion that no amount of sleep can fix.

I feel the clock ticking behind every conversation, every glance. I see it in Gerald's eyes—he knows it too.

We are both running out of time.

There is still cake this year.

The familiar scent of cinnamon and coffee fills the air—Grandfather's favorite recipe, a small tradition carved out of years of shared moments. It should bring comfort, remind me of birthdays past, of soft laughter and effort made even on days when everything else was falling apart.

But I eat less of it now.

The flavors feel wrong on my tongue, like dust clinging to the back of my throat. I force down small bites, not out of hunger or joy, but out of obligation. The effort feels hollow, like acting out a memory I no longer believe in.

The screen flickers to life, and there they are again—my parents.

Their faces appear with the same tired warmth, sun-worn skin stretched thin by too many days spent under alien skies, too many nights lost to endless excavation work. The lines around their eyes deepen with each message.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart!" My mother's voice is bright, full of forced joy, her Spanish accent soft but clear through the static.

"Nine years old already," my father adds, his voice measured, calm. The pride in his words is the same as always—distant. Detached. Polite.

They speak of love. Of hope. Of how proud they are of me.

But all I hear are the words they don't say.

We aren't coming home.

We can't be there.

We chose our work over you.

Another expedition log disguised as a birthday greeting. Another reminder of what I will never have.

I watch their faces move on the screen, full of passion for discoveries I'll never see. Their excitement burns brightly—for something that isn't me.

They send their love. Their wishes. Their hopes.

But they do not come.

They never do.

This year, the gifts feel heavier.

A soft, warm blanket from the civilians who have settled on the ARK. A kind gesture. A reminder that to them, I am fragile—the sick child they pity from a distance, wrapped in softness because they believe I'll break if they don't handle me carefully.

A notebook from Walters—black leather, smooth and bound with quiet elegance. Practical, simple, meant to last.

There's a note tucked inside, his handwriting sharp and clean:

"For your thoughts, not your calculations."

I stare at it for a long time.

The pages are crisp and empty, waiting for something—anything.

But my thoughts don't belong here.

I don't belong here.

I close the notebook, leaving its pages untouched.

I am nine now.

I trace my fingers over the cover of the notebook, wondering if there will ever be words worth writing in it.

And for the first time, I wonder if I'll be here long enough to try.

Three Years Since Containment Breach

Project Shadow is still alive.

For now.

Its degradation has slowed, but it hasn't stopped. The scientists whisper behind closed doors about how they've "stabilized" the subject, how their adjustments to the containment systems and genetic sequencing have bought them precious time.

But I know better.

The fractures haven't healed—they've just become harder to see. The degradation is still there, hidden beneath manipulated data and skewed reports, like hairline cracks beneath polished glass. The numbers they present to G.U.N. have been carefully adjusted to appear stable, to project an illusion of progress for the Federation's eager eyes.

G.U.N. doesn't want the truth. They want results.

The Federation doesn't want to hear about failure. They want a symbol—humanity's triumph over death, a reminder that their expansion into space was worth every political maneuver and resource drained from Earth's surface.

And Gerald?

Gerald wants to believe.

So he lets them lie.

Lets them pretend that Shadow isn't unraveling from the inside out. Lets them whisper to themselves that their creation, their so-called Ultimate Lifeform, isn't rotting quietly beneath layers of false hope and classified files.

And me?

I say nothing.

If I expose them—if I tear away the illusion they've built around Shadow—they will take everything from me. My access to the labs, my voice in the research, and most importantly, my last fragile thread of hope for a cure.

The ARK isn't a research station anymore. The Federation made sure of that.

They broadcast the colony project across Earth's networks—"Humanity's first true step into space!"—a shining beacon of human ingenuity and progress. The public swallowed the narrative whole, not knowing the price paid beneath the surface of this gleaming metal tomb.

At first, it was just scientists and engineers. The people who belonged here. The ones who understood the purpose of the ARK.

But then, they came:

The wealthy, hungry for influence.

The ambitious, desperate to carve their names into history.

The politicians, eager to claim ownership over humanity's future.

They do not belong here.

This was never meant for them.

G.U.N. still guards the ARK with an iron fist, but now their authority is tangled in the web of Federation politics. The research continues, but now every discovery must be filtered through political approval and bureaucratic oversight.

That's why they've buried Project Shadow under layers of encryption and sealed corridors. That's why they've hidden me behind locked doors and closed systems.

Because I am not their success story.

I am their failure.

A patient who has not improved. A reminder that the miracle cure they promised doesn't exist—not yet.

My body weakens every day. The episodes come more frequently now—dizziness, shortness of breath, and a crushing fatigue that presses on my chest like an invisible hand.

But I refuse to slow down.

I skate through the ARK's corridors, pushing myself harder, faster, until my lungs feel like they're about to burst, until my legs tremble beneath me, until my vision blurs at the edges of consciousness.

If I stop, I might never move again.

Nine years old. And every breath feels like a battle against inevitability.

Gerald knows it. I see it in the way he watches me when he thinks I'm not looking—his eyes clouded with fear he won't name, hands trembling over the reports that tell him exactly how little time I have left.

But I will not wait for death.

I will not let Project Shadow rot away like the Biolizard did.

If no one else will fix it, if no one else will stop the collapse from within—I will.

The machine arrived two weeks ago.

Another gift from my parents. Another relic unearthed from some forgotten ruin on a distant planet, delivered to the ARK for study like all the others before it.

But the moment it was brought into the lab, I knew this one was different.

It wasn't just another artifact from the Fourth Great Civilization. This machine was active—or at least, it wanted to be.

It reacted to Chaos Energy. Not like Shadow. Not like the Biolizard. There was no rejection, no violent feedback loop.

It absorbed the energy. It fed on it.

When Gerald attempted to scan it, the console crashed immediately—the most advanced computational system on the ARK overloaded the moment it tried to process the machine's internal data.

And now?

I am banned from another project.

I saw what it did. I know what it could become. I could be the one to understand it. But to them? I am still just a sick child, a reminder of the failures they're too afraid to confront.

So they push me aside. Lock me out. Hide me from the truth I'm trying so hard to uncover.

Again.

There is a slight, unmistakable tremor in my fingers now.

The exhaustion claws at me, dragging me closer to the edge of collapse every day.

But I push it down. Bury it deep where it can't touch me.

Because I still have work to do.

Because I refuse to be forgotten again.

Three Years Nine Months Since Containment Breach

Gerald doesn't say it.

But I see it in his eyes.

In the way his gaze lingers a second too long when he looks at me—each glance weighted with unspoken sorrow. In the hesitation before he speaks, choosing his words with careful precision, as if softness will shield me from the truth. The false warmth in his voice when he offers his reassurances, spoken not to comfort me, but to convince himself that all is not yet lost.

I see it when he thinks I'm not watching—those stolen moments when his eyes trace the outline of my face, as if trying to memorize me before the inevitable happens. As if calculating the days I have left.

He doesn't say it aloud. He never will.

But we both know the truth.

I am dying.

But while my body weakens, the project—the work that has devoured everything else—lives on.

Project Shadow is growing.

The experiment that has consumed years of our lives, soaked in desperation and sacrifice, is still alive.

It is not stable. Not yet. The fractures remain, thin as hairline cracks beneath the surface. But this time, the degradation has slowed.

Its cellular structure is adapting—learning. The synchronization with Chaos Energy is holding longer than before, balancing on a delicate edge instead of collapsing beneath the weight of raw power.

The latest data suggests potential. Not certainty, not yet, but possibility. For the first time since this nightmare began, there's evidence that the energy we tried to control isn't destroying the subject from within.

The failures before—the prototypes, the countless discarded shells, the Biolizard—they all crumbled under their own weight, unable to sustain the very energy that was supposed to make them perfect.

But this one—this subject—is different.

And its progress is more than just data—it's hope.

If the subject stabilizes… if it succeeds…

Perhaps it's not too late for me.

There is cake again.

The same cake as every year—coffee cake, warm and rich, dusted with cinnamon and powdered sugar, soft beneath the carefully poured glaze.

It sits between us in Gerald's office, untouched for too long, the familiar scent filling the sterile air like a ghost of happier times.

I take a bite. Small. Forced.

Gerald watches. Always watching, as if willing me to enjoy it, as if that simple act could defy the truth pressing down on both of us.

I chew. I swallow.

I set the fork down.

The taste lingers on my tongue—bittersweet and distant. I don't finish the slice.

There are letters from my parents, sent from some far-off expedition buried under layers of bureaucracy and distance. They arrive like clockwork, each one sealed with care, carrying their affection from light-years away.

I don't read them.

They sit untouched on my desk, stacked neatly, unopened and irrelevant.

Their words don't matter anymore. They don't know what's happening here. They don't understand what's at stake, how the Federation's perfect little narrative of progress and survival is built on the slow collapse of my body and the experiment they'll never understand.

They still believe I will recover. Or at least they say so…

I stopped believing them a long time ago.

There are gifts, too—trivial things from the civilians who now infest the ARK's corridors. A scarf, soft and warm, meant to shield me from a cold that's no longer physical. A set of notebooks, their pages blank and waiting for thoughts I don't have time to record. A book of poetry, words woven by strangers who never knew what real suffering looked like.

Meaningless.

They see me as fragile. A delicate child wrapped in sympathy and the illusion of kindness.

Walters gift was a small neatly wrapped package. A note tucked beneath it:

"So you don't forget to take breaks."

As if I have the luxury for that.

I barely acknowledge it. I don't have the time or the patience for hollow gestures. Every second wasted on sentiment is a second lost to the decay creeping through my body.

There's only one gift that matters now.

Project Shadow's success.

If the subject stabilizes—if it becomes what it was always meant to be—then I live.

If it fails…

Then this may well be my last birthday.

Ten years old. Too young for death. Too young for failure.

But if this project collapses…

I will not be remembered as a child.

I will be remembered as their final mistake.

Four Years Since Containment Breach

Project Shadow is still alive.

Barely.

They've already scrapped the fourth subject from the vat—another failed prototype, another promising structure that unraveled under its own instability. The cracks in its cellular matrix formed faster this time, like a mirror shattering under too much pressure. Each attempt is a reminder that even the finest genetic engineering cannot defy the laws of entropy forever.

But then again, neither can I.

I wake up tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep can cure. Not the kind of exhaustion that fades after rest or medication. No—this is deeper, hollowing me out from the inside, a gnawing, relentless weight lodged in my bones. Every breath feels like an effort. Every movement is measured and heavy, like I'm dragging chains I cannot see.

Gerald adjusts my treatments. Longer sessions. Higher doses. Desperate recalibrations, as if one more tweak might reverse the inevitable. But it doesn't matter.

Nothing changes.

The blurring at the edges of my vision has become a familiar haze, creeping in like fog until it feels like I'm staring through water. My muscles ache constantly—not soreness, but decay—the slow breakdown of something essential inside me, as if I'm unraveling one cell at a time.

I pretend not to notice.

I pretend not to see the way Gerald's eyes darken with worry when I stumble and grip a nearby surface for balance. I pretend not to hear the tension that threads through his voice when he asks how I'm feeling, his tone carefully even but weighed down by unspoken fear.

I pretend because the alternative is admitting the truth:

I am dying.

He comes to me late one evening, long after the sterile corridors of the ARK have fallen into uneasy silence. His eyes are shadowed by exhaustion, shoulders stiff with tension—he's been awake for hours, maybe days.

The door slides open without a sound, and before I can tell him I'm busy, he speaks:

"How much energy can your Chaos Drives generate? Theoretical maximum."

The question blindsides me. He's never asked about them before. He hates the very idea of what the Federation and G.U.N. have turned my technology into—weapons, tools of control and destruction. To him, the Chaos Drives were supposed to be about preservation, not militarization.

I pause, the numbers already racing through my head before my fingers even touch the datapad. Months of calculations, endless iterations of theoretical refinements—they're all right there, sharp and clear despite the weight pressing down on me.

I give him the limit. The point where the drive would shatter under the strain of the energy it channels. The numbers don't lie. They never do.

His response is immediate. Cold. Final.

"Not enough."

A simple dismissal. A judgment carved from disappointment.

And something inside me snaps.

Not enough.

After all I've done—every hour spent perfecting the algorithms, every sleepless night I've poured into adjusting the equations, every ounce of effort I've put into refining something they wouldn't even let me use properly because, in their eyes, I am just a child.

And it's not enough?

The rage rushes in so fast I can barely contain it. My voice, when it comes, feels foreign—sharp, violent, edged with the kind of bitterness I've tried so hard to swallow.

"Why are you here, then? If it's not enough, why even bother asking?"

Gerald sighs, rubbing his temples like the weight of the universe has suddenly become too much for him to bear. His weariness cuts through his usual composure, but I don't care.

"Maria—"

"No." My chair scrapes across the floor as I shove myself to my feet, the dizziness rushing in like a crashing wave. "You keep me from the real work. You let them shut me out of the labs. You leave me with this—and now it's not enough?"

He doesn't answer.

The silence between us stretches, taut and brittle.

"Get out."

His face shifts, something pained flickering behind his eyes. I don't care. I won't let myself care.

"Maria—"

"I said GET OUT!"

The datapad in my hand flies across the room before I realize I've thrown it. It crashes into the wall just behind him, splintering into useless shards of plastic and glass.

For a moment, he just stands there. Hesitating. Maybe searching for the right words, or maybe just realizing there's nothing left to say.

And then, without another word, he turns and leaves.

The door hisses shut behind him.

I stand there, shaking, my breaths shallow and ragged in the sterile air.

The anger lingers for a moment longer—sharp, burning—but it doesn't matter. Because the exhaustion swallows it whole, pulling me down, dragging me into the depths of something darker than frustration or rage.

The room tilts sideways. My legs buckle beneath me.

I don't feel myself hit the floor.

The last thing I remember that night is the cold metal against my cheek before everything goes black.

It was Walters who found me.

They moved me to the med bay without a word, carrying me like something fragile and broken. When I woke up, there was a new datapad resting on the table beside my bed—new and undamaged, its screen dark, waiting for my touch.

There's a note pinned beneath it, written in his familiar, clipped handwriting:

"Don't forget to rest."

I don't respond.

I return to my calculations as soon as I can sit up, avoiding Gerald as much as I can in the following days.

Because the anger hasn't left me.

And neither has the exhaustion.

Personal Notes – First Lieutenant Walters, Year Two on the ARK

Maria Robotnik has not slowed down.

If anything, she's gotten worse.

She's still locked out of the labs, still skating through the halls like it's the only thing keeping her from falling apart. But there's something different now—something sharper in the way she carries herself. She doesn't just want back into the labs. She's planning it.

She's watching every security checkpoint, tracking rotations, memorizing access points. She studies the ARK like it's a machine she's going to take apart and reassemble in her favor.

And the thing is?

She's smart enough to do it.

I don't know how much she knows about what's happening in the research wing, but I do know she's not sitting idle. She has her own projects, things she works on in private—things that, quite frankly, concern me.

Gerald pretends not to notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn't care. I'm not sure which is worse.

The Chaos Drives are in full production now. First, they were designed to store energy. Then, they were repurposed for G.U.N.'s mechanized division. And now?

Now, the Federation is demanding weapons.

Gerald doesn't talk about it much. He hates that his work is being twisted into something destructive, but he's not fighting it. Not anymore.

Because fighting means losing funding.

And funding means keeping Maria alive.

That's what everything comes back to. That's why he stays in those closed-door meetings, why he agrees to things I know he despises.

He is running out of time.

And so is she.

Maria still doesn't look sick, not at a glance. But if you watch long enough, if you pay attention, you see it. She's slower than before. The episodes are getting worse. Sometimes, she grips the walls when she thinks no one is looking. Sometimes, I see her fingers tremble before she curls them into fists.

She hides it well.

But I see it.

I think Gerald does, too.

Her birthday came and went again. Another cake, another quiet attempt at normalcy. She played along. But in the recording I saw her eyes flicker to the pile of gifts, searching for something that wasn't there.

She didn't say it.

But her parents didn't send anything.

Looking back I don't think she expected them to.

End Log

First Lieutenant Walters

Personal Notes – First Lieutenant Walters, Year Three on the ARK

I received a direct order from command today.

"Monitor all personal logs of Maria Robotnik. Report any concerning details."

They gave me full clearance. Access to her personal journal—the one I gave her last year. I don't know what I expected, but what I found…

Nothing.

Not a single word. Not one sentence, one thought, one scribbled note in the margins. The pages are untouched.

It makes me uneasy.

I didn't report it.

Maybe I should have. Maybe the lack of anything is its own kind of warning. But the thought of telling some suit behind a desk that a ten-year-old girl hasn't written in her diary feels… wrong.

Besides, I know Maria. If she's keeping notes, they aren't in that book. She's too smart for that.

She's still skating through the halls, still watching everything. Still waiting.

She doesn't ask about the labs anymore. But she doesn't have to. I can tell by the way she moves, the way she studies things that she knows. She's piecing together everything without setting foot inside.

And Project Shadow?

It's failing. Just like the last one.

I don't have access to the deeper research levels, but I hear things. The scientists don't talk about it openly, but their faces do. They're worried. And if they're worried, then Gerald is, too.

He won't say it. Not to Maria.

But she knows.

She always knows.

Her health is declining faster now. She still pushes herself too hard, still refuses to acknowledge it, but I see the way she grips the edges of tables a little tighter when she stands. The way she stays seated longer than before, like she's saving her strength.

She thinks no one notices.

But I do.

The Federation is talking about shutting the project down entirely. They're losing faith. The new administration doesn't see the value in it anymore, and G.U.N. is running out of reasons to keep funding something that keeps failing.

Gerald must feel it. The weight of it. The slow collapse of everything he's built.

And Maria?

She says nothing.

Does nothing.

She waits.

For what, I don't know.

Maybe she's still waiting for her parents to send something. A message, a gift, a sign that they still think about her.

But there was nothing this year.

Just like last year.

And just like last year, she didn't say a word about it.

She just looked at the pile of gifts, found nothing, and moved on.

I don't know if that makes her strong or if it makes her broken.

And I don't know which is worse.

End Log

First Lieutenant Walters

Personal Notes – Captain Walters, Year Four on the ARK

I'm off babysitting duty, along with my long due promotion.

I finally got them to see reason—Maria doesn't need a security detail. She's not a threat. She's never been a threat. And yet, even after they signed off on my reassignment, I can't shake the habit. I still check in on her when I can. Still ask the med staff about her condition. Still make sure someone's watching out for her, even if it's not me. They reassigned me to station logistics. I'm overseeing security for supply shipments and colonial expansion. It's dull work, but it keeps me busy. Keeps my mind off things. Or, at least, it should.

I made my case. The labs have the equipment, the technology, the ability to put Maria in cryostasis—to give her more time. But they won't do it. The higher-ups want her sick. They think Gerald needs more pressure. That he's been stalling. That watching his granddaughter fade away will force him to finally deliver. They won't let her die, of course. They need her to suffer just enough. Enough to keep him desperate. Enough to keep him working. I had to sit in a room and listen to these people discuss how to use a ten-year-old girl's dying body as leverage.

I didn't say a damn word. Because if I had, I don't know if I could've stopped myself from breaking someone's jaw. I've worked for G.U.N. for years. I've followed orders. I've done things I'm not proud of. But this? This is wrong.

She still moves when she can, still pushes herself to keep going. But it's getting harder for her. The girl who used to skate circles around this station barely makes it to the end of a hallway before needing to sit down.

I leave her things when I can. A set of thermal blankets from a supply shipment—specially woven to retain heat in extreme conditions. I don't know if they help, but I see her use them. More notebooks. Even though I've never seen her write in the first one. Music records—because she still plays. Because it's the only thing that isn't medical treatments or research or watching the station turn into something she doesn't recognize. It's all small, stupid things. Things that don't matter. But I have nothing else to give.

She should've been put on ice months ago. She's too weak to be anywhere but her room most days, yet somehow, she's still watching. She still reads the reports she's given, still listens when the scientists talk around her, still catches things others miss. I don't know what she's planning, but she's not done. And that scares me. Because if she's still fighting, then that means she still thinks she has something to lose.

I don't know what's worse—the way they talk about him, or the way they talk about her. They talk about Project Shadow like it's already a success. Like it's a weapon that just needs fine-tuning. Like it's finally the answer they've been waiting for. Gerald is making them their weapon, and they believe that once it's complete, they'll have everything they need. Maria will be irrelevant. She isn't their miracle. Shadow is. They don't say it outright, but it's clear. She sees it too. She doesn't say a word about it, but I see the way she grips the reports a little too tight. The way she lingers when they mention his name. The way she still watches. She knows. And I think—some part of her is terrified. Not for him. For herself. Because if they have what they need, then what happens to her?

She didn't touch the cake this year. She barely touched the gifts. There was nothing from her parents again. She didn't react. Didn't comment. Didn't even look surprised. Just sat there, unwrapping things with mechanical precision. I don't know if I've ever seen someone so young look so tired.

I don't know if it was the exhaustion, or if she just forgot to hide it, but for the first time, I saw something I've never seen before in her eyes. Resignation. Maria Robotnik has fought this whole damn time. Even when they locked her out. Even when they used her suffering against Gerald. Even when she was too weak to stand. She fought. But today? For the first time in four years—she looked like she had already lost.

And then, she collapsed.

End Log

Captain Walters

Incident Report – ARK Observation Deck

Filed by: Captain Walters

Date: [Redacted]

Subject: Maria Robotnik – Collapse in Corridor 7-B

At approximately [time redacted], I located Miss Maria Robotnik in Corridor 7-B of the ARK's residential sector. She was found on the floor, conscious but unmoving, with a broken guitar beside her.

Upon approach, she did not immediately respond. When questioned, she insisted she was "fine", though observable evidence contradicted this. She was slow to sit up, her hands bracing against the ruined instrument for support. Her breathing, while controlled, was noticeably shallow.

Miss Robotnik had once again evaded my assigned escort duty prior to the incident. She has a known tendency to move at high speeds through the station, utilizing custom skates to navigate the low-gravity corridors at a velocity exceeding safe parameters. Prior evasive behavior suggests she intentionally lost her escort in the upper residential levels.

When pressed on her condition, she maintained neutrality. However, it was clear from her posture and delayed responses that physical strain had contributed to the fall.

I noted signs of visible fatigue:

• Slower reaction time when prompted
• Tremors in her hands when gripping the remains of her guitar
• Refusal to make direct eye contact

Miss Robotnik did not request assistance but also did not refuse it. Upon offering my hand, she accepted after a brief hesitation. No further resistance was given.

She was escorted back to her quarters without further incident. No medical personnel were requested at her insistence.

Following this event, I have observed a change in behavior.

Miss Robotnik continues to skate through the ARK as often as her condition allows, but she no longer attempts to lose her escort. She does not acknowledge this shift verbally, nor does she engage in discussion regarding her physical decline. However, it is clear that she is aware of it.

This marks another escalation in her condition. Though her episodes have been frequent over the past year, this is the first time she has failed to recover quickly after an exertion-related incident. Given the worsening nature of her illness, further instances are expected.

Recommendation:

• Continued monitoring.
• Enforce stricter escort policies to prevent prolonged episodes without immediate intervention.
• Consider reassessment of physical activity limitations.

Miss Robotnik is aware of her condition's progression. She is making adjustments accordingly, whether she admits it or not.

Captain Walters

G.U.N. Research Oversight Division

End Report.

Federation Intelligence Report

Subject: ARK Operations and Project Shadow

Classification: HIGH PRIORITY

Date: [REDACTED]

Agent ID: F-2291

Report Filed to: Federation Command Office

[h3]Summary of Findings[/h3]

This report details observations concerning ARK operations, G.U.N. oversight, Project Shadow development, and the condition of Maria Robotnik. Current intelligence suggests G.U.N. is leveraging Maria Robotnik's deteriorating health as a tool to keep Gerald Robotnik compliant with weapons development initiatives. This raises ethical and strategic concerns regarding the Federation's continued alignment with G.U.N.'s operations on the ARK.

Additionally, Project Shadow has not met the expectations set by its initial funding. Despite reports of "progress," the latest developments suggest continued instability in the experiment's core structure. The ARK's shift from a research station to a colony complicates oversight, adding new political considerations to the situation.

Given the current state of Federation-G.U.N. relations, it is imperative to assess whether continued investment in the ARK is viable, or if a realignment of objectives is necessary.

[h3]ARK Status: Research vs. Colonialization[/h3]

The ARK is no longer purely a research facility. While it was initially constructed as a scientific station under the Federation's oversight, the birth of a civilian child aboard the ARK triggered an irreversible shift in its perception and function.

The Federation, in an effort to maintain political control and public goodwill, has branded the ARK as "humanity's first true space colony." This has led to a steady influx of civilian personnel, including engineers, medical staff, and families of existing researchers.

G.U.N. initially resisted this transition but has since been forced to comply due to public and political pressure. However, their military presence remains strong, and security measures around classified research have increased significantly.

Key Concerns:

• G.U.N. maintains full authority over ARK security, limiting Federation oversight.
• Civilian presence creates additional scrutiny, making covert projects harder to conceal.
• G.U.N. is prioritizing weapons research over Project Shadow's original objective.
• Gerald Robotnik has lost control of his own work; his projects are being redirected toward military applications. See: Chaos Drives, vs Sustainable Energy.

[h3]Project Shadow: Status and Viability[/h3]

Project Shadow was initially meant to be the culmination of Gerald Robotnik's work—the creation of the "Ultimate Lifeform," an entity capable of harnessing Chaos Energy for enhanced longevity and stability. However, intelligence gathered over the past three years indicates severe setbacks.

While officially, reports state that Project Shadow is progressing, direct observations suggest otherwise. Like its predecessor, the Biolizard, the experiment is suffering from cellular instability, leading to a gradual degradation of its structure. Scientists involved in the project appear increasingly frustrated, and there is speculation that a breakthrough is farther off than G.U.N. is willing to admit.

Compounding the issue, Federation intelligence has confirmed that the Chaos Drives, originally developed as a power source, have been repurposed for military applications. This indicates a shift in G.U.N.'s priorities. Rather than perfecting Project Shadow for its intended purpose—biological immortality—they are investing in Chaos-based weaponry.

Key Concerns:

• Project Shadow is not yet viable as an "Ultimate Lifeform."
• Chaos Energy synchronization remains unstable.
• G.U.N. is diverting funding and research toward weapons development.
• Gerald Robotnik is being forced to comply through indirect coercion.

If Project Shadow cannot deliver results soon, it is likely that the Federation will reconsider its involvement.

[h3]Maria Robotnik: Strategic Leverage or Ethical Dilemma?[/h3]

Maria Robotnik, the granddaughter of Gerald Robotnik, has been at the center of unspoken tensions aboard the ARK between Gerald and G.U.N. Originally intended to benefit from the immortality research conducted under Project Shadow, she has instead become a pawn in G.U.N.'s strategy to keep Gerald compliant.

Her health is rapidly deteriorating. Despite efforts to stabilize her condition, it is evident that she has only limited time remaining. She remains under strict medical supervision but continues to defy physical limitations, often pushing herself to exhaustion.

Intelligence suggests that G.U.N. is intentionally allowing her to decline, leveraging her suffering to maintain Gerald's desperation to complete Project Shadow. Federation command should assess whether this practice is acceptable, given our ethical obligations.

Key Observations:

• She is acutely aware of her declining health but refuses to acknowledge it openly.
• Recent medical reports indicate increased physical strain, leading to multiple collapses.
• Intelligence suggests she may be attempting to break into the labs circumventing official restrictions. Reasons for this are unknown. Robotnik version of teenage rebellion?

The ethical implications of Maria Robotnik's situation are considerable. If the Federation remains aligned with G.U.N., we must decide whether to intervene or continue allowing her condition to be exploited.

[h3]G.U.N.'s Increasing Autonomy[/h3]

G.U.N. remains the Federation's military branch, yet its control over the ARK has given it unprecedented autonomy. It is no longer simply carrying out directives—it is shaping policy.

While the Federation still oversees funding and provides political cover, G.U.N. dictates the pace of research, controls security, and determines access to classified projects.

Key Concerns:

• G.U.N. has near-total control over Project Shadow, making it difficult for the Federation to redirect efforts toward non-military applications.
• They are expanding weapons development without full transparency.
• The increasing civilian presence on the ARK complicates military oversight, creating potential PR risks.
• If political leadership shifts, G.U.N. may act against Federation interests to protect its autonomy.

Federation leadership must determine whether continued support of G.U.N.'s authority over the ARK is beneficial, or if intervention is necessary to reclaim control over Project Shadow's intended purpose.

[h3]Recommendations[/h3]

Given the current situation, the Federation must decide how to proceed. The following options are available:

[h4]Option 1: Maintain Course (Minimal Intervention)[/h4]

• Continue funding Project Shadow under G.U.N.'s control.
• Accept Maria Robotnik's condition as an unavoidable consequence.
• Focus on weapons development for military advantage.

[h4]Option 2: Enforce Federation Oversight[/h4]

• Demand greater transparency in Project Shadow's progress.
• Redirect research toward original longevity goals.
• Implement ethical guidelines for Maria Robotnik's treatment.

[h4]Option 3: Remove Gerald Robotnik from the Equation[/h4]

• Extract Gerald Robotnik from G.U.N.'s control, forcing a research shift.
• Secure Maria Robotnik for medical intervention.
• Classify Project Shadow as a failed initiative and reallocate funding.

[h4]Option 4: Shut Down Project Shadow[/h4]

• Discontinue all funding for the project.
• Redirect resources toward alternative immortality research.
• Sever ties with G.U.N. regarding ARK oversight.

Each option carries risks. Continued alignment with G.U.N. maintains short-term stability but sacrifices long-term scientific integrity. Increasing oversight could result in political friction. Removing Gerald Robotnik risks a complete collapse of the research division of the ARK.

Federation command must decide: Is Project Shadow still worth the investment? Is G.U.N. still operating in Federation interests? And, perhaps most pressing—does Maria Robotnik's survival matter to us?

Final Recommendation: REVIEW AT HIGHEST LEVEL. The ARK's future, and the Federation's role in it, must be reassessed before control is lost entirely.

End Report.

Agent F-2291

Federation Intelligence Division

AN: Final part of this MASSIVE chapter.

Years on the ARK

[h4]Counting Down[/h4]

Four Years Four Months Since Containment Breach

The ARK is no longer a research station.

It has become a distraction, a monument to humanity's short-sightedness, parading under the guise of progress. Every hallway, every pristine deck polished for the benefit of civilian eyes, mocks what this place was meant to be: a sanctuary for real science, for discovery, for survival.

But none of that matters anymore.

The Federation has ensured that every ounce of effort is wasted.

With every passing month, more civilians arrive—too many. Engineers, families, hopeful settlers who don't understand the purpose the ARK was built for. They call it a new beginning, the next step for humanity among the stars, but all I see is an infestation. A swelling crowd of people who shouldn't be here, who don't care about the research, and who certainly don't care about me.

This station wasn't built for them. It was built to save lives.

Mine.

And yet, they keep coming.

There's talk now—dangerous talk—about shutting down the research labs entirely. Redirecting efforts toward sustainability and colonial development. Redirecting everything away from the work that could actually save me.

The Federation calls it progress. A pivot toward the future of humanity. A convenient excuse to discard what they no longer find useful.

G.U.N. doesn't want this shift, but their influence is weakening. Every politician on Earth has already sold the ARK as humanity's first true colony, a symbol of expansion and opportunity. The research is no longer the focus—appearances are.

And the work I need—the research that could stop my body from breaking apart—is falling further behind.

The Biolizard—the monstrous failure buried deep beneath the ARK's surface—is the perfect symbol of everything that's gone wrong.

They couldn't kill it. They wouldn't even try.

So, they shoved it away, locked behind layers of steel and classified reports, hidden from the civilians who now think this station is their playground. A mistake too dangerous to acknowledge but too inconvenient to destroy.

And that infuriates me.

They had the resources to contain their failure but not the will to confront it. They have the capacity to monitor the Biolizard day and night, but not enough to focus on the research that could stabilize Project Shadow—the research that could stabilize me.

The Federation doesn't care about my life. I am a failed experiment to them, a symbol of what they couldn't fix.

They're too afraid of the Biolizard's consequences to deal with it, and they're too indifferent toward my survival to fund the research that might keep me alive.

Gerald meets with G.U.N. almost every day now, locked in endless discussions behind closed doors. I'm not allowed inside. I don't need to be.

I see the tension when he returns—his posture rigid, his hands trembling just enough to reveal the frustration boiling under his calm exterior. His glasses sit low on his nose as he buries himself in work, not speaking, not explaining, because there's nothing left to say.

He's losing hope.

And so am I.

But instead of letting me back into the labs, instead of letting me help with the work that matters, he gives me something else: a distraction.

Supervising Abraham Tower.

The first child born on the ARK. The Federation's miracle child, plastered across Earth's networks as proof of humanity's boundless potential.

I don't care about their symbols. I don't care about their propaganda. I care about survival.

I care about the research they're not doing while they fawn over a child who doesn't understand the price being paid for his existence.

I should refuse. I should demand access to the labs instead of being handed this meaningless task.

But when Gerald asks me himself, with that familiar exhaustion in his voice, I say nothing. I agree.

I always do.

While the Federation celebrates its perfect colony, my body continues to break apart. Every cell feels like it's betraying me. Every breath is an effort. The treatments Gerald administers stretch longer and offer fewer results.

The civilians don't see me. They don't realize that for every second wasted on maintaining their illusion of peace, I'm running out of time.

They don't care that I'm dying.

Abraham is four.

His mismatched eyes—one a vivid orange, the other a cool teal—are always wide with curiosity, always watching everything around him with unsettling attentiveness. He's like a sponge, absorbing every detail, every shift of movement, every subtle cue in the world around him.

He follows me through the ARK's corridors on unsteady legs, always reaching for something just out of his grasp. Always asking questions.

"Why do you wear skates all the time?"

"Why don't you eat lunch with the others?"

"Do you like it here?"

I don't answer most of his questions. I don't have the patience for pointless conversations, and his childish curiosity exhausts me more than any of my treatments. But it doesn't seem to matter to him.

He talks endlessly anyway, filling the silence with his thoughts, stories, and innocent observations. His words tumble out like a stream with no dam to hold it back. He doesn't understand why I don't smile, why my gaze is always distant, why my body moves with careful, measured effort.

He doesn't understand that I don't have time to be a child.

I keep him safe. I make sure he doesn't wander too far or break anything important. At the end of each day, I return him to his parents so they can continue their work uninterrupted. That should be enough.

And yet…

There's something about him that unsettles me.

It's not the way he speaks, or how he acts, but the way he looks at me. His gaze is too sharp, too perceptive for a child his age. It's as if he sees something the others don't, something even Gerald won't acknowledge.

One day, as I walk him back to his family's quarters, he stops in the middle of a quiet corridor. His small hand tugs gently at my sleeve.

I glance down.

"Are you sad?"

The question hits me harder than I expect.

"What?"

"You always look sad." His voice is simple. Matter-of-fact. Not judgmental—just an observation.

I shake my head, exhaling slowly. "I am fine."

But he doesn't believe me.

"You should smile more."

I let out a sharp, humorless breath—an attempt at a scoff. "That won't change anything."

He studies me for a moment, as if trying to determine whether or not I'm lying. Finally, he nods, accepting my answer without further argument.

He doesn't ask again.

I shouldn't think about his words. I shouldn't dwell on a child's innocent observations. But later that night, alone in my quarters, surrounded by research I can no longer access, I find myself staring at my reflection in the window.

I see a face that's grown too sharp for its age. Eyes that are tired beyond their years. A girl who has spent too long waiting for a miracle that may never come.

I don't remember the last time I smiled.

Four Years Six Months Since Containment Breach

I still skate.

Even now, even as my body weakens, even as every breath feels thinner, I keep moving. Every glide forward is defiance. Every sharp turn through the ARK's winding corridors is a refusal to stop.

Because stopping means acknowledging what I am too stubborn to accept:

That I am losing.

The ARK's low gravity helps—eases the strain on my fragile muscles, lightens the pressure on my bones. It lets me glide farther, faster, longer than I could anywhere else. It's a lie, of course. A carefully crafted illusion that lets me pretend—for a little while longer—that I'm still in control of this decaying body.

But my body remembers the truth.

The sickness crawling through my veins doesn't care about gravity or momentum. It lingers beneath the surface, digging deeper, claiming more of me with every passing day.

I cut down an empty corridor, pushing for speed. The soft hum of my skates merges with the low pulse of the ARK's life support systems. Every twist of my ankles, every shift of my weight feels like muscle memory etched into my bones.

I should slow down.

But I don't.

I push harder, faster—until the blur of sterile walls rushes past me in streaks of cold gray. Until the pressure builds behind my eyes, until every breath comes too shallow, too tight.

Then I feel it.

Something's wrong.

It isn't the gravity. It isn't the momentum. It's me.

A weight settles in my chest—not pain, not at first. Just wrong. Heavy, sinking. My limbs don't respond the way they should. The steady rhythm of movement falters, my muscles seizing with unexpected weakness.

I try to correct it. I try to push forward, to keep going, to outrun the inevitable like I always do—

And then the world tilts.

Hard.

Fast.

Sudden.

The sterile hallway spins around me, white lights stretching into smears as my balance snaps like a frayed wire.

My vision blurs. My body lurches.

I'm falling.

Too fast.

Too slow.

The floor rushes up to meet me, and all I can do is brace for the impact I know I can't stop.

I hit the ground—hard.

Pain flares across my side, sharp and immediate, the breath tearing from my lungs in a soundless gasp. My ribs feel like they've splintered beneath the weight of my own body. My fingers twitch as I try to push myself up—but nothing moves. My arms won't respond. My muscles refuse to cooperate.

For a moment, I just lie there.

I can't move.

Then I hear it—a faint, splintering sound beneath me.

I glance down.

The guitar.

The gift from Walters—the only thing in this place not bound to research or survival. A reminder of something human, something normal.

The wood is cracked. The neck is twisted at an unnatural angle, splintered beneath my weight. The strings have snapped, curling like severed wires against the body of the instrument.

It's ruined.

I stare at it, my breath still shallow, my ribs aching with every small inhale.

And suddenly, I am just so, so tired.

I don't try to stand. Not right away.

Because if I try—if I push myself up and my legs fail beneath me—then I'll have to face it.

The truth I've been skating away from all this time:

I am getting worse.

I am failing.

No matter how fast I move, no matter how hard I push, I can't outrun the inevitable forever.

So I stay there.

I close my eyes, listening to the distant hum of the ARK's systems, feeling the artificial gravity pressing down just enough to remind me I still exist.

Then I hear it: footsteps.

Steady. Measured. Familiar.

I don't need to look up to know who it is.

"Miss Robotnik," Walters' voice is low, steady—firm, but not without concern. "Are you hurt?"

I inhale slowly, the air catching in my throat. My body feels like dead weight, sluggish and weak, but I force myself to sit up, resting trembling hands on the shattered remains of the guitar.

"I'm fine." My voice is too neutral, too practiced. A lie I've told too many times.

There's a pause. I know he doesn't believe me.

"You didn't check in," he says. His voice is quieter now, but sharper around the edges. That's why he came looking for me. Because I had slipped away from him again—tried to lose him in the endless maze of the ARK's corridors.

But this time, I hadn't outrun anything.

My fingers tighten against the cracked wood, the jagged splinters biting into my palms.

I hear him exhale—barely a sound, but it's there. A breath that feels like relief.

Without another word, Walters crouches beside me, lifting the ruined guitar from my lap. His hands turn it over gently, examining the damage without commenting on it.

He doesn't say anything about the shattered wood or the broken strings.

Instead, he stands and offers me his hand.

I hesitate.

I don't want his help. I don't want him to see me like this.

But slowly—furiously—I take it.

His grip is steady, solid. Unshakable.

He pulls me to my feet, and I don't stumble.

I don't run from him after that.

I still skate. I still push myself forward, moving as fast as I can for as long as my body will let me. But I don't lose Walters in the ARK's endless corridors anymore.

Because even if I refuse to admit it—even if I won't say the words aloud—I know the truth:

Next time, I might not get back up.

Four Years Eight Months Since Containment Breach

I refuse to die.

Not yet.

Not while Project Shadow teeters on the edge of instability.

Not while the research remains incomplete, tangled in false starts and half-measures.

Not while Gerald is still clawing at the edges of a cure with bloodied hands and desperation etched into every line of his face.

I will not let this end here. I will not let this body betray me, not when everything I've sacrificed—everything I've endured—has yet to bear fruit.

I refuse.

Four Years Nine Months Since Containment Breach

Project Shadow is a failure.

The hope that once clung to its fragile genetic structure has begun to fracture. The illusion of stability we built around it like glass walls has cracked under the pressure of reality.

The Chaos Energy doesn't hold.

It never did.

It seeps through the carefully engineered lattice of cells, saturating everything with raw potential, but never stabilizing. The energy hums beneath the surface, dangerous and volatile, slipping through every containment protocol, every safeguard.

There is nothing on this earth that can contain pure, unfiltered Chaos Energy.

This is the Biolizard all over again—another doomed experiment staggering toward failure with every breath it takes.

And I know what comes next.

Gerald doesn't say it outright—he doesn't have to.

I hear it in the way his voice grows too even, too controlled, each word measured and sterile like a scalpel cutting away hope. I hear it in the hesitation before his reassurances, in the way he avoids meeting my eyes, too afraid of what I might see reflected back at him.

It's the same tone he used before the Biolizard collapsed. Before the alarms screamed through the ARK's corridors, before containment shattered, before gunfire echoed across steel walls and scientists scrambled to survive the thing they had created.

I was younger then. I still believed we could fix it.

I still had hope.

Not anymore.

He'll try to salvage the data. He'll convince himself there's another path forward, another solution hidden in the broken equations and unstable energy patterns. He'll dive deeper into his obsession until it consumes him completely.

But I've heard these promises before.

And I am out of time.

This year, I can barely make it to the birthday table.

Even the simple act of standing feels like a battle. Every step requires calculation—not for precision's sake, but out of sheer necessity. I measure my movements carefully, like a fragile structure teetering on the edge of collapse. If I stumble now, if I fall this time—I won't get back up.

There's a celebration, or something pretending to be one.

There's a cake. The same coffee-flavored sponge, dusted with cinnamon and powdered sugar, made from tradition rather than joy. I take a bite, but it tastes like nothing—just texture in my mouth, hollow and meaningless.

There are gifts.

I open them mechanically. The packages blur into meaningless shapes, their contents irrelevant. Civilians on the ARK send small trinkets—scarves, books, hollow tokens of pity wrapped in politeness. I don't care. I can't afford to.

Did my parents send something? A message? A package?

I don't know. I can't remember if I even checked.

Maybe they forgot. Maybe I forgot them.

It doesn't matter.

Because I am going to die here.

Walters gives me another notebook this year.

I stare at it longer than I mean to.

It is the same as before—simple, unassuming, bound in smooth, sturdy leather. But there is something different this time.

Because this time, I open it.

I do not know why.

Maybe because it is something to do. Maybe because it is something I have not already given up on.

Maybe because there is nothing else left.

For the first time, I write.

And for the first time, I do not calculate my future.

I do not map out equations, do not chart out probabilities, do not hypothesize solutions that will never come.

Instead, I let my hand move, slow and deliberate.

The ink bleeds into the page, forming letters that feel too raw.

I was eleven in the Rhine.

"I am tired of fighting wars I already lost."

I stare at the words for a long time.

Then, I close the book.

Five Years Since Containment Breach

The ARK is silent.

Not truly—there's always the hum of the life support systems, the soft whir of machinery maintaining the delicate balance required to keep thousands of people alive in the void. The station itself is alive with the pulse of artificial life, a low, constant rhythm of systems ticking forward, one second at a time.

But compared to the endless noise of the civilian sectors—the laughter, the footsteps, the low conversations that never truly stop—it feels quiet here.

The artificial sky above the station remains as pristine as ever, cycling through its pre-programmed imitation of Earth's day and night. A perfect, clinical simulation of what the Federation insists is "comforting." A lie designed to shield those aboard from the cold truth waiting beyond the glass—a truth I have never been able to forget.

Because I know what's beyond these walls.

Beyond the polished corridors and the illusion of blue skies, the universe stretches on—vast, uncaring, and eternal. The black void doesn't offer comfort. It doesn't offer hope. It just exists—an infinite reminder that everything here is temporary.

Once, I used to skate through these halls with ease, gliding weightlessly through the corridors, moving faster than my thoughts. Every turn was freedom. Every acceleration was a victory over the frailty of my body.

Now?

Now, I can barely lift a pencil without effort.

I should be angry. Furious. Furious that my body is betraying me. Furious that the treatments are losing their effectiveness. Furious that Gerald has stopped speaking to me about Project Shadow unless I force the issue.

But I'm not.

I won't let that be me. I refuse to die like that—trapped in a body that no longer works, watched by people who pity me but do nothing to stop the inevitable, furious at the world and everything that lives.

If I can't fight anymore, then I will prepare.

I can't skate the way I once did. My limbs don't obey with the precision they used to. My strength is fading, slipping through my fingers like water I can't hold onto.

So instead, I turn outward.

The ARK's long-range observation sensors—cutting-edge technology originally built for mapping distant galaxies and charting celestial bodies—are my last refuge. They weren't designed for me, but now they belong to me.

I guide my fingers over the control panels, still steady enough for this simple task. The cold glow of the screens flickers to life in front of me, displaying an endless map of stars in perfect clarity.

The void is beautiful.

I track distant comets as they carve icy trails through the blackness, their frozen bodies blazing silently across space. I follow the slow, lazy drift of asteroids, bound only by gravity's invisible pull, wandering endlessly between planets.

And then—something unusual.

A small object, almost invisible against the backdrop of infinity. At first glance, it's just another piece of cosmic debris, another nameless fragment adrift in the endless night. But as I run trajectory projections and calculate its orbit, my breath slows.

A century from now, it will pass near the solar system. Not close enough to be a threat. Not close enough for anyone to care. Just a visitor—a silent witness to a world that will never notice it.

I pause.

I won't be here to see it.

The realization is not new, but it cuts deeper than it should.

A hundred years from now, people will look up at the night sky, blissfully unaware of this fleeting traveler above them. Maybe a child will spot it through a telescope, or a scientist will log its passing without a second thought.

And I will be gone.

Forgotten.

But the thought doesn't scare me the way it used to.

I log the object's data carefully and forward the report to Gerald. It's routine, just another piece of information added to the ARK's endless archives. Nothing urgent. Nothing groundbreaking.

But it's enough to remind him:

I am still here. Still watching. Still alive.

My notebook sits beside me on the console, open to a blank page. The last one is already filled with plans and dreams I will never see realized—ideas for machines I will never build, songs I will never finish composing, places on Earth I will never visit.

But I keep writing.

Even if no one else ever reads these words, writing them down makes them real.

I make lists of the places I'll never go.

I write about the music I wanted to learn, the instruments I'll never play. The notes that will never form the melodies trapped in my mind.

I write about the people I never had the chance to meet. The friends I'll never make.

I write down everything I've learned—every lesson, every failure, every scrap of knowledge that might matter if I awaken in another body, another time, another world.

Because I know this isn't mercy.

The thing that keeps me alive—whatever cruel force it is—wants me to suffer. To fight for every second I have left until there's nothing more to give. And when I die, it won't be the end. It never is.

But next time, I'll be ready.

I document how to build power systems more efficient than anything the Federation could imagine. I outline how to manipulate Chaos Energy without tearing the user apart. I dissect every failure of the Biolizard, every flaw in Project Shadow—the weaknesses no one else will admit exist.

If I awaken again—trapped in another body, under another sky—I will not start from nothing.

I will not waste time relearning lessons written in my own blood.

The monitor flickers with the slow, inevitable course of the distant object—still centuries away, still drifting closer.

Time moves forward.

The universe doesn't stop for the dead.

And neither will I.

My hand tightens around the pen. I keep writing.

Let Being X try again.

Next life, it won't break me.

Five Years Nine Months Since Containment Breach

I didn't think I would have another birthday.

Another cake. Another hollow celebration wrapped in forced smiles and carefully measured words. Another excuse to pretend—pretend that everything is fine. That time isn't running out. That the body sitting at this table isn't betraying me more with every breath.

But here it is.

The cake sits in front of me, untouched. The familiar scent of coffee and vanilla fills the air, warm and nostalgic in a way that should bring comfort. It doesn't. I don't reach for it. I barely even glance at it. It's just another reminder of what should have been a milestone but instead feels like a countdown.

Across the table, Gerald tries to smile.

He tries to act like this is normal. Like this isn't the end creeping closer. Like we aren't both counting down the days in silence.

But we both know the truth.

There is no miracle waiting for me on the other side of this birthday.

The Federation is pushing to end Project Shadow now.

A new president. A new administration. New priorities.

They don't see value in a project that refuses to stabilize, that continues to bleed money without delivering the results they expected. Their focus has shifted—away from scientific advancement, away from curing what was once considered incurable. Now, they only see numbers on a ledger.

An unstable experiment.

A financial sinkhole.

A failure.

The reports from the labs have grown carefully worded, full of diplomatic phrasing designed to soften the reality. But I can see between the lines. I know what they're really saying.

If the funding is pulled, it's over.

If it were up to me—and I wasn't the one dying—I would've pulled the plug years ago. Cut the losses and redirected the resources to something more practical, something worth the investment.

But it's not up to me.

And Gerald is still fighting.

When he speaks of Project Shadow, his voice remains steady, full of forced optimism and theoretical potential. He talks about progress, about breakthroughs that might be on the horizon.

But I see the exhaustion in his eyes.

The weight on his shoulders that grows heavier with every meeting.

He knows.

The latest Shadow prototype is failing. The instability is too deep now, too ingrained in its design. The cracks are forming faster than even Gerald's calculations can predict.

Just like the Biolizard before it.

Just like me.

I haven't heard from my parents in months.

Gerald doesn't mention them anymore. Not unless it's in passing, referencing the Gizoid they sent to the ARK before their silence became permanent. A machine of unknown origin, a remnant of a lost civilization—a puzzle more valuable to them than their own daughter's voice.

That is all they left behind.

No letter. No message. Not even a simple acknowledgment that I still exist.

Just another relic for Gerald to dissect. Another curiosity for him to study.

I don't ask about them anymore.

I don't ask why there's been nothing from them this year. Why the calls have stopped. Why their promises of "soon" never seem to arrive.

I already know the answer.

That keylogger from years ago does come in handy sometimes…

They had another daughter.

She isn't sick like me.

I try to not let her name upset me.

Mary. Really.

The ARK is quiet tonight.

The colony above continues its routine as if nothing is wrong. Civilians go about their lives—shopping, talking, celebrating small victories and minor holidays, oblivious to the slow death happening beneath their feet. Engineers maintain the artificial sky, tweaking the simulations to make sure the stars shine just brightly enough to feel like home.

They don't know the foundation beneath them is crumbling.

The labs remain locked down—restricted zones and red-stamped reports that filter through G.U.N.'s tight-lipped chain of command. The Federation deliberates behind closed doors, drawing up plans for what will replace the funding if—or when—Project Shadow is terminated.

And Gerald?

He watches me, hands folded neatly on the table, trying to offer something that looks like hope. As if I'll suddenly reach for the cake, as if I'll force a smile, as if I'll say something—anything—to break the silence.

But I don't.

Because what's left to say?

I can't remember anything past twelve from my last life as Tanya. The memories fade beyond that point, becoming fragments of things I once understood but can no longer grasp. Perhaps the same will happen here. Perhaps I won't remember anything past twelve as Maria either.

I stare at the untouched cake for a long time.

That night, when the ARK is at its quietest and the artificial sky dims to mimic midnight, I write a will.

There isn't much to give.

But I leave my skates to Abraham Tower. Maybe, when he's old enough, he'll enjoy them. Maybe he'll understand the freedom they once gave me—the illusion of motion, the feeling of flying in a body that no longer worked the way it should.

It's a small gesture. Pointless, maybe.

But it's the only thing left that feels like mine.

Five Years Eleven Months Since Containment Breach

I don't know what changed.

Not at first.

Gerald sits beside me in the med lab.

His shoulders are heavier now, weighed down by something more than age or exhaustion. It's in the curve of his spine, the stiffness in his posture, the way his hands hover just slightly above mine like he wants to offer comfort but no longer knows how.

He doesn't speak at first.

He just watches.

The silence stretches too long between us, thick with everything neither of us dares to say.

Then his hands move—steady, practiced, clinical. He rolls up the sleeve of my jacket, revealing skin that's grown pale and thin, stretched too tight across bones that feel sharper by the day.

I don't resist. I don't have the strength to.

He retrieves the syringe with precision honed by years of repetition. But something's different this time.

The vial in his other hand contains a liquid thicker than anything I've seen before—darker, almost black, with a faint red shimmer just beneath the surface like liquid glass reflecting distant stars.

Not the same formula. Something new. Something else.

I should ask what it is. The words hover on the edge of my breathless lungs, but I don't let them out.

It doesn't matter anymore.

"Trust me, Maria," Gerald murmurs, his voice softer than usual. A whisper weighed down by guilt. The same words he's said a thousand times before.

I don't fight him.

There's nothing left to fight with.

The needle pierces my skin with practiced ease. The cold burn of antiseptic registers for just a second before being swallowed by the deeper chill sliding into my veins. The liquid moves slowly, heavy, like it carries not just chemicals but the weight of finality.

For a heartbeat, nothing changes.

Then—slowly, so slowly—the world shifts.

The pressure in my chest loosens, just a fraction, like a fist unclenching around my heart. The crushing exhaustion gripping every muscle starts to ease. The tremors in my fingers stop—not entirely, but enough that I can flex them without feeling like they'll break apart from the effort.

My breath comes easier. I can draw it in without the sharp edge of pain slicing through my ribs.

But this isn't a cure. It can't be.

My eyes drag upward toward Gerald. His face is carved from stone—unreadable, locked down in a mask of calm control. But I've known him too long. I see the tension behind his jaw, the tightness around his eyes.

His gaze isn't on me. It's on the syringe still clenched between his fingers.

Like a man who's done something irreversible.

"Grandfather," I rasp, the word scraping from my throat, too raw and too weak. "What did you do?"

For a moment, there's no response.

Then he exhales, slow and deliberate, setting the empty syringe aside with careful precision, as if acknowledging the weight of what's just been done.

"Rest, Maria." His voice is gentle, the same warmth he's always tried to offer when I was younger, when hope hadn't rotted into desperation. He smooths a hand over my hair—a familiar gesture, a lie wrapped in comfort. "You'll feel better soon."

He doesn't answer me.

But he doesn't have to.

Because I can feel it in the way the liquid curls through my veins—this isn't normal. This isn't another experiment, another treatment protocol or medical breakthrough.

This is something else entirely.

Six Years Since Containment Breach

A breakthrough.

That's what they're calling it.

A triumph.

A validation of everything we've sacrificed, everything we've bled for.

The reports are clinical in their optimism:

The subject is stable.

The subject is growing.

The subject is thriving.

I should feel relieved.

Shouldn't I?

This is what we worked for.

Project Shadow is the culmination of every shattered prototype, every sleepless night spent reworking calculations, every breath I've drawn in this fragile, failing body. He is what the Biolizard was supposed to be and never could become—perfection forged through science and desperation.

But beneath the quiet hum of the ARK's life support systems, beneath the steady pulse of machinery running the station's artificial heart, a whisper coils in the back of my mind.

A warning. A memory.

The Biolizard was stable once, too. Until it wasn't.

The Biolizard had been more than an experiment; it had been a promise—a prototype of a future where Chaos Energy could be controlled, harnessed, turned into something beautiful. A tool to reshape the limits of biology and energy.

It had been hope.

And then I watched it fall apart from the inside out—its flesh unable to contain the raw energy burning through every cell, its body tearing itself apart in the most grotesque betrayal of human ambition. Stability had been an illusion, nothing more than a mask stretched too thin over failure.

Now they speak of Shadow the same way.

Stable. Growing. Thriving.

And yet, as I stare at the sterile ceiling above me, the artificial glow of the ARK's false daylight pressing down on me, I can't help but wonder:

How long will it last?

I haven't left this bed in months.

Even with the new treatments—the ones Gerald won't explain, the ones thick with whatever compound he's stopped naming—they only slow the decay. They dull the sharp edges of my suffering, but they don't reverse the damage. At least for now.

My body continues to betray me with every breath, every failed attempt to stand, every hollow second where my muscles refuse to respond.

Just like Project Shadow.

Stable—for now.

But how long before that stability fractures? Before his body begins to tear itself apart the same way the Biolizard did?

I need to see it.

I need to know the truth for myself.

The data means nothing. The neat rows of numbers, the polished reports from the labs, the carefully worded statements about progress—they're lies wrapped in science. Meaningless without my own eyes to confirm the truth.

I push against the mattress, weak arms trembling with the effort. My hands grip the edge of the sheets, knuckles whitening as my body resists every movement. My legs—once strong enough to skate the corridors of this station—now refuse to obey, frozen by weakness and betrayal.

But I grit my teeth, every breath a jagged knife in my lungs.

I will see it.

I will look into the eyes of the so-called perfect being and see whether it's truly stable—or whether we've built another living corpse, one heartbeat away from collapse.

Even if I have to drag myself out of this bed inch by inch.

Even if it kills me.

Personal Notes – Captain Walters, Year Five on the ARK

Maria Robotnik is as stubborn as ever, but she doesn't fight like she used to. She doesn't try to sneak past security or argue when Gerald tells her to rest. She still skates when she can, but I see it now—the hesitations, the small adjustments, the way she grips the walls when she thinks no one is watching. She's getting worse, and we both know it, but neither of us talk about it.

Abraham Tower follows her like a shadow these days. He used to be cautious around her, quiet, as if he wasn't sure what to say. Now, he's always at her side when he isn't being dragged off by his parents. He visits her in the medical bay when she's too weak to leave. Brings her things—small puzzles, books, trinkets he finds in the colony sections. She humors him, sometimes even talks to him like an older sister would, but I see the way she looks at him when he isn't paying attention. Like she's already preparing for the day when she won't be there anymore.

G.U.N. still refuses cryostasis. I pushed for it harder this year, argued that it was the only thing that might keep her alive long enough for a real cure, but they shut me down again. They don't want to lose their leverage over Gerald. They won't say it outright, but it's clear as day—they want him desperate. As long as Maria is dying, they know he'll keep working. It's sick.

As the year went on, she ventured less and less past her doors, until she never did.

Her last birthday came and went. She barely touched the cake, barely opened the gifts.

There is a report marked on her file now, a last will.

Twelve is too young to think of these things…

Something's changed in the labs. G.U.N. is excited, practically buzzing with anticipation. Something about a breakthrough, something about Project Shadow stabilizing. I don't know what it means yet, but for the first time in years, I'm hearing murmurs that Maria might actually recover. Gerald hasn't said anything to me directly, but I can see it in the way he moves, the way he looks now—like there's something close to hope in his eyes again.

Maybe this time, it isn't just another dead end. Maybe she really does have a chance.

I don't pray. Never have. But if I did, I think I'd start now.

End Log

Captain Walters

Federation Oversight Report – ARK Research & Development

Filed by: Agent [REDACTED]

Date: [REDACTED]

[h3]Overview[/h3]

The ARK remains a mess. Not in the way civilians see it—on the surface, everything appears to be in perfect order. The Federation's grand experiment in off-world habitation continues, new families and personnel arrive in carefully planned cycles, and the media still paints this place as humanity's "brilliant future among the stars." But underneath the pristine image, it's all rotting.

The labs are a prime example. They've been hemorrhaging resources for years, yet G.U.N. refuses to cut its losses. Project Shadow—the supposed crown jewel of bioengineering—is still clinging to life, but just barely. They call it stable. They use words like "promising" and "revolutionary" to justify the money, the classified shipments, the years of sunk costs. But I've seen this before.

This is what desperation looks like.

[h3]Gerald Robotnik & Research Oversight[/h3]

Robotnik is still in the thick of it, still playing his part, still promising breakthroughs that never materialize. The higher-ups eat it up because they need something to show for the billions they've funneled into this black hole of a project. He's not the genius they claim he is—just another old man with too many theories and too little restraint. His work on Chaos Energy is barely understood, his supposed solutions unravel as fast as he presents them, and now he's backed into a corner. The only meaningful thing he has done In years are his Chaos Drives and his Artificial Chaos experiments.

G.U.N. knows he's slipping. The Federation knows it too. That's why they're keeping Maria alive.

[h3]Maria Robotnik – Liability & Leverage[/h3]

She should've been dead years ago. Everyone knows it. The med reports are classified, but I don't need to see them to know the truth—she's deteriorating fast. The so-called "treatments" Gerald administers aren't a cure. They're a leash. A controlled decline, stretched out just enough to keep him desperate, just enough to keep him in line.

And it's working.

He hasn't fought back. Hasn't tried to leave, hasn't sabotaged his own research, hasn't done a damn thing except play along because he still believes there's a chance to save her. It's pathetic. A man with his intellect should've known by now that this is a losing game. G.U.N. will let her suffer for as long as she's useful, and then they'll discard her. That's the reality.

If it were up to me, they would've cut the cord years ago. Letting a dying child dictate the pace of scientific progress is a joke. She contributes nothing. She wastes resources that could be used for something worthwhile. And yet, she lingers. Not because of merit, not because of value, but because her pain makes Gerald productive.

The worst part? She knows it.

I've watched her. She doesn't ask questions about the labs anymore, doesn't try to fight her way in like she used to. The arrogance, the stubbornness—those are still there, but there's something else now, something sharper.

She's waiting.

Not for a cure.

For the inevitable.

The only question is whether she'll get to die on her own terms, or if Gerald will drag her through another year of false hope before G.U.N. decides they've squeezed everything they can out of him.

[h3]Project Shadow – A Sunk Cost[/h3]

This thing should've been shut down years ago. The only reason it hasn't been is because too many people staked their careers on it.

The Biolizard was a failure—an expensive, catastrophic failure that got good men killed and set everything back. But instead of learning from it, instead of scrapping the whole damn initiative, G.U.N. doubled down.

Shadow is supposed to be the fix. The perfected version. The answer.

It's not.

Every so-called breakthrough they've had follows the same cycle: an improvement, a complication, a frantic scramble to patch it up before it collapses like the last one. They say it's stable now. I don't believe them. Neither does anyone who's been paying attention. The energy synchronization still fluctuates, the long-term viability is a question mark, and no one wants to admit that this experiment is walking the same road as the Biolizard.

But G.U.N. won't pull the plug, and the Federation won't cut funding because the alternative is admitting failure. That's what this really is. It's not about science anymore—it's about appearances.

So they'll keep pretending.

[h3]Federation Standing & Future Considerations[/h3]

The Federation's position on this project is unstable. The political tides are shifting, and the patience for G.U.N.'s unchecked spending is wearing thin. The new administration is more cautious, less willing to greenlight unlimited budgets for research that hasn't produced anything useful in six years.

That's the real reason G.U.N. is pushing so hard right now. They're running out of time to justify this operation. If they don't deliver something soon—something tangible, something weaponizable—the Federation will shut them down.

And if that happens?

Gerald becomes obsolete. Maria becomes irrelevant. The entire ARK loses its purpose beyond being a glorified orbital housing project.

Which, frankly, is all it should have been in the first place.

[h3]Personal Notes & Final Assessment[/h3]

• Maria Robotnik will not survive another year. I'd bet my career on it. No amount of new treatments or whispered medical advancements will change that. G.U.N. is playing with her life for leverage, but at some point, that stops being useful.
  
  
• Project Shadow is unsustainable. I give it another six months before another "complication" arises and they're forced to either cover it up or start over. Again.
  
  
• The Federation will have to make a decision soon. Either they keep sinking funds into this vanity project, or they pull out and let G.U.N. deal with the fallout. Personally, I'd cut my losses.
  
  
• Gerald will not stop willingly. If he sees an opportunity to salvage his work, he will take it, no matter how reckless or misguided. If the project is terminated, expect him to react unpredictably.

Recommendation: Begin preparations for ARK decommissioning and project termination contingency. If the Federation does not act soon, this situation will spiral even further beyond our control.

This station has outlived its usefulness. And the costs on the taxpayers is too much.

It's time that the federation puts an end to this farce.

End Report.

AN2: I'm glad so many have enjoyed it. Sorry if it feels like to much depresso expresso is going on, but don't worry.

Next threadmark is titled: Project Shadow is Born

Chapter Text

AN: Its friday right? I didn't lie!

In the Dark of the ARK, Shadows Grow

I spent too many months confined by my own frailty, watching from the shadows as my body betrayed me. The exhaustion dragged me into restless sleep when I needed clarity most. Some days, I never left my bed. The hum of the machinery around me became a lullaby I couldn't resist. Every breath felt like a battle I couldn't win.

But something changed.

At first the scientists were excited, and then the new treatments Gerald pushed relentlessly started working—slowly, incrementally. The crushing weight on my lungs is lighter now, and the fog dulling my thoughts is finally lifting. Each day, I wake with a little more strength than before. Each movement still feels like dragging myself through quicksand, but at least I can move.

And with that clarity comes the sharp realization of everything I missed.

G.U.N.'s presence on the ARK has always been growing like a virus, creeping into every corner of the station, but now Scientists I don't recognize wander the halls.

I know what that means of course.

Once G.U.N. gets what they want, they won't need me or Gerald anymore. They'll erase every inconvenient truth and bury us along with it.

But I won't let them.

I vowed to see the project in person.

It took days before I could step out of bed.

It took weeks before I gathered what I needed.

And now it is time to put my plan into action.

The clock on the wall blinked 0247 in harsh red numbers, casting long shadows across the sterile walls of the med lab. The nurse at her station leaned back in her chair, head bobbing as sleep fought to drag her under. Perfect.

I shifted carefully, placing a few carefully folded pillows under my blanket, shaping them into the outline of my body. A small movement, but deliberate—enough to fool someone glancing in from the doorway. The nurse wouldn't bother checking in person as long as the monitors stayed steady.

I had hacked those as well, timing a loop of my vitals from the previous night to repeat.

My heart pounded with every breath. The weight of exhaustion still lingered in my bones, but adrenaline kept me sharp.

Once I was certain the nurse was too far gone to notice, I swung my legs off the bed. A sharp twinge of pain lanced through my chest. I gritted my teeth and reached for the wheelchair stashed under the far counter. Moving quickly—but quietly—I rolled it toward the door.

The wheels squeaked softly on the cold tile as I positioned myself into it. I tucked my air skates under the blanket I draped over my lap—my secret weapon, hidden in plain sight.

The door slid open with a soft hiss, and I froze. The nurse shifted but didn't stir. I exhaled slowly and rolled through the opening, making my way down the hallway.

The ARK's night cycle cast everything in shades of blue and gray. The security cameras weren't an issue—I had disabled their alerts days ago through a backdoor I'd programmed into the system.

Each camera only blinked obliviously as I passed.

I hugged the shadows, every turn of the wheelchair slow and measured. The patrols were sparse but dangerous—armed guards moved with mechanical precision, their boots echoing faintly against the cold metal floor.

The soft murmur of voices echoed ahead. Two guards lingered near the lab's side entrance, trading stories to pass the time. My pulse quickened. I couldn't risk being seen, they would report me leaving the med bay.

Sliding my feet into the air skates beneath the blanket, I activated them with a press of my toes. The faint hum of the magnetic lift resonated through the wheels as the skates propelled the chair forward, silent and swift.

The wheelchair glided across the smooth floor, faster than I could push it on my own, and it took a moment for me to get used to the angle of motion.

I hugged the curve of the hallway, slipping through the shadows. Thankfully the guards remained oblivious, their backs turned.

With a slight shift of my weight, I coasted past the patrol, the air skates making no more sound than a breath of wind. Every second stretched taut with tension, but they didn't notice. I exhaled, relief flooding me as I reached the next junction.

The lab door loomed ahead—a thick slab of reinforced steel designed to keep unauthorized personnel out.

Not for long.

I pulled my tablet from the blanket, fingers flying across the screen as I input a string of codes I had installed years ago. The interface blinked and resisted at first—G.U.N.'s security updates were more aggressive than I'd anticipated—but I knew the ARK systems better than anyone.

With a soft chime, the lock disengaged.

I rolled forward into the lab, the hum of machinery embracing me like a familiar lullaby. The door sealed behind me with a soft click, cutting off the rest of the ARK's oppressive silence.

I was inside.

The lab was colder than I remembered, every surface shimmering under sterile fluorescent lights.

And there it was.

Project Shadow floated in the center of the room, suspended in thick, luminous fluid. The creature inside was no longer the simple hedgehog it had once been. It was changing—growing larger, stretching into something unfamiliar. Muscles writhed beneath dark skin like cords pulled too tight, veins pulsing with chaotic energy. Every inch of its form was shifting, mutating beyond recognition.

Its face, if I could still call it that, had begun to twist and lengthen—bone structure sharpening, features distorting into something not quite natural.

The monitors around the vat flickered with raw data—energy levels spiking erratically, neural activity flashing in jagged bursts, heart rate straining against biological limits. Every change brought it closer to becoming the cure I so desperately needed.

And G.U.N. would take it from me.

The realization burned through me, hot and furious. They didn't care if I was cured. They didn't care if all the suffering I had endured led to anything. As soon as the subject stabilized, they'd swoop in, claim their success, and shut me out.

I gripped the armrest of my wheelchair, my nails biting into the fabric. If they awoke Shadow before I found a way to complete the cure, before I found the answer locked inside that mutating thing, all of this would be for nothing.

They couldn't take this from me.

I leaned forward, my voice low and sharp with a rising fury. "Not yet. You're mine until I get what I need from you."

Every moment counted. Every shift in Shadow's form was a step closer to the solution I had been chasing for too long. And if G.U.N. tried to take that away from me?

I would burn down everything before I let them.

But first, time to review the incompetent's data, and confirm for myself that everything is actually looking up. I turned on my tablet and synced myself to the nearby terminal, my fingers flew across the touchscreen, movements swift and practiced as I navigated through the restricted Project Shadow files. Every firewall I bypassed was another layer of false security peeled away.

I wasn't here for anything beyond the project itself—only the experiment mattered. Shadow was supposed to be my cure, my last hope, and G.U.N. wasn't going to take that from me before I got what I needed.

The files were dense with data—biological logs, energy readings, and mutation reports. I skimmed the records of Shadow's rapid changes, noting how its genetic structure continued to shift beyond the projections Gerald had initially laid out. Chaos Energy surges, accelerated neural development, physical mutations that pushed beyond anything remotely natural. The thing in the tank was growing faster than anyone had anticipated.

My eyes burned from the effort of reading line after line, absorbing every detail that could hold the key to stabilizing Shadow for my own survival. I was close. I had to be.

Then the soft chime of my tablet cut through my concentration like a blade.

Proximity Alert: Patrol Approaching.

Panic surged through me. I hastily dimmed the tablet's glow and slid into the shadows behind a containment unit, clutching the device close. The sound of boots echoed faintly down the hallway—steady, unhurried, but deliberate.

The lab's door hissed open.

Two G.U.N. officers entered, their voices low but clearly audible in the sterile silence.

"I hear you. Once the thing is awake, I'll be glad to be done with this place," one muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "These late shifts are killing me."

"Yeah," the other replied, a hint of smug relief in his voice. "The higher-ups are already planning the transfers. The whole project team's getting reassigned once this thing's stable."

A flicker of unease twisted in my gut.

"Figures," the first officer chuckled. "Clean slate. Can't have anyone lingering around who knows too much, right? Fresh starts for everyone involved. Anyway, nothing is here let's go, we might still catch—"

The two shared a quiet laugh before continuing down the corridor, their boots echoing until the sound faded into silence.

I stayed hidden in the shadows, every muscle tense, my pulse thundering in my ears.

Transfers.

The word echoed in my head, a cold blade of dread sliding between my thoughts. Reassigned, transferred, moved out of the picture—those were just euphemisms, weren't they? G.U.N. didn't need us anymore once Shadow stabilized. I couldn't shake the suspicion that they wouldn't risk letting anyone with insider knowledge walk away freely.

Gerald. The team. Even me.

The thought settled in deep, wrapping itself around my spine like ice.

I swallowed hard, retrieving my tablet from where I had clutched it against my chest. The files blinked back at me—lines of raw data I had been so focused on moments before now blurred under the weight of what I had just heard.

I couldn't let them take Project Shadow from me before I finished what I started. If they moved us before I had my cure, it would all be for nothing.

I had to move faster.

They thought they controlled this project. They thought they could erase everyone connected to it without consequence.

They were wrong.

I would get what I needed—before they had the chance to end it all.

I slid back into the chair, my fingers trembling as I steadied the tablet on my lap. Every second counted now.

First, the files.

I accessed the deepest layers of Project Shadow's database and initiated a full download of the project's files—every report, experiment log, security feed, and progress note. It wasn't just a backup; it was insurance. If G.U.N. made their move before I was ready, I'd have the evidence to expose everything.

If I'm going down I'm taking them with me.

The download bar crept forward, agonizingly slow, as I let my mind race ahead. The Federation would eventually push for the project's conclusion, especially if the experiment stabilized too soon. I couldn't let that happen—not until I was sure I had what I needed to survive.

I needed to delay Project Shadow's completion.

But not in a way that raised suspicion.

A plan began to take shape in my mind. I would have Gerald drown them in protocols and procedures so convoluted that even G.U.N.'s higher-ups wouldn't dare cut corners.

I drafted complex testing regimens directly into the system:

• Mental Agility Exams: Simulated cognitive challenges tailored to measure Shadow's adaptive learning speeds. I framed them as vital to ensuring mental stability post-activation.
• Chaos Resonance Mapping: Detailed scans to observe how Shadow's body interacted with raw Chaos Energy over extended periods—an experiment that, conveniently, could take months to analyze.
• Emotional Response Measurements: A series of subtle stimuli designed to track his reactions and emotional development, making the higher-ups believe that Shadow's personality wasn't fully formed yet.

Each of these tests could be presented as essential for the integrity of the project, and each would buy me precious time after the experiment is woken up.

But I needed a safety net.

Before leaving, I accessed the containment system's core protocols. My fingers moved swiftly across the interface as I programmed a new failsafe into the monitoring systems—any unauthorized activation attempts would trigger false instability alerts. The system would detect a critical failure every time someone other than Gerald or me tried to wake Shadow.

It would force G.U.N. to keep us involved.

I leaned back in my chair, exhaustion dragging at my body, but my mind remained sharp with cold purpose. Without our oversight, Project Shadow's awakening would be their triumph, not ours. And worse, they'd twist its loyalty—turn the weapon against everything the Robotnik name stood for.

That couldn't happen.

I needed a more permanent solution. I had to embed something deeper into the project's systems, something subtle but unbreakable. A bond of influence that G.U.N. couldn't overwrite or train away.

The download finished with a soft chime.

I slipped the tablet back under the blanket and propelled the wheelchair toward the door. But before leaving, I allowed myself one last glance at Project Shadow's containment chamber. Its form, still mutating, still evolving, floating in eerie silence.

The door hissed open as I slid into the shadows of the hallway. Every camera along my path blinked blankly, their surveillance loops feeding G.U.N. nothing but silence.

The med bay wasn't far away now, but I still felt a weight pressing down on me. G.U.N. wasn't going to wait forever.

And neither could I.

The days blurred together, stitched into an endless cycle of sterile light and cold data. Time had no meaning here—not within the artificial glow of the ARK, not in the quiet hum of the lab where existence was measured in viability charts and genome sequences. Sleep had become an afterthought, sustenance merely a necessity. There was only the work.

Yet, despite it all, I was improving. Slowly, steadily—against all odds.

The files I had taken from the project were vast, labyrinthine in their complexity. Endless streams of raw data scrolled across my tablet—intricate genetic schematics, molecular compositions, recordings of neural pattern formations. Each entry was another piece of a puzzle, one that only I had the insight to assemble. Chaos Energy fluctuations, mitochondrial efficiency reports, cellular regeneration cycles—each fragment of information held meaning, but only in the hands of someone capable of discerning the full picture.

I was that someone.

The inner workings of Project Shadow were nothing short of extraordinary. Gerald's breakthrough had altered the trajectory of the entire project, and G.U.N. hadn't even realized the scope of what they were dealing with. Each report from the last few months painted a clear picture—evolution, refinement, escalation. Growth rates that exceeded projections, neural networks adapting with unsettling efficiency, and, most importantly, the synchronization with chaos energy reaching levels once deemed impossible.

These weren't just indicators of life. They were indicators of power. Potential waiting to be realized, shaped, molded into something beyond the original vision of the project. Beyond G.U.N.'s short-sighted goals.

And that potential belonged to me.

But the clock was ticking. G.U.N. wasn't interested in refinement or understanding. The moment the specimen's growth stabilized, they would activate it, eager to stamp their insignia on a success they barely comprehended. And once they had their weapon, they would erase the loose ends—Gerald, myself, everything that didn't fit neatly into their narrative.

That could not be allowed to happen.

I would not let them control what they could never hope to understand.

The ARK, Project Shadow, the cure to my disease.

It all belongs to me.

What if I shaped its loyalty before activation? Its subconscious was untouched in stasis—a blank slate, waiting to be molded. With the right interface, I could embed necessary directives, program attachments, and establish controlled responses before it ever opened its eyes. When Shadow finally woke, its instincts wouldn't belong to G.U.N.

They would belong to me.

The framework formed quickly—a neural synchronization bridge designed to implant associations without detection. A delicate network of transmitters, finely tuned to the experiment's developing neural pathways, could allow me to insert subconscious directives before external conditioning ever began.

• Reinforcement Triggers: Instinctual responses tied to specific stimuli—it would associate the Robotnik name with security, with purpose.
• Conditioned Compliance Protocols: Deep-seated directives that would ensure obedience, buried too deep for G.U.N.'s training to override.
• Familiarity Implants: Subconscious recognition of my presence—an artificial sense of trust, a pre-programmed attachment that would feel natural upon activation.

A simple equation: Control through association.

But the more I refined the process, the more the technical barriers revealed themselves.

Chaos Energy was unstable—erratic even in controlled environments. The subject's neural patterns were still in flux, shifting with each stage of its development. Interfacing with that instability required an understanding even I had yet to fully grasp. Any interference risked not only corrupting the experiment's final state but also exposing my involvement.

And the risk wasn't just to the project.

If I linked with its neural network, my own body would be subjected to Chaos Energy feedback. Even a brief exposure could overwhelm my immune system, undoing months of carefully regulated treatments. Gerald's interventions were the only thing keeping me functional, and even now, I had yet to determine what, exactly, those treatments contained.

Project files remained redacted. The lab's own systems hid critical medical records—both for me and for the experiment. I had no concrete data on what was sustaining either of us.

Two unknown variables.

One unstable power source.

The risk barely outweighs the reward.

Gerald was still hiding things.

Not from G.U.N. Not from the Federation.

From me.

That realization sharpened into cold frustration. Without understanding the foundation of my own survival, I couldn't prepare for the consequences of connecting to Shadow. Gerald's secrets were now obstacles in my path.

But that didn't mean I would stop.

The schematics took form on the screen—a latticework of chaos stabilizers, neural feedback dampeners, and energy moderators fine-tuned for the slightest fluctuations. Every calculation had to be precise.

One error could destroy the subject—

And with it, my only chance at survival.

It had been a month since Gerald had begun the new treatments—whatever mix of dark science and desperation kept my body functional. The med bay, once my cage, had finally loosened its grip, granting me mobility under the ever-watchful gaze of G.U.N. personnel. Every step outside those sterile walls was a reminder that I was still weak, but while I cursed the wheelchair it gave me what I needed most.

Freedom.

The ARK's corridors felt different now—colder, emptier. The hum of machinery was too steady, the air too sterile, the silence pressing in like a controlled void. It was an illusion of stillness, a quiet held together by unseen hands. The shadows stretched unnaturally along the walls, flickering under artificial lighting, as if the entire station was holding its breath.

I pushed forward, fingers tightening around the armrests of my wheelchair. My tablet rested in my lap, displaying the latest schematics of ShadowLink—the neural synchronization system that would allow me to embed subconscious directives into the experiment's mind before it ever opened its eyes.

A quiet solution.

A perfect foundation for control.

"Maria!"

I flinched at the sound but didn't slow.

Abraham Tower.

His footsteps rang too loud against the polished floor as he jogged up beside me, his energy a stark contrast to the oppressive stillness of the halls. "You're finally out of the med bay! That's great! We can—"

"I'm busy."

The words left me flat, cold, sharp enough to cut.

His expression flickered—excitement fading into something uncertain. I didn't look at him. My gaze remained forward, locked on the path ahead. "I have important work to do, Abraham."

A beat of silence.

Then movement.

I turned my head slightly—just in time to catch the blur of his back as he ran the other way.

I sighed, exhaling the last remnants of irritation. I'll apologize later.

The experiment came first.

The lab was as cold and silent as a tomb, save for the steady hum of machinery that pulsed like a mechanical heartbeat. The air was thick with ozone and sterile chemicals—an environment designed for precision, not comfort. My hands moved automatically, assembling the delicate framework of ShadowLink with the careful precision of a surgeon.

Every component had to be flawless. Neural transmitters, chaos stabilizers, and signal dampeners were laid out before me in meticulous order, forming a lattice of circuits and wires that would soon embed itself into Shadow's subconscious like a scalpel slicing through flesh.

In the corner of the lab, my record player spun, filling the empty room with the soft, melancholic swell of an old symphony. One Gerald used to play for me, years ago. But beneath the melody, a far more important sound filled my ear.

The quiet murmur of G.U.N.'s internal surveillance feeds crackled through my earpiece—whispers of stolen conversations, intercepted directives, and secrets they thought were buried.

"The Federation's losing patience."

The voice belonged to an officer—clipped, controlled, but edged with irritation.

"They've been funding Project Shadow for years. Once the subject stabilizes, they want results—clean and politically palatable results. No loose ends."

"What about the deeper experiments? The augmentations, genetic splicing—are they going to sweep that under the rug too?"

"Erased. The Federation can't risk public backlash with elections coming up. Taxpayers wouldn't be thrilled to learn their credits funded… questionable research."

A pause.

"And the team?"

"Reassigned. Quietly. Too much noise and someone might dig into the files we didn't delete."

The screwdriver in my grip trembled.

I went completely still.

They weren't just shutting down the project.

They were erasing it.

Gerald.

The research team.

Me.

The weight of their words pressed down on me, suffocating and sharp. I wasn't just running out of time.

I was standing on a knife's edge.

They thought they could erase me—reduce me to a casualty of their political maneuvering, a footnote in an abandoned project. They thought they could dictate my fate.

I clenched the armrest of my wheelchair until my fingers ached.

I'll burn the ARK to the ground before I let them turn our own creations against us.

The next few days passed in a haze of precision and obsession. Every wire of the ShadowLink had to be perfect. Every receptor embedded in the device needed to sync seamlessly with Shadow's unstable chaos energy. No room for miscalculations.

And then, the real test.

Late at night, the ARK was deathly still. The shadows stretched long and quiet as I wheeled through the empty corridors, every movement controlled, every breath measured.

The security feeds looped effortlessly—backdoor codes I had embedded weeks ago rendering the camera's blind. Every microphone registered only static.

G.U.N. would hear nothing. See nothing.

The containment chamber loomed ahead, the glow of Project Shadow's tank casting pale reflections on the metal floor. I silenced the recording devices. Disabled the emergency alerts. Only the hum of the life-support systems remained.

I drained the suspension fluid, watching as the thick liquid receded, exposing the creature inside.

Project Shadow was no longer the hedgehog from Gerald's notes.

It had grown. Mutated. Changed.

Almost bipedal now, but its limbs had twisted into something unnatural—long, pulsing appendages writhing slightly even in stasis, alive with raw Chaos Energy. A grotesque mixture of engineered perfection and biological failure.

Mad science incarnate.

I should have hesitated.

I didn't.

I rolled forward, leaning closer, parting the thick quills near the base of its skull. The skin beneath was soft, vulnerable. With a scalpel's precision, I sliced into the flesh, embedding the ShadowLink's receptors beneath the surface before the cut could seal itself with chaotic regeneration.

Its vitals flickered on the monitors—subtle, but noticeable. A flicker of subconscious awareness.

But I didn't stop.

The incisions sealed instantly, Chaos Energy pulsing beneath the artificial implants. I carefully repositioned the body inside the vat and initiated the refill cycle. The suspension fluid rushed back in, submerging it once more in thick, shimmering containment.

I rolled to the side, retrieving the other half of the ShadowLink—a sleek helmet lined with chaos stabilizers. My hands trembled as I set it over my head, locking it into place.

This was it.

I took a breath and activated the system.

The energy hit like a cold blade through my veins.

The stabilizers sputtered under the strain as raw Chaos Energy flooded the link. My breath caught as the feedback surged through my body, every nerve in my system screaming in response.

On the monitor, the subject's vitals spiked violently.

Neural activity flared like wildfire.

And suddenly, I wasn't alone.

The connection didn't pull me into chaos as I had anticipated. Instead, I found myself in a void—endless, cold, suffocating. There was no storm of thoughts, no ordered structure of consciousness. Only the weight of something vast, unformed, waiting.

Then, movement.

Not words. Not thought.

Just raw sensation—an ache of loneliness so profound it cut deeper than any sound could.

The presence was primal, instinctual, like an animal flinching in pain.

A flicker of curiosity brushed against me. Weak, hesitant.

It had noticed me.

Then—pain.

Not mine. Its.

A dull, throbbing agony burned beneath everything: the constant mutation of flesh, the strain of unstable Chaos Energy forcing itself through unready veins.

Its own body was consuming itself. And it didn't understand why.

But beneath the pain was something worse.

A deep, unrelenting loneliness, suffocating in its intensity. A void without warmth, without guidance, without anything to hold onto.

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to remain steady.

You are not alone.

I didn't send words—only the steady presence of something solid amidst the pain.

I became an anchor.

The pain dulled slightly, its raw energy settling. It reached out—not with thought, not with reason, but with instinct. Testing the connection, seeking stability.

This wasn't intelligence. This was a weapon in its most raw form.

The presence coiled around my mind, hesitant but desperate. I could feel it grasping toward me, drawn toward the steadiness of my presence.

It didn't understand.

It didn't need to.

It just needed to trust the light I offered.

And when it awoke, that trust would bind it to me.

Not to G.U.N.

Not to the Federation.

To me alone.

The connection settled. Its energy stabilized beneath my influence.

But I wasn't alone—there were others. Thousands of thoughts, of minds.

A sea of consciousness pressing against the edges of the link, unseen but undeniable. The overwhelming presence of what could only be Chaos itself.

It wasn't like the mindless void of Shadow's subconscious, nor the sterile, structured world of human thought. It was raw, infinite, untamed.

And it wanted in.

The pressure surged. I felt it pressing at my mind, creeping through the neural bridge, trying to slip between the cracks of my control. Other minds. Other thoughts. Not G.U.N., not the Federation—something deeper, older, primordial.

Chaos was not just energy. It had its own will.

And it was reaching for me.

For us.

Shadow's form twisted in the tank, its body writhing as if something unseen was wrapping around it. The vitals on the monitor spiked erratically. The stabilization field flickered. Its neural activity flared—uncontrolled, erratic, the experiment drowning beneath the weight of something it couldn't fight.

No.

I knew this feeling.

Being X.

He was not here, not now, but the same—an unwanted force, an invader, a parasite clawing its way into my mind.

I gritted my teeth and forced everything else out.

No gods. No spirits. No nameless, writhing entities that thought they had a claim over me.

I willed them out.

The moment the pressure surged forward, I did what I had done in my second life, when Being X had tried to chain me to its will.

I rejected it.

I refuse.

My will slammed through the link like a steel wall, a force of calculation and clarity tearing through the chaos with sheer, merciless precision. The intrusions buckled against me, howling, clawing, shrieking in a language of sensation rather than sound.

But they could not pass.

I was not theirs to claim.

And neither was Shadow.

The experiment convulsed in the suspension fluid, its energy whipping out violently, trying to latch onto something—anything—to stabilize itself. It couldn't fight. It didn't know how.

So I did it instead.

I reached through the link, forced order onto the chaos.

You are not alone.

I pushed control through the bond, solid, unyielding. I anchored it to me.

The erratic pulses of chaos energy began to slow, no longer flaring wildly but bending—coiling toward me, shaped by my intent.

The mass of alien minds roared around us, desperate, furious. They battered against my barriers, but I did not break.

Shadow was shaking, energy fraying, its form barely holding itself together. It was searching, struggling, drowning—just like I had once, in a past life stolen by a god who thought itself above me.

But I had not bowed then.

And I would not bow now.

The chaos screamed one last time.

And then, silence.

The pressure lifted.

The weight of a thousand unseen eyes vanished.

I exhaled sharply, my breath fogging against the glass of the containment chamber. My limbs were shaking, my body exhausted from the sheer force of will it had taken to hold back the tide.

But I had won.

Shadow's vitals steadied. Its neural patterns smoothed. The raw, erratic energy that had nearly torn it apart settled, flowing along the pathways I had laid for it.

No longer wild. No longer lost.

Mine.

The link dimmed, stabilizing into something controlled, something certain.

For the first time since its creation, Project Shadow had a purpose.

And it would never, ever, belong to G.U.N.

I closed my eyes, relaxing a moment in the silence before focusing back on myself.

The connection faded, the suffocating weight of Chaos withdrawing into the background hum of the ARK's systems. My breath came slow and measured as I removed the ShadowLink helmet, feeling the slight resistance of static clinging to my skin before the device hissed free. My fingers drummed against the armrest of my wheelchair as I let the lingering disorientation settle.

What a mess.

Shadow had stabilized, or at least, it wasn't thrashing anymore. I hadn't come in here worried about its well-being. Only about ensuring its survival.

Only ensuring my control.And yet… the others.

That overwhelming, alien presence that had pressed against the neural link—the thousands of unseen minds trying to force their way in, to touch, to influence. The chaotic force that had nearly drowned me.

Had that been Chaos itself?

Or had it been there all along?

My lips curled into a frown, irritation simmering beneath my exhaustion.

Being X.

Was that thing influencing Chaos Energy? Manipulating it from beyond my reach, slipping its fingers into the fabric of this universe just as it had tried to warp my fate in my last life?

Or has Chaos Energy always been like this?

A writhing, formless force, desperate for structure, for a will to direct it? Was that why Gerald had failed so many times—because he was trying to force something fundamentally unstable into a logical form?

And now, after everything, I have done the same.

I exhaled, irritated.

This whole ordeal had been tedious. The constant battle against unseen forces, the wasted energy spent blocking out the influence of Chaos, or whatever else had been watching. It was nothing but interference.

I only needed Shadow.

And it only needed me.

Everything else—G.U.N., the Federation, whatever cosmic horrors lurked at the edges of Chaos—was irrelevant.

I adjusted the helmet back under my blanket, rolling my shoulders before turning to leave the lab.

Then—movement.

Not erratic muscle spasms, not residual energy discharges. Deliberate.

I turned my gaze back to the containment vat, my irritation deepening.

Shadow's body remained suspended in the thick, glowing suspension fluid, its form still and weightless. Its eyes remained closed, its breathing slow and measured. Unconscious.

But one hand—thin elongated fingers, black against the faint green glow—was pressed against the reinforced glass.

Reaching.

For what? For me?

No. That was ridiculous. It wasn't conscious. It wasn't aware.

Whatever residual flicker of recognition it had wasn't its own—it was mine, projected into its subconscious. A mere reflex. A response to the presence I had forced into its mind. It wasn't real.

For a moment, I held out my hand, before I scoffed under my breath and turned away.

It doesn't matter.

The link had been established. The subconscious conditioning had begun. That was all I needed.

Everything else—Chaos, Being X, or whatever forces thought they could interfere in my work—

Could burn.

Without another glance back, I wheeled out of the lab, the doors hissing shut behind me.

The ARK was never truly asleep. Even at the dead of night, when the artificial lights dimmed to simulate a planetary cycle, the hum of the station's core systems never ceased. The security patrols never stopped. The cameras never blinked.

But neither did I.

The first night had been a calculated risk. A test. Would my bypass codes hold? Would the surveillance feeds loop without triggering an alert? Would the guards, complacent in their shifts, continue following the same predictable routes?

The answer was yes.

So, the second night, I tested again.

Then the third.

By the fourth, it was no longer a test.

It was routine.

The routine continued for the third week.

I maneuvered my wheelchair through the corridor with slow, measured movements, keeping to the edges of the path where the station's dim emergency lighting cast the weakest glow. The G.U.N. patrol was exactly on time—three minutes past the hour, as always.

I held my breath, pressing myself into the shadow of a supply crate, though it was hardly necessary. The cameras in this sector had already been looped. The station's logs would register my ID as still being in my assigned quarters.

The containment chamber was just ahead.

I exhaled quietly, waiting for the guards' footsteps to fade. The moment they disappeared around the corner, I wheeled forward, fingers already tapping into my tablet. The lab doors unlocked with a soft hiss, opening just enough for me to slip inside before resealing behind me.

Project Shadow floated in its containment vat, motionless, save for the ever-present pulsing of chaos energy beneath its skin. Its form was still mutating— less monstrous— still shifting into whatever final version of itself the project intended.

I should have felt nothing looking at it.

Instead, I felt curiosity.

Not about it. About the link.

The first synchronization had been brief, a mere moment of contact. But it had been effective. Too effective. The foundation I had embedded into its subconscious was taking root faster than anticipated.

Each night, I strengthened it.

Each night, I reached through the connection and shaped it.

And each night, the reaction was the same.

It reached towards me.

Not awake. Not aware. Just responding. A subconscious recognition of my presence, an instinct buried deeper than even its programmed directives.

It was beginning to accept me.

Good.

By four weeks the routine was flawless.

I could navigate the station's security blindfolded now. No alarms. No patrol shifts altered. No suspicion.

But complacency was a mistake.

I should have accounted for the unexpected.

The hallway ahead was clear. The logs still showed me as being in my quarters. But the moment I entered the lab, I felt it—something was wrong.

Project Shadow was still in the containment vat, unchanged from the night before. The equipment was still active, the vitals still steady.

But the door hadn't closed all the way.

My breath stalled.

Someone else had been here.

Recently.

And they hadn't locked the door behind them.

I pressed myself against the nearest workstation, fingers moving swiftly across my tablet. I accessed the security logs.

The files were untouched. The timestamps were normal. No one had entered this sector outside of scheduled shifts.

No one should have been here.

Yet the proof was right in front of me.

A chair slightly out of place. A screen still active when it should have been powered down. And—most damning of all—a faint trace of disturbance in the containment fluid, as if someone had stirred it.

I clicked my teeth together, irritation spiking.

Who?

G.U.N.? No, they would have logged their presence.

Gerald? Possibly, but he would have left some kind of note, some change in the system logs.

An outsider? Impossible.

So that left only one answer.

Someone inside the project was sneaking in.

I frowned, closing my tablet and backing toward the exit. I would have to adjust my approach. Change my routine. Whoever it was, they were getting sloppy.

Sloppy meant vulnerable.

I would find them before they found me.

It was the start of the fifth week when I made a mistake.

I should have left earlier.

The cameras were looped. The patrols were mapped. The system logs were falsified.

But something was wrong.

The moment I exited the lab, I knew.

Someone else was here.

A voice, faint but distinct, echoed from around the corridor.

"—that door was unlocked."

Damn it.

My fingers tightened around the armrests of my wheelchair. I couldn't afford to be seen here. Not now.

Footsteps. Too close.

I turned sharply, wheeling toward the nearest supply storage. The door slid open just as a shadow stretched down the hallway—someone was rounding the corner.

I ducked inside the storage bay, pressing myself into the narrow space between stacked supply crates.

The door sealed shut behind me, but not fast enough.

Whoever was in the hallway had seen movement.

I heard the footsteps stop.

A beat of silence.

Then, closer this time—

"Who's there?"

I held my breath.

The storage bay was small. There weren't many places to hide. If they stepped inside, I was caught.

Seconds passed, stretching endlessly.

The footsteps moved forward—hesitant, uncertain.

Then—

The station's overhead comms crackled to life.

"Security patrols, report to Level 3 for system recalibration. Repeat, all available security personnel to Level 3 immediately."

A pause. A quiet exhale. Then, reluctantly—the footsteps retreated.

I waited.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

A full minute.

Then I finally, carefully, exhaled, my body loosening just enough to release the tension coiling in my muscles.

Too close.

I would have to stop my visits for now.

At least until I found out who else was sneaking into that lab.

[h3]Nurse's Report[/h3]

Subject: Maria Robotnik – Unusual Vital Sign Patterns

Submitted by: Nurse Eliza Warren

Date: [REDACTED]

Summary: Following Maria Robotnik's discharge from the ARK's med bay, a post-release system audit revealed a recurring anomaly in her vitals that had gone unnoticed during her stay. The anomaly persisted for several weeks before her departure and, disturbingly, continues even after her absence.

Details:

• The data logs display a repeated string of identical readings every night between 1800 and 0200 hours. The identical nature of these readings across multiple nights suggests a possible loop or interference affecting the monitoring systems.
• The vitals include heart rate, respiration, neural activity, and blood pressure—each repeating the same pattern without natural variance.
• During her time in the med bay, Maria exhibited no signs of distress or irregular physical behavior, which led staff to initially dismiss any concern.

Post-Release Findings:

• Upon conducting a routine diagnostic after Maria's release, the anomaly was flagged during a full system analysis.
• The repeated readings continue to appear in the logs despite her absence from the med bay, suggesting either residual data interference or deliberate tampering of the monitoring equipment.

Concerns:

• The timing of the anomaly raises questions about potential external manipulation of the system or a malfunction in the medbay's data storage.
• This issue could compromise patient monitoring for future cases, and it is unclear if this irregularity was an isolated event linked to Maria or an ongoing system vulnerability.

Recommendation: I advise conducting a thorough diagnostic sweep of the medbay's monitoring equipment. Additionally, an investigation should be launched into the potential for software interference or unauthorized system access that could have caused these false readings.

[h3]G.U.N. I.T. Security Report (Physical Copy)[/h3]

Subject: Unusual Data Breaches and Security Anomalies on the ARK

Submitted by: Corporal Nathan D. Keller – G.U.N. IT Division

Date: [REDACTED]

Summary: In the course of routine network security monitoring aboard the ARK, I identified a series of unauthorized access attempts focused on retrieving classified research files related to a "Project Shadow." These breaches involved both direct data extractions and indirect attacks on the station's digital infrastructure.

Details:

• Multiple unauthorized access attempts were detected over a 30-day period, with fragmented data packets targeting deeply restricted logs associated with Project Shadow's advanced experimentation protocols.
• Several instances of distributed denial-of-service (DDOS) attacks were identified. These attacks subtly disrupted the station's security systems, weakening their defense layers and allowing unauthorized data extractions without triggering alarms.
• Anomalous traffic suggests that the intrusions originated from within the ARK itself, pointing toward internal personnel with significant access privileges.

Incident Escalation:

• An initial security report, including logs of unauthorized data access and network anomalies, was submitted to the central G.U.N. security database for review.
• Upon attempting to retrieve this report for follow-up analysis, all records of the submission had been wiped from the servers.
• Backup logs, timestamps, and data packet histories related to the incident were also missing—an unlikely coincidence, suggesting intentional data removal.

Concerning Observations:

• The complete erasure of evidence implies deliberate internal sabotage from someone with high-level clearance and administrative access.
• Fragments of corrupted files suggest a deliberate cover-up effort; the data appears overwritten with random code fragments, masking any trace of the original intrusion.

Recommendation: I am submitting this physical copy of the report to bypass potential further interference. An internal audit of administrative access permissions and a full forensic examination of the ARK's network infrastructure are necessary. There is strong evidence to suggest that an internal actor with considerable authority is attempting to conceal data breaches related to "Project Shadow" (Whatever that even is. Make sure to keep to standard Need-to-Know while submitting this form up the proper chain.)

End of Report

[h3]Scientific Observation Report[/h3]

Subject: Project Shadow – Neural Activity Analysis

Submitted by: Dr. S. Tower – Lead Cognitive Research Specialist

Date: [REDACTED]

Summary: An unexpected pattern of increased neural activity in Subject Shadow has recently been observed, with the initial anomaly noticed by my wife, during her routine cross-analysis of baseline vitals and neurological scans. The heightened brain function primarily occurs near the close of the ARK's night cycle and at the onset of the day, raising the possibility of subconscious processing—potentially early-stage dreaming.

Details:

• Dr. Eleanor Tower first observed irregular fluctuations in neural activity during a routine scan comparison. Upon further analysis, I confirmed these readings were not random but followed a recurring pattern aligned with the ARK's artificial night cycle.
• Notable spikes in electrical activity occur between 1700-2000 hours and again from 0400-0600 hours.
• Unlike chaotic fluctuations driven by the subject's inherent energy surges, these neural spikes demonstrate rhythmic patterns similar to early REM sleep cycles observed in terrestrial mammals—though considerably more intense and erratic.
• Emotional response markers during these peaks have shown elevated variance, though without context, the meaning behind these shifts remains speculative.

Speculation: If these patterns indeed represent primitive dreaming, it suggests Shadow's cognitive development may be accelerating beyond our initial projections. The raw neural complexity hints at an evolving subconscious, possibly influenced by external stimuli or residual memory imprints embedded during its creation.

What could a being forged from chaos energy be experiencing in its unconscious state? Are these mere flickers of instinctual memory, or are we witnessing the early stages of self-awareness?

Potential Implications:

• Early subconscious processing could lead to rapid emotional and intellectual development upon awakening.
• Dreams, if they exist, could lay the groundwork for memory formation, influencing behavior and loyalty.
• If Shadow is capable of forming emotional bonds subconsciously, external influences—whether positive or negative—could dramatically affect its conditioning.

Recommendations:

• Increase surveillance during the recorded high-activity periods.
• Expand neural mapping experiments to track possible long-term patterns in cognitive development.
• Collaborate with Dr. Eleanor Tower to develop a specialized framework for interpreting potential subconscious patterns.

Personal Reflections: As Eleanor and I discussed these findings late into the evening, she brought up an unsettling yet fascinating observation—how similar these early neural spikes are to the dream states we once monitored in our own son, Abe. The parallels are impossible to ignore.

Abe's early developmental scans showed bursts of subconscious creativity and fear during REM cycles—his first dreams of monsters, joy, and curiosity shaping his growth as a child. Could Shadow, this living weapon of chaos, be experiencing something similar?

The idea fills me with both dread and anticipation.

What will awaken when Shadow opens his eyes?

End of Report

AN2: SoonTM. SoonTM.

Chapter Text

AN:  It's Shadow time.

[h3]First Interactions[/h3]

I stand in the observation room, hands clasped tightly behind my back, watching as the shuttle departs from the ARK's docking bay. The sterile air hums with the quiet pulse of life support systems, a sound so familiar I barely notice it. My focus is locked on the shrinking silhouette of Commander Sloan's shuttle as it drifts into the void, swallowed by the endless stars.

Only when the vessel becomes nothing more than a speck against the abyss do I allow myself to breathe.

It's over.

For now.

My fingers twitch at my sides, resisting the urge to clench into fists. The tension is still there, thrumming beneath my skin like an electrical current refusing to ground itself. I replay Sloan's parting words in my mind, the sharp edge of his voice polished and professional, but laced with an arrogance he barely bothered to conceal.

"Project Shadow is a fascinating creation, Professor Robotnik. We will return in a few months to continue our evaluations."

Evaluations. As if he has already claimed ownership. As if everything Grandfather and I have poured into this—every sleepless night, every sacrificed principle, every act of defiance against bureaucratic incompetence—belongs to him. As if G.U.N. has the right to determine the fate of our work.

Grandfather played his role well, smiling with that carefully measured enthusiasm he reserves for men like Sloan. The cooperative scientist. The eager researcher. The harmless academic grateful for their interest.

I barely managed to contain my disgust.

Sloan does not see Shadow as we do. He doesn't see the years of careful precision, the delicate balance of Chaos Energy woven into the very fabric of its being. He does not see what Shadow really is—a creation of intelligence and strength, designed to surpass human frailty.

He sees a weapon.

A tool.

Something to wield. To command. To destroy.

My stomach twists at the thought.

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to turn away from the window. We still have time. Not much, but enough.

Enough to refine Shadow's synchronization with Chaos Energy. Enough to reinforce the stability of its cells. Enough to ensure that when the time comes—when the Federation and G.U.N. make their inevitable move—Shadow will be ready.

Not for them.

Not for war.

But for me.

For the cure.

My hands tighten at my sides.

We have to move quickly. Smarter than the men watching us. We must stay ahead of their grasp before the noose tightens further around our throats. The ARK is still ours, for now, but the illusion of control is slipping. G.U.N. and the Federation grow bolder, their patience thinning.

They think they can dictate our fate.

They are wrong.

This is our creation. Our victory. And when the time comes, I will make certain that neither Sloan nor anyone else in the Federation has the power to take it away.

I turn sharply on my heel, my steps soundless against the polished floor as I leave the observation room.

There is no time to waste.

We have work to do.

Grandfather is in high spirits.

The moment Sloan's shuttle disappeared into the void, he turned away from the observation deck with a rare lightness in his step. The tension in his shoulders, present since G.U.N.'s last evaluation, is gone. His usual, measured pace quickens as he strides back toward the lab, his fingers twitching as if eager to return to his work. The other researchers notice too. They exchange glances, relieved, whispering among themselves as they return to their stations.

I follow, arms crossed, my jaw tight. My mind replays every moment of the test, every word spoken by Sloan and his men, every glance exchanged between the Federation's representatives as they watched Shadow.

Grandfather believes today was a victory.

He is wrong.

Shadow performed better than I expected. Better than anyone expected. Its Chaos Energy synchronization reached new levels—higher than any prototype before it. Its speed was exceptional, its movement seamless, its ability to manipulate the energy field around it nearly instinctual. It reacted to the control trials faster than our calculations predicted, adapting to sudden environmental shifts with an almost unnatural precision. When they tested its ability to channel raw Chaos Energy into controlled bursts, it exceeded expectations, forming stable, sustained plasma arcs without external regulation.

A perfect success.

That is what Grandfather sees.

What I see—what Sloan saw—is something else entirely.

A weapon.

A tool.

A being created with the potential to shape reality itself, standing at the edge of divinity.

Grandfather doesn't understand.

"They were impressed, Maria," he says, pulling up the data logs the moment we step into the lab. The screens flicker to life, lines of numbers and waveforms charting Shadow's progress. He gestures toward the results, satisfaction radiating from him. "How could they not be? His synchronization rate exceeded every recorded threshold, his energy regulation has improved beyond projections, and most importantly—" He turns to me, grinning. "They still need us. They won't risk interfering too much now."

I do not smile.

"They're still watching us, Grandfather."

He waves a hand dismissively, attention locked on the streams of data. "Of course they are. They always have. But as long as we continue to deliver results, they won't intervene in ways that matter."

I scoff, barely resisting the urge to slam my hands against the terminal. "You think this is about results? About science?"

He finally looks up, frowning. "Maria—"

"They don't care about synchronization rates or reaction times," I snap. "They aren't interested in how its cells stabilize Chaos Energy or how efficiently it adapts to environmental stressors."

I turn toward the reinforced glass separating us from the testing chamber. Shadow is there, suspended in the stasis field, eyes closed, his quills barely shifting in the weightless current of controlled energy.

"They aren't waiting for us to perfect the formula," I say, voice cold. "They're waiting for it to be ready."

For war.

For control.

For deployment.

Grandfather sighs, rubbing his temples as if I'm being unreasonable. "Maria, we designed Shadow to be more than that."

"It doesn't matter what we designed it for," I say sharply. "It matters what they want it to be."

G.U.N. and the Federation won't let Project Shadow remain purely scientific. They will mold it into something monstrous. A being of limitless power, shackled to their orders, deployed like an executioner onto battlefields I will never see.

I grip the edge of the console, fingers digging into the metal. "Do you really think they'll let us keep it once we've proven he works?"

Grandfather hesitates. Just for a second. A flicker of doubt crosses his face.

He knows I'm right.

"They will use Shadow," I continue, voice dropping to a whisper. "And once they do, they won't need us anymore."

He exhales, shaking his head. "We still have time. We are still in control."

For now.

But I know better.

I look back at Shadow, at the project we have poured years of our lives into, at the being who represents my only chance.

As long as we still control it, as long as we can study it, adjust it—then I still have a path forward. A future.

Because if Shadow succeeds, I will live.

If it fails…

I will die.

There is no alternative. No second attempt. No backup plan.

I cannot afford to fail.

That means we must finish our work before Sloan and the Federation take it from us.

Before they take everything.

Days blur together on the ARK. The rhythm of research, testing, and observation defines every hour, every breath.

Shadow is let out of its vat each day, a process so meticulous, so controlled, it feels ritualistic. Its containment field drains in slow, pulsing waves, the shimmering orange liquid receding to reveal its form—small, sleek, dark as the void beyond the station's walls. Its eyes, red as burning embers, flicker open the moment the process nears completion.

It doesn't flinch. Doesn't struggle. It simply is.

The tests are relentless.

Every day, we push it further. Speed trials. Energy discharge calibrations. Reflexive assessments. Its agility surpasses projections, its ability to absorb and regulate Chaos Energy nearing something impossible. At first, its releases are erratic—raw surges of power that crackle against the reinforced walls of the testing chamber. But it learns. Quickly. By the third session, it is already refining the output, adapting to the feedback, controlling the chaos within it with a precision that should take years to master.

A perfect design. A perfect organism.

Except—

It is not perfect. Not yet.

They keep Shadow awake only long enough to extract data, to push its limits, to measure and record every reaction before forcing it back into stasis. They treat it like a machine, a test subject, something to be studied, not something that lives.

It is a mistake.

A fundamental flaw in their understanding of what Shadow is.

And I am the only one who sees it.

Eventually, they begin to transition him into a more controlled environment. A small, enclosed space outside the laboratory—a simulation of life.

The room is simple. Devoid of harsh lights and sterile walls. It has soft flooring, a table, a chair, even a window that overlooks nothing but the metal corridors of the ARK. They watch Shadow, monitor it, wait to see how it reacts to the world when it is left to simply exist beyond the rigid structure of testing protocols.

The first time it is left alone in the room, it does nothing.

It stands at the center, staring at the walls, unmoving, its quills barely shifting with its breath. I watch from the observation deck, my fingers curled tightly against the railing as the minutes stretch into an hour. It does not sit. It does not interact. It simply waits.

It has learned, through repetition, that its existence is only meant to serve a purpose. It is let out, It performs, It is put away. This is Shadow's cycle. This is all it knows.

I hate this.

G.U.N. grants limited authorization for Shadow to be taken outside the lab.

The decision is reluctant, but inevitable. The higher-ups want to see how it interacts with the station beyond the confines of its controlled environments, how it navigates space rather than just a test chamber. It is all still under strict supervision, of course—always with an escort, always with a monitoring device affixed to its wrist, as if they believe a simple tracking band could contain something that moves faster than sound.

And then, Langley—opportunistic as ever—makes her move.

"I propose Maria be his handler."

The words drop into the meeting like a stone in water.

Gerald bristles immediately. His back straightens, his fingers tightening against the table where he has spent the last two hours justifying to these bureaucratic parasites why Shadow needs time, why it needs to develop before they can push it into whatever military directive they've been drafting behind our backs.

"Absolutely not," Gerald says, voice cold, controlled. "Maria is not—"

But I don't let him finish.

"I accept."

The room stills.

Grandfather turns toward me, his eyes dark with something close to anger. He is protective of me, of my time, of my involvement in Project Shadow beyond what he considers safe. But he does not see what I see.

He does not see that this is the opportunity I have been waiting for.

Langley smiles, thin and calculated. "A fair compromise, Doctor," she says smoothly. "After all, familiarity is important. Shadow has been responsive to Maria's presence during observation. If we are to study his adaptability in a more natural setting, it makes sense to begin with a handler he is already accustomed to."

It is a lie.

There is nothing natural about this setting, about this arrangement. They don't care about comfort. They don't care about how it feels.

They care about control.

And so do I.

Shadow needs me.

I need it.

If this project is to be my salvation, then I must be at the center of it. I must be the one guiding Shadow, shaping it, ensuring that the chaos within it does not destroy it the way it has destroyed every prototype before it.

Because time is running out.

The treatments do less. The exhaustion lingers longer. The weight of my own body becomes something I cannot shake, something I cannot escape.

Shadow is my cure.

And before they take it from me—before G.U.N. and the Federation rip it from the hands that made it—I will take what I need.

I will not be left behind.

"This is a waste of time," Dr. Saunders muttered, arms crossed as he leans against the wall. "You're treating it like some house pet that needs fresh air. It doesn't."

I ignore him, my fingers steadily inputting the final authorization codes. The experiment had to be allowed some autonomy eventually—if only to prove whether it could navigate the ARK on its own without constant supervision.

"Shadow needs this," Dr. Langley counters smoothly. Unlike the others, she didn't dismiss my involvement with the project as a childish indulgence. "We need to observe how it reacts to its environment beyond controlled conditions. And Maria is the logical choice to oversee that."

I glance at her briefly. Dr. Olivia Langley is one of the few scientists who advocated for giving the experiment more time outside containment, though I wasn't sure if she did it for Shadow's sake or out of genuine interest. Either way, she has been useful in convincing Grandfather and the others to approve this test.

A simple walk. Nothing more.

Just a chance to observe how it responds to a world beyond the lab.

The containment pod released a soft hiss as the locks disengage. Cold, sterile air curls from the chamber as the reinforced glass slides open.

The experiment steps forward.

It moves with precision—graceful, calculated. There is no hesitation, no startled reaction to the open space beyond its chamber. It simply exits, gaze flicking to me first, then to the door, then back again.

Not once does it look around like I expected.

No awe. No curiosity.

Nothing.

I force a smile, clapping my hands together lightly. "Alright, Shadow. Let's go for a walk."

Saunders scoffs behind me, but I ignore him, watching the experiment instead.

It observes me for a brief moment, then nods.

That is… strange.

It doesn't hesitate, doesn't need encouragement. It simply accepts the command and falls into step beside me as I turn toward the corridor.

I expect some sign of adjustment—uncertainty, an awareness that this was unfamiliar territory. But it moves too smoothly, adapting instantly to my pace, as if it had walked these halls before.

But it hasn't.

It couldn't have.

The doors slide open, revealing the pristine, sterile corridors of the ARK. Bright overhead lights gleam off metallic surfaces, casting long, sharp reflections along the walls.

"This is one of the main research wings," I said, gesturing to the secured doors lining the hall. "Most of these rooms are restricted, but this is the route you'll be allowed to use in the future."

The experiment says nothing, but its eyes flick to each door, scanning the labels, the keypads, the surveillance cameras.

That sharpness in its gaze unsettles me.

It isn't looking. It is analyzing.

I continue, trying to suppress the growing unease curling in my stomach. "Down this hall is the observation deck. You can see Earth from there."

I expect a reaction.

Even the researchers—people who had lived on the ARK for years—can't help but stop and stare whenever they passed the viewport. It is instinctual. Even animals reacted to large, open spaces.

Surely the experiment, which had never seen anything beyond its containment, would show something.

We step onto the observation deck.

The massive reinforced window stretches across the far wall, displaying the curve of the Earth in breathtaking clarity. Its vast surface glowed faintly beneath layers of swirling clouds, suspended in the endless black of space.

I turn to the experiment, watching closely.

It stares.

Expressionless.

As if the sight of an entire planet means nothing.

A cold weight settles in my chest.

"…That's Earth," I said slowly.

"Yes."

The response is immediate. Unbothered.

I frown. "It's where you were meant to go one day."

A pause. Then—

"I know."

My fingers twitch.

"…Who told you that?" I ask, my voice quieter this time.

The experiment turns to look at me, tilting its head slightly.

"You did."

I stiffen.

No.

I hadn't.

I had never told it about Earth. I had never once mentioned its purpose beyond the ARK.

But I had thought it.

During the development phase—during our link through ShadowLink.

The nausea is sudden.

I quickly suppress it, forcing a chuckle. "I don't think I did, Shadow."

It doesn't argue.

It just turns back to the viewport, gaze unreadable.

I move us along quickly after that.

The rest of the walk continues smoothly—too smoothly.

It follows every instruction perfectly. It never needs to be told anything twice. It adapts instantly to every turn, every shift in pace, every corridor.

It behaves exactly as expected.

And that's wrong.

We reach the recreational wing—a section primarily for the crew, with controlled artificial plant life. I stop by the glass panels displaying the small, cultivated greenery.

"What do you think?" I ask, expecting at least some reaction.

It looks at the plants for a long moment before answering.

"…It's controlled."

I frown. "Well, yes, it's an artificial ecosystem. But it's still—"

"They don't change," it interrupts, voice calm. "The system regulates them. They grow, but only within the designated parameters. They do not move outside of what is permitted."

Something cold slid down my spine.

I swallow. "That's… the point. It's contained."

The experiment was silent for a moment.

Then, finally—

"I see."

Nothing more.

We returned to the lab without incident, where Dr. Langley is waiting.

She raises an eyebrow. "Well?"

I hesitate.

"…Shadow behaved perfectly," I said carefully. "No hesitation. No confusion. Like it already knew everything."

Langley glanced at the experiment, who is already looking at her with that same unnerving calm.

Her lips quirked slightly. "Good."

Saunders rolled his eyes. "Told you it was a waste of time."

Langley ignored him. Instead, she addressed the experiment directly. "And what do you think, Shadow?"

There is a pause.

Then it turns to me.

And said, very carefully—

"It was nice."

I stare.

Nice.

Nice.

Not an observation. Not a calculated response.

A choice.

A preference.

The shift was subtle, almost imperceptible.

But suddenly, I'm notlooking at an experiment.

I'm looking at him.

Saunders muttered something dismissive, already walking off. Langley, however, studied me carefully.

I barely hear them.

Because for the first time, I'm not looking at a weapon.

Not a test subject. Not an asset.

But someone.

And I had no idea what that meant.

Life on the ARK follows a rigid structure. Order is everything here—every person has a role, every project a purpose. The scientists live by their schedules, their carefully monitored experiments, and their calculated results.

Shadow and I are no exception.

Every morning begins the same way. The ARK's automated systems hum to life, artificial lights brightening gradually to mimic sunrise. The illusion of a real day, though I haven't seen the sun in years.

By the time I arrive in the lab, Shadow is already awake. He doesn't sleep the way humans do—his containment pod regulates his energy levels, ensuring he remains in peak condition. He stands there, waiting, perfectly still, until someone tells him what to do.

Diagnostics come first. The reinforced glass of the observation room separates me from the test chamber as the scanners pass over him, reading his muscle activity, neural responses, and Chaos Energy fluctuations.

The scientists around me work efficiently, noting everything down, adjusting their parameters, ensuring nothing deviates from their expectations. Shadow never reacts to the examinations. He simply waits for the next command.

I listen to their assessments, but I don't always engage. My presence is expected but not required. I like it that way.

Grandfather reviews the reports, his expression unreadable as he taps his fingers against the console. I glance at him but don't speak. There's too much distance between us now. He still treats me kindly, still ruffles my hair if I pass close enough, but I can feel the weight of what he doesn't say.

Whatever treatments he changed in his attempts to cure me, he never tells me what they are. I stop asking.

Instead, I focus on Shadow.

Once the diagnostics are complete, they move on to physical testing. Shadow is still confined to the lab at this stage, so movement trials take place in a reinforced chamber. I am assigned to direct the next round of tests.

"Maria, if you're going to be its handler, you might as well lead this," Dr. Langley says, handing me the control tablet.

I step up to the observation deck, looking down at Shadow. He stands in the center of the chamber, waiting. He always waits.

"Run the course," I command.

And he does.

Perfectly.

He moves with an efficiency that makes even the most advanced simulations seem slow in comparison. The shifting obstacles don't faze him; he reads their movements, predicts the changes before they happen. He adapts without hesitation, without error.

The scientists murmur among themselves, impressed by how quickly he processes information, how naturally he maneuvers through the course.

I watch carefully, my fingers hovering over the controls.

This isn't natural.

It's too smooth. Too perfect. He doesn't stumble, doesn't pause, doesn't need a moment to process his surroundings. He moves as if he has done this a thousand times before.

But he hasn't.

That should unsettle me more than it does.

The next few hours pass in a blur of data collection. Energy output tests, Chaos Energy manipulation trials, controlled combat exercises—though the latter remains limited. The scientists are wary of letting him exert himself fully.

Shadow follows every order given to him. If I tell him to move, he moves. If I tell him to stop, he stops. If I told him to attack, he would—without hesitation.

The others are pleased by this.

I am not sure how I feel.

Later, I walk Shadow through the permitted areas of the lab. They call it an environmental test, a way to see how well he follows orders outside of strict testing conditions.

It feels more like taking a well-trained dog for a walk.

I lead. Shadow follows. His posture remains the same, his movements never straying from the expected pattern. He does not pause. He does not wander.

Yet I notice things.

His ears flick toward sounds before they happen—before the doors slide open, before someone rounds the corner. His eyes scan every corridor, reading every sign, every security checkpoint, as if memorizing their placements.

He is learning.

Not like a machine collecting data.

He is watching. Understanding.

I push the thought away.

Abraham trails behind me, lingering just out of my line of sight, his presence an irritation I choose to ignore. He mutters complaints, kicks at the metal flooring, occasionally scoffs when he thinks I'm paying attention.

I don't care.

Shadow doesn't react to him, either. He remains quiet, focused, his attention only shifting when I change course.

Eventually, we return to the main lab. Most of the scientists have left for the evening, drifting to their own routines. Some move toward the observation deck, others return to their quarters.

I stay.

I don't have to, but I do.

I sit across from Shadow in the quiet hum of the laboratory. The ARK's systems create a constant white noise, something I have long since learned to tune out.

"Did you enjoy today's tests?" I ask, half-joking.

Shadow tilts his head slightly. "It was productive."

I chuckle. "That's not what I asked."

He blinks, as if considering his response. "I do not require enjoyment."

A strange unease curls in my chest.

Abraham scoffs from the other side of the room.

I don't argue with him, but I don't push Shadow further.

Instead, I talk. Not about tests, not about orders—just talk.

And Shadow listens.

He always listens.

Eventually, the day ends. Shadow steps back into his containment pod, the systems powering down into standby mode. Grandfather lingers, reading the final reports, but says nothing. Abraham leaves without another word.

Everything follows the schedule.

Everything is orderly.

Everything is controlled.

As usual, when I arrive in the lab a few weeks later, Shadow is already awake. He doesn't sleep the way humans do—his containment pod regulates his energy levels, ensuring he remains in peak condition. He stands there, waiting, perfectly still, until someone tells him what to do.

Today, Grandfather isn't here. Another scheduled meeting with the civilian coalition, more negotiations with G.U.N. security regarding the ARK's future.

I don't know what's being discussed, but I know that when Grandfather returns from these meetings, he is quieter. I don't expect to see him until late, which means Dr. Langley is overseeing today's tests.

She's efficient, direct, with little patience for pointless bureaucracy, which I appreciate. When I enter the lab, she's already at the console, scrolling through the morning diagnostics. She barely glances up before speaking.

"Maria, you're involved in today's fitness evaluation," she says, her tone brisk.

I expect her to hand me the control tablet, but she gestures toward the training chamber instead. "Skate with Shadow today."

I pause. "You want me to—?"

"We need to test more than just speed," she continues, already moving to the next set of calculations. "We know how fast he is. We need to see how well he moves with someone else. How he matches pace, adjusts to movement outside his own control. You're the best option for that."

It makes sense. If Shadow is meant to work alongside others, his ability to synchronize with a partner is just as important as his raw speed. Still, I hesitate for a fraction of a second.

I rely on my airskates for a reason. They keep me upright, lessen the strain on my body, allow me to move freely despite my condition. I haven't pushed myself in months, haven't tested my endurance beyond the limits I already know exist. But refusing now would raise too many questions.

I nod. "Understood."

Shadow is already in the training chamber when I enter, standing in the center of the open floor, waiting. He watches as I adjust my airskates, the subtle hum of the stabilizers activating as I shift my weight forward. The motion is second nature to me. I feel weightless, movement effortless as I glide forward, the skates responding to the smallest tilt of my body.

I meet Shadow's gaze. "With me."

He nods. And then he moves, running alongside me.

It unsettles me how easily he matches my pace. At first, we start slow—simple laps around the chamber, the scientists recording his ability to maintain rhythm with another moving body. He adjusts flawlessly, his movements fluid, never out of step. I weave left, he follows. I change tempo, and he mirrors me. I stop suddenly, and he halts in perfect tandem, not a fraction of a second too soon or too late.

The murmurs behind the glass grow louder. They expect this to be a challenge for him. It isn't.

So I test him further.

I push off harder, increasing my speed, cutting sharp turns across the floor. I weave erratically, forcing him to adjust on the fly, crossing my own path in unpredictable patterns.

It doesn't shake him.

It's not that he reacts quickly—it's that he isn't reacting at all. He's anticipating. He's reading my movements before I make them, adjusting before I even shift my weight.

It feels natural.

Too natural.

Like he's done this before.

But he hasn't.

A cold weight settles in my chest. I slow my pace, forcing my breath to stay even, but I already feel the strain creeping in. My legs ache, my lungs burn, and the edges of my vision blur with familiar heaviness.

I know this feeling.

I've pushed too far.

The moment my balance wavers, Shadow moves.

Effortless. Precise.

His arm catches me, steady but never forceful. His grip shifts automatically, allowing me to recover without seizing control from me. He isn't just holding me up—he's supporting me.

A seamless adjustment, calculated but not mechanical. He makes it look natural. Like this was always part of the test. Like I was always meant to lean into him.

A well-choreographed dance, except I never taught him the steps.

I never tell him to do this.

He just does.

The scientists take notes, murmuring amongst themselves, recording reaction times, muscle engagement, neural responsiveness.

But I know better.

This isn't reaction time.

This is choice.

He is thinking.

And that can be good.

Or very, very bad.

I take a slow breath, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I'm fine."

Shadow doesn't immediately let go. He watches me for a moment longer, assessing, before finally releasing me.

Dr. Langley's voice crackles over the intercom. "That's enough for today."

I deactivate my skates, stepping off carefully. The dizziness still lingers, but I ignore it. Shadow steps back into a neutral stance, waiting for further instruction. I glance at him one last time before leaving the chamber, feeling a sense of unease settle in my chest.

The rest of the day passes in routine. Shadow undergoes further tests, mostly observational, while I sit through the review sessions. I contribute little, my mind elsewhere.

Days pass.

The tension in the labs fades—slowly, subtly, but undeniably. The guards, once stiff-backed and rigid, no longer keep their hands near their weapons whenever Shadow moves. The scientists, who used to watch him like a volatile experiment moments from spiraling out of control, now speak in tones of curiosity rather than fear.

Because he obeys.

Every command, every test—he completes them without hesitation, without complaint. No resistance, no deviation.

Even the skeptics, the ones who once whispered behind their terminals about how dangerous he could be, how he was a risk rather than an achievement, start to relax. They see him not as a looming threat, but as something predictable. Reliable.

Manageable.

And so, the restrictions loosen.

Shadow is no longer confined to the lab outside of experiments. The council of researchers, after much deliberation, grants him limited access to the ARK's hallways—strictly regulated, of course. He is still kept away from civilian sectors, from anything considered sensitive.

But for the first time since his creation, he moves freely.

It is not kindness. It is not trust.

It is a test.

A carefully controlled experiment wrapped in the illusion of leniency.

I know this. Shadow knows this.

But he does not challenge it.

He does not push boundaries. He does not stray beyond what is permitted. He moves through the ARK's corridors with the same careful precision he applies to everything else, never stepping out of line, never giving them a reason to doubt their decision.

They watch him.

They wait for a mistake.

He never makes one.

I make it a point to spend a few hours with Shadow each day.

To the others, it is a matter of research—a way to ensure that the experiment remains under control, that its responses stay within expected parameters. A handler reinforcing the protocols of obedience.

They think I do it because I must.

But I know better.

Shadow is not just a collection of programmed responses, not just a perfected prototype of controlled power. He is aware. He is thinking. He is choosing.

And if he is capable of choice, then ensuring that I am the one he chooses to listen to is in my best interest.

The scientists have already decided that I will be his primary handler. They insist it is because he responds best to me, that my presence keeps him steady, that my commands are the ones he follows most efficiently. They cite numbers and observations, explain it away as an instinctual imprinting response. A quirk of his conditioning.

What they fail to consider is why.

Shadow listens to me because I have made myself something to listen to.

Not just during tests. Not just when issuing commands.

I speak to him during quiet moments, during our walks through the ARK's hallways, when we are alone in the observation rooms between experiments. I ask him questions—not because I expect answers, but because I want to see how he processes them.

I watch his reactions. The way his ears flick subtly when certain words are spoken. The way his gaze lingers on some things longer than others. The way his posture shifts when something catches his attention.

He notices more than he lets on.

And he watches me.

Not like a soldier awaiting orders. Not like a machine awaiting input.

Like a person.

A person who is choosing to be here.

I reinforce it every day, with every interaction. If Shadow is his own being, if he is becoming something beyond what the scientists predicted, then I will ensure that his loyalties remain with me.

"What do you want to do, Shadow?"

"Whatever you want to do."

I don't press him on his answer like I want to.

The screen beside my bed blinks with an alert.

"Project Shadow: Independent Activity Logged – 0542 hours."

I stare at it, forcing myself to focus through the haze of sleep. Shadow wakes earlier now. Moves more. Explores.

I tell myself that it isn't a problem. He hasn't broken any rules, hasn't left his permitted zones, hasn't done anything that could be considered a deviation from expected behavior.

But it is a change. And changes, no matter how small, can become something more.

I sigh, rubbing my face before swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My body protests the motion, the familiar ache settling deep in my bones, but I ignore it. Sliding my feet into my airskates, I let the stabilizers activate, the gentle hum easing some of the strain. The weightlessness makes it easier to move, the pressure on my body reduced to something manageable.

I already know where he is.

I glide through the quiet corridors, past the dim glow of terminal screens and the occasional security officer who barely acknowledges my presence. The ARK never truly sleeps, but this early in the cycle, it feels like it does.

When I reach the observation deck, my suspicions are confirmed.

Shadow stands in front of the massive reinforced window, staring at the vastness of space beyond. The Earth, a blue and white jewel suspended in an infinite void, dominates the view.

He does not move when I approach, but I know he registers my presence.

"Maria." His voice is quiet, steady. An acknowledgment, nothing more.

"You're up early again." I stop beside him, my skates keeping me effortlessly balanced.

"I do not require extended sleep."

I already know that. His body doesn't function like a human's—he doesn't need rest, doesn't tire the way we do. But that's not what concerns me.

He is choosing to wake early.

He is choosing to stand here.

Before I can say anything else, he speaks again, different from the first time I took him here.

"Will I ever go down there?"

The question stops me cold.

I turn my gaze to Earth, the swirling clouds shifting over its surface, so bright against the black of space.

I know the answer I should give.

I know the reality.

Shadow has no future of his own. No destiny that belongs solely to him. The path before him has already been decided by others—by G.U.N., by Grandfather, by the expectations set before he even opened his eyes.

I hesitate.

"…Someday," I say finally, the words feeling fragile on my tongue. "I hope so."

Shadow considers this for a moment, then nods.

"Then I will wait."

The simplicity of that statement is unbearable.

I look at him—at his calm, patient expression, at the way he accepts my words without question.

What will he do when he realizes that waiting is pointless? Why is he so agreeable?

The tightness in my chest is suffocating. I push the thought away.

Breakfast is routine. Grandfather insists on keeping Shadow's schedule as human as possible—normalizing habits, reinforcing behaviors. It's a theory, one meant to keep him stable, to make his mind align with human expectations.

Shadow sits with me, a tray of untouched food before him. He does not need to eat. His body sustains itself through his own energy production, processing Chaos Energy with a near-perfect efficiency that makes biological functions obsolete.

But still, he takes a bite.

Not out of necessity.

But out of curiosity.

I study him as he moves, as he lifts the utensil, as he chews, swallows, processes the taste and texture. He does not eat because he must.

He eats because he wants to understand it.

He is learning too fast.

At first, his questions are simple, easy to dismiss.

"Why do humans value things that serve no function?"

"What is 'choice?'"

They are harmless inquiries, part of his learning process, nothing more than observations cataloged and stored away.

But the questions continue.

"What is 'beautiful?'"

"Why do humans fear what they do not understand?"

I pause.

This is not simple curiosity.

This is philosophy.

Shadow was never supposed to be asking things like this. He was designed for G.U.N., a perfected biological weapon, the culmination of Grandfather's work. He was meant to be controlled, to serve, to protect.

Not to question.

But here he is, peeling apart ideas, dissecting concepts—not because he was programmed to, but because he wants to.

He is thinking in ways that were never planned for.

I don't know what to do with that knowledge.

But I know one thing for certain.

If Shadow is free…

What will he choose?

Would he protect humanity? Would he turn against them?

Would he kill them all?

A slow, creeping horror twists in my stomach.

I force myself to push the thought away.

I will not let it come to that.

I will make sure he never has to choose between G.U.N. and the Robotniks.

I will make sure he stays mine.

The thought lingers long after breakfast, gnawing at the edges of my mind.

I need to review everything.

Every report. Every log. Every piece of data collected since the moment Shadow opened his eyes.

Something changed. Something shaped him into this—this person sitting across from me, peeling apart ideas the same way he dissects an experiment.

I need to know when it happened.

The lab hums with the steady flicker of monitors, data scrolling across the screen in quiet repetition. I have been at this for hours, combing through logs, reviewing every recorded moment of Shadow's existence. Neural activity reports, decision logs, energy readings—everything from the moment he opens his eyes to now.

And he is still here.

Standing across the room, silent, patient. Watching.

Waiting.

I know he won't speak until I do. Not out of obedience, but because he is waiting to see what I think.

I press my fingers into my temple, willing away the dull ache forming at the base of my skull. I keep reading, but I already know what I will find.

Shadow is intelligent. That was never in question.

He was designed to be.

From the very beginning, his mind has worked at an accelerated rate—processing, analyzing, adapting. He absorbs information faster than should be possible, surpassing anything a human child could ever achieve. His cognition is structured for efficiency, his neural architecture optimized for strategic thinking, problem-solving, and adaptability.

That was always the plan.

But this?

This was never planned.

Shadow isn't just intelligent.

He's aware.

Not in the way the scientists see him—as a refined machine, an obedient creation, a weapon to be tested.

No.

Shadow thinks. He reasons. He chooses.

And he understands.

It was subtle at first, things I dismissed—things I should have paid more attention to.

The way he moves through the lab, always aware of his surroundings, adjusting his position based on who is present. How he maintains distance from the scientists he dislikes while instinctively placing himself near me or Grandfather.

The way his posture shifts in the presence of G.U.N. officers—rigid, controlled, like he knows what they expect him to be.

The way his ears flick toward doors before they open, preparing himself before anyone enters, always attuned to his environment in ways no one has explicitly taught him.

No one needed to.

Then there's his speech.

Too fluent. Too structured. No awkward pauses, no stumbling over unfamiliar words. His vocabulary is expansive, his syntax perfect.

He speaks like someone who has been speaking for years.

And, most unsettlingly, he chooses when to speak.

If he were just a well-trained soldier, he would speak when spoken to. He would answer questions, follow orders, respond in ways that align with his programming.

But Shadow doesn't do that.

He listens. He watches. He thinks.

And only when he deems it necessary—only when it matters—does he speak.

Not a soldier awaiting orders. Not a machine responding to input.

A person deciding what is worth saying.

A person deciding who is worth speaking to.

My fingers twitch slightly against the console.

I exhale, forcing myself to keep scrolling. The deeper I go, the more undeniable it becomes.

He isn't reacting to the world. He is reading it.

Adapting.

Hiding what he knows.

And then there's the shoes.

We give him gloves and shoes early on—partly for protection, partly for presentation. His claws are sharp, longer than we expect, capable of cutting through metal plating if he isn't careful. Grandfather insists we cover them, and Shadow never questions it.

But I see him flex his fingers when he thinks no one is watching. I see him roll his gloved hands, adjusting his stance, compensating for the difference in sensation.

He knows why we give them to him.

And he never asks to take them off.

Not because he accepts them.

But because he understands why.

Because he knows that keeping them on makes him less threatening.

Because he knows that, as long as he plays by their rules, they will continue letting him exist.

A deep unease settles in my chest.

Shadow is only a few weeks old. Physically, he could be compared to a teenager, but mentally?

I expect to teach him. To walk him through the basics, to guide his development like I would any other newly emerging intelligence.

But he doesn't need to be taught.

When I test him—just to gauge his understanding—he solves complex problems in seconds. He completes logic puzzles instantly, without hesitation, without the trial-and-error approach that even experienced minds require.

And when I attempt to explain something simple, just to see how he processes new information—

He looks at me.

With amusement.

Not smugness. Not the arrogance of a machine surpassing expectations.

It is the look of a teacher watching a slow student struggle with something obvious.

The kind of look I used to give soldiers when they failed to grasp the fundamentals of strategy.

And it chills me.

Because that should not be possible.

So how?

How does he develop this quickly?

Is it in his genetic sequencing? Has Grandfather done something more than he admits? Have his neural pathways been preloaded with something beyond problem-solving algorithms?

Or…

The answer makes my stomach twist.

The ShadowLink.

My breath catches.

During his development, there are moments. Flashes of connection. Understanding.

When we link through Chaos Energy, our minds touch. Briefly, incompletely. But it did.

Has something transferred?

Have I—

I swallow hard, my fingers gripping the console.

It would explain everything.

His accelerated learning. His speech. His instincts.

Shadow is only weeks old. But if he absorbed my thoughts, my understanding of the world—

Of course he wouldn't think like a child.

Of course he wouldn't need to be taught the basics.

Of course he would already know.

A cold weight settles in my chest.

I take a slow breath.

This is… unexpected.

But it's not bad.

If anything, it's good.

It means I don't have to waste time treating him like something still developing.

We can move forward as equals.

I exhale, tension leaving my shoulders as I close the last report.

This is good.

This means we are further along than I anticipate.

It means Shadow isn't just a project anymore.

He is—

I hesitate.

He is someone.

I lean back, rubbing at my temples, exhaustion creeping in.

I need to stop.

I need to process all of this.

My gaze drifts toward Shadow, still standing where he was before, watching me with that unreadable expression of his.

His crimson eyes meet mine, unwavering.

He is someone.

And that, more than anything, changes everything. But why does he listen so much?

If he is this intelligent, this self-aware—why does he stay?

With his power, with his abilities, he could leave whenever he wanted. The security measures keeping him contained are only effective because he allows them to be. No one on the ARK could truly stop him. Even with the inhibitor rings on his limbs, the power he holds already outmatches what the Biolizard was capable of when it first awoke.

And yet, he remains.

He listens.

He waits.

I recall now how his attention snaps to me the moment I enter a room, even if he is engaged in something else. It doesn't matter who else is speaking, what orders are given—unless I am the one speaking. The other scientists, the guards, even Grandfather—he barely acknowledges them.

His entire being centers around me.

My throat tightens.

I press my hand against the edge of the console, fingers curling against the smooth surface as I force myself to breathe. The lab is quiet except for the low hum of the machines, the soft flickering of the monitors in the dim light.

Shadow is still standing across the room, his presence unwavering, waiting—for what?

For me to tell him what to do?

For me to acknowledge him?

Something isn't right.

This isn't natural.

This isn't loyalty.

A cold, clawing nausea grips my stomach as a memory uncoils from the depths of my mind, rising like a ghost I have spent two lifetimes trying to forget.

I remember the Type 95.

The weight of it around my neck, the gold cross gleaming in the flickering candlelight. The unnatural heat that seeps into my skin whenever I activate it, the sickening pull of divine energy thrumming through my veins, forcing me to speak words I never wanted to say— "O Lord, into Thy hands I commend my spirit."

The way my lips move against my will, my body bending to a force I cannot control, my mind shackled by something I cannot resist.

I remember the certainty, the absolute knowledge that I am no longer my own person.

That I am something else's.

Bound.

Enslaved.

My breath comes faster now, too shallow, too sharp. My hands shake. My vision blurs.

I had thought Shadow's loyalty was natural.

But it's not.

It's programming.

I…

What do you want to do, Shadow?

Whatever you want to do.

I brainwashed him.

Just like Being X did to me.

A dry, choked sound escapes my throat. I barely recognize it as my own.

No.

No, no, no—

I push away from the console too fast, the world tilting as bile rises, sharp and acidic, in my throat. My stomach knots, my pulse pounds in my ears, and my breath comes too shallow, too fast—

"Maria?"

Shadow's voice cuts through the fog. Soft. Steady. Concerned.

I flinch.

He moves instantly, closing the space between us in a fraction of a second.

Strong hands catch my shoulders before I can collapse.

And just like that—it's happening again.

I see myself, small and frail, wrapped in military fatigues that never quite fit my body, clutching a rifle far too large for my thin hands.

I see the battlefield, the sky burning with fire and chaos, the golden light of forced divinity searing the air around me.

I see the cross.

I hear my own voice, distorted and hollow, as the Type 95 forces the prayer past my lips— "Grant me victory, O Lord, that I may smite mine enemies in Thy name—"

I jerk away from Shadow's grip, stumbling back with a strangled gasp.

His ears flick back slightly, his expression unreadable, but watching, always watching.

"Maria, what's wrong?"

He doesn't know.

Of course, he doesn't.

Because I made him this way.

I stumble back, bile thick in my throat. My vision swims. My lungs can't pull in enough air.

I can't be here.

I can't do this.

Shadow reaches for me again—slow, careful. His movements are deliberate, uncertain, and yet instinctual.

Instinct. Concern.

Devotion.

I run.

I don't look back.

Because if I do—

I might see myself.

Not as Maria Robotnik.

Not as the dying girl trying to outmaneuver fate.

But as the thing I hate most in the universe.

I spend the next few days locked in my room, combing through every file, every log, every shred of data I have on Shadow. I dissect the experiments, the reports, the records of every interaction, every test—everything.

I search for something—anything—that will tell me I'm wrong.

But I'm not.

The truth is undeniable.

Shadow is not free.

And it's my fault.

The sickness coils in my stomach as I stare at the data flashing across the screen. It would be easier—so much easier—if I could tell myself this was an accident. That I had no part in this. That Grandfather and the other scientists had done this, that this was just a consequence of the project.

But I chose this.

I shaped him.

Not out of malice. Not out of some grand scheme to create the perfect soldier.

I did it because it was the practical thing to do.

I wanted him to be stable. To be mine.

I never questioned why he listened to me so intently, why he adjusted his movements to match mine, why he always waited for me before making a decision. I let myself believe it was just a natural bond. That I was simply the first person he had ever known, and of course, that meant he would be loyal to me.

But no.

It wasn't just imprinting.

It wasn't natural.

I made him this way.

I press a trembling hand against my forehead, trying to steady my breath, but the nausea rises too quickly, the weight of realization pressing into my chest like a crushing vice.

There is no code to rewrite. No neat lines of programming to edit, no system I can simply override.

Shadow was not created like a machine.

He was conditioned.

And the worst part is—I see exactly how I did it.

I open the reports on his early development, scanning the long hours of data collected while he slept.

Voice imprints. Subconscious conditioning.

The scientists spoke to him in those early days, feeding him knowledge, guiding his mind while it was still forming.

But then—there are my own recordings.

My voice.

My words.

Whispers of reassurance. Instructions.

I was there with him, speaking softly while his mind was still taking shape. Every thought, every instinct, every decision was carefully nurtured before he had the chance to become anything on his own.

And then—

The ShadowLink.

I freeze. My hands tighten over the console, my breath catching.

Neural synchronization. Linked consciousness. Shared cognition.

I remember those nights.

The nights when I let our minds meld, when I reached out through Chaos Energy and touched something beyond myself, beyond him. When I felt the strange pull of two minds overlapping, thought bleeding into thought, the boundary between self and other blurring just for an instant.

I thought I had only observed him.

But no.

Something happened.

Shadow didn't just inherit knowledge.

He inherited me.

His logic, his instincts, his very perception of the world—it all orbits me.

I am his constant.

His metric for everything.

His guiding force.

It's why he follows my pace when we walk.

Why he watches me for cues on how to react.

Why his thoughts always return to me, no matter how much he learns.

Because he has never been given another path.

His mind was never left to wander. Never given the chance to explore outside of the framework that was built around me.

He has never had another option.

And the realization makes me sick.

I push away from the console too fast, the motion making my vision swim. My body feels weak, my stomach twisting violently, the weight of what I have done pressing down on me like a vice.

This was my choice.

No one forced me to do this.

No divine hand reached down and dictated that Shadow would be made in my image.

I did this.

With my own hands.

With my own thoughts.

With my own decisions.

And now, I cannot undo it.

I stumble toward the wall, bracing myself against the cold metal. My airskates adjust automatically to keep me upright as the nausea claws its way up my throat.

I thought I was different from Being X.

That I had made something better.

That I was better.

But no.

I have done exactly what was done to me.

I have shackled someone's existence to my own.

I made Shadow into something that needs me.

And I don't know if I can ever fix it.

The problem is clear.

But how do I fix it?

I cannot erase myself from his mind.

This is not something digital. There is no program to rewrite, no data to wipe clean, no command to undo what has already been done.

Shadow is not a machine.

He is alive.

And yet, he has never chosen anything for himself.

Every thought, every instinct, every decision—all of it—orbits me. Every pathway in his mind leads back to me. Every ripple in his consciousness is a reflection of my own.

If I remove myself from his mind… what will be left?

Who is Shadow, without me?

Would he collapse into nothing? Would he drift, untethered, lost, empty?

Would he even survive?

A sharp pain twists in my gut, nausea curling tight and unforgiving.

This is my fault.

I chose this.

And only now do I understand what I have done.

I don't care about my cure anymore.

I want it. I want it more than I can admit.

I want to live.

The ache in my bones, the weakness that drags at my body, the weight of knowing my time is running out—I want to be free of it.

But not like this.

Not at the cost of his freedom.

Not at the cost of him.

If I let this continue, if I do nothing, then Shadow will remain mine. My cure, my creation, my loyal, unshakable constant.

He will never leave.

Never choose anything for himself.

Because I will always be the center of his world.

And that is wrong.

I need to let him go.

So I return to the lab in secret.

The corridors are silent this late in the cycle, the usual hum of activity reduced to only the soft beeping of security terminals and the occasional quiet murmur of a passing researcher.

I do not speak to anyone.

No one stops me.

I know where to go.

Shadow's containment chamber is still, bathed in soft blue light. He rests in suspension, his body calm, his mind distant. The machines hum steadily, monitoring his vitals, recording every fluctuation, every micro-adjustment of his state.

To the scientists, he is simply asleep.

But I know better.

I step closer.

The glass hums faintly under my fingertips as I press my hands against it, my breath shallow, my heart hammering in my chest.

I reach out.

Not physically.

With the link.

The ShadowLink.

The moment our minds touch, the connection is instant—familiar, but no longer just a passive drift of emotions and subconscious impressions.

This time, he reaches back.

A presence presses against my thoughts—his presence. It is no longer the faint echoes of feelings I once brushed against in his earliest days, no longer the subconscious pull of a mind still forming.

This is Shadow.

And he is aware.

I feel him. His thoughts. His mind.

Not just fragments.

Not just instinct.

His consciousness brushes against mine like fingertips grazing skin—deliberate, questioning, reaching.

There is no confusion.

No hesitation.

He knows I am here.

And for the first time, I hear him in my thoughts—not spoken aloud, not filtered through the limitations of voice, but as raw intent.

A whisper that is not sound but understanding.

Maria?

Now he is touching my mind as surely as I am touching his.

I force myself to focus, to push through the storm in my chest.

This time, I do not feed him knowledge.

I do not tell him who he is.

I do not shape his thoughts.

This time, I open the door.

A whisper in the dark—

    You do not have to follow me.

A fracture in the foundation—

    You can decide for yourself.

A truth he was never given—

    You are more than what we made you.

A choice, simple and unshackled—

    Who do you want to be, Shadow?

For a moment, there is silence.

Then, something shifts.

The connection deepens.

Thoughts spill into my mind—not my own, but his. Not fully formed words, not structured sentences, but ideas, emotions, questions—

The pull of gravity. The weight of existence. The search for meaning. The need for purpose.

And beneath it all, something quieter, something human.

A simple, unspoken question, laced with something I can only describe as uncertainty.

If not you… then who?

A tremor runs through me.

He isn't rejecting my words. He isn't resisting the choice I've given him.

But he doesn't understand it.

Because there has never been anything but me.

I feel his thoughts shift, turning inward, searching, questioning himself.

The first step toward something new.

And then—

The connection tightens.

Not from me.

From him.

A pull, insistent, firm. A hand reaching through the door I have opened.

I gasp. My knees buckle, and the only thing keeping me upright is the pressure of his mind against mine, the strength of the bond trying to pull me back in.

Shadow doesn't want me to leave.

I feel it—his intent, his certainty. Not an order, not a demand. But a need.

He doesn't want to lose me.

I feel him searching—searching for something to hold onto, for a way to keep the connection, to keep me.

If I stay—if I let him pull me deeper—I could feel what he feels. I could see the world through his mind.

And he could see through mine.

My sickness.

My pain.

He could help me.

The Chaos Energy thrumming through him, the perfect, undying power crafted into his being—he could be my cure.

I want it.

I want it so badly I can taste it. The thought of waking up one day and not hurting. The thought of standing without my airskates, without my body screaming at me to stop.

The thought of living.

I could reach out.

I could take it.

But no.

Not like this.

Not like this.

I clench my jaw, force my mind to pull back. The bond resists, trying to close around me, but I shove hard, shutting down the helmet, cutting the connection abruptly.

The air in the lab feels wrong when I step back—too thin, too heavy. My body shakes, my breath ragged.

Shadow doesn't wake immediately.

His vitals remain unchanged. His breathing stays steady. His body does not stir.

But something is different.

I feel it.

A shift. A tremor beneath the surface.

The first crack in the chains that bound him.

Is he still bound to me?

Or has he finally begun to step beyond my Shadow?

The unknown is terrifying.

I have never feared death.

But this?

This is different.

I have freed him.

But what will the Ultimate Lifeform do with that freedom?

Will he still choose to stay?

And if he doesn't—

Who will stop him?

CLASSIFIED REPORT

To: G.U.N. High Command

From: Dr. Olivia Langley, Senior Researcher – Project Shadow Oversight

Date: [REDACTED]

Subject: Behavioral Assessment – Project Shadow & Maria Robotnik

[h3]Executive Summary[/h3]

Project Shadow continues to meet and exceed expectations in physical aptitude, energy manipulation, and adaptive learning. However, persistent anomalies in its behavioral patterns raise concerns regarding its long-term viability as a controlled asset. The most significant variable appears to be its attachment to Maria Robotnik. While initially deemed useful in establishing a baseline for social interaction and stability, this bond may now be a liability.

There is a growing concern that Shadow is not performing at full capability. Despite its near-perfect success in trial runs, there is a clear and deliberate restraint in its actions. Under stress, Shadow pushes itself further—suggesting that its full potential is still being withheld. The source of this limitation appears to be linked, at least in part, to Maria Robotnik's continued involvement.

[h3]Observational Findings[/h3]

[h4]1. Controlled Suppression of Power Output[/h4]

Project Shadow has demonstrated extreme adaptability in controlled tests, but there is a notable discrepancy between projected capability and actual field performance. Several observations indicate it is deliberately moderating its own power levels in ways that do not align with optimal efficiency.

• Chaos Energy Regulation: While highly stable, the subject rarely exerts itself to full capacity unless external stressors are applied. When pressed, energy output temporarily spikes beyond recorded baselines before quickly returning to a regulated state.
• Combat Testing: The subject reacts appropriately to stimuli but often avoids optimal attack vectors when unnecessary force would be the most efficient option.
• Environmental Adaptation: The subject navigates obstacles effortlessly but has yet to exhibit its full reactive potential unless given explicit instruction. It is assessing, holding back, waiting.

This suggests that Shadow is aware of its own potential—and more critically, that it is choosing to limit itself.

[h4]2. Psychological Dependence on Maria Robotnik[/h4]

Maria Robotnik, while a non-essential figure in Project Shadow's core research, has maintained close and consistent proximity to the subject. This relationship, while initially beneficial in acclimating the experiment to human interaction, has led to unintended behavioral conditioning.

Notable concerns:

• Shadow demonstrates an unusual deference to Maria's presence, even in controlled environments.
• The subject exhibits subtle but measurable physical reactions to Maria's condition—adjusting its behavior when she appears fatigued, ill, or distressed.
• It responds to her commands with greater efficiency than those given by any other researcher, including Professor Robotnik himself.

This level of attachment is an issue. Not only does it present an unpredictable variable in Shadow's decision-making, but it also risks undermining G.U.N.'s control. If the subject's performance fluctuates based on Maria's health and presence, then the Federation must consider the potential consequences of her inevitable decline.

[h3]Risk Assessment[/h3]

Shadow's current limitations appear to be self-imposed, and stress factors influence its willingness to push beyond them. Maria Robotnik's continued involvement may be a double-edged sword—while she serves as a catalyst for engagement, she is also a crutch, a factor that may ultimately restrict Shadow's full potential.

Further concerns:

• What happens when Maria is no longer present? There is no clear data on how Shadow will react to loss. If it internalizes her absence as a failure state, it could lead to unpredictable outcomes.
• Does Shadow require a different motivator? If stress enhances performance, we must consider alternative ways to encourage full utilization of its abilities.
• Is Maria truly necessary? If her presence is reinforcing behavioral restraint, then removing her from the equation—either through reassignment or other means—could lead to more productive results.

[h3]Recommendations & Actionable Steps[/h3]

1. Increase Psychological Pressure on Subject Shadow – Controlled exposure to new stressors may force the subject to surpass current self-imposed limits.
2. Gradual Reduction of Maria Robotnik's Involvement – Wean the subject off its reliance on Maria's presence to gauge reaction and potential detachment.
3. Potential Reassignment of Maria Robotnik – If results show improvement in Shadow's performance following her absence, consider long-term removal.
4. Evaluation of Replacement Figures – Test whether the subject can be conditioned to respond similarly to another handler more aligned with G.U.N. interests.

[h3]Final Conclusion[/h3]

Project Shadow remains an asset with unparalleled potential. However, it is not reaching its full capacity, and the primary factor influencing this suppression appears to be Maria Robotnik. While her presence has played a role in stabilizing early development, it may now serve as a limiting force rather than an enabling one. If we wish to ensure full control over the project, we must be willing to consider whether her continued survival is truly in G.U.N.'s best interests.

Dr. Olivia Langley

Senior Researcher – Project Shadow Oversight

End Report.

Abraham's Journal

ARK Station – Private Log

Maria doesn't wanna play with me anymore.

She used to! We used to skate together all the time. Even when she was really tired, she'd still make time for me. We'd talk about space, and Earth, and how one day we were gonna go see it together.

But now she's always in the lab.

With him.

I don't like him. He's mean. He doesn't talk to anyone unless Maria's around, and when he does talk, it's all quiet and weird. He looks at people like he's deciding if they're worth paying attention to.

He doesn't think I am.

Maria used to.

I saw them today. Maria and him. They were walking in the halls, just talking like they were best friends. Maria was smiling. She was happy.

But not with me.

I asked her if she wanted to skate later, and she said, "Maybe tomorrow."

She used to always say yes.

I waited all day.

Tomorrow never came.

The scientists were talking about him today. About how he only tries hard when Maria's watching. They said he's holding back.

Why would he do that?

I don't get it. If he's so strong, why doesn't he show it?

Maybe they're right. Maybe they should pick someone else for him to listen to. Someone who won't let him be lazy.

Someone better.

I tried to talk to Maria today.

I told her I missed her.

She just smiled and said, "I know, Abby. I'm sorry."

Then she left.

She always leaves.

She doesn't have time for me anymore.

She used to.

Maria sneaks out at night.

I saw her.

I woke up because I had a bad dream. I was gonna go to her room, like I used to when I was little, but she wasn't there.

I thought maybe she was in the lab, but when I looked out the window, I saw her. She was in the halls, moving real quiet, like she didn't want anyone to see. She went toward the restricted labs.

I know she's not supposed to go there alone.

She never sneaks out to see me.

So I told Mom.

She frowned and asked if I was sure. I said yes. She got real quiet for a second, then told me to go back to bed.

I don't think she went back to sleep, though.

Next morning, Maria looked tired, but she still smiled at me, like nothing happened.

She doesn't know I saw.

But I did.

And so did Mom.

AN: Time marches on. 

Chapter Text

AN: Wonder what your thoughts are on more Sidestory, more Apocrypha, or more Threadmarks... 🤔

[h3]Severance[/h3]

I don't return to the lab for days.

Instead, I bury myself in work—isolating, retreating, locking myself away in the safety of my research. I tell myself it's necessary. That I need time. That I need distance.

That I need to destroy the thing that nearly undid everything.

The ShadowLink.

The neural synchronization system I created—the bridge that tied his mind to mine, that ensured his thoughts revolved around me before I even realized what I had done.

I should have destroyed it the moment I understood what it was. But I didn't.

Because some part of me—a selfish, desperate part—was afraid. Afraid of what Shadow would become without it. Afraid that if I severed the last tether between us, he would drift beyond my reach entirely.

But I can't allow myself to be that weak.

So I force my hands to move. I sit at my desk, pull up the ShadowLink's interface, and begin the process of dismantling it—piece by piece, line by line, unraveling the intricate system I built with my own hands.

The screen flickers in the dim light of my room, filled with cascading strings of data—my own work, staring back at me, defying me.

I hesitate.

For just a moment.

Then, with a sharp breath, I press the final command.

The system collapses. The files disintegrate. The code I spent months perfecting erases itself from existence in seconds.

There's no undoing it.

I sit back in my chair, my hands shaking, my breath unsteady.

It's gone.

For the first time since his creation, Shadow is free.

I send Grandfather a message that evening.

"I won't be in the lab for a few days. Someone else will need to oversee Shadow's handling."

He doesn't question it. He doesn't press. He simply acknowledges my absence with the same detached professionalism he gives to everything that isn't immediate scientific necessity.

Good.

That means I don't have to explain myself.

That means I don't have to put into words the sickness curling in my stomach, the quiet horror twisting in my gut every time I think about what I did to him.

I don't step foot into the main lab.

I don't check the reports.

I don't even access the live feeds.

I tell myself that Shadow will adjust. That without ShadowLink, he will begin to define himself. That, given enough time, he will find his own footing, his own thoughts, his own purpose.

And when I return, he will be the same—no, better.

That's what I tell myself.

When I finally step back into the lab, I expect things to be normal.

They aren't.

The moment I walk through the doors, I feel the shift in the air. It's subtle, almost imperceptible—just a faint tension in the room, a quiet undercurrent of something being off.

The scientists move about their workstations with their usual precision, but they seem more focused, more deliberate. The murmured conversations between them are softer than usual, their glances more frequent.

And Shadow—

I don't see him immediately.

I hesitate near the entrance, scanning the room, bracing myself for—

There.

He stands near one of the observation terminals, still as stone, his posture composed but unnervingly vacant.

Not indifferent. Not detached.

Just adrift.

I frown.

One of the researchers speaks to him—Saunders, I think, his voice carrying over the quiet hum of machinery. Shadow responds, but his tone is muted, his words precise and empty.

There is something unnatural about the way he carries himself now. Something is wrong.

Before, he had been controlled but present. Even under G.U.N.'s suffocating watch, he had purpose. Direction.

Now…

Now he moves like a being that has lost the understanding of what it is supposed to be.

A slow, creeping sickness curls in my stomach.

I take a step forward.

And then he sees me.

His head turns sharply, eyes locking onto mine with a suddenness that sends a shiver through me.

I expect recognition. Relief. Something resembling familiarity.

Instead, for a fraction of a second—

He looks confused.

It is a subtle thing, almost imperceptible. A hesitation in his otherwise perfect stillness. A flicker of something in his eyes, like a machine running an equation that no longer balances.

And then—

It's gone.

His expression smooths over, the confusion erased so quickly I almost doubt I saw it at all. His shoulders straighten, his posture shifts—and suddenly, he is moving toward me.

Not quickly. Not urgently.

But with purpose.

Like a puzzle piece snapping into place. Like something that was momentarily lost suddenly remembering where it belongs.

Like he was wandering blind, and my presence has corrected the error.

I feel my breath hitch.

The sickness rises again.

I force my hands to remain steady at my sides as he approaches, stopping just short of me, close enough that I can see the faint glow of the containment rings on his wrists.

His voice, when he speaks, is calm. Measured.

But there is something beneath it. Something I don't want to name.

"…Maria, welcome back."