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The boy was born in the village of Frost.
It was a small human settlement. A rare occurrence out here in the galaxy, or so he was told. The boy had never set foot outside the village of their gracious benefactors, on their little planet of ice and snow. Once in a while, their gracious benefactors would bring in new juvenile humans, shaped like himself. They’d carry them down from the sky above.
The boy was not brought from the sky above, he was born from a male and a female, through a living womb, which made him quite special indeed. On the day of his birth, their benefactors came to bless the village. They claimed him as their own, putting a star in each of his eyes. The people of the village were to raise him with care. They would give him nutritious food, make him beautiful clothings, and teach him how to dance and sing, so that one day, he’d become worthy of becoming the pet of their benefactors.
The humans could not speak the language of their benefactors. It was not a sound their throat could reproduce, or something their ears were equipped to capture. Yet, when the shining figures touched the boy, the boy could understand them. Through his time living with his benefactors, he began to pick up their language and its meaning, little by little. Their names roughly translated to the small cold flakes that covered their land, Snow and White.
They called him Figaro, picking syllables that sounded pleasant out of their shared vocal range. The name sounded like droplets of meltwater through their alien tongue. He repeated it with his clumsy human tongue, and watched as his masters laughed in delight, spinning around him hand in hand. Pride bloomed in his chest then. He was to fulfill his purpose.
Now we’re family, said one of his masters, cold smooth hand against Figaro’s cheek. Back then, Figaro could not tell which one it was.
Now you’re ours, said the other, scooping Figaro up in its many arms, spinning him around and hugging him tight.
His master’s embrace was cold, yet, Figaro felt warmth bloom in his chest.
His masters’ manor was much colder than his village, when they noticed him shivering, they adjusted the temperature of his room. During the day, he’d take singing and dancing lessons from his masters, or the human instructors they brought over.
When they were teaching him, it was easy to tell which one of them was which. Snow had a shorter temper, and doled out punishment more often, but he was also easier to read. Once Figaro learned to read its moods, it became easier to meet its expectations. White was gentler and more methodical in its teachings, but was quicker to point out Figaro’s mistakes, and harsher in its punishments when it did happen. When Figaro did well, however, both of them would clap their hands in delight, and twirl around him in circles, making the air around Figaro glitter like ice crystals. In those moments, Figaro felt happy, happy enough to forget missing the village which he grew up in, forget his former human caretakers.
Each evening, the three of them would sit together for dinner.
The food which his masters prepared often tasted bitter and strange, perhaps it was because they had a different sense of taste from the humans at the village. It took Figaro a bit to get used to it. He enjoyed the act of eating together, because that’s what families did together at the village, and now, he finally had a family of his own. In time, he grew to appreciate the taste of bitterness. There they would watch Alien Stage together, watch as beautiful humans like himself sing, dance, laugh.
You’ll win this for us one day, Snow told him. You’ll be our brightest little star.
Dearest Figaro, we have a surprise for you! White said one day.
You seem lonely, so we brought you a little friend. Snow said.
Figaro grimaced. The last time his masters brought him a friend, it turned out to be an AI. In its forgetfulness, Snow accidentally overrode it while doing a system update. Figaro didn’t know how to explain, in his limited human vocabulary, why it made him so upset when they tried to present him with an upgraded one. In truth, tho, he didn’t quite understand it himself. But the idea of being introduced to a new friend by his masters made him feel ill, like failing a test.
The “little friend” they presented appeared to be human, a bit younger than Figaro himself. He looked a bit skinny and malnourished, but his brilliant red eyes glared with an intensity. He didn’t… look artificial… He was wearing a training collar (which was odd, because they weren’t in training right now), and you wouldn’t need that for a robot.
This is Oz, we picked him up from a facility that was shut down. All the other children got euthanized, but this little one somehow got left out. Imagine our surprise when our people found him when we went to seize the facility.
Apparently he was a special project of the director, he wasn’t really raised with any of the other children. It seems like he never learned how to speak. He understands a few commands, and that’s it.
We don’t think he’d be able to fit in at the village, so we brought him home! We hope the two of you can get along!
Figaro frowned. He didn’t want a friend he couldn’t speak to. The AI they made for him was smart and friendly, like the people of the village he grew up in. He’d much rather have that than a human child who only glared. Despite his reluctance, Figaro reached out for the other child’s hand, the way his masters did with him.
Oz bit him.
At dinner, Oz reached for the food directly with his hands, without waiting for permission to start. Their masters chided him for it, but he didn’t seem to understand. The collar buzzed painfully. Oz snarled then, trying to pull it off.
“Don’t.” Figaro moved over, and pulled Oz’s hand away. Some of the current travelled to him, but he was used to this from training. He quickly smacked both of Oz’s hand in warning, before guiding them to the utensils on the table. Then, he pulled his hands away before Oz could bite him again.
“Watch,” he said, pointing at himself, before picking up his own utensils and using it to cut his food, then, slowly, he brings a piece to his mouth.
Oz stared at him, stared at his food, then at his hands on his utensils. He dropped them and reached for the food with his hands again.
Figaro smacked Oz’s hands again. The child shot him a poisonous glare.
Ignoring it, Figaro stood behind Oz and took both the child’s hands into his own, forcing them to use the utensils properly. Instead of biting down on the food on the fork, however, Oz head-butted Figaro on the chin. When Figaro let go, he turned and stabbed the fork towards Figaro’s face, right into Figaro’s blocking hand.
Having never been treated so roughly, Figaro was aghast. Oz’s training collar buzzed dangerously, punishing Figaro, who was in contact with Oz, as well.
Quickly, their masters separated them. White scooped Figaro into its arm while Oz writhed on the ground, shock current passing through his small body.
As Figaro watched the human thing struggle with its training collar, making incomprehensible snarls like a wild animal instead of pleas or apologies, while White tended to his injured hand, he couldn’t stop tears from welling in his eyes.
It wasn’t for the pain in his hand.
“I think you should euthanize it,” Figaro said, after the three of them put Oz to bed.
He had never seen his masters so displeased.
You’re such a cold child, isn’t he your own kind?
Does Figaro not like the gift we bring him?
And just as we were about to praise you for doing so well with him during dinner.
Was it because he injured you? He doesn’t know any better, you know?
Ungrateful child.
Cruel child.
We ought to punish you.
Figaro frowned. As he got older, he had began to question the judgment of his masters. The threat of punishment no longer deterred him the way it used to once he learned how unreasonable they could be.
“It’s more cruel to keep it like this, we can’t even communicate with it. What is so special about this thing compared to the other children from its facility?”
When Figaro was raised by his human caretakers, they had taught him how to behave in order to be worthy of becoming their benefactors’ pet. By the time his masters came for him, they had made sure that he was perfect. He could sing and dance. He knew how to seek affection and respond to discipline. He was well-suited for his role, the way Oz was not.
So what made Oz worthy of receiving the same treatment as him?
Figaro knew that if he had said all that in his human tongue, his masters would not understand.
His masters looked to one another.
Tomorrow, you will see, White said. While Figaro still couldn’t read their faces, White's touch seemed to convey a smile and a sense of secrecy. We thought you did a good job with him at dinner today. You are far more patient than Snow and I.
It will do both of you good to spend more time with each other. You might even be able to teach him some manners.
We believe in our Figaro dearest, don’t we, Snow?
When Figaro saw Oz sing and dance, he understood.
He didn’t know if Oz could understand what it was singing, but the thing was able to reproduce the sounds and movement of the performance he was shown almost perfectly, even the mistakes.
This thing was going to be the one who wins Alien Stage for his masters. This thing would become their shining star. And Figaro was—
They trained them together at first, and then sometimes separately, once Oz had caught up to Figaro’s progress.
Figaro would go with Snow, and Oz would go with White.
Oz was able to imitate any performance perfectly, but it could never surpass them, because there was no heart to it. It didn’t understand what it was singing, couldn’t comprehend the love or fear or desperation in each step.
At dinner, Figaro finally managed to wrangle some manners into the little beast.
More and more often, their masters would simply leave them alone for “play time”. Figaro suspected it was because they had nothing left to teach them. Figaro had reached the limit of his talent, and Oz was already perfect. All it needed left to develop was a heart.
Oz, for its part, had finally begun to follow Figaro’s instructions. It listened to him more than it did with their masters. Which was just as well. Figaro could translate their masters’ whims into clear instructions, and made sure they were always fed and warm. He was around long enough to understand their masters’ forgetfulness, and no longer waited quietly to be provided for. But Oz’s attachment was a bit troubling, he was meant to be their masters’ pets, not Figaro’s.
On one hand, as long as Oz was more attached to him, their masters were less likely to completely replace Figaro. On the other hand, it meant that if their masters were to get rid of Figaro, then nobody would be able to properly fulfill his purpose. That thought, somehow, felt worse than being replaced.
At night, when Oz curled up against him for warmth, Figaro sometimes wondered what would happen if he were to wrap his hands around Oz’s throat and squeeze. He’d seen a contestant do that on Alien Stage. The opponent became unable to make any noise until the first one was gunned down. He tried it on himself once, and understood that it produced a choking sensation. He instinctively realized that he could kill himself like that, if he squeezed for long enough. He could kill Oz the same way while Oz was sleeping, he thought. And then he wouldn’t be replaced.
Snow and White would punish him. But they wouldn’t get rid of him. Because they needed a pet, and they needed someone to win Alien Stage for them. His position was significant, important. His caretakers at the village had said so. He was the most important human of them all.
He would be their only pet again. He would be alone. And he would still be a failure.
Oz curled against itself tighter in its sleep, and grabbed blindly onto Figaro’s nightshirt.
“You should listen to our masters more, you know?” Figaro said, while brushing a comb through Oz’s hair. The black locks had grown long and unruly, because Oz would not let them cut it. Which was just as well, for their masters became quite pleased with it when one day, Figaro had gathered the tangled mess, brushed it smooth, and styled it in a ponytail.
“One day, you'll be replacing me. You have to learn to listen to instructions and communicate your needs. I won’t always be doing it for you.”
Oz swirled its head back so fast it ruined the bow which Figaro was making with the ribbon.
“I will not replace you,” it said, words clear and slow.
Figaro blinked. Oz’s speaking voice sounded different from its singing voice.
“You can speak,” Figaro said.
“I will not replace you,” Oz repeated.
“But you will,” Figaro said, “because you can sing better, so you’ll be able to win Alien Stage, and then they will have no more use for me. They’re only keeping me around because you do not yet have a heart, and they think I can help make you one.”
“So they will get rid of you when I have a heart?” Oz frowned, “What is a heart?”
“A heart is…” Figaro placed one hand on his own chest, on the other on Oz’s. Whenever Figaro touched him, it was like he was trying to communicate something to Oz, but Oz could not understand it, for Figaro was not like their masters, his touches were only that, touches. “It is difficult to explain to someone who doesn’t have it. But… when good things happen, when you are happy, it feels warm.”
“You’re warm,” Oz said.
“Not like that, It’s not the same,” Figaro sighed.
“I don’t need a heart,” Oz said.
“But you do, without it, you can never truly understand the meanings to the words you say, or the songs you sing. They are just sounds. So you would not be able to win Alien Stage, or truly sing beautifully.”
Oz’s frown only deepened. For a moment, Figaro wondered if the thing—child, had more to say, but it seemed as if Oz had ran out of words. Finally, he turned around, and allowed Figaro to resume tying his hair.
“Are you going to get rid of Figaro?” Oz asked over dinner.
Everything stopped.
Part of it was that Oz spoke.
But the other part was that Oz had said it in the language of their masters.
Imperfect as it was, it was in the beautiful, tinkling chimes which its human throat should not have been able to produce.
The food in Figaro’s mouth turned to ashes.
As if to prove he could, Oz continued, “Figaro said that once I learned how to behave, and develop a heart, you’ll have no more use of him.
“I’ll never have a heart,” he said, resolutely.
A deathly silence filled the dinner room, which was warm but a moment ago. For a while they waited for Oz to say more, but no more words came from the taciturn child.
We won’t do that. It was White who finally spoke. Whatever gave you that idea, Figaro?
White seemed displeased, but it was not a touch which spelt punishment. More than anything, White’s touch felt… sad?
Listen, both of you, Snow embraced Figaro with all his arms. Figaro was no longer small enough to be scooped up, but he still felt a sense of security at the cold touch. At the same time, White embraced Oz. The younger human stirred in discomfort, but did not struggle.
Figaro is mine, and Oz belongs to White. We love the both of you very much.
Figaro frowned.
“Oz will be the one to enter Alien Stage on your behalves, wouldn’t he?” Figaro asked. “Isn’t that the reason you kept Oz, because he can sing and dance better than I can?”
Snow chuckled in a high, pleasant tinkle. The air was bright with his laughter. It used to make Figaro so happy to see it, but now it filled his chest with a feeling he didn’t know how to name.
That’s not true, said Snow, tapping Figaro on his chest, Oz can make more noises, dance with more precision, but just as he says, he does not have a heart.
He was not raised with love and care the way you were, we’re trying to teach him love on our own, but it will not be the same. If Oz refuse to develop a heart, then the best he can do is a good imitation of you
White and I have bet, Snow whispers, you are mine, and Oz is White’s. Both of you will enter, and we shall see who will win.
“That’s…” Figaro found himself at a loss for words.
We love you, Figaro, Snow said.
We love you, Oz, White said.
Across the table, Oz gave no reaction.
“I don’t understand,” Figaro said, later, when he and Snow were alone in their training, “if you love the both of us, why would you send one of us to die?”
You must not think of it like that, Figaro, Snow said, its hand cold against Figaro’s, I believe you’ll be the one to live.
“So you wish for Oz to die?” Figaro asked.
That’s not our wish. The lives of human children are so very short. Even if we treasure you, and hide you away from the world, you were born to die. We wish to see both of you shine on the stage, before the eyes of the entire galaxy, the way you were meant to. You are so beautiful and fleeting, Figaro. That was why we did not euthanize Oz, and why we raised you the way we did.
The human child furrowed his brows, “If we were born to die, if Oz and I were to take each other’s lives upon that stage, then… Why must we pretend to be a family? Why must we play and eat together? Why would you and White treat us kindly only to make us kill each other later?”
He said this not in the tone of demand, but with pleading sincerity, not as innocent as he once was, yet still bright eyed.
Sweet child, Snow’s touch was gentle, yet cold enough to hurt, because when you inevitably die, you will have happy memories to look back on. And if you were to take the lives of one another, you deserve to remember each other’s smile. Just because you will one day die, doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be happy.
Figaro’s brows only furrowed in deeper confusion. He opened his mouth, but did not know how to form the right words. He never knew how to form the right words to talk to his masters, for he could not speak their language. The human tongue was so limited, it wasn’t enough to convey how he felt.
Figaro, are you happy here? Snow asked.
Figaro could only nod. He was provided for and loved. He was fulfilling the purpose he was born for. He did not know what it meant to be unhappy. He thought of this beautiful manor with endless rooms, Snow’s tinkling laughter and cold embrace, Oz’s smaller body pressed against his own, the bitter taste of dinner, and felt tears prick against his eyes. It must have been tears of joy, for Figaro was a fortunate child, the most important child, and he’d never known anything except for happiness.
If you’d like, you do not ever have to enter the Alien Stage. You can live with us like this, forever, until the day you die.
Snow’s words were like a punch in the guts. “No!” He heard himself cry out, a sound dragged from his lungs. All his training, the hope and wishes of the village that birthed him, the expectation of his masters, the purpose for his existence, wasted. He could not, would not let that happen.
You're a good child, Figaro. Snow embraced him. It sung to him softly, a gentle yet strange melody in its familiar alien tongue. Through that cold, frigid embrace, Figaro sensed a mixture of sadness and pride.
The children of Anakt Garden were sad, scared little things, filled with desperation and fear. They feared death, for they never knew love, never knew purpose. They could not sing about feelings they knew nothing about.
“Imitate me,” Figaro told Oz, “your opponents are not as strong as I am, so just imitate me until we have to face each other.”
Oz simply nodded. He knew, in a vague sort of way, that their time together would come to an end soon. He felt like there was something he should say, something Figaro would like to hear, but he had no words for it, not in Figaro’s tongue, or the language of their masters. It was probably because he didn’t have a heart.
In the end, he said nothing. Figaro seemed a little disappointed.
Oz won his first two rounds easily. His vocal range, which went from deep and sonorous to high and tinkling, enchanted the audience.
Perhaps it didn’t matter that he didn’t have a heart, Figaro thought, as the two of them stood side by side on the stage of the finale.
“Follow my lead,” he whispered, and began to sing.
On the day they brought Oz home, his masters said, We brought a present for you. Oz was his, and he’d make sure they put on a good performance, fulfill their purpose.
Oz’s voice joined in, steady, melodious.
Under the stage light, Oz’s ruby eyes shone like fire as they stared straight into his, nowhere else. For a moment, Figaro started, because the gaze of the cold child, the heartless child, looked so warm.
In that moment, the universe was theirs.
So this was the reason Snow and White had put them on this stage.
Figaro felt a lump in his throat, he knew then, what he had known all along.
That Oz would be the one to win. He didn’t even need to see the score.
In that moment, Figaro finally understood what Snow meant. What it meant to be happy, to love another. The four of them, sitting together at the dinner table, Oz’s silent presence and their masters’ bright tinkling laughter.
For the first time in waking, Oz reached out his hand for Figaro, the way he often did in his sleep.
Figaro could barely laugh when he felt the bullet pierced his heart.
So he does have a heart after all.
He reached back—