Work Text:
It was just a normal day in the Herta Space Station.
Well—normal in the sense that most experiments were humming quietly in their containment units, the corridor lights flickered in their usual "we're totally not haunted" way, and Herta had just woken up from a particularly satisfying three-hour nap. She stretched languidly, letting her arms hang for a moment before dragging her fluffy slippers across the polished floor.
Her destination: the lab she’d lent to Ruan Mei.
Herta wasn’t expecting much. Normally, the catcakes—Ruan Mei’s adorable, round, and vaguely edible-looking creations—spent their time sunning themselves under the artificial grow lamps, or snoozing in neat rows on her workbench. They were harmless, lazy, and if she was honest, more like sentient decorations than actual research subjects.
The door opened, sliding, and she stepped inside.
And froze.
On the central work table, nestled togother two catcakes that were cuddling. Their tiny frosting-covered faces were pressed against each other, cheeks tinted with a shy, warm pink glow. One was deep indigo, with a tiny silk flower tucked beside its frosting swirl. The other was lilac.
Herta’s gaze dropped lower.
Between them sat a third catcake. Smaller. Rounder. Innocent eyes blinking slowly up at her, frosting pattern an even blend of lilac and indigo.
Herta blinked. Then blinked again.
Her mind scrambled. She knew Ruan Mei had been experimenting with mimicking emotional bonds in her creations. But this? This was different.
“They…” Herta mumbled, her face turning bright crimson, “They mated???”
A soft hum echoed behind her.
“Oh, did they?” came the familiar, melodic voice of Ruan Mei. “How lovely. I suppose the emotional bond simulation surpassed expectations.”
Herta turned around so fast her slippers squeaked against the polished floor.
There was the eighty-first genius, strolling in from the far end of the lab with a cup of steaming floral tea, every step measured, serene. She might as well have been commenting on the weather.
The other pointed wildly toward the scene on the worktable, visibly flustered. “Y-You’re fine with this?!”
A tilt of the head, measured and graceful, as if Herta had just asked whether she enjoyed her tea. “Of course,” Ruan Mei replied, her tone low and almost indulgent. “Isn’t it sweet? They formed a pair bond. Very natural. I did program them with behavioral evolution capabilities, after all.”
“But they look like us!” She jabbed a finger toward the catcakes. “That one even has your flower!"
Ruan Mei’s slippers made the faintest sound on the floor as she came to stand beside the table. She crouched with a slow, deliberate motion, setting her tea down without spilling so much as a drop. The steam curled upward, warm against the cool air. Her gaze swept over the trio—not with the shock Herta had expected, but the unexpected patient fondness of a gardener admiring a new bloom.
“Oh?” she murmured, reaching out to brush a finger lightly over the baby catcake’s frosting swirl. “I suppose I did use us as inspiration for their design. The symmetry is pleasing.”
Herta’s mouth fell open. “So you knew?!”
Ruan Mei looked up, her eyes meeting Herta’s with a soft, amused light. The kind of look that seemed to fold Herta into some private joke she wasn’t sure she wanted to understand. “Herta, dear,” she said, each word deliberate, “you’re acting as if this is embarrassing. Is it really so strange? Even artificial life recognizes compatibility when they feel it.”
Ruan Mei rose from her crouch with unhurried grace, the faint rustle of silk and the soft clink of her tea cup against the table marking her movements. She closed the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps, her presence carrying the faint scent of flowers and something sharper beneath.
“You’re blushing,” she murmured, the corners of her lips lifting ever so slightly. One slender hand reached up, brushing a stray lock of Herta’s hair back into place with featherlight precision. “Did my catcakes embarrass you?”
“I’m not—! You—!” Herta’s voice cracked halfway, the words tripping over themselves as her mind wavered wildly between indignation and… something far warmer, something that made her ears burn.
“They’re just expressing what’s already in the air, Herta,” Ruan Mei whispered, leaning in just enough that her breath grazed Herta’s ear, warm and maddeningly gentle. Her smile deepened, as if she were stating a simple, undeniable fact.
Herta’s protest died in her throat.
Behind them, the catcakes yawned in perfect unison. The smallest one let out a soft, high-pitched purr that was almost like the whirring of a tiny machine, pressing itself between the two larger ones.
Ruan Mei bent with fluid ease, slipping her hands beneath the tiny creature and lifting it as though it were the most precious thing in the room. The catcake’s soft, spongey body seemed to mold against her palms. She studied it for a moment, her expression softened by some unspoken fondness, before turning to Herta.
“Would you like to hold your child?” she asked, voice silk-smooth and entirely serious.
“…Fine,” Herta muttered, holding out her hands without thinking—only for her mind to catch up a beat later. “Wait— what? I am not its mother!”
“Mmm…” Ruan Mei’s hum was low, thoughtful, and tinged with amusement. “Well, you’re the one who pointed out its parents resemble us.”
“Only in resemblance! That doesn’t make me—or you—its parents!”
“Oh? Then what would you call it, dear?”
Ruan Mei’s voice was silk over glass. It was smooth, but with that glint of playful provocation Herta had come to dread.
“You’re so infuriating,” Herta muttered under her breath, not bothering to dignify the question with a direct answer. Her gaze darted away, focusing on the far wall, anywhere but those turquoise eyes.
The silence that followed felt heavier than it had any right to, like Ruan Mei’s presence alone was pressing against her skin.
“Herta.”
The genius didn’t answer.
“…Herta.”
Herta still didn’t speak, but her actions betrayed her entirely. The catcake was tucked securely against her chest. Her fingers absently ran over its spongey surface in slow, subconscious strokes, the same way someone might pet a sleeping kitten. She held it as if it were the most adorable thing she’d ever seen in her life.
“…I’m still running a full diagnostic,” she finally said, her voice carefully flat, though the faint pink dusting her cheeks undermined the act.
Ruan Mei chuckled, low and melodic. She leaned in until her hair brushed Herta’s shoulder. “For what reason, I wonder? Finally claiming the little one as our child?”
"Of course not," Herta grumbled.
“Mm.” Ruan Mei straightened with effortless poise and began a slow stroll back to her workbench. “Ah, yes. Do let me know if it inherits your temperament. I’d find it fascinating to see how it handles tantrums.”
“I already told you—” Herta started sharply, only to stop mid-sentence. She realized there was no winning here, not without feeding Ruan Mei more fuel. She exhaled through her nose, but her arms stayed firmly wrapped around the tiny creature. “…I merely took interest due to its appearance.”
“Oh?” Ruan Mei didn’t even glance up as she sifted through her tools. “I thought you—” She stopped, her tone light and deliberately dismissive. “Never mind. Do whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Herta shot her a sharp look, the kind that was meant to be cutting but softened by the faint pink still clinging to her cheeks. “What if someone else saw? What if they—”
Ruan Mei didn't let her finish. “What would they say? That we’re close?” Her tone carried a faint musical lilt, as if the question amused her more than it concerned her. “They wouldn’t interfere with our business in the first place. And really… no one would notice our similarities with my creations.”
Herta’s lips pressed into a thin line. The biologist was right. She hated how illogical she's being over some little critters that resembled them.
Then Ruan Mei’s gaze softened, just slightly, and she added, almost in a murmur, “You know… I wouldn’t mind if they thought we were that close.”
Herta’s breath caught for half a beat, and she stared at her, caught between disbelief and irritation from not knowing how to respond.
“…I hate you,” she muttered, finally looking away.
“No you don’t,” Ruan Mei replied instantly, her voice as smooth as ever, like she’d known the answer all along.
The two larger catcakes purred from their cozy nest on the desk. In Herta’s arms, the little one stirred, blinking sleepily before letting out a tiny, high-pitched yawn.
Herta looked down at it, her eyes lingering longer than she meant to. “…Maybe a little cute,” she admitted in a voice so low it was almost lost under the hum of the station’s air systems.
At her workbench, Ruan Mei kept her gaze fixed on the paper she was annotating, but a small smile curved at the corner of her lips.