Chapter Text
They called you Darling. It wasn’t your ideal name—you didn’t even really care for terms of endearment—but Boy Kavalier was stuck on his whole Peter Pan theme.
“Darling, like the parents!” he’d exclaimed when he bestowed the name on you. “You’re the first adult of my hybrids, so it makes perfect sense!”
You hadn’t really had wherewithal to argue, considering you had more important things on your mind. You’d volunteered to be the first adult consciousness to be transferred into a new synthetic body, and a funny name was a small price to pay for the privilege.
Luckily, the only ones that regularly called you “Darling” were Boy Kavalier and Dame Sylvia. Everyone else had taken to calling you “Dar,” or “D” which was fine by you.
It had been a few months, and you’d mostly gotten used to your new name, new body, and new existence.
Time passed differently for you now. Maybe it was because you were no longer subject to a biological circadian rhythm, or maybe it was the lush, tropical climate of the Neverland island. Either way, it meant that the end of the year crept up on you, and with it, the holiday season.
One day everything was normal, the next, there was a massive, decorated Christmas tree in the middle of Prodigy’s main lobby. Decorations began springing up other places as well: garlands and lights lining the halls, another—albeit much more tastefully decorated—tree in Dame Sylvia’s office, and Christmas carols piped into the speaker in the mess hall.
The Lost Boys were all for it—it was a bigger, brighter, gaudier holiday than they could have ever imagined. Dame Sylva had even made efforts to include holiday decorations and treats that would feel familiar to the children, so no one felt left out.
Well, except for you, perhaps. You were not a child, so the lights and décor didn’t hold the same sort of magic. In fact, they opened a strange sort of hollowness in your chest, which was easier to dismiss as annoyance.
The one place that was free from the holiday trappings was the lab. It was already one of your favorite places in the facility, but now, it became a refuge, a clean, quiet space away from all the noise and distraction.
It didn’t hurt that Kirsh was almost always there as well, working on some experiment or project. Your own paired “experiments” into the parameters of your new synthetic form had continued over the weeks, which had led to a deep ease between the two of you in the times in between.
It was…unique to be engaged in a relationship with a fully synthetic being. As a hybrid, you were still exploring this new synth part of yourself, which Kirsh was more than happy (if you could call it that) to help you with. However, it was when you displayed elements of your humanity—emotion, irrationality, intuition—he would become visibly uncomfortable.
One thing you did appreciate, though, was that he was refreshingly direct with his boundaries and needs. Together, you created a set of clear parameters moving forward in your relationship:
- Any physical contact or overt familiarity was not allowed in the lab, except during designated periods of experimentation.
- Experiments were scheduled in weekly intervals. Either party could cancel at any time with no explanation needed, and could ask to either be rescheduled or skipped.
- Displays of human affection or discussion of your relationship were not allowed outside of scheduled periods of experimentation.
- Any new potential experiments had to be discussed in advance and agreed upon by both parties.
- Any experiment could be terminated at any point in the process by either party.
- Experiments would always be held in the controlled environment of the side lab.
For the most part, you liked having defined parameters: there were no surprise expectations. Kirsh was clear about what he wanted from you, when he wanted it, and you had the freedom to do the same. However, there were times where you did miss spontaneity, the ability to freely touch or even talk about your relationship. You understood the need for a degree of secrecy—and made your “experiments” in the lab all the more exciting—but still. It’d be nice to be able to kiss him good-night now and again.
You still spend time in the lab while he works on non-sensitive tasks. You even have your own designated spot across from his desk where he keeps a pad of paper and sketching pencils—a move you found surprisingly touching. When you brought it up, he told you that he simply saw it as “restocking tools you need to optimize your cognitive functioning and hand-eye coordination.”
One this December day, you are both sitting quietly, working across from each other, when the door to the lab slides open and Issac tumbles in, carrying an armful of sparkling tinsel garlands.
“No,” Kirsh says without looking up, before Issac even has a chance to open his mouth.
“Please?” Issac asks, “I…I thought I could…could design an experiment with th—”
“If you want to propose a new experiment, go back to your room and write up a prospectus outlining the parameters of your testing, as well as an itemized budget for supplies. Then, submit it to me via email.” Kirsh’s voice is even, devoid of malice or mockery. “Waiting time to approve new projects is approximately 2-3 weeks, though, so anything specifically seasonal would have to have been submitted last month. Think of something less time-sensitive.”
“Are you serious?” Isaac sounds more hopeful than offended. “You’d let me submit a proposal for an experiment?”
“There’s no promise I’ll accept it, but if you feel like you have an idea worth pursuing, I’ll take a look. If nothing else, it’ll teach you the protocols required for accurate scientific research."
Issac positively beams, and he rushes out of the room. A few strands of tinsel are left in his wake, and you watch as Kirsh sighs and goes to clean them up.
“That was some remarkable redirection,” you compliment, “not to mention, endearing.”
“Redirection works better than outright refusal on children. Less arguing. As for ‘endearing,’—” he holds up a shred of sparkling plastic, “—I will go to great lengths to make sure my lab is not contaminated the way the rest of the facility has been. Sacrificing a few minutes to read through and correct a student prospectus is a small price to pay.”
“I’m a bit surprised at how enthusiastic Prodigy is about the winter holidays,” you say.
“Boy Kavalier has been very excited about presenting his version of Christmas to the hybrid children,” Kirsh says dryly. “He is sparing no expense.”
“I can only imagine how expensive it was to fly in a 75-foot pine tree to this island.”
“Not half as expensive as the snow he’s flying in from Nepal is going to be.”
“Are you serious?”
Kirsh raised an eyebrow and quirked the corner of his lip up in a, “do I look like I’m joking?” expression.
“Well, please warn me before it arrives. I may conveniently find myself in need of a long maintenance nap that day.”
Kirsh’s expression turned inquisitive. “You’re not fond of the winter holidays.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I…it’s complicated,” you say, turning your attention back to the sketch you’re working on.
Kirsh returns to his desk, dropping the scraps of tinsel in the bin beside it. He doesn’t return to his work, though. You can feel his gaze on you, studying.
“Do you wish to elaborate on that statement?” His tone is surprisingly soft, like when he’s imparting a lesson to one of the children.
You don’t talk much about your life before your transformation. You’ve shared memories with Kirsh through your experiments in data transference through physical intimacy, but to give voice to them is something different.
“Have I broken our first protocol?” Kirsh asks, cocking his head. “Is this assuming familiarity outside of our scheduled time?”
“Maybe a little?” you reply.
His brows furrow. “I require clarification. Have I or not?”
“Sorry. Human moment.” It’s the term you’ve coined when you find yourself reacting purely on instinct or emotion. “You have not overtly broken our protocols.”
“Then why does my query cause you to simulate a stress response so strong that you resort to evasion?”
“Look,” you sigh, “holidays are a very human thing. They’re lessons imprinted on us from birth that…that connect us with our families, our geographic regions, nature, and spiritual beliefs. Your role in them evolves as you age, as community members pass on, as you migrate to other locations, or change your belief structure. A symbol that once brought you joy could later bring sadness.”
“So, these celebrations that are stimulating to the children are distressing for you?”
You consider. “I wouldn’t call it distress. It’s more like…” you consider how best to describe it in a way a synth would understand. “Constantly having a backfield program running that is meant to be innocuous, but is affecting the operation of all your other systems.”
Kirsh’s eyes widen. “That sounds distracting.”
“It is. Especially since many of the things that make holidays important are no longer available to me.”
“Family?” Kirsh asks, his tone surprisingly gentle.
“For one. It was part of becoming a hybrid—complete isolation from past family and friends.” You pause. “I wonder if that’s why they’re going so hard with the big holiday activities—to distract the Lost Boys from the realization that they won’t be with their families for the first time.”
Kirsh considers. “That is a sound theory.”
You sigh. “It’s still going to be hard on the kids. There’s only so much redirection can do.”
“What about you?” Kirsh asks.
“What about me, what?”
“What would redirect you, if these activities are having an adverse effect on your functioning?”
You find yourself suddenly flustered, unexpected heat rising in your cheeks.
“Oh, a temperature-based response? You are having a human moment,” Kirsh teases.
You glare at him, suddenly defensive. “Why does my functioning concern you so much?”
It’s Kirsh’s turn to look flustered—which for him is a long, motionless pause devoid of any reaction. It’s like his program’s frozen. Finally, he blinks.
“The best response I can give that stays within the parameters of our third protocol is that it is the best interest of our studies to keep your systems optimized.”
A spike of annoyance shoots through you. One minute he’d acting like he’s genuinely interested in getting to know you, the next it back to protocols and “optimizing your systems.”
“If you were a human, I would interpret that as you wanting to keep me happy so we can keep fucking,” you snap.
Kirsh visibly flinches. “You just broke the first and third protocols.”
Your annoyance turns into anger. “Why? By admitting out loud that we’re fucking?” Your frustration is getting the better of you, but you can’t find it in you to care. “You’re the one who keeps asking me to logically explain something that is purely based in emotion!”
You get up out of your seat, slamming your sketchbook shut. You’ve had enough of this conversation.
“I am trying to communicate at your level, Kirsh,” you continue. “One minute I think you’re trying to understand me at mine, and the next you’re…disgusted by my latent humanity. It’s why I didn’t want to have this discussion in this first place!”
“Is your emotional response due to this backfield holiday distraction?”
“Maybe? Yes!” You snap, gathering your things. “I’m a human consciousness in a synthetic body, who is being forced to face the ramifications of being eternally separated from family, friends, culture, and geography. Any spiritual beliefs I had before are now put into question, and the closest thing I have to community is a band of children. I am feeling very alone right now, and I can’t even comfort myself by gorging on cookies or getting drunk because I don’t eat or drink!”
You can’t stop your tirade, and you can’t make yourself look at him. You’re embarrassing yourself, but right now, you don’t care.
“Now my synthetic boyfriend tells me I’m being too emotional, too human, and I just…” You trail off, words choking in your throat. “There is no redirecting this, Kirsh. I am what I am. I’m a hybrid, and that means I’m going to have human responses to human situations from time to time. I’m sorry if that breaks our protocols or turns you off or whatever. Or maybe I’m not sorry. I don’t know.”
Without giving him a chance to respond or even look back, you storm out of the lab. In the hallway, you furiously kick at a pile of tinsel garlands that Isaac must’ve dropped earlier. God, these fucking holidays could not be over quickly enough!