Chapter Text
At first, there was darkness.
Not the comforting kind. The kind that is frightening.
There was sound before there was sight.
A low, steady hum.
A rhythm beneath it — mechanical, patient, endless.
Then there was a feeling.
Cold. A cold, flat, hard surface.
It pressed against his body. Against his back. Against his skin.
Skin.
The word exists before the understanding of it does.
He knows what Skin is despite having never even heard the word.
Something forces air into him.
His chest jerks.
Pain — sharp and sudden — and then instinct takes over. Air burns downward through his throat. His lungs expand too wide, breathing too fast. Too shallow.
Like he had to remember how to do it.
He coughs, though he doesn't understand how he even knows the word for it. His only understanding is that something is wrong. Very wrong.
Next, he opened his eyelids...
White.
That's all he sees.
And pain is all he feels in his eyes.
It's too bright.
Too warm.
It stings.
It burns.
His strangely multicolored eyes water automatically, blurring the world into shapeless lights and shadows. Shapes without meaning. Movement without pattern.
He shuts his eyes again, followed suit by him bringing an arm up to his eyes before he even knew why.
His chest jerks. Muscles seize around ribs he does not remember owning. The sound that leaves his throat is not a word — it is raw and torn and startled.
Noise answers him.
A low hum. Rhythmic beeping. The faint hiss of something mechanical. Footsteps.
He knows these things. He does not know how he knows them. He just does.
He is lying down.
That is wrong.
He should be upright.
The knowledge is complete and undeniable. Upright is correct. Lying down is not.
He tries to move.
His arm's shift, trying to push up his body — too fast. Too much. The action feels detached, like this body belongs to someone else and he is merely borrowing it. The limbs tremble violently before eventually collapsing back against the hard metal surface.
Cold.
Metal.
He knows the word metal.
He doesn't know why he knows.
He turns his head.
The motion is uneven. His vision lags behind the movement. The world smears and refocuses in painful clarity.
Above him: a ceiling of white panels and surgical lights. To his right: a wall of glass. Shapes stand beyond it.
People.
He knows that word too.
Two arms. Two legs. A head. A face.
Human.
The heart he didn't know he had until now stutters harder at that word.
Human.
He lifts his hand, slower this time. Holds it in front of his face.
Five fingers. Skin stretched over bone. Pale. Thin.
It moves when he commands it to move.
That is correct.
It still feels wrong.
He pushes himself upward again and this time, his body obeys — mostly. Elbows lock. Shoulders shake. Muscles strain as if they are being used for the first time.
Because they are.
He manages to sit upright, but then the world tilts violently.
Balance. His mind knows the concept. His body does not.
He tips sideways and crashes back against the cold metal table with a sharp metallic clang.
The impact sends a jolt through his spine. His teeth snap together.
Pain. That is what the feeling is called.
He inhales again — quicker this time. The air tastes sharp. Clean. Artificial.
There is a sound from beyond the glass. A voice.
"Motor function intact."
The words are clear. He understands them, even though this is his first time hearing them.
An different voice answers, lower, cooler.
"Stability lag within expected parameters."
His gaze drags toward the glass.
One of the figures steps closer, hands folded behind his back.
A man. White coat. Light blue hair. A black mask completely covering his eyes, yet he can still feel the man's eyes on him.
Observing him.
Something inside him tightens.
Recognition.
Not familiarity. Not memory.
Recognition like seeing his own reflection, even though he never saw his actual reflection before.
The man tilts his head slightly.
"Subject L04311" he says.
The sound lands heavily in the air, the sequence settling into him with unnatural ease.
Designation acknowledged.
That's the first thought that crosses his mind.
He does understand what "designation" means. He doesn't understand why it reffers to him.
Nevertheless, the man seems satisfied, like the guy was just saying it to test his reaction.
He tries to speak.
His throat works. Air moves. His lips part.
But nothing comes out. Nothing comes out but a thin, broken rasp. No words.
As he brings a hand to his throat, the men watch him carefully. Not kindness, but not with hostility either.
Just with interest.
Like they are fascinated by him.
"Vocalization incomplete," the man murmurs, almost to himself. "Cognitive imprint appears stable."
Cognitive Imprint. Stable.
The words arrange themselves neatly inside his mind like tools placed back in their proper drawer.
He does not know who put them there.
His gaze shifts past the man.
There is movement deeper in the room beyond the glass.
Another figure. It steps into the light.
And the world tilts again.
Same height. Same skin tone. Same blue hair. But different clothes. A white suit. And a different mask.
This one shows one of the eyes — red, like blood.
He knows the color of blood. Even though he doesn't remember ever seeing blood.
The other one stares at him with flat, assessing calm.
For a moment, something presses faintly at the edge of his thoughts. Sounds he doesn't know how to name fill his head without passing his ears first.
Like static. Like distant voices underwater.
He holds his head and writhes in pain for a few moments before the sensation suddenly vanishes, and silence floods back in.
The red-eyed one’s expression does not change. "Attempted synchronization," he says calmly. "Unsuccessful."
Unsuccessful.
The word echoes strangely.
Another word for failure.
He doesn't understand know what he failed at.
He doesn't feel sad about it. He doesn't even feel confused, or irritaded, or curious.
At this very moment, he just feels... Empty.
The one with the visible eye leans closer to the glass.
Their eyes lock.
The subject's fingers curl slowly against the metal beneath him.
The sensation of cold steel grounds him.
He is sitting now. Thid time for real.
He is upright.
That is correct.
That is how it's suppose to be.
Behind the glass, the older man straightens.
"Continue observation," he says. "Isolate the subject."
He hears the lights above him hum as he watches the group people behind the glass dispand almost instantly, like whatever show they came here to watch had ended and there was no reason to keep watching.
The subject is left staring at his trembling hands. They are slowly steadying.
He's steadying.
Learning.
Becoming.
The subject is broken out of his thoughts by the sound of the metal door sliding open. One of the men from before — the one who's mask is covering his eyes — steps into the room.
"Hello there, Subject L04311." He says, as he makes his way to the metal table the subject in question was still sitting on.
He stops right in front of the table. Despite the man wearing a mask, the younger boy can still feel the man's gaze all over him. Observing him.
"Can you speak?"
The subject tries for a moment with no success. He shakes his head.
The man didn’t seem bothered.
"Do you know who I am?"
He shakes his head again.
That actually get's the older man to frown.
"Do you know what you are?", the man asked, voice now sounding more irritaded.
He points at himself, head tilted in confusion.
The man didn’t like that. His friwn deepened as he wrote something down on the clipboard.
Then, he turned back to the subject. "Around here, they call me the doctor." he explained, voice laced with hints of venom "But you will reffer to me as Dottore."
The subject nodded, absorbing the man's — Dottore's — words.
Dottore continued asking him a few more questions, and he answered every one of them truthfully :
"Can you hear well?" Yes.
"Do you feel cold?" Yes.
"Does the cold bother you?" No.
"Do you know how you were created?" No.
"Look in the mirror and write down what you see." His own face. Young. Pale. Each of his eye's is two different colors of red and a dark blue. His messy hair is a dark turquoise, reminicent of Dottore’s, but darker and less neat.
After each answer, Dottore wrote down a few more things on his clipboard.
"Last question:" Dottore finally said. The subject braced himself.
Unexpectedly, a small smile tucked at the corners of Dottore’s lips, invisible to anybody standing just a bit further away.
"Do you know what a birthday is?"
The subject blinked in suprise.
He nodded.
A birthday — the day a living being is born.
To the subject's suprise, Dottore didn’t write anything down this time.
Instead, he reached out and patted the subject's head of turquoise hair, his gloved hand feeling cold against the subject's skull.
This time, Dottore’s voice had an odd gentleness to it that, despite the very limited time the subject has had to get to know him, already felt out of character for the man.
It sounded like how honey tastes when mixed with poison.
"Happy Birthday."