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"Say we extracted my data from someone else's memories, yours, for instance, and then combined it with your intact soul as the base material... What would we create?"
They were never able to answer that particular question, but given the way things panned out, Pantalone would guess that Dottore would be satisfied with the results.
It took months to get funding for the genomorph cloning pod, along with other expenses, a sleight of hand to hide the true nature of expenses from the Tsaritsa for the first few months, after all, it was better to do it now and ask for forgiveness later, rather than not to do it at all. Months later, after seeing the scientific possibilities and countless genetic samples extracted from Pantalone and himself, Dottore perfected the genomic template.
After all, this was no segment, but something more delicate.
A child.
“He’ll have your eyes,” Zandik mused.
“Should I be flattered?” Feofan retorted. “We did agree on a fifty-fifty genetic split, did we not? If anything, you are capitalizing on your own genome.”
“I merely isolated the healthiest, most desirable traits from each of the embryo’s parents. Your eyes, my hair, a combination of our facial features, hopefully not your eyesight…”
Hearing Zandik’s voice trail off in the distance, Feofan could not help his mind wander about his exact use in this experiment. It was absolutely like Dottore to be precise and control the type of child he’d allow to live, but even if they were lovers, a suitable mate who could biologically carry a child would’ve been less contrived and time-consuming.
Feofan had no qualms about it when it was first presented, but the curiosity (and possibly something deeper) sprang up in him on that day.
He asked Zandik why.
Zandik’s expression then shifted, just slightly but enough for Feofan to catch on. He strided to get closer to him from where he was, lifting his chin to turn Feofan’s eyes directly at him.
“I chose you,” Zandik started, leaning in closer, leaving Feofan momentarily breathless. “Because you are the one person in this world who understands me." Zandik was full of eccentricities, and yet Feofan could feel the sincerity, as well as the desperation of his voice. "Anyone else’s genetic material will be unbalanced by the sheer magnitude of what they cannot understand. You, however,” Zandik cupped his ashen cheeks. “Are perfect. Invaluable. There is nothing I would not trade for you. Whatever your soul is made of, yours and mine are the same.”
“Quoting Howling Heights now, are we?” Feofan smiled before crashing his lips into a searing kiss. If they were able to create a child naturally, they would have made one that night, ten times over.
Dottore was successful in creating the embryo; its body would be artificially matured inside a gestation chamber until it reached the physical age he had selected— around fifteen or sixteen. The child’s first conscious moments would occur only after that process was complete.
Mitya, they decided. A follower of the earth. So that Teyvat would not reject him the way it rejected his fathers.
If Feofan could change one thing from the past, he would have had Zandik replace the lilac eye genotype with his red— just so he could look into those eyes, his eyes, one more time.
“Hello, Father.” Mitya greeted, closing the door softly. Feofan noted the book he’s holding, or rather, his cape is holding, about the Krestnik’s torch. The torch that keeps Snezhnaya’s cities from freezing over. One of Mitya’s current passion projects.
Not to boast about his sole progeny, but Mitya is a genius. In his five earthly years on Teyvat, Mitya varied interests in all sorts of science— biology, chemistry, and research, currently researching astrology and atomic matter. In his third year, He modified his cape to gain sentience with the Khaenri'ahn scraps Dottore had left behind, using its many hands as a sort of assistant for his research.
Feofan gestured at the seat across from him, which Mitya gingerly took. He asked first about updates on his current attempts to refute the extension of Project Stuzha, and if the large bribes Pantalone had given paid off. They mused a little about Vodyanitsa’s performance the previous night, sipping their tea while Feofan smoked. Feofan had not smoked in front of Mitya during his first years, but with Zandik’s death, the countless hours of handling finances, and Project Stuzha, Mitya could hardly blame his father for destressing.
“Mitya, you do know what day it is?” Feofan said at last, causing the boy— now a young man— to nod.
“I know,” Mitya said softly. Zandik’s birthday. Mitya had been around to see the segments the first two years, before his father chose to dispose of them. Mitya once told him that he missed Eight out of all, as Eight would sing Happy Birthday to him while holding the cake he and Eighteen made.
He missed the rest to some degree, but Thirty-Five has always been his father. He and Zandik would spend the latter’s birthday talking for hours about countless subject matter, stretching out bizarre hypotheticals until both their brains would hurt, and Feofan would order countless variants of chocolates (no white ones, Zandik clarified), and Sumerean Baklava, all of which would be finished by the dawn of morning.
“Could we…” Mitya trailed off. It was one of his conflicted looks, Feofan noted, the one his son doesn’t think he gives whenever his father lights another cigarette. He told him to continue. “Could we still have Baklava?”
Mitya laughed immediately after, a melancholic, delirious glee at requesting his late father’s favorite food, and Feofan laughed with him. It was a small display of grief, but also gave them both reprieve. He noted how their laughs sounded similar to him, reminding him of another time, a lifetime ago.
In another version of events, maybe he would have allowed Dottore to use his soul and memories as base material; to create a version of Dottore, or another being altogether, but for now, he will enjoy the time left with their son, for as long as he still can.
“What would we create?" Dottore’s voice echoed in his mind.
Oh Zandik, he laughs like you.
“I’ll have one of the subordinates deliver one tonight.”