Date: 6/21/2001 - 9:30 PM {1 Year After Birth}
Location: The Nursery – Living Quarters
Perspective: Kaiser Everhart (Biological Age: 1)
I was back to my baby form. My limbs felt like leaden weights, tethered to the bed by the sheer force of gravity. Cartethyia sat on the edge of the mattress.
She held me against her chest. Her grip was not the usual soft embrace; it was a desperate, tightening vice.
Over the last 48 hours, I have systematically reduced my engagement. I stopped the proactive reaching. I withheld the mimics of her laughter.
I've reduced my speaking to a bare minimum.
If she is scheduled to leave me in a matter of days, the bond must be cauterized now. If she views me as a cold, unresponsive child rather than a beloved son, the transition to her new life will be safer.
The emotional pain of her departure should, theoretically, reach zero.
But the plan is not aligning with the prediction.
Her smiles have decreased.
"You're... y-you're mine," she whispered. Her voice was a dry rasp.
"My s-son. My Kaiser."
She pulled me tighter, her fingers digging into my ribs. I felt the thrum of her heart—a rapid, panicked against my back.
"D-did I... did I do something w-wrong?" she asked. The question was directed at the empty desk to our right, as if the shadows there held an answer.
"Am I a... a b-bad mother? Is that w-why you... you won't talk to me?"
She bowed her head. Her raven hair fell forward. Her forehead pressed against the top of my head.
"I'm sorry," she choked out. Her body began to tremble. "I-I'm sorry I'm not... enough. But I w-won't let them. I won't l-let anyone take you. You're the only thing... the only thing that didn't l-leave."
"I'll keep you. I'll keep you until the end of the v-void."
I have broken her heart.
I had calculated for "less sadness," but I had failed to account for the "possessive void." By pulling away, I didn't make her let go; I made her more terrified of the loss.
It is for the greater good.
The outcome is still the most logical path. Yet, as I felt her tears dampen my hair, a strange sensation began to pulse in the depths of my consciousness. It was a dark, vengeful force—a static charge of rage against the Foundation that required this of us.
It was an irrelevant emotion, a biological byproduct of the "Mother" figure being hurt.
Even so, I could use it. I would convert this emotion into fuel for the White Room.
Cartethyia moved me back down to lay on the bed.
She began to make a sound. It was not speaking. It was her lullaby, but the warmth had been replaced by a haunting, possessive chill.
"Hush now, my only... don't you leave. Close your eyes, so I can breathe. Mama will lock the world away... To keep you here, to make you stay."
Her voice broke on the last note, a jagged edge in the quiet room.
"If the sun forgets to rise, I'll hide the light behind your eyes. If the night is cold and black, I'll hold you until the stars come back."
I didn't understand why the lyrics had shifted tonight. The original lullaby was a promise of protection; this was a promise of imprisonment.
"You are my reason, my little one, my fading sun. Rest now, my soul, in chains so deep, Mama is yours... for her to keep."
She finished the song and laid back, pulling me into the crook of her arm, shielding my body with her own.
"You should sleep now, Kaiser," she whispered. "Goodnight. I love you so much. More than anything."
I felt her body shiver. I couldn't see her face, but I knew the tears were back. My tiny hands, clumsy and weak, tried to reach around her, to wrap around her arm the way she did for me.
My fingers barely touched the fabric of her sleeve.
It was a pathetic effort. My hands couldn't reach the depth of her pain.
Soon. Soon, the week will be over, and I will have the power to stop this.
"Night," I muttered, the word slurring into her skin.
I let my eyes close, the darkness of the nursery dissolving as the white light of the decayed Foundation's education system began to pull me back to my desk.
The strategy remains.
But the emotions of her grief... that is something I must solve soon.
Why is she sad about leaving me? When she wished to…
The transition from the nursery to the White Room is always a relief for my joints, if not for my conscience.
One moment I am a harmless weight in Cartethyia's trembling arms, and the next, I am a ten-year-old boy sitting in a chair that actually fits.
I have spent the last 48 hours refining the Keli'c system. It is a grueling process of converting dry numbers into vivid stories. To memorize the laws of thermodynamics, I don't read the text; I imagine a protagonist from a tragic romance novel slowly freezing to death while his internal heat—a physical, glowing orb—leaks into a cold, indifferent room.
It works. Or rather, it works well enough to keep me from looking like an idiot next to Amelia.
I have managed to memorize another 100 digits of Pi. A monumental achievement for a toddler, perhaps, but still a rounding error compared to the infinite nature of the circle.
My progress is steady.
I leaned back in my chair, stretching my avatar's spine. The silence of the White Room was absolute, save for the faint hum of the simulated air. I didn't need to turn my head to know she was there.
Even with my eyes closed, I could feel her gaze.
I opened my eyes and looked at her.
Amelia was staring. She wasn't looking at a book. She was staring at my face with the unwavering focus of a predator.
"Amelia," I said, my voice dry. "Is there a specific reason you're trying to burn a hole in my forehead, or is this just a new form of meditation?"
She didn't flinch. She didn't even blink.
"You are late," she stated. Her voice was flat, but there was a sharp edge to the 't' that hadn't been there two days ago.
"I arrived at the precise moment of the session's commencement. In any other context, that is called being 'on time.'"
"Wrong," she countered, her brow furrowing in a way that looked almost painful. "You manifest at 10:00:00. I have been active since 09:55:42. Therefore, for five minutes and eighteen seconds, you were absent."
"It is... an inefficient use of the shared study interval."
"5 minutes?" I chuckled, resting my chin on my hand. I gave her a slow, amused smirk—the Rogue Noble again.
"You were waiting for me, weren't you?"
Amelia stiffened. She looked down at her book—Organic Chemistry: The Synthesis of Mana-Catalysts—and flipped a page.
"Waiting is a byproduct of preparation," she muttered. "I required a partner to verify the molecular structures of the catalyst. Your absence... hindered the verification process. It was a logical frustration. Nothing more."
"Right. Purely logical," I said. "So, what are we studying today? We've already dissected biology and chemistry. The deep dives of plants and maybe even the 'blue hydrangea'."
She looked at me again. She stayed silent for a moment, her eyes tracing the line of my jaw.
"Why are you staring again?" I asked.
"Waiting for your response," she said instantly.
Interesting…
I rotated my chair fully toward her, leaning forward and resting my elbow on my knee. I fixed my eyes on hers, letting my eyes become heavy and focused.
Amelia's lips parted slightly. Her back hit the rest of her chair, her posture losing its rigid, 90-degree perfection.
"W-why are you... doing that?" she asked. Her voice fractured—a small, breathless hitch.
"You are... focusing on me. It is unnecessary for the current task."
"I'm trying to figure out why you stare at me so much," I replied. "It's a puzzle, Amelia. You're the smartest person in this room, yet you spend more time looking at me than the curriculum."
"It is... how conversations work," she argued, though her voice lacked its usual conviction. "One must maintain visual contact with the primary individual. Besides... as I stated... you were late. You could have come quicker."
"Quicker than the start of the session?" I raised an eyebrow. "That's physically impossible, even for me."
"It is not impossible to desire a... a head start," she whispered. She looked at her hands, her fingers twining together. "The system is more... stable... when you are present. The studies are easier to manage."
I felt a flicker of confusion. I have reinforced her need for my presence, yes. I have used the "Good girl" reward and the "Champion" persona to create a bond.
But this behavior—this irrational demand for time that doesn't exist—is something I haven't accounted for.
The Foundation hasn't taught us Emotional Education yet.
To the instructors, feelings are just chemical errors to be suppressed. I can analyze her logic, but I can't be certain of the psychology behind her "behavior." Is it a side effect of the isolation? Or is my manipulation working better than I intended?
Before I could reach a conclusion, I heard the sound of metal on stone.
Screeech.
Amelia didn't ask. She didn't explain. She simply grabbed the sides of her heavy obsidian chair and dragged it three feet to the right.
She stopped when her arm was almost touching mine. She sat down, her skirt rustling as she smoothed it over her knees.
"Amelia?" I stared at her.
"The proximity allows for better conversation," she said, her voice small and focused entirely on the book in her lap. "It is... more efficient."
Her ears were burning red.
I looked at the gap that was no longer there.
Very interesting…
I turned back to my desk, a cold, quiet smile touching my lips.
"Fine," I said softly. "Let's be efficient, then."
Efficiency is a beautiful word, but it is often used as a shroud for things that are far more complex.
"Amelia," I said, not looking up to her.
"I've been curious. What is the name of your caretaker?"
She paused, her stylus hovering over a diagram of a nervous system.
"Name? You mean her sequence?"
"No," I said, finally turning my head. "Her name. I've told you my caretaker is Cartethyia. Surely yours has a title beyond a string of digits."
"Sequences are precise," she murmured. "Names are... linguistic fluff. But she once did tell me hers as…"
"Thessalia Cailana."
"Thessalia," I repeated. "And how does she treat you? Is she affectionate? Or is she... something else?"
Amelia tilted her head. "Treats? She fulfills her duties. She provides nutrient-dense sustenance. She ensures my physical form remains within the prescribed temperature range."
I leaned back, a dry smirk touching my lips. It was a classic Foundation answer—raw data stripped of all humanity.
"That's it?" I asked.
"Cartethyia talks to me every second I'm awake. She plays games—ridiculous, illogical games that involve hiding her face behind her hands. She tells me stories about Celestine. She even sings a lullaby every night until my consciousness drifts here."
She used to do those things. Now, she mostly cries while I offer her the cold comfort of silence. I am a remarkably efficient heartbreaker.
Amelia's eyes widened. She actually stopped breathing for a second. The stylus in her hand trembled.
"She... she sings?" Amelia's voice was small, the blunt edges of her logic fraying. "Thessalia does nothing of the sort. She rarely speaks. When she does, it is to relay instructions…"
"She tries to engage in speaking sometimes—asking how I 'feel'—but I do not reply. My physical body is only two years old. The vocal cords are underdeveloped. Talking back is a waste of energy."
She looked down at her book, her expression shifting into something melancholic. It was a look that didn't belong to a ten-year-old avatar.
"We do not have a bond," she said coldly.
"We never did. We never would. It is a transactional arrangement." She looked at me then, her emerald eyes searching mine with a sudden, sharp intensity.
"You and Cartethyia have a stronger bond…"
"Stronger than me and you, right?"
There it was.
The hurt.
It was a jagged emotion in her otherwise perfect system. She wasn't just comparing caretakers; she was measuring her own worth against how I and Cartethyia were..
I didn't answer with words.
I pushed my chair back, the obsidian legs scraping softly against the floor. Amelia looked up, her lips parted in surprise.
I leaned over and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her into a warm, steady hug.
She stiffened immediately. Her breath hitched, a sharp inhale that rattled in her chest.
"Kaiser?" she whispered.
"Our bond is special, Amelia," I said, resting my chin on her shoulder. The cold realization of how isolated she truly was.
"In this entire Foundation—among the hundreds of subjects—only you and I are special. The caretakers are irrelevant."
She didn't move away. Slowly, her head tilted, resting against my chest. I could feel the tension bleeding out of her, replaced by a slight shiver.
She was a child that was never hugged.
I pulled back just enough to look at her, my hands still resting on her shoulders.
"In the last two days," I said, my voice dropping to a conversational hum, "while we were studying the biology of flora, I noticed your gaze lingered."
"You often stare at the illustrations of blue delphiniums and cornflowers. Is blue your favorite color? Do you find it pretty?"
Amelia's face went through a rapid series of micro-expressions—shock, confusion, and then a deep, burning flush.
"H-how did you...?" she stuttered. She felt being noticed.
"I didn't... I didn't specify. I was merely... analyzing the pigment concentrations."
"You analyzed the red ones for three seconds," I noted with a dry, knowing smile. "You stared at the blue ones for more. My logic system is quite good at catching outliers, Amelia."
"It... it is a high-frequency wavelength," she muttered, looking away, but she didn't pull back from my embrace.
"It is... statistically pleasing."
I let go of her shoulders, returning to my desk with a casual grace.
I sat back at my desk, Amelia hadn't moved her chair back. She remained within my personal radius, her stylus tapping a rhythmic, nervous code against her knee.
"So, the high-frequency wavelength of 450 nanometers. Is that the only reason?"
"It is the most objective reason."
"Liar."
"I do not... p-possess the sub-routine for deception."
"Then why are you avoiding eye contact with me?"
"The light in the room is... refracting oddly."
"Of course it is. It has nothing to do with the fact that you just find the color 'pretty'?"
"Pretty is a subjective qualitative assessment. It lacks... utility."
"And yet, you've been looking at that blue mountain in the geography text earlier."
I gestured to one of the open pages.
It was an illustration of the Pillar of Aethelgard—a jagged, obsidian-dark spire that pierced the clouds like a needle. Its base was shrouded in a permanent, swirling mist, and the text claimed no expedition had ever reached the summit.
Those who entered the cloud bank simply ceased to exist in the records.
"History says it holds the fortune of many lifetimes at the peak," I said, leaning closer to her.
"Hidden gold, ancient mana-shards, the secrets of the First Age. What if I went there one day, Amelia?"
She finally looked up, her brow furrowing. "Why would you go there? The probability of survival is less than 0.04 percent."
"For the fortune, obviously," I teased, a dry smirk playing on my lips. "I'd climb past the clouds, claim the throne at the top, and just... disappear. No more White Room. No more Vance. Just me and the sky."
Amelia's hand shot out, her fingers catching the edge of my sleeve. Her grip was surprisingly firm for a child. "No. You... you will not disappear."
"The mountain is very hungry, Amelia. It eats everyone who tries."
"Then I will follow."
"To the top? It's inefficient to risk your life for a rounding error like me."
"I will follow," she repeated, her voice dropping into a stubborn, low register.
"If your location becomes erratic, I will recalibrate my path until we intersect. I will ensure you remain... present."
"You are not permitted to disappear."
I chuckled, the sound soft in the sterile room. "You'd really follow me into a death-trap just to keep 'my presence'' consistent?"
She didn't answer immediately. She took a deep breath, her chest heaving as she cornered herself in the logic-trap I had set.
She looked away, raising her hand to shield her face, her eyes fixed on the far corner of the room.
"It is not... just the presence," she whispered. Her voice was shaky, fracturing under the weight of her own realization.
"I do not want you to vanish. We have a... a strong bond. It is a unique phenomenon."
"And the color blue?" I pressed, sensing the final wall crumbling. "Why does it really matter to you?"
"It... it reminds me of you," she confessed, her voice barely audible. Her face was a deep, vibrant pink, clashing beautifully with her green eyes.
"When you solve a problem... or when you look at the 'sea' in the books... you look like that. I have associated the color with your presence. Therefore... I find the color... necessary."
I felt a genuine spike of surprise. I had expected a logical deflection, not a direct hit. She had linked my identity to her preferences. She wasn't just observing me anymore; I was becoming her aesthetic.
"That's... quite the association, Amelia," I said, my voice softening.
She began to blabber then, her words tumbling out in a frantic, cute attempt to regain her composure. "The mountain... The Aethelgard Pillar is actually a geological anomaly caused by high-density mana-veins in the crust. The 'fortune' is likely just a massive deposit of crystallized ether which would be... would be very valuable."
"If we go... we would need thermal regulators and oxygen-masks for the altitude... and a rope. A very long rope."
"Alright, Amelia. I won't disappear on you. And if I ever do decide to go after that shiny fortune... I'll take you with me."
She lowered her hand from her face, her eyes wide. "Really? You... you would include me in the expedition?"
"Our bond is special for a reason," I said, nodding.
"It's a promise."
"Promise?" she asked, the word sounding foreign on her tongue.
"Yes."
"A promise."
Her lips twirled—a tiny, hesitant micro-smile that she likely didn't even realize she was making. It was the first sign of genuine happiness I had seen in her, a brief flicker of light in the gray void of the Foundation.
The moment was shattered by a sharp, rhythmic tapping.
Director Vance stood at the entrance of the section.
He didn't speak. He simply stood there, his hands clasped behind his back.
His steel-grey eyes moved across the room, a laser-grid scanning for anomalies.
He paused for a fraction of a second on Designation 000001, then shifted his gaze across the sea of grey jumpsuits. Finally, the scanners locked onto us. Or rather, they locked onto the three-inch gap between my shoulder and Amelia's.
"The 5th day marks the threshold of saturation," Vance began.
"The Foundation has determined that a standard progression is insufficient for this generation. We require a reassessment of your adaptive capabilities. Before the final examination in 48 hours."
He moved to the center of the hall, his shadow cutting a dark path across the white floor.
"Today's assessment will focus on the Foundational Choice. A single topic that governs the rest."
He began to count them off, his gloved fingers ticking upward with the rhythm of a metronome.
"1: Mathematics. 2: Physics. 3: Biology. 4: Chemistry. 5: History. 6: Linguistics."
He paused, the silence in the room becoming a physical weight.
"7: Elemental Theory. 8: Celestial Mechanics. 9: Alchemy."
"10: Abyssal Logic. 11: Necrotic Law. 12: Void Geometry."
"12 paths," Vance said, his gaze returning to me.
"But only one truth. To find the subject of tonight's trial, you must solve the riddle of the Source."
"It is the history of a line that has no end. It is the alchemy of shapes that possess no weight. It is the linguistics of a universal constant, and the necrotic law of the absolute zero. It is the beginning of the void, and the end of the measure."
The room remained silent. I could see the other students' minds racing, trying to decide if it was History because of the "line," or Alchemy because of the "gold," or Void Geometry because of the "void."
It was a deceptive trap designed to filter out those who look for words instead of patterns.
"This is not a graded event," Vance continued, his voice dropping an octave. "There is no reward for success, and no immediate punishment for failure. We simply wish to observe your state before the final examinations. The test will commence at the end of this cycle. It will last 45 minutes."
"Do not disappoint."
His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer to our desk. The proximity was a violation of the Foundation's aesthetic of isolation.
"As per the Prime Directives," Vance said, his voice cold enough to crack bone, "the Foundation does not tolerate inefficiency."
"Defectives are thrown away as waste. Just like their caretakers. The weak do not merely fail; they are erased to make room for the gifted."
I felt it then.
The comment about my own disposal wasn't anything. I am a consciousness; I expect to be discarded if I fail.
But the thought of Cartethyia—the woman who has taken care of me since birth—being labeled as a "defective" to be "thrown away" triggered something murderous.
It was that same vengeful force. A black, viscous heat that burned behind my eyes. I didn't flinch. I didn't shout. I simply narrowed my eyes, staring back at Vance until the silver-haired man gave a single, sharp clap.
Vance dissolved into a cloud of white dust, his presence vanishing as if he had never been there.
The room erupted into a low-frequency hum of panicked whispering. Amelia was frozen next to me, her hand gripping the edge of the desk..
The Foundation views us as weapons. They view our gifts as obsolete components.
I looked at the 12 subjects listed on the board.
Humanity is a selfish race. We devour the world around us—nature, animals, the very air—all to fuel a survival that has no ultimate purpose. We are creatures of darkness in their hearts, and those with the deepest voids are inevitably drawn to each other.
Eventually, the stronger of the two envelops the other.
I leaned over my desk, my stylus scratching a jagged line through the word "Mathematics."
No, Vance.You are not the one assessing us.
I will assess if the Foundation has been keeping up with me now.
I will see if your "perfect" system can handle the reasoning I am about to introduce.
You should prepare for my result.