Date: 6/22/2001 - 11:00 AM {1 Year After Birth}
Location: The Nursery – Living Quarters
Perspective: Kaiser Everhart
My consciousness, still sharp from the precision of the White Room, felt sluggish in the transition.
Cartethyia held me so tightly I could feel the individual beats of her heart. They were erratic.
"Kaiser?" she whispered, her voice brushing against my ear. "Are you awake, my little prince? D-did you sleep... well?"
I didn't answer. I didn't reach for her hair.
I simply gave a single, stiff nod against her shoulder.
I felt her breath hitch. She pulled back just enough to look at my face, her eyes searching mine for a flicker of the child who used to mimic her words.
"You're so quiet lately," she murmured, her thumb tracing the line of my jaw. "It's... it's so l-lonely when you're asleep. Or when you're... g-gone. Even when I'm holding you, it feels like you're... f-far away."
The withdrawal is working. She is beginning to perceive the distance. The "Mother" role is losing its stability, which is the primary objective of this phase.
She didn't wait for a response she knew wasn't coming. Instead, she sat up on the bed, keeping me tucked into the crook of her arm. She stared at the wall, her gaze distant, as if projecting a memory onto the blank surface.
"I was thinking... about the first time I saw the Asura Academy," she said, her voice small and wistful.
"I was so nervous, Kaiser. Aria was there, of course. She was always the b-braver one."
She began to describe it. A sprawling, majestic complex of white stone and soaring arches that seemed to touch the clouds. In her memory, the paths were crowded with students—hundreds of them, draped in robes that caught the sunlight.
"It was so big," she whispered. "I felt like a... a speck of dust. But it was pretty. So pretty. When you grow up... when we're out of this place... I'll take you there. I'll show you the great halls and the fountains."
"You'll be the smartest student they've ever seen."
"M-mama will be so proud."
I looked at her. Her eyes were bright with hope. She was building a future on a foundation of sand.
I gave another slow, indifferent nod.
The silence stretched between us, becoming a physical barrier. I watched her lips twitch.
It wasn't a smile; it was a tremor of suppressed grief. She waited for a second, perhaps hoping I would say something slurred—a "Cartethyia," or a "Pretty."
I said nothing.
She slowly stood up and placed me down in the center of the bed.
"I have to... I have to go out for a bit," she said, smoothing her dress with frantic, shaky movements.
"Mama has to do something today. I'll be b-back soon, Kaiser. I promise."
I stared at her. I didn't reach out.
I just gave her the same, mechanical nod.
Cartethyia turned toward the door. As she walked away, I saw her hand drop to her side. Her fingers curled into a tight, knuckled fist. She didn't look back.
The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the dim light of the nursery.
She is experiencing the early stages of detachment. The possessiveness is being replaced by a confused, defensive hurt.
I rested my head back on the pillow.
It is an unpleasant process, certainly. Watching her erosion is a feeling I would prefer to avoid, but the ends justify the means. If she views me as a cold, unresponsive cho;d by the time the Foundation moves her, the weight in her heart will be lighter.
She will realize I have no value. She will realize I am just a cold child, no different from the gray walls that surround us.
Once she stops caring, the transition will be healthier.
I wonder what today brings…
Cartethyia returned several minutes later. She didn't speak of where she had been. Instead, she sat by the bed and spoke to me for hours.
She told me about her grandparents' village.
She described the cobblestone paths and the way the sun hit the thatched roofs of the cottages. It was her sanctuary—the one place where she loved to visit.
I listened, summarizing the data as she spoke. I wondered if I would ever see this village, or if her grandparents still walked those paths, unaware that their granddaughter was raising a ghost in a gray room.
"Goodnight, my little prince," she whispered.
She wrapped her arms around me, pulling my small, unyielding body against her chest. It was time for the cycle to end once more.
Usually, I would give her a small nod—a crumb of acknowledgment to keep her from starving.
This time, I gave her nothing.
I felt her grip tighten. Her breathing became shallow, hitching in the back of her throat. The isolation I was imposing on her was becoming a physical pain.
She was losing the only thing that made her feel human in this facility, and I was the one holding the knife.
It is a strange thing, gratitude.
Even if I have never called her "mother," she has been the reason for my survival. She fed me when I was helpless. She held me when the nightmares of the foundation arose. She offered love to a weapon that was designed only to calculate.
I will not let her leave without my gratitude, even if she never knows I felt it.
If she leaves me now to raise someone "better"—someone who can actually smile back—then my objective is achieved.
The future is an uncertain variable. Nevertheless, I am going to age. I am going to survive the Foundation. I will prevail, and 15 years from now, I will walk out of the shadows of this world.
I will visit that village.
I will find the people she spoke of.
I will judge them.
I will look at "Aria" and "Alaric" and every soul that took her happiness and traded it for their own. If my theory is correct—if her own loved ones were the ones who betrayed her to this fate—I will be the consequence they never saw coming.
Those loved ones will "coincidentally" fall to ruin. I am certain of that.
And when they are at their lowest, I will be there to deal the killing blow.
That is my promise to the woman who sang me lullabies.
I let the darkness of the room envelop me. My eyes closed, and the cold logic of the White Room began to pull at my consciousness once more.
The transition from the nursery's dim shadows to the White Room's sterile glare took 1.4 seconds. I blinked, and as expected, Amelia was there.
She wasn't just sitting near me. She was looming, her green eyes wide and fixed on my face with an intensity that suggested she had been counting seconds while I was away.
Before I could even offer a greeting, her hand shot out, her fingers twisting into the fabric of my grey sleeve.
"Why did you leave early?" she asked.
"The assessment ended and I—"
"You disappeared while I was rushing towards you. You didn't stay."
"I didn't know you had a scheduled debriefing in mind."
"We could have stayed. We could have analyzed the fifth question. We could have read the next chapter of Eternal Gists."
"Amelia, the simulation remains open for twelve hours. There is no shortage of time."
"There is a shortage of your time. You prioritize the real world over this one."
"In the real world, I am currently a one-year-old in a bed. It's not exactly a high-stakes environment."
"And yet, you rushed back to it. You vanished the moment the timer hit zero. It was inefficient. It was… rude."
"Rude? Are we applying social etiquette to the facility now?"
"I do not like it when you disappear like that. You should establish a departure protocol. You should talk to me first."
"I'll make sure to file a three-point notice of exit next time. Would you like me to include a formal goodbye and a summary of my intended nap duration?"
"Do not use sarcasm to deflect. That's your defensive strategy."
"And holding my sleeve like this is a high-tier offensive strategy?"
"It ensures you remain present."
"I'm here now, aren't I?"
"You are here, but your focus is fragmented. You're already thinking about the next cycle."
"I'm thinking about how my arm is going to lose circulation if you keep twisting that fabric."
She didn't let go. If anything, her grip tightened. She was genuinely agitated—a bold, human anger that was rapidly overriding her logical sub-routines.
I realized then that words were no longer the correct currency for this exchange.
I stood up, the chair scraping softly behind me. She looked up, her expression a mix of defiance and hurt, her lips pressed into a thin, stubborn line.
I didn't argue. I reached out and cupped her face with both hands, my thumbs resting just beneath her cheekbones.
The silence that followed was instantaneous. Amelia's eyes went wide, the emerald irises shimmering. Her hands finally loosened on my sleeve, dropping to her sides as if she had forgotten why she was holding on in the first place.
"Are you okay now?" I asked softly.
She didn't look at me. She didn't reply.
Her gaze dropped to the floor, her face heating up until a deep, vibrant flush covered her cheeks. I kept my hands there for a few seconds longer, feeling the heat of her skin and the frantic pulse at her jawline.
I pulled her chin up slightly, forcing her to meet my eyes.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm… okie," she whispered.
She used the softer pronunciation again. I let go of her face and sat back down, picking up my stylus as if we hadn't just broken three dozen Foundation protocols on emotional distance.
"Good," I said, looking at the blank page. "Then let's look at the next history volume. We have a mountain to climb, remember?"
She nodded, slowly reaching for her own book, her movements much more subdued now, though her eyes remained fixed on the spot where my hands had been.
The next twelve hours were a long absorption of knowledge. I gave Amelia more of my direct attention, and the results were immediate. She became a mirror, reflecting my every move.
She wasn't just studying the curriculum anymore; she was studying me.
She performed for me. Every time she solved a complex derivation or memorized a dense passage of history, she would pause, her eyes flicking to mine, waiting for the silent approval of a nod or a brief "Good."
She was using her perfect memory as a tool to secure her proximity to me.
Day 6 had arrived without a formal announcement from Vance. The books had simply manifested on our desks—a silent command to continue. We were in a skip-cycle, a period where the Foundation tested our self-discipline without direct oversight.
Amelia has become deeply attached. She has set so firmly that she is now neglecting her own independent logic to prioritize my presence.
I looked away from her.
I had already deconstructed and replicated the architecture of her gift. I have the Kelic system now. I had the factory. To stay focused solely on her was to ignore the other students in the room.
My gaze drifted across the rows of grey jumpsuits. It landed on Designation 000372.
She was a girl with silver hair and deep silver eyes.
I'll call her Talise.
Unlike the others, who seemed to be vibrating with the stress of the skip-cycle, she was unnervingly still. She had the calmest studying session.
I watched the way her stylus moved—not in the rapid-fire bursts of Amelia, but with a slow, deliberate pattern that suggested she was looking for something beneath the text.
I should befriend her. If Amelia provided the blueprint for memory, Talise might provide the blueprint for deep-structural analysis. I should approach her—
A sharp tug on my sleeve broke my concentration.
"Kaiser," Amelia whispered. Her fingers were tight on my arm.
"You are looking at her again."
"I am observing the students, Amelia."
"It is… inefficient. The output of Designation 000372 is irrelevant to our current studies. We have four chapters of The Draconic Hegemony remaining."
"Diversity of observation prevents cognitive stagnation."
"No. It is a distraction. You should… stay focused here."
The way she pulled at my sleeve, her green eyes clouded with a frantic sort of possessiveness, was a fact I couldn't ignore. I had lived past her primary use.
I had extracted the "memory" talent and integrated it. I wondered how she would react when I eventually replaced her with someone better.
I turned back to my book, but she wasn't satisfied. She reached out and took my hand, placing it firmly on the open page of her history text.
"Kaiser… I do not understand this part," she said. Her voice was steady, but her pulse was racing against my palm. "The bloodline of the Dragonics. Explain the stratification."
I looked at the text.
"History records the Dragonic bloodlines as the apex of terrestrial nobility,"
"Their genetics are saturated with mana, which they believe grants them a divine right to rule. In a historical context, they are a race defined by their arrogance."
"And the others?" she asked, leaning closer until her shoulder pressed against mine.
"They view the Dwarves as subterranean laborers—commoners who care only for the mechanical. And the Sylaris… they view them as nomadic pests. To a Dragonic, anyone without a scaled lineage is a lesser being. They do not seek cooperation; they seek hierarchy."
Amelia nodded, though I doubt she was listening to the history. She was simply focused on the fact that I was talking to her, and not to the girl with the silver eyes.
CLAP.
Director Vance appeared at the podium as if he had been woven from the air itself.
"Congratulations," Vance said. His voice was a cold rasp that cut through the silence.
"You have reached the benchmarks for the 5th day. Most of you have exceeded them. You have shown that you can process the 'what' of this world with remarkable speed."
He paused, his pale steel eyes finally dropping to meet ours.
"But the Foundation is not interested in what you can remember. We are interested in what you are. Tell me…"
He leaned forward, his shadow stretching long across the floor.
"What is talent? Is it a gift? Is it a curse? Or is it merely a biological shortcut that hides a fundamental weakness?"
"I'll tell you the truth."