The offer hung in the cold, sterile air of the laboratory, a proposition so monstrous and absurd it felt like a physical weight. Join me, Sensei. Let us compose the final, perfect song of humanity. Dr. Inaba's eyes shone with the terrifying, collaborative zeal of a madman who has just found his muse. He was still gripping Kenji's shoulders, his touch surprisingly strong, as if he feared this magnificent, chaotic prodigy might simply dematerialize if he let go.
Kenji's mind, a place usually filled with a maelstrom of panic and despair, went momentarily, blissfully quiet. It was the calm of a man who had just been pushed out of an airplane without a parachute. There is no point in screaming. There is only the long fall. He was trapped. To refuse was to reveal himself. To accept was to become a partner in a crime against the very concept of free will. He had no choice. He had to say yes. He had to ride the tiger.
He took a slow, deliberate breath, a technique he had seen a kabuki actor use once to convey profound emotional gravity. He gently placed his own hands on top of Dr. Inaba's, a gesture of solemn, artistic communion.
"Doctor," he began, his voice a low, resonant murmur that seemed to absorb the ambient hum of the laboratory.
"I have spent my life on a lonely path. I have wrestled with the chaos within. I have listened to the stories of the ingredients, their joys, their sorrows, their final, scrambled confessions."
He looked around the room, at the silent library of dead frogs, his expression one of deep, philosophical pity.
"You, too, have walked a lonely path. You have tried to bring order to a universe that craves chaos. You have tried to teach a perfect song to a choir that has forgotten how to speak."
Dr. Inaba's grip loosened, his expression softening into one of rapt attention. Kenji was not just accepting; he was validating the doctor's entire twisted worldview.
"To combine our paths," Kenji continued, "to merge the Sublime and the Scrambled, not as a mere academic exercise, but as a practical application to shape the very sound of the world… it is a terrifying proposition."
He paused, letting the weight of the statement settle.
"And therefore, it is a necessary one. True art, Doctor, is born at the edge of terror. I accept your generous offer. Let us see what beautiful, terrible music we can make together."
Dr. Inaba's face broke into a smile of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. He looked like a child who had just been told that Christmas, his birthday, and the invention of ice cream were all happening on the same day.
"Marvelous! Oh, truly marvelous!" he exclaimed, finally releasing Kenji's shoulders to clap his hands together.
"The synergy! The potential! We will begin immediately! There is so much to do, so much to prepare!"
He began to pace the laboratory, his mind already racing ahead.
"The first step is to capture the essence of your gift. We must record and analyze the primal frequency of the Scrambled Progenitor. We must map its bio-acoustic signature, digitize it, and then find a way to synthesize it. Miss Aiko!" he called to one of the lab technicians.
"Prepare the deep-frequency acoustic capture suite! And bring me the prototype neural network synthesizer. The one we were using to model the whale songs!"
While the technicians scrambled to obey, Sato, who had been observing the entire exchange with the quiet intensity of a predator, saw her opening. She moved forward, her face a perfect mask of the concerned, detail-oriented assistant.
"Forgive me, Doctor," she said, her voice respectful but firm.
"This is a momentous collaboration. For the historical record, and for the article I am preparing on Sensei's journey, it is imperative that I document every stage of this new process. Would it be possible for me to get a tour of the laboratory's supporting facilities? I need to understand the… the full context of the work."
"Of course, of course!" Dr. Inaba said, waving a magnanimous hand. He was too caught up in his own excitement to see the trap.
"A fine idea! Our work must be properly contextualized!"
He turned to a man standing near the door, a senior technician Kenji hadn't noticed before. The man was built like a retired wrestler, with a stern, square jaw and cold, deeply suspicious eyes that had not once shown a flicker of the wonder or excitement the others displayed. His nametag read 'Mr. Tanaka.' Kenji's heart sank. Of course it did.
"Mr. Tanaka," the Doctor commanded.
"Please escort the Sensei's assistant, Miss…?"
"Sato," Sato supplied smoothly.
"Miss Sato. Show her everything. The nutrient synthesis labs, the data storage centers, the cryogenic sample archives. Answer all of her questions."
Mr. Tanaka's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at Sato, then at Kenji. There was no deference in his gaze, only a cold, professional assessment. He was not a true believer. He was a guard. A loyal soldier of Ayame's, Kenji suspected, was placed here to keep an eye on the eccentric doctor.
"It would be my pleasure, Doctor," Mr. Tanaka said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
He gave a stiff, formal bow. He then turned to Sato.
"This way, please."
As Sato followed the hulking technician out of the Inner Sanctum, she gave Kenji a single, almost imperceptible glance. It was a look they had perfected over years of missions. It said, The data siphon is active. Keep him distracted. I will find a way to get us out. Do not, under any circumstances, get yourself killed.
Kenji was now alone with Dr. Inaba and his two remaining lab technicians. He felt like a lamb who had just successfully convinced the wolf to let him co-design the new sheep pen.
"Now, Sensei," Dr. Inaba said, rubbing his hands together with glee.
He led Kenji to a smaller, soundproofed booth in the corner of the lab. Inside was a single, comfortable-looking chair and a large, extremely sensitive-looking microphone suspended in a mesh cage.
"The first task. It is a simple one, but the most crucial. We have the recording of your Progenitor's 'heartbeat.' But that is a pale echo. I need the source. I need you."
Kenji stared at the microphone.
"What do you need me to do, Doctor?"
"I need you to vocalize the creative frequency," Dr. Inaba said, as if it were the most reasonable request in the world.
"The sound of the chaos. The bio-acoustic signature of your inspiration. The sound you make within your soul when you are creating your art. I need you to hum it, to sing it, to chant it into the microphone. We will record it, digitize it, and it will become the foundational note of our new symphony."
Kenji looked from the microphone to the earnest, expectant face of the mad scientist. He had to produce the sound of his own soul. His soul, at that moment, was producing a sound somewhere between a terrified scream and a gurgle of pure despair. This was a new level of hell. He had to perform the sound of his own fraudulent genius.
He sat down in the chair. The technician closed the soundproof door, encasing him in silence. He looked through the glass at Dr. Inaba, who gave him an encouraging thumbs-up. He took a deep breath. He leaned towards the microphone. And he tried to remember what his stomach had sounded like right before it had saved his life.