How We Made You

When he walked out the door, two young men in black uniforms waited for him. They had sharp features, athletic builds, and the keen, alert look that comes only from years of guard training. Though they couldn't have been older than twenty-five, their bearing showed years of professional experience. Their weapons—sleek, compact devices—rested in specially designed holsters, gripped with practiced readiness. They stood so still they might have been figures in a painting, every detail was perfect. Their disciplined movements revealed years of intensive training.

When the young guards noticed him, they examined his formal attire before smoothly transitioning from attention to parade rest in perfect unison.

"Sir! We have been assigned to escort you safely to the outer door. We are at your complete disposal." one said formally.

Their professional deference made him feel important, but an inner voice warned against letting this treatment cloud his judgment. He responded with just a slight nod to proceed.

Through winding corridors and sharp turns, they reached a high-security door guarded by armed personnel. The guards snapped to attention at his approach. "Initiate exit procedure." one escort commanded. It took five minutes to deactivate the advanced security mechanisms. Wherever this facility was, it was clearly under strict control.

Beyond the security door, ornate stairs led upward, seemingly to nowhere. One guard smoothly removed a gold-plated badge from his light, flexible white-and-red armor and pointed it at the wall.

A bright blue beam shot from the badge, revealing a hidden passage. Inside was a humid room filled with neatly stacked mysterious boxes. Without a word, he climbed the spiral stairs rising from its center.

At the top, he emerged into an enormous hall unlike the dark corridors below. Custom-designed glass covered the walls and high ceiling, offering his first clear view of the outside world. The sight left him speechless.

Modern apartments of glass and steel rose majestically, their surfaces gleaming in the sunlight. The city streets glowed as if stars had descended from the sky, light dancing from every window. He walked to the glass doors with measured steps, feeling the smooth floor beneath him. As he stepped onto the terrace, the intense sunlight pierced his eyes like needles. He shielded his face, blinking until his vision cleared. When he could finally see clearly, an inexplicable sadness washed over him—as if his soul recognized this view but had forgotten why.

From this height, the city spread below like an intricate painting. Wide streets formed crystal-like geometric patterns, perfectly parallel boulevards stretched to the horizon, and strategic patches of green parks softened the urban landscape. But one structure dominated his attention: a majestic castle of granite and marble rising from the city's heart. Its soaring towers, thick walls, and ornate details seemed to belong to another age entirely. He wondered why such an ancient building stood amid this modern metropolis—perhaps as a tourist attraction, or something more significant? The melancholy lingered, unexplained.

"They're not here..."

Another voice echoed in his mind—deep with sadness and regret, familiar yet foreign. Thinking someone had spoken, he turned to find only the silent guards.

"This way, sir," one guard said, drawing him from his thoughts. They walked to the hall's end, where doors opened with a soft hiss onto a sprawling terrace.

A luxury restaurant commanded the terrace's center, offering spectacular city views. Live music drifted from inside, and an elegantly dressed greeter in pressed black stood waiting. The guards took positions at the entrance, their duties complete.

The greeter professionally assessed his attire before offering the traditional welcome.

"Welcome, sir! Did you have a reserved table?"

"Is someone named Zeta here?"

The greeter consulted his tablet.

"Table 27, sir," he indicated with a graceful gesture.

He spotted Zeta gazing distantly at the city view. With a polite nod to the greeter, he approached and pulled out a chair.

"You need permission from your superiors before sitting at the table." Zeta said, eyes still fixed on the view.

"Of course." he replied with a sarcastic smile, sitting anyway. "What do you want from me?"

"First, I want us to be less hostile toward each other. Believe me, I'm not your enemy, but your friend. And friends help each other." Zeta offered.

"I want to get through this quickly. Don't drag it out—tell me directly."

Zeta sighed deeply and finally turned to face him.

"You have many questions, don't you? You want answers? Then do what I say, and I'll give you the answers you seek." he said soothingly.

"Fuck..." he thought. Zeta had laid out exactly what he wanted. Knowing force wouldn't work, he gave a slight nod of agreement.

"The star system is called Nivara. We're on Equina, one of its habitable planets. This country is Gradia, and this city is Lotiana, one of its most advanced metropolises." Zeta explained carefully.

"What is this place?" he asked, gesturing to the building around them.

"Just an ordinary plaza that belongs to me. Nothing special." Zeta smiled mysteriously.

His jumbled memory held no trace of these places. Nothing Zeta mentioned sparked even a hint of recognition. He felt utterly adrift.

"I'm sure this all seems strange. Don't worry, you'll adjust in time. Now, you must be hungry. Let me order breakfast." Zeta said, reaching for the tablet.

"How old am I?" he asked suddenly.

"Biologically or chronologically?"

"Biological."

"Twenty-nine."

"So chronologically, I'm seven thousand three hundred and eighty-five years old." he muttered, the knowledge surfacing unbidden.

"Correct," Zeta said, unsurprised.

A waiter began serving their meal.

"Six thousand two hundred and seventy-four times eight hundred and thirty-six?" Zeta asked unexpectedly.

The man froze. What startled him wasn't the complex multiplication but knowing the answer instantly.

"Five million two hundred forty-five thousand and sixty-four... How... how can I know this?" he asked, fear edging his voice.

Zeta looked utterly unsurprised—confident, even.

"Before I tell you your mission, there are more important things you should know." he said, pouring purple sauce over something bread-like. "The body parts used to create you came from crucial figures in our civilization. Every part is beyond perfect. Security protocols forbid me from naming them—except one. Geminga Spitzer, the universe's greatest detective, whose brain we used to create yours! I knew his genetic structure would match our criteria perfectly, and clearly, I was right." he finished, taking a bite of his exotic food.

At the detective's name, something in his brain seemed to tear free, writhing like a trapped creature trying to escape from deep within his mind. Every cell felt this foreign presence. He was certain now—something was inside him, growing stronger as his memories returned.