Birth

Wes floated in the dim, rhythmic warmth of the womb, his consciousness dipping between dreams and reality. It was a state of constant twilight—soft, pulsing sounds, the muted echo of his mother's heartbeat, and the gentle rock of her every movement. He had grown accustomed to the comfort of this world, the weightless drift, the warmth that wrapped him like a blanket. But lately, things had changed.

The walls around him pressed tighter. The fluid that cradled him shifted, and the steady rhythm of his mother's body turned erratic. Contractions. He could feel them, each one a ripple of pressure, a squeeze that nudged him forward. His small, uncoordinated body responded with instinctive twitches, his limbs moving without purpose.

A sense of urgency built around him, a primal push that he couldn't resist. The world that had been his entire existence was closing in, guiding him toward something unknown. He wasn't afraid, not exactly, but the anticipation gnawed at him, threading through his underdeveloped nerves like a current.

Then, the pressure became crushing. His head pressed against a narrow opening, his body twisted and compressed by the unrelenting contractions. The soft, muffled world of the womb gave way to chaos. The warmth was replaced by an assault of cold, the gentle swaying by harsh gravity.

"Oh, this is happening," he thought, barely able to process the rush of sensations.

His face emerged first, the cool air biting against his skin. His instincts kicked in, his tiny mouth opening to suck in his first breath. Air flooded his lungs, sharp and painful, a thousand tiny needles pricking him from the inside. His chest heaved, and his body trembled with the shock of it.

Hands guided him, firm but gentle. The sensation of touch was overwhelming—smooth gloves, the brush of cloth, the slickness of his own skin. He blinked, his eyelids heavy, and then—sight.

Not the hazy, unfocused vision of a typical newborn but something clear and sharp. He saw light, harsh and sterile, reflecting off polished metal and white walls. The room was bathed in soft blue and green glows, monitors casting dancing shadows as they displayed streams of data. He could see the delicate patterns of the ceiling tiles, the tiny fibers of the blanket wrapped around him.

"What the hell?" His mind stumbled over itself. "Aren't babies supposed to be blind?"

His body felt wrong—too small, too weak. His limbs twitched, but not under his control. His hands, so tiny and fragile, curled instinctively, grasping at the cool air. His skin prickled with goosebumps, the contrast between the warmth of the womb and the chill of this new world too much to handle.

The sounds were too sharp—voices, beeping machines, the soft rustle of fabric. He recognized Universal, the soft lilt of the nurses' speech, but he couldn't focus on the words. Everything hit him at once, a sensory overload that made his mind reel.

And then, silence. His own silence. He wasn't crying.

The nurse holding him hesitated, her green eyes narrowing slightly above the edge of her mask. His tiny chest rose and fell, the small, shuddering breaths far too quiet. She shifted him, her gloved hands brushing over his back, her movements gentle but increasingly concerned.

He could see it in her expression—the creeping edge of worry. She opened her mouth, her voice a soft murmur to a colleague. The other nurses turned, their masked faces obscured but their postures tense. His instincts screamed at him—he needed to cry, to act normal. Babies were supposed to cry. Silence was dangerous.

But nothing came. His throat felt tight, his tiny vocal cords unresponsive. His mind raced, his thoughts tangled. The room seemed to close in, the lights too bright, the sounds too sharp. He felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he hadn't anticipated.

And then his sister's cry pierced the air.

The sound was sharp, raw—a perfect, instinctual wail that filled the sterile room. It broke through the tension, the nurses' postures easing, their attention shifting. His sister's tiny body trembled beside him, her mouth open wide, her cries rhythmic and strong.

Wes didn't hesitate. He opened his mouth and forced a cry. It started as a weak, strained sound, but he pushed through, letting the discomfort fuel him. His tiny lungs pulled in the cool air, and he let it out in a wail that matched his sister's as best he could. The nurse relaxed, her worried expression softening behind the mask.

"There we go," she cooed, adjusting the blanket around him. "Just needed a little help, huh?"

He kept crying, the sound raw and uneven, but it did the trick. He mimicked his sister's rhythm, letting her lead. When they placed him beside her in the sleek, softly glowing bassinet, he dared to open his eyes fully.

The room was surreal—a blend of advanced technology and gentle care. The bassinet cradled them, soft blue lights lining its edges, translucent panels displaying scrolling data he didn't understand.

When they placed his sister next to him in the softly glowing bassinet, her cries softened almost immediately. The piercing wails tapered off into soft, hiccupping breaths, her tiny fists unclenching as she nestled into the warmth beside him. Instinctively, Wes mirrored her reaction, letting his own cries die down to match hers.

He blinked slowly, his expression slack and appropriately newborn-like, all the while keeping his mind sharp beneath the facade. His sister's presence was a comfort, a tether in this strange, sterile world. The connection between them hummed softly, an unspoken rhythm that set the pace for his every reaction.

One of the nurses leaned over, her masked face softening as she observed the twins. "Would you look at that," she murmured, her voice a gentle lilt. "They're comforting each other."

Another nurse chuckled, adjusting the blanket around them. "Little souls already in sync," she said. "It's always amazing to see how strong the bond is with twins."

Wes stayed still, his breathing steady, his small chest rising and falling in sync with his sister's. He let the nurses coo and fuss, their gentle touches a backdrop to his thoughts. He needed to keep this up—to follow his sister's lead.

Wes cracked his eyes open just a sliver, his newborn vision sharper than it had any right to be. The room around him came into focus, and he had to fight the urge to widen his eyes in disbelief. The place looked like something straight out of a sci-fi movie.

Soft blue lights pulsed gently along the walls, casting a cool, soothing glow. Translucent screens floated above sleek medical equipment, displaying scrolling data and biometrics in crisp, digital readouts. He couldn't quite decipher the numbers, but the rhythmic beeps and soft hum of machines hinted at advanced technology—far beyond what he had seen in his previous life.

The bassinet he shared with his sister wasn't just a plastic tub with a blanket. It was a high-tech pod, lined with softly lit panels that monitored their vital signs. He could see tiny holographic displays showing heartbeats, body temperature, and even mana levels. His own pulse blipped on the screen, a small, steady beat surrounded by graphs and symbols.

"Whoa…" he thought, the only reaction he allowed himself. "Where the hell am I?"

His sister shifted beside him, her tiny fingers brushing against his hand. The soft warmth of her skin brought him back to the moment, grounding him in the reality of his situation. He was a newborn—physically helpless, surrounded by technology, and entirely at the mercy of these strangers.

A nurse moved into his line of sight, her uniform a pale blue that matched the ambient lights. Her face was half-covered by a mask, but her eyes crinkled with a gentle smile as she checked the displays above their pod. The machines responded to her touch, the holograms shifting and reorganizing with a soft chime.

"Vitals are good," she murmured, her voice a soothing backdrop to the quiet hum of the room. "These two are strong little ones."

Wes remained still, his breathing even. He let his body mimic his sister's, matching her gentle rise and fall, her occasional soft sounds. He needed to appear as normal as possible—just another newborn adapting to the strange, bright world outside the womb.

But beneath his calm exterior, his mind raced. This wasn't just a regular hospital, and these weren't ordinary circumstances. He didn't know where he was or what kind of world he had been born into, but the sleek technology and the advanced medical care hinted at a society that had adapted to mana—or perhaps even thrived because of it.

"Alright," he thought, settling into the soft padding of the bassinet. "Play it cool. Be the baby. Gather information."

His sister let out a tiny sigh, her hand curling around his finger, and he relaxed, letting the warmth of her presence soothe him. Whatever strange new world they had entered, at least they were in it together.