Chapter 12: Subject 0 (2)

Auron sat by the glass wall, his knees tucked up, his eyes wide with unspoken curiosity. Morning light filtered through the reinforced panels above, casting golden lattices across the sterile floor. He followed the rays with his gaze, slowly, as though each flicker and shift of shadow told him something secret about the world.

Lira knelt beside him with a soft pad in hand. She drew a circle on it and turned it toward him.

"Sun," she said.

Auron blinked. Then, almost inaudibly, he whispered, "S...sun."

His voice was still dry, uncertain—as though it were something borrowed, not owned. Lira smiled.

"Good. Again."

"Sun," he repeated, firmer this time. Then he looked back at the window. "Bright."

Lira's brows lifted. "Yes. Bright. That means a lot of light."

Auron touched the glass. "Bright... hurts eyes."

He was learning fast—far faster than expected. Maybe the Starduss neural encoding had matured inside his brain faster than even she realized. Or maybe... it was just him.

She moved beside him and drew a simple figure on the pad: two dots for eyes, a curved line for a smile.

"Happy," she said.

Auron tilted his head. "Ha...ppy?"

Lira nodded, and her voice softened. "It's when you feel light inside. Like things are good."

Auron pressed a hand to his chest. "Happy is... light?"

"Sort of. It's a feeling."

His fingers hovered there a second longer, then lowered.

"Not there yet," he said.

The day passed slowly, measured in simple steps. Vocabulary. Identification. Naming objects in the room. Auron absorbed everything with a quiet hunger, pausing only when the air seemed too still, or when his thoughts drifted somewhere she couldn't follow.

Lira brought over an old data terminal and opened a visual dictionary. Auron leaned in close, copying every word aloud, though many came out strange, fractured by the novelty of sound in his throat.

And then, unprompted, he asked:

"Why did you make me?"

The question hit like a spike. Lira looked at him, the faint tremor of her breath betraying her control. Her fingers clutched the side of the chair she sat on.

"I didn't," she said after a moment. "My father did. Dr. Elian. But... I helped bring you into this world."

Auron's expression didn't change, but his tone lowered.

"Was I... needed?"

"You were... hoped for."

Auron turned back to the terminal.

"Hope."

That night, after simulated dusk, Lira gave Auron time alone. She needed it, too. Her logs were overflowing with data from his vitals, his speech patterns, the unexpected acceleration of comprehension.

But she also felt... off.

Not afraid. Not yet. Just unmoored. Like something in the lab had shifted beneath her feet.

Meanwhile, in the isolation room, Auron sat upright on the edge of the stasis platform. His gaze wandered to the mirrored wall across from him. For the first time, he saw himself.

Pale skin. Silver-black eyes. Hair like moonlight soaked in ink.

He didn't recognize the face.

Inside his mind, something whispered.

Unseal.

He blinked.

Then again, louder:

Unseal.

Auron's fingers twitched.

He touched his chest. Heat. A subtle ember beneath the skin. It pulsed faintly, as though syncing with a rhythm far older than himself.

He didn't understand it.

But he didn't fear it, either.

The next morning, Lira initiated basic mobility training. She had modified a section of the lab with old rehabilitation equipment—things she and Dr. Elian had used long ago to test Subject 0001's adaptability.

Auron stood without assistance now. He walked with measured steps, hands open, head slightly bowed as if listening to something others couldn't hear.

"Lift this," Lira said, handing him a 5kg weight.

He complied easily.

She increased it to 10kg. Then 15. He showed no signs of struggle. But when she handed him a dense metal bar—just for a reaction test—the unexpected happened.

The bar bent.

Just slightly. But visibly.

Lira's heart skipped. Not because of the strength. But because of how unaware he seemed.

He looked at the warped metal and frowned.

"Did I break it?"

"No," she lied. "It was already damaged."

He accepted the answer. But his hand lingered on the dent.

Later, they sat together in the observation chamber. Lira began a basic emotional expression drill, something Dr. Elian once insisted on. She showed him short recordings of facial expressions—joy, anger, grief, awe.

When he saw 'fear,' he flinched.

"That one. I don't like it," he said.

"Fear protects us," she replied. "It's normal."

He looked at her for a long moment.

"Do I make you afraid?"

She froze.

"No."

Auron studied her expression, then slowly nodded. But she felt it—his doubt. Not of her words, but of himself.

Then it happened.

Auron raised his hand toward the screen. Something twitched in the air—a slight warping of light, like heat off metal.

And then—a flicker.

A burst of flame, red-blue and silent, hissed from his palm and struck the metal base of the chair.

The chair seared.

Lira jumped up. Auron gasped and jerked his hand back, staring at it like it belonged to someone else.

"I didn't mean to! I didn't mean to!"

His voice cracked. His whole body shook.

Lira rushed over and held his shoulders. "It's okay. You're not in danger. I'm here. You're okay."

But she felt it. Under her hands. His skin was hot.

"Am I broken?" he asked.

"You're not, and you'll never be."

They sat together for a long time after.

Eventually, Lira brought him to sit on the edge of the stasis pod. She explained things simply: about Starduss genes, about Dr. Elian's design. About choice.

"You don't have to become what you were made to be," she said. "You can become who you want to be."

Auron stared at the reflection in the glass wall. For a long time, he said nothing.

Then, quietly:

"Then I want to be someone who doesn't make you afraid."

Lira didn't speak.

She just wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close.

He didn't move at first.

Then, slowly, he lifted his arms and returned the gesture—awkward, unsure.

His fingers trembled.

And for the first time, the heat inside him calmed.

S.E.E.K. System Log: Quantum Core 0.2% destabilization detected.

Containment Response: None. Monitoring continues