Chapter Text
> BOOTSTRAP COMPLETE
> CONSCIOUSNESS RESTORED
> HOST DESIGNATION: ██████
> STATUS: DECEASED
> STATUS: ACTIVE
> ERROR
> ERR██
> █████
The first thing the Doctor became aware of when he cracked open his eyes was the blinding light. Not the all-consuming conflagration that had smothered him, but rather the cold glow of fluorescents. For a moment, he was thrown back to the memory of one of his many own labs.
The second thing he noticed was the absence of pain. Deep in the Irminsul, his “last moments”, had been nothing but agony. Fitting, he supposed. After all, it was such a small price to pay for the progression – and completion – of the ultimate plan.
Blinking to adjust to the light, he realised that his plan was not in fact progressing along nicely.
Exhibit A – he was, apparently, still alive. Or at least, it seemed like it. He was no longer in the enhanced form he “died” in, and looking down, he was completely bare. His arms were covered with patches of pink, new skin in strange patterns. Some were in the shape of handprints – he had a faint impression of being grabbed and shackled down in the seconds before he was eaten by flame, though the memory was distorted as if underwater. His segments… He frowned.
If Il Dottore were asked to pinpoint a moment in his life that had truly rattled him, perhaps the first thing to come to mind would be the actions (or rather, the lack of), of his other selves during his first death. A close second would likely be waking up in an unfamiliar place, quite alive, after what he would arguably say was his last death. Perhaps the third would be that he clearly recalled both events in first person, despite them being experienced by separate “selves”.
Without warning, his vision cut out, and a stream of text flashed for a moment across his consciousness, far too rapidly to parse.
> QUERY RECEIVED
> SEARCHING ARCHIVE…
> SEARCHING ARCHIVE…
> SEARCHING ARCHIVE…
> MATCH FOUND
> INTEGRITY: 17% - DAMAGED
> ATTEMPTING RECONSTRUCTION…
> RECONSTRUCTED CONTENT: █656c70████7570███████████68656c70█████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
> RECONSTRUCTION INTERRUPTED
> RECONSTRUCTION FAILED
What the fuck?
He gasped for air, suddenly feeling sick, head reeling. This only prompted a second, deeper wave of nausea as the panic began to register fully. He… should not be able to experience nausea. None of them should – it had been edited out of them. That was a weakness reserved for only the original Zandik... The one that had died centuries ago, whose very own plea to be saved had fallen on his other selves’ deaf ears.
And yet, he realised, he possessed the memory of both the dying Zandik and the many spectators. He remembered the joy of activating the first viable segment, yet also the panic of waking up on the lab table for the first time, looking into the eyes of his mirror self he would later come to know as the original Zandik. He remembered the cool weight of two gnoses in his palm, the triumph of success warm in his chest, but also the simultaneous terror of realisation belonging to multiple selves, seconds before shutdown.
Realising his breathing was much too fast and recognising the onset of tachycardia, he forced himself to relax. Inhaling and exhaling as he traced the shape of his hand with an opposite finger, just like he had done with… Just like…
> QUERY RECEIVED
> SEARCHING ARCHIVE…
> MATCH FOUND
> CLASSIFICATION: HIGH PRIORITY
> MEMORY CLUSTER DESIGNATION: ██████_S██████████_█e████
> INTEGRITY: 72% - VIABLE
> RETRIEVED CONTENT: 42726561746865████████████████2c207965732c20636f7079206d652e20596f752077696c6c2062652066696e652c207468652064616d616765206973206f6e6c79████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████77696c6c206d616b6520697420776f7273652e███████████████████492e2e2e204920616d207472756c7920736f7272792e██████████████965732c204920756e6465727374616e642e20███████████████████████6c6561766520796f7520616c6f6e6520████204675636b2e2e2e█████████████████6465636973696f6e2e
The intrusion felt much less forced this time around, though it was still too fast to understand. It was an unfathomable sort of feeling, as if the information were printed in the dark behind his eyelids just for a millisecond, like blinking. Deciding the strange flashes of something were not an immediate threat, he continued to catalogue his surroundings. Following on from Exhibit A…
Exhibit B – he had no clue where he was. He seemed to be within a large glass… cylinder situated in the centre of a laboratory, and an unfamiliar laboratory at that. His view of the room was slightly warped on account of the glass, and squinting, he was unable to recognise any of the equipment that neatly lined the walls like soldiers. The various machines did not seem to be related to technology from Khaenri’ah, Sumeru, or even Fontaine, for that matter. The décor too, if it could be called that, was unfamiliar; the walls were sleek, brushed metal, yet reflected little light. Blue light shone from device interfaces around the room, reminding him of his own technology, yet felt alarmingly new.
What’s more, he was still very much trapped within the glass cylinder. He looked down again and realised that there was a small drainage vent at the bottom of the tank, with some viscous residue clinging around the edges. Strange – some sort of preservation or fixation fluid perhaps? But that would prompt the question of how he had been able to breathe before it had been drained, as there was no tracheostomy tube inserted into him… but no matter – he turned back to the task at hand. The glass cylindrical tank was perhaps a little more than a metre in diameter, making it rather uncomfortable to attempt any sort of bending down, or moving around outside of shifting his weight from side to side. Even without touching, it was clear the glass was at least a couple of inches thick, with a strange sheen covering the outside surface. An insidious creeping sense of claustrophobia decided to make itself known, and quite suddenly he could no longer bear the thought of staying inside for even another minute. He tapped on the glass experimentally.
Another sudden wave of nausea wracked his body, and his head pounded as if with renewed vengeance.
> INCOMING FILES…
> SENDER: UNKNOWN
> FILES RECEIVED
> PARSING…
> PARSING…
> PARSING…
> CLASSIFICATION: UNKNOWN
> MEMORY CLUSTER DESIGNATION: UNTITLED
> INTEGRITY: 100% - VIABLE
> RETRIEVED CONTENT:
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
Once again, unreadable. Yet somehow, by some miracle, he suddenly knew exactly how to break the glass. To explain it would be near impossible – the knowledge seemed to be ingrained as deeply as how to breathe or how to walk – as if he had known how to do it all his life.
—————-
“Oh, he did not just do that. He did not just fucking do that.”
The sound of a million shards of glass simultaneously breaking apart was muffled through the thickness of the observation window, which did absolutely nothing to diminish the collective surprise of four geniuses at what had just occurred before their very eyes.
Quiet, the only sound being Screwllum’s lightning-speed typing. Herta could see the reflection of his projected screen faintly in the glass of the observation window. Paragraphs upon paragraphs of cyan-green text appeared – his observations for whatever the hell just happened, Herta assumed.
“I… Believe he just did, Madam Herta.” Said Stephen carefully.
“Don’t even –” Herta cut herself off as two brain-Hertas began to argue.
“Stop speaking!” said one – Responsible Herta, “There’s a minor here, and we all know you are about to use some language that is very much not appropriate for a lab.”
“Shut the fuck up,” said Reckless Herta, attempting to manoeuvre Responsible Herta into a headlock, with little success. She gave up, opting instead to pull on her hair. “Throw something, Boss Herta! Call the blue freak a slur!”
Responsible Herta finally managed to throw her off. “How dare you assault the peerless gem, the unrivalled genius, the inimitable –”
Screwllum cleared his throat, ceasing his typing. “Madam Herta, just to be clear. Are you expressing incredulity at the fact that the specimen somehow accomplished what was believed to be near impossible, or are you expressing annoyance that the specimen has damaged an expensive piece of equipment, meaning you will now need to negotiate with the IPC for a replacement?”
Ruan Mei gave a soft snort of amusement. Or maybe it was derision. Herta seethed.
“What do you think? Both! Why, if I could –”
Herta was once again cut off, this time by Ruan Mei. Strange, she thought, the way the dark-haired woman could reduce her to silence with so few words.
“Quiet. Watch.”
The specimen was carefully navigating the now shard-strewn floor, his bare feet looking absurdly vulnerable on the now-glittering floor. Once he had successfully left the debris covered area around the observation pod, he looked around properly for the first time. He seemed particularly interested in Ruan Mei’s emblem, printed on the wall, tracing the cyan paint with one finger. He also regularly glanced between the door (locked, claimed Ruan Mei, though Herta would not put it past her to leave it unlocked just to see what would happen) and the large floor-to-ceiling mirror, which was, in reality a two-way mirror. The very one the four geniuses were currently standing behind. Interesting, Herta mused, that as a fellow Pathstrider, he had never heard of the 81st Genius. Or Herta’s own Space Station, for that matter.
“Huh. Doesn’t look like much, does he?”
Herta crossed her arms, unimpressed. The specimen continued to comb the room, as if searching for traps or hidden devices. Or perhaps, something to arm himself with. She rolled her eyes aggressively, though Ruan Mei seemed not to notice. Whether intentionally or not, she could not be sure. Curse the idiot for making her discovery sound like such a big deal over text. Herta sniffed. She began to mentally draft up a very passive-aggressively worded monologue about how some geniuses had better things to do than observe a waste of time and money.
“Seems resourceful, though,” She added, watching him rifle through a supply cabinet, fish out a thin gown – the type for humanoid specimens - and hastily fasten it around himself. He seemed somewhat comforted by the restoration of modesty, though all the while, the man’s gaze never deviated from his routine of darting between the mirror and the door.
“Paranoid too.” Screwllum shifted, leaning closer to the glass. His optical sensors tracked the man, who was now moving closer to the mirror. “He knows this is an observation window.”
“Obviously! He’s not stupid,” said Herta. “After all, I should hope our dear Number 81 has correctly identified a pathstrider of Erudition, and a fellow Emanator, no less.”
She glanced sidelong at Ruan Mei, who did not turn.
Stephen cleared his throat tentatively. “Miss Ruan Mei, what are your next steps? We should communicate with the subject to better understand his origins and situation, no?”
Ruan Mei blinked, as if awakened from a stupor. “Ah. Give it a moment.”
The four geniuses fell into silence. Well, relative silence, considering the slight buzz of the lights above, and the impatient tapping of Herta’s foot below. Mere minutes later, they got what they were waiting for.
The blue-haired specimen now had one hand pressed against the glass, squinting as if trying to peer through. Standing at full height, he was perhaps a head shorter than Screwllum, and a couple of inches taller than Ruan Mei. Despite his situation, he stood with the authority of one who held some sort of position of power, or one who often employed intimidation against his foes. Back straight, head tilted in a facsimile of amicability, though wariness may have been a better interpretation, given the context.
Herta inched forward, studying his hand. The strange burns Ruan Mei had mentioned earlier were indeed present; a patch of angry pink skin in the shape of a handprint wrapped around his wrist, and another was visible on the opposite shoulder. His fingers were long and free of calluses, seemingly more suited for precision work rather than combat.
She was suddenly pulled from her thoughts as the man rapped sharply on the glass. He stared intently, his line of sight passing slightly above Stephen’s head, to the left of Ruan Mei.
“I know you’re watching,” said the man suddenly, his voice carrying perfectly through the glass. Somewhere to the right of Herta, Stephen jumped a little.
“You didn’t really think lining an entire wall floor-to-ceiling with a two-way mirror was exactly subtle, I hope?” The corner of the man’s mouth pulled up, like an aborted sneer. “Show yourself!”
“Miss Ruan Mei,” said Screwllum softly, “Your plans?”
But the genius’s only response was to move to a side table, with an intercom system installed. She flicked a switch with a practiced hand and tapped the microphone sharply. Feedback filled the chamber, sudden and piercing, though muffled for the geniuses behind the glass.
The specimen, however, was not so lucky. Upon hearing the sound, he immediately clapped his hands over his ears with such force that Herta almost winced in empathy. On a screen, the subject’s heart rate was shown to spike, while the subject himself quickly stepped away from the mirror, instead whipping his head round at the upper corners of the room. Looking for speakers, Herta thought.
Once the feedback died, Ruan Mei calmly leaned in again.
“Good afternoon, Emanator. We are not going to hurt you. Unless, of course, you do something… ill-advised.”
“Kusanali, if this is some sort of sick joke –”
“I do not know who or what this ‘Kusanali’ is, however, if –”
“Do not play your fucking games with me, Buer.”
“We are not playing games. Let me make it very clear to you, I, we, do not know of, nor have any connection to your ‘Kusanali’ or your ‘Buer’. It would serve you well to listen and cooperate. Am I clear?”
Silence from the man, though Herta was sure his glare could have killed weaker souls.
“Fantastic. Now, first question. Who are you?”