Chapter Text
Out of everything, it wasn't losing his designation as "Black No. 12" that changed his life. It wasn't Arthur Rimbaud teaching him about humanity, insisting that he too was human no matter the circumstances of his birth.
(And wasn't that laughable? A being such as him, a clone, a bunch of lines of code, created as a adult, created by human hands rather than God's, a human? Oh, Arthur never understood, no matter what he said.)
No, it wasn't becoming Paul Verlaine. It wasn't being a Transcendent. It wasn't Pan's death. It wasn't working for the French Government. It wasn't Arthur, as heavy as his heart felt with that knowledge.
No, it was their last mission together.
It was finding that tank, placing a hand against cold glass. Watching a child float inside a tank, pale, held alive by an oxygen mask and various tubes. The only living experiment they'd come across. "Project Arahabaki", Arthur had said from where he was flipping through files, voice echoing in the quiet room, "a singularity like yours- they found Pan's work!"
And Paul? Paul had stared at the face of the sleeping child, too distracted to feel much of anything at the mention of his creator. Hand firmly pressed against the glass, eyes fixated on the living, breathing, being in front of him. "Inhumane" he had whispered, and had watched as tiny, thin fingers twitched in the water, small hand raising towards the glass.
A hand on his shoulder had broken the spell and his hand slid down an inch or two. The small clone's dropped entirely. Or was he a human? No, no the child couldn't be human. Not if it held a singularity. A human wouldn't be able to withstand that. Much less a child. So it was a clone.
(He couldn't bring himself to call it- him anything but a child-)
Yet he couldn't help but wonder... what would happen, if he brought the child back to France? Nothing good. They'd likely want to study him. Train and educate him.
He didn't want that for the small child.
"Paul, Paul- the glass. You're breaking it" Arthur's voice shook him out of his trance and he blinked. Spiderweb-like cracks ran across the glass, originating from where his fingertips rested against cold glass. "I'll open the tank to get it out in a minute, get ready for-"
The fissures spread with a small crack, deepening until water seeped from in between them. Ability flaring up at the use of 'it' for the child. "No need, I have him" he heard himself say as if through cotton. The glass shattered, shards held up by a faint blue glow.
Water spilled around their feet, the shards shooting up and embedding themselves into the ceiling. Arthur sighed beside him, while Verlaine carefully picked up the child. He was light, and he wondered, idly, if that was normal or just him being physically stronger by nature.
"Let's get it out of here and get back to France"
It was at that moment that Paul realized, ever so slowly, that they likely wouldn't find common ground.
It, Arthur called the child. He could see where he was coming from. The child was a clone. Had to be. But... an It? An It when Arthur refused to call Paul an It?
He hadn't referred to the boy as inhumane. No. He'd meant this facility.
(In hindsight, pulling gun on Arthur was both the hardest and easiest thing he'd ever done.
He just lamented that his first true act of selfishness ended in an explosion...
Literally.)