The Whisper of the Forsworn Soul

Papa… Papa… You’re alive! How glad I am! How glad… Darkness cloaked everything, near-total; as if someone had set lamps far, far off, their light just enough to trace the outlines of things — nothing more. And whispers, whispers, whispers. Excited, joyful, frightened, annoyed. Words eluded me; at first, I thought my hearing was weak, but soon I realized they spoke a tongue I didn’t know. Yet familiar shards pierced through — words I recognized, names I caught. It would take me half a year to grasp the tongue. Not perfectly, of course; it proved thornier than my native speech. Even these days, there's much I don't know. I recall those minutes, and I think I can parse their phrases; or maybe I just fill gaps. It’s as if they said: “She’s waking! Hurrah, it worked!” “How many did Bondrewd leave behind?” “Half a dozen or so; we only saved four. One we pulled off the table, but he…” “Shut up, all of you! Too many stimuli, damn it!” “Gallice said Prushka was special…” They kept whispering, slipping into full volume now and then. Someone hissed, reined the rest in; they hushed, only to flare up again a moment later. And I lied here, staring through tears into a blackness fringed with unsteady light. My eyes ached. They were like stones wrapped in wet sandpaper. My ears throbbed. My head buzzed. I drew a deep breath — I’d sob from the burning that speared from lips to gut, but strength failed me. Then a clack near my ear—what I’d later learn was a morphine drip—and pain melted away. I couldn’t tell dream from waking. Memory gripped me. Darkness shifts; a glaring dissection room blazes. Whispers morph; loud voices of Papa’s team ring out. Papa’s body sprawls on the table. Everything differs, save my tears. “No pulse. Dead,” Joho declares; his calm disgusts me. “Who does he name?” Eika asks, matter-of-factly. “Me,” Bido replies. I hear but don’t heed. I clutch the mangled corpse, the pitiful, broken stump of Papa. My heart tears apart. If I can trade all of myself to revive him, to heal those ghastly wounds, I won’t hesitate a second! Yet no matter how tight I hold, the body stays still… Bido peels off Papa’s mask. Beneath lurks another near-mask: white, lifeless, unseeing. Stone-like. Bido sheds his helm, dons Papa’s true face. His posture shifts. His movements flow anew. “Hello,” Papa says in his gentlest voice. I scream with joy, fling myself at him — now he feels my embrace! “Wonderful,” he purrs, scooping me into his arms, “right on schedule. Friends, we begin.” Sparks shower from my eyes. I plunge into darkness. Sleep fled—pain flooded in. It was all-consuming. Not a single cell in me escaped torment. I’d have screamed, but my lips yielded only whimpers. I noticed silhouettes nearby. People in gray coats, startlingly thin — no protective suits or armor weighed them down. Their faces blurred; my eyes stung too much to see. “Put her under again,” one whispered, “it’s too soon for her to wake.” “Lord, poor child,” another muttered, shaking their head. “What about the tests?” a third chimed in. The rest snorted in unison. A clack sounded behind me. Ease washed over once more. As I faded, something astonishing caught my eye: bandaged hands rested on the sheet ahead. I saw them — and I felt a prickle in my fingers. That cursed expedition happened a year after Papa and his team found a lost White Whistle’s message. Letters, sketches, maps, small but rare artifacts… Papa told the others: “Friends, rules demand we send this haul topside — but it wouldn’t hurt to study it ourselves first. Who knows what secrets the magnificent Lyza uncovered? It’d be a pity if true treasures fell to fools too dull to value them.” The dead Whistle’s notes — Whistle unknown to me — became their life’s core; routine expeditions turned into irksome chores, distracting them from what mattered. But chasing Lyza’s trail was a festival! The air hummed with fervor, odd finds passed hand to hand, new journals lined the archive shelves one by one. How I longed to join them! I’d gaze in the mirror daily, wondering: When would I be big enough? When would my skills suffice? I studied every day, helped everyone, devoured every record I could snatch! I dreamed of plunging into the perilous, mysterious world beyond our base. It took titanic effort not to hound Papa with “When?” hourly. Each time he returned, I raced to hug him, hauled sample crates, peppered him with questions on how I could prepare… A giant beast skewered Papa clean through. Lyza had sketched it in her notes. She assigned it an unthinkable danger rank. Of course, only something unthinkable could fell Papa. The thought’s laughable otherwise. He died; my world shattered. He rose; I rose with him. Then I wake in the operating room. Pain devours me, but I can’t scream. Blinding light stabs my eyes — yet I can’t turn away. I see them dismantle me. Why? How do I join expeditions without legs? Do they strap wheels on me? How do I gather artifacts without hands? What do I wield weapons with? How do I carry bags? Why does it hurt so much? Why didn’t anyone warn me it’d be like this? Why don’t they explain why? What do I do now? What have I done wrong? What’s my mistake? They take my eyes, plunge me into soundless dark — nothing but vibration and pain remain. I face a swarm of questions alone. I’ll see Papa again! I’ll join the team. Maybe they all have endured this, so their silence just spared me the fright? How long must I linger like this? I'm counting: One, two… A minute. Two. An hour? Has an hour passed? Damn it, I lost count! Time, why are you so endless? And why do I feel so wretched, like I haven’t slept in days? I want to cry. I want to scream. I’ve nothing to do it with. Then, after an eternity of pain, darkness, despair— a jolt, like a leap, hits. Lightness follows. I feel something! I live! Something happens to me! It hurts, it terrifies—but I’m not forgotten! Papa, Papa — are you carrying me somewhere? Will you save me? You’ll pull me from this blackness, let me stay by your side, won’t you? Won’t you, Papa? I’m being tossed, flung side to side. Where’s up, where’s down? Where’s the climb, where’s the fall? Yet amid it, I sense something wondrous. Maybe it’s my half-faint, or strange intoxication, or a brain starved of light and sound crafting its own reality — somehow, I know Papa’s near. He’s in danger. He's fighting for his life. And more than for myself, I fear for him. Dreams came and went; pain ebbed slowly. In its place came tingling, itching, odd buzzing, aches. But what I saw and heard mattered more. People, whispers, a foreign tongue — louder, clearer, sharper. They studied me. They muttered, waved hands, jabbed notes and stacks of papers at each other. Sometimes one squatted beside me, stared into my eyes, slid a finger back and forth. One morning — every waking I dubbed morning — they unwrapped my hands. I gazed at them, felt the prickling in my fingers; a gray coat brushed them with a pen, watched me keenly. The fingers moved. Weak, clumsy, sluggish — but they moved. They bore one flaw: they weren’t mine. The shaking stops as abruptly as it began. A brief fall follows. Then stillness. Pain pierces me — not just physical, but something deeper, fiercer, more terrifying. My nightmares come true. Did Papa die? Again? Or did they just tear me from him? I can’t feel him anymore! They're carrying me somewhere. Give me back to Papa! I don’t want to live without him. They yank me, struck me, toss me. Just kill me already. Barely anything’s left of me. Suddenly — weightlessness. Why so light? Did we fall? Sleepiness creeps in. How can darkness grow darker still? Visions of the past in narcotic haze left me the day they first called me by name. Four gray coats sat on folding chairs around my bed. I could make out faces clearly now. They didn’t resemble Papa’s team — or anyone I’d ever seen. Two eyes, one mouth, one nose, sure; but the difference laid elsewhere — their faces were… livelier? Kinder? They looked at me in a way Papa’s people never did: as if they needed something from me, and they worried deeply. “Prushka,” the woman to my left said, “you can hear us, don’t you?” She spoke my language — pronunciation clumsy, offbeat, like she recited without grasping their weight. I wanted to reply but forgot how to speak. With immense effort, I tipped my head forward, like shifting a massive boulder. “Wonderful,” she smiled, “I’ll give you a drink now. Try.” She slipped a straw between my lips. I sucked — and tasted water as if for the first time. One coat whispered excitedly in their tongue: “She might choke…” Another woman replied: “The others managed.” I drank until only air remained in the straw. The coats buzzed about our shared triumph; I didn’t catch their talk, only heard “reflex” repeated often. My water-bearer stroked my arm and said: “You’re safe, Prushka. Everything’s fine. And it’ll get better.” My body yielded to me bit by bit. First, I learned to open my mouth, roll my tongue; then, with vast relief, I found I could shift my eyes sideways — now I saw cabinets of gear and heaps of monitors. Fingers bent more willingly; slowly, my tongue and vocal cords stirred awake. They fed me through tubes in my arms. Water with a straw came several times a day. The same quartet visited — sometimes all together, sometimes fewer. I learned to tell them apart. The black-haired woman with striking eyes — their corners tilted sharply up — was Dara. She spoke my language best, always soothing, consoling, promising a bright future. She was a doctor — often peering into my eyes and mouth with a flashlight, pricking my skin with needles, sticking suction cups on me, or drawing blood. A stocky brunette man, Alexander, sympathized often (in his tongue). He never touched me, kept a respectful distance, avoided my gaze. Later, I’d learn he was with the army. Plump blonde Rina was my teacher. She watched with a cold smirk; but she never hurt me, never raised her voice or complained. Daily, she spent hours with me: an hour or two in the morning, endlessly at noon, a bit before bed. Rina taught me sounds, words, eating solid food. With angelic patience, she guided my — not-my — fingers onto colorful keys of a bright device, teaching me to press them in order. It turned out to be a toddler’s toy piano. Last was Pyotr. He was most like Papa’s people: dry, detached, always busy with his own tasks. Later, they told me he was a scientist — the head of the vast team that brought me back. Though my new companions tried speaking my language, I gradually picked up theirs. It sounded harsh, far trickier than the Abyss’s tongue; but I had plenty of idle time, and Rina didn’t mind adding a lesson. So, while I struggled to grip a pencil and scribble in a notebook, she pumped words into me. A month later, I spoke decently — my native tongue, not theirs (though I understood it well). Some sounds still dodged me; my tongue tired fast, breath lasted barely two words. But if I took it slow, I could converse. My guardians constantly asked how I felt, if I liked the food, if the bed was too hard, if the room’s air was pleasant. My questions got odd reactions: they eagerly explained machines, medicines, pencil exercises — but about Papa or how I ended up here, they stayed silent or promised answers later. “I wanna know now,” I protested. “Sweetie, it might be dangerous for you… We’ll tell you everything! Just wait a little,” Dara replied. “Evewy day ‘wait.’ I’m shick of it!” “Sunshine, really, you’re not ready…” And Rina just said: “Later. Don’t get distracted.” Another month passed, and I stood. Well, Dara and Rina lifted me. They strapped my torso with belts tied to the ceiling — so I wouldn’t fall. Holding my arms, they guided me to parallel bars; I slumped onto them, dragging my feet. They were thin but sturdy; Rina said electrostimulation prevented muscle atrophy. The hitch? They weren’t mine either. Nothing was. Yet the alien fingers gripped, the stranger legs walked. Now I often studied standing; Rina discouraged it, but I wanted to be more than a log on a sheet. What else did I do? Watched cartoons. The shock of seeing drawings move — I never imagined it possible. They were silly but funny. Animals acted human, humans had huge animal eyes. I read books — clearly hauled from Orth. All about the Abyss or Whistles. Some adventures stunned me; when I told Rina, she smirked sarcastically: “You don’t believe they're all true, do you?” I felt ashamed. Someone lied and wrote it down — and I fell for it. I had colored pencils and sketchbooks too. A phone — Rina and Dara came at my call. Though, as I’d said, talks with them were a bit one-sided. The gray coats said I recovered fast. I didn’t fully grasp what happened to me; I didn’t dare ask why my body felt unfamiliar — it’d sound too dumb. Still, I spoke almost as easily as before; I ate solid food (though I couldn’t hold a spoon); I managed to scribe a few words in a notebook. They washed me in a real shower now — not with a sponge — though I needed a harness to stay upright. I could use the toilet, brushed my teeth, combed my hair without help — though combing was awkward without a mirror. And I noticed my hair was inexplicably short, half a centimeter long. I pestered them daily about Papa — where is he, when can I see him? The coats didn’t answer; each reacted differently — Rina brushed me off with “later,” Dara looked guilty and mumbled, Alexander bit his lip and promised to explain after “some tests”, Pyotr shrugged and bolted. This attitude was outrageous and would’ve sparked a tantrum, but they always distracted me: a new book (a lavish album of photos and maps), a strange treat (a new dish daily — how was that even possible?). Alexander kept gifting odd toys: tiny screens controlled by buttons, magnetic cubes, moldable sand. I’d seen plenty of artifacts, but I was constantly amazed. But the pool shocked me most. One dreary day, dreams of Papa tore my soul to tears; I rejected Rina’s “later.” They led me from my room down a long hall. I whined nonstop; if I had strength, I’d have thrown a proper fit — rolling on the floor, screaming. But the strap on my back wouldn’t let me fall, and my throat got tired even from talking, let alone yelling. The smell grew stranger; it was strongest — like the cleaner I used at Ido Front to scrub the toilet seat and washroom. It peaked at a big white door; Rina swung it open… and I nearly leapt in shock. Before us stretched a pool — huge, horizon-wide. Brightly lit, its water so intolerably blue it seemed unreal. “So much… water! Wow!” I gaped, stunned. Who needed this much water? You could wash a hundred people at once! Or was it for drinking? Why was I here then? “We’ll change you,” Rina pulled off my shirt, “you’ll learn to swim.” “What?! Swim?” I recoiled. “I can’t! I’ll drown! You wanna drown me, huh?” Part of me was sure they wouldn’t — too much effort spent on me. But what if Rina was unhinged, and ten morning questions about Papa pushed her too far? “Stop squirming, let me put on the swimsuit,” Rina rolled her eyes. “I won’t swim!” “You won’t, you won’t. I’m kidding. You'll just walk there. The water’ll hold you up.” “Isn’t it deep?” “It varies. See the lines on the floor? We’ll stroll where it’s chest-high.” It was scary, but I stepped in. The water was warm — so amazing someone heated this much! And we were alone in it. Walking was easy; the strap slackened, not pulling me up. Arm movements took effort, but that made it fun. Rina didn’t need to assign any tasks; I roamed the pool till lunch, even jogging and hopping a bit! I imagined crossing vast flower fields, leaping up cliffs… Meinya’s with me, guiding me to safety! I climbed giant grottos, fled monsters, studied chasms. Even fought! (About Meinya, the coats didn’t dodge: they said she fled when they took me from Ido Front. It stung, but I consoled myself — she’s free now.) Lunch pulled me out, but they let me return after. Sure, an animal album from the second layer and a hunter-cat cartoon waited in my room, but they could bide. The pool captivated me for nearly a week. But after playing out every story in my head, exploring every meter of its reachable depths, my old thoughts crept back. Shame hit: a water pit made me forget Papa! That must’ve been their sly plan — so I’d raise the stakes. At Dara’s next visit, I asked the burning question again, got the usual dodge from her and Rina, and declared: “Then I won’t eat.” “Wait… What?” Dara blinked, stunned. Rina rolled her eyes and smirked silently. “I won’t eat till you tell me about Papa.” “Sweetie, you can’t! Your health’s too fragile,” Dara flailed her hands. “Don’t care. I won’t.” Rina just snorted. I kept my word: at lunch, my mouth stayed shut, dodging the spoon like it was a venomous snake. “We’ll need a drip,” Rina shrugged. “I’ll rip out the tubes,” I threatened. “Then I’ll strap your jaw open.” “I’ll stick a finger down my throat and puke it all up!” “I’ll tie your hands.” “I’ll kick!” “I’ll tie your legs.” “I’ll scream till my throat bleeds! Bash my head till my skull cracks!” Rina shrugged and walked out. She left all the food right by my bed, but I didn’t touch the spoon till night, though my stomach sucked itself in, clinging to my spine. Morning came — she saw the stale soup, shrugged, hauled it away. She returned with a tray piled with fruit and pastries, set it on the table, and left without a word. No lessons, no cartoons. But I was stronger. Till night, the gleam of whipped cream taunted me, caramel’s scent tugged, oranges stung my nose, apples whispered freshness. I didn’t touch the lemonade either — so my throat turned to a bucket of sand. After lights-out, when the overhead glow dimmed, echoes of talk drifted in. Careful not to clank the strap’s buckle, I slipped from bed and darted behind the door. The growing sound led me quick; through a keyhole, I spied an office — all four of my “guardians” stood inside. “She’ll get over it,” Rina's voice was flat with exhaustion. “We can’t let this go on! The girl’s still too weak,” Dara protested. “On one hand, she won’t hold out long,” Pyotr said, “on the other—her body could suffer irreparable harm.” “Alas,” Alexander nodded, “we’ve got scant experience with full transfers. She might be fine — or starvation might kill her.” “Typical teenage tantrum,” Rina waved it off. “I wouldn’t lump her with normal kids,” Pyotr shook his head, “her origins, her fate, her wounds… Bondrewd’s children are unique. Her especially.” They mentioned Papa! I stifled a gasp to stay hidden. “I couldn’t last a day without water,” Dara fretted, chin wagging, “she’s got fierce will! She could waste herself to nothing.” “Or strut her stuff another day,” Rina shrugged, “worst case — we drip her while she sleeps.” “We’ll have to tell her someday,” Alexander sighed. “Perhaps,” Pyotr agreed, “but what harms her more now — the hunger or the shock?” “A drip can fix hunger; spilling it all might lead her to a shrink,” Rina frowned. “She’s strong,” Dara ventured boldly, “think of the hell she grew up in!” “The strong break as often as the weak,” Alexander bowed his head, “but I think our dilemma’s solved itself. Coffee, anyone? Long night ahead.” “What’re you on about?” they chorused. “Don’t you ever check the monitors?” He flung the door wide. No hiding for me. The coats — except that sly fox — goggled. “My God!” Dara gasped. “Breaking curfew, leaving the ward,” Rina scowled, “someone will be punished.” “How — leave her without dinner?” Pyotr shot back with a snort. “Colleagues,” Alexander called, “shift a chair over while I unhook her.” He unclipped the strap, scooped me up under the arms, carried me into the office, sat me down, handed me a glass of water. “I won’t,” I declared. “We’ll tell you everything now,” he said, laying a hand on my shoulder, “so you can end your strike.” “What if it’s sedative?” I snapped. Alexander swept the other coats with a mocking glance, then snatched my glass, downed it in one gulp, refilled it from a pitcher. “If it is, we’ll nap together!” Did he cave? Or is this a trap? I thought, feverish. Must push harder! “Talk’s not enough,” I said, firm, “I want to see Papa. Alive.” “Fine,” my unexpected ally agreed, “but first, you’ll know it all.” Got him! Gotta seal it tight! “I know plenty already. Meeting!” “Alas, you don’t. We’ll tell you, show you. Then you’ll see him with your own eyes — like me now.” “Deal.” His colleagues looked utterly baffled. They traded glances like gunfire; I half-wondered if they spoke without words — some secret mime or mind-trick. But after a couple minutes, their mouths finally moved. From here, the talk shifted tongues — they used their harsh speech among themselves, while Alexander stuck to Abyss-speak for me and them. “A live meeting? Are you insane?” Rina’s brow arched, furious. “It was always planned,” the soldier replied, calm. “Not this soon!” “Not soon. We’ll explain first.” “Everything?! You’ll just dump it all on her — no tests, no clearance?” Rina flailed her arms. “Too spur-of-the-moment,” Pyotr backed her. “She needs prep for this,” Dara added. “Ladies and gents,” Alexander squared his hips, “just a moment ago, only one of you was dead-set against telling her. What, swapping horses midstream?” “Not for or against,” Pyotr countered, “but tests should come first.” “We need prep as much as Prushka does,” Dara pursed her lips. He punched a button; a coffee maker roared to life. He filled a mug slow, settled beside me, eyed them all sharp: “No test can prove you’re ready for a waking nightmare. Trust me — I’ve seen tough bastards breeze through checks, then scarf pills or off themselves. Even bullet-dodgers, tank-jumpers. No, my dears, we’re just delaying the inevitable — not for her, for us.” “We still need a synced story,” Pyotr shook his head. “Yeah, we’ve got to settle what we say and how,” Dara chimed in. “What’s the point?” Alexander shrugged. “Got a private truth stashed? Hunting for fancy words? Murder’s murder, dress it up how you like.” “You’d know the split between murder, execution, and liquidation,” Pyotr parried. “Child-killing’s always child-killing.” Silence dropped hard. Their faces told me it wasn’t just talk — but what children were they talking about? Killed already, or marked to die? “Drink,” he nudged me, “head works better with water in the system.” “Thanks,” I wetted my lips, wary — thirst clawed, but I still feared they may sedate me. “You don’t get it — her dry strike could ruin everything!” Rina barked. “She’s not like the others!” “We’ve got to ease her in,” Dara echoed. “Chop the dog’s tail piece by piece,” Alexander shook his head. “Better than a wound she won’t heal,” Rina stomped. “Others beat us to that,” he smirked. “Let’s at least plan it,” Pyotr offered, “not dump it all at once.” “I’ve got a plan,” my ally said. They swapped looks. Pyotr tossed out, half-scorn, half-nod: “Who’d doubt it, Comrade Commissar?” Rina flared her nostrils; Dara gnawed her lips, flicked scared eyes at me. Pyotr crossed his arms, stared into nowhere. Alexander took it as surrender — or just seized the moment. He swung his chair to face me. “You likely know the Abyss sits on an island mid-ocean,” he began. “It belongs to no nation, stands apart; but its science, its artifacts — they’ve got every world power scrapping for control.” “What, you’re giving her a briefing now?” Rina rolled her eyes. “Prushka needs to know where we’re from,” Alexander shrugged. His tired brown eyes looked so kind; up close for the first time, I caught the scars — tiny patches stitching his face and hands. The contrast jarred me. “Bondrewd, your papa, found heaps of artifacts, right?” I nodded. “They defy modern science. Whole institutes slave over them. They’ve sparked breakthroughs, discoveries — our tech’s leapt more in a century than in the last millennium. Nations, corporations — they race for those relics. But it’s not just knowledge; some artifacts are weapons of unreal power. Like Sparagmos.” “You know about that?” I tensed. “Papa barely used it… never showed outsiders.” “Sadly, we do,” his gaze darkened a flash, “but there are worse out there, just as deadly. They turn up constantly; tracking who gets them is near impossible.” Pyotr cut in: “Of course, now he’ll sell us the invasion as necessity!” Alexander shot him a brief, grim look, then pressed on: “Five nations’ carriers circle that island nonstop. Every half-bit official in Orth’s bought by someone’s spies — sometimes twice or thrice. Funding delves is a must-spend, even for states too broke for armies. The Abyss and its gifts — it’s a whole damn world. Smugglers flipping artifacts rake in billions. Fine by me! But no matter how hard intel tries, how many Whistles or clerks we payroll, tons of weapons slip to private hands. We can’t track them — nor can our rivals. Treaties, controls — don’t matter; some savage, cultist, or pirate always ends up with neutron bombs or guns that vaporize a cruiser in one shot. How many attacks in five years? How many wannabe warlords carve out cities, holding folk hostage? So… our High Council decided to lock the Abyss down. Twenty years we tried a global co-op — police, registries, the works. But anarchy paid too many too well.” “Now half the world hates us,” Pyotr noted. “They’ll get over it,” Alexander flicked a hand, “they wouldn’t help. Their red tape lost us the Pickax — and a hundred lives.” “So you conquered the Abyss?” My voice barely squeaked; fear choking my throat. Papa wouldn’t yield Ido Front without a fight! He never lets hostile, cruel, brash folk near the base. No one rules the fifth layer but him — every move’s by his word, chaos crushed on sight. “Our subs ringed the island,” Alexander nodded. “We banned entry to its waters. Troops took Orth’s admin hubs. Known foreign spies and their lackeys — we nabbed and booted them. Some White Whistles we’d secretly courted beforehand. For them, little changed — now they just hand artifacts to our island brass instead. In return, they got funding, top-tier science and military perks. But, alas, not everyone played nice. Some balked at logging their hauls, even with fatter pay than before.” He leaned back, sipped coffee, stared past me: “Once Orth was ours, we descended. Layer by layer… We spared the flora, fauna, but the worst beasts had to go. What a delver squad can’t handle, a well-armed platoon can. Orb Piercers got herded into a reserve; Kuongatari were wiped clean. Some researchers we saved from death; others fought back or hid in the Abyss’s far corners.” He spoke, and my soul boiled, burned — Papa! They attacked Papa for sure! Snatched me, dragged me here… Why? A hostage? To pry secrets about him? I clenched my fists, spat: “I won’t tell you a damn thing about Papa! Don’t even hope! Think you’ve got Sparagmos figured out, so he’s yours? He’s got stacks of stronger relics! His team too!” The coats swapped glances. “Think you’ll use me against him?” I flared hotter. “Surface rats! What do you know of the Abyss’s dangers? Bugs, Orb Piercers—small fry, Papa’d shred them without breaking sweat! He’s crushed worse beasts! And folks with top-tier artifacts! How many of your soldiers did he drop — a hundred, two, a thousand? Bet he slipped deeper down, and you can’t reach him… so you grabbed me!” “Told you,” Rina palmed her face. “We didn’t save you to get at Bondrewd,” Dara stammered. I leapt up, roared: “If you touched Papa, if you scratched his helm even once, I’ll rip your heads off! Choke on your pastries, your toys, drown in your damn pool! I hate you! Damn you to hell!” A cough racked me — blood sprayed Alexander’s face. My body screamed in pain, but I didn’t care. “Thought you’d buy me off? Blackmail Papa with me? I’d die before I help you!” I snatched his mug, smashed it on the wall, aimed the jagged handle at my throat; the adults froze, shocked — except my ex-ally, who grabbed my hands with beastly speed. I kicked, tried to bite — fought with all the strength this frail shell had; he held me, stared with those weary, sad eyes. “Bravo,” Pyotr came alive, “you’re a presentation king. Diplomat supreme.” “God, oh God,” Dara wailed. “I’ll fetch tranquilizers,” Rina moved for the door. “Everyone halt. We’re not done,” Alexander’s voice clanged like steel. He shoved me back to the chair, leaned close: “You can’t hurt us — or yourself — in this state. Save your strength: drop the fit, and you’ll know Bondrewd, see him, hear him, like I said.” “You’re lying!” I tried to rise, barely lifted a centimeter. “Not a bit. I’ll prove it now.” He pinned my wrists in one hand; with the other, he dug into an inner pocket, pulled out a flat black box. I’d seen them before — radios with big screens. Rina once showed me a cartoon on one when my ward’s monitor lacked the episode. He scrolled a long list, landed on a file: “Interrogation B., Children, Part 2.” A room flickered up; behind a wide white table sat Alexander… and Papa! I nearly squealed with joy. Even the chains binding him didn’t dim my thrill — Papa lives! “You confirm this catalog’s legit?” Alexander shows Papa a journal. “Precisely so,” Papa’s voice purrs, velvet-soft as ever; captivity doesn’t faze him, “every page bears my signature. I can recite any one by heart, if you’d like.” “No need,” Alexander shakes his chin, “is Prushka listed there?” “Of course,” Papa nods, “her serial’s eighty-slash-twelve.” Alexander cut the clip. I snarled, furious. “You’ll see the rest later,” he said, no trace of earlier warmth. “No! Now!” “Favor for favor. Your story for mine. What’s the last thing you recall before waking here?” The question threw me. Why’d he care? Till now, I was sure these invaders hunted Papa — might use my knowledge, or me as leverage. But if he’s caught, what could I possibly offer? …Still, thank God Papa’s alive! How’d they snag him? Trickery? Cunning? Outsmart Papa — impossible! Did they threaten me to force him? Bribe his team to stab him in the back? He picks his crew so damn carefully! Alexander’s impatient cough yanked me from my daze. I answered straight: “Darkness and shaking.” The adults traded looks again. Alexander rubbed his chin, then said after a beat: “Tell us about your whole last day — the one you remember.” “Then I see Papa?” He nodded: “Promise.” I held nothing back. Dreams etched those hours sharp in my mind; only my raw throat fought me, but warm water and a numbing lozenge from Dara fixed that. Starting with morning—routine chores, usual drills—I walked them through it all. I told how I prepped the lab for the expedition’s return, slaved in the kitchen, heated shower water, laid out clean clothes for the team. How I caught chatter on the radio, raced to meet them… On and on — till darkness, pain, the fall. The tale gripped me; I only snapped back when it ended. Then I saw Dara’s wet eyes, Rina’s hollow stare, Alexander’s icy stillness. Pyotr, when I finished, suddenly roared: “She was awake! Awake! I’ll throttle him myself…” His fist slammed the wall, left a bloody smear; then he bolted, a howl tearing down the hall. “I’d better follow,” Dara murmured, slipping out. Once the door shut, Rina said with a bitter smirk: “You didn’t warn him, huh?” “Thought he’d read the files properly,” Alexander dropped his eyes, guilty. “Didn’t help me,” she shook her head, “every time the kids spoke it, I couldn’t believe my ears.” “Kids?” I blinked. “What kids?” They gawked at me, stunned. “Wait, you didn’t know there were other children at the base?” Rina gaped. I mulled it over. “Well, I heard screams sometimes… They told me it’s test animals. We got plenty.” “Animals? Sick…” Rina spat a word I didn’t know. “Makes sense,” Alexander cut in, “if Prushka had known about the rest… You get it.” They locked eyes — those heavy, complex adult stares. As a kid, I thought it was some secret channel that opened with age. I’d catch it between Papa’s team, helmets off — like they talked right beside me, and I couldn’t hear. But I didn’t sneak here for their cryptic brooding. I demanded: “Show me Papa! We had a deal!” “Fine,” Alexander nodded, “Rina, love, hook the big screen to my terminal. You don’t have to stay; you’ve seen and heard it all, and it’s no joyride, you know that.” “No way,” she shook her head, “I’m in this for the kid, same as you.” While she fussed with cables, the soldier lifted a folder from the table, flipped it open before me. Photos spilled out: Papa’s lab, splashed with blood; the archive, dissection room, storage. He paused on a cartridge shot and asked: “You know what this is?” I nodded: “Papa and the others carry protective stuff in them — keeps the Abyss’ curse off.” “You know what they’re made of?” I shrugged: “Animals.” “When they first told me, I didn’t buy it,” Alexander said, voice dropping low, “thought the defector was full of it. He was from another Whistle’s crew… But we cracked them open. Then Bondrewd’s team confirmed it on tape. Ever saw inside one?” “Sure! Tons of times. I scrubbed them after use.” Not my favorite chore — meat warped by the curse clung stubborn to the metal walls. I scraped those damn boxes for hours! Scalding water under pressure first, then chemicals, finally an iron scraper and sponge. But Papa’s praise made it worth it. I grumbled, sure, but I was always glad to pitch in with the team. He flipped a page. Used cartridges, split open: mangled flesh, a churned mess of blood and meat. Then a stark white lab — on the surface, apparently. A cartridge on a table under a glass dome. Inside the black shell: a brain, lungs, spine chunk, meters of guts; veins and nerves stitched rough but tight. “Can you tell whose organs those are?” he asked, near a whisper. I thought hard. “Something big! That brain… Corpse Weeper? Yomotsubi? Crimson Splitjaw’s huge, but its brain’s just a rock’s size.” He turned another page. A photo: an operating table in Papa’s lab. I recognized it instantly. A boy laid there… or what was left of him. His legs and arms rested in metal basins on the floor. Skin on his belly and chest was slit, stretched taut on thin steel cables. His guts were half-empty. The top of his skull was sawn off; the cap sat beside him. On a side table, an open cartridge. Its lower section held the extracted contents — some blood vessels still trailed into the body. “We couldn’t save him,” Alexander’s voice faltered, “no matter how we tried. We had no gear, no experts.” He flipped again. Cartridges in a fridge. Cartridges in field packs. Nausea twisted my gut. No, I’d seen cut-open bodies before — I’d sliced plenty of animals myself. Human corpses weren’t rare at the base either. But stuffing a human brain and organs into a cartridge? Rigging blood flow too? Papa once showed me a stitched-up shroombear like that — its parts lived a few days. So the organs in there were alive? “I never saw anything like this at home!” I snapped. “I lived there, knew every corner!” “Seems it had its secrets,” Rina smirked, bitter. “No one kept secrets from me! I saw everything, heard everything — even when they thought I wasn’t around!” “Seems not everything,” she shot back. I ground my teeth. “Even if — why show me this? I want Papa!” I snapped. “You’ll see him. Hear him,” Alexander said, resting his huge palms on my clenched fists, “Rina, cue Bondrewd’s first interrogation.” She plugged in the screen; it flickered alive. The same room bloomed — table, chains. Papa sat calm, even a touch cavalier. Alexander faced him, less gray in the hair than now. “Mr. Bondrewd, I’m Lieutenant Colonel Sherr, foreign intelligence,” Alexander said. “Utterly delighted to meet you!” Papa replied. “Forgive me, for I can’t offer a handshake.” “Please, tell us about your work running Ido Front.” “I’d never deny you, Lieutenant Colonel,” Papa smirked. “But where should I start? My career and research are rather vast.” “Tell us how you became a White Whistle.” “My friend, I see you love a long tale! Well, judging by my current quarters, time’s aplenty.” Papa’s voice rang deep, gorgeous! He spoke easy, and even chained hand and foot, he seemed the host welcoming a guest. I listened, spellbound. Sure, I knew his path — saw chunks myself — but just seeing him soothed me, warmed my soul, fueled my strength. Clock hands raced; Rina curled up on the couch, but I buzzed like a live wire. No sleep, no food — just let me listen to him, listen to him forever! Alexander stayed riveted — on screen and beside me. There and here, his face was stone, but his knuckles whitened. “Tell us how you dodge the Curse,” the Lieutenant Colonel onscreen pressed. “We’ve tried many tricks. Your colleagues, from what I’ve seen, use a bold but crude twist — a controlled electromagnetic pulse. No wonder you lug those clunky shields.” “Tell us about your methods. Word is, other Whistles don’t know them.” “Yes, my friend, proprietary tech.” He spun a tale of the Curse and vats redirecting it — how the bulky vat shrank to a sleek cartridge. Not without pride, he touted the tally of successful delves, the depths hit. “Please, detail cartridge production.” “Afraid that’s a copyright matter, Lieutenant Colonel,” Papa said. “Patenting’s tricky in the Abyss, but trade secrets deserve respect — at least for basic decency’s sake.” Alexander’s jaw bulged. “Decency?..” Papa shrugged. “Outdated up top already? Sorry, I hadn’t heard.” “We took cartridges and docs from Ido Front,” the Lieutenant Colonel said, forcing his gaze onto Papa’s blank mask, “and your crew’s already laid out the tech. Still, we’d like every detail straight from you.” Papa hummed, thoughtful: “Worried the papers skip some bits? Fair enough, I’ll indulge you. And if you’d like, I’ll flag a few tricky spots I’ve never spilled — spoken or written. Naturally, with guarantees: good work must be respected.” Alexander pulled a thick document from the folder, set it before Papa: “We agree.” Papa leafed through long; finally nodded, satisfied, and began. He answered every question patiently; clarified, pointed out process quirks. Calm, friendly, open. When he finished, Alexander left the cell. The clip cut off. I said quiet: “This is a lie. You faked his voice. Papa never did that.” The Lieutenant Colonel —as I’d started calling him in my head — grabbed the remote, fired up another clip. Remayo flickered onscreen. I knew her instantly, though she was battered bad. Some other soldier grilled her: “You helped make the so-called cartridges?” “Yeah, you dumb bastard. We all did. Why’re you so obsessed with them?” “Walk us through it. Details.” “Go screw yourself!” “Got spare teeth?” “Fine, fine! Bitch…” Then Bora — wrapped in bandages, left arm a stump. He kicked off with a torrent of filth; they zapped him under the ribs with a cattle prod. A stranger barked: “Wanna me bring a drill? Talk!” Gallice came next, then Joho. Only Joho wasn’t beaten — and he spoke eagerly, jumping ahead of questions. But they all sang the same tune, just in different keys. “Kids.” “Mongrels.” “Nobodies.” “…alive, obviously! Dead ones can’t soak the curse.” “…how many? Hell if I counted! Who cares—they’re strays!” “You forced them,” I whispered, “tortured them. People’ll say anything under pain.” “We didn’t torture Bondrewd,” the Colonel said. “Maybe that’s not him! Slapped a mask on someone, mimicked his voice!” “Why? To trick you?” “Hell should I know!” He dug deep into the list, pulled another clip — Papa again. “Tell us about Sparagmos,” Alexander said. “You’ve seen it work. Up close, I figure,” Papa replied. “Even so.” “Allow me a sip first. Five hours of this, you know.” Alexander lifted his mask; beneath was Papa’s newest face — the last I’d known. His lips closed slow on a straw. I shrieked: “Why?! Why show me this?!” Alexander — the real one, here beside me — fixed me with a long stare: “So you understand us.” Shock and disgust slid back; rage roared up front. “You want me to turn on Papa?! No way! Sure, maybe he did something awful… I don’t get it yet, but he’ll explain — he had no choice! And look what he’s done — discovered, invented, created! He’s a genius!” “Alas,” the Colonel nodded, “alas.” Another clip — Remayo again. “Tell us about Prushka,” the interrogator said, rubbing his red palm. “Some girl who lived with us. What’s she got to do with it?” “Need more?” “Jerk, untie me — I’ll break you in two!” “I will. Lieutenant Colonel cleared it. But first — Prushka.” “Oh God… Fine, listen up.” Joho. Gallice. All real, alive — my family. I had fetched their meals, washed their gear. They taught me — shooting, fighting, tech. They mentioned it here, so no doubt it was them, not fakes. “Tell us about the Blessing.” “Was that the plan from the start?” “You didn’t try to stop him?” “Wasn’t she family?” I shook. I didn’t understand. I didn’t believe. It was madness — nightmare, hunger hallucination. Another clip — Papa. “Tell us about Prushka,” Alexander said. “You know of her?” “Yes. Your daughter, right?” “Technically, a fallen subordinate’s child. But I raised her as my own.” “Please, go on.” “Dear Lieutenant Colonel, is this relevant to our chat?” “I insist.” Papa’s voice flowed—gorgeous, melodic, warm, mine. Polite, welcoming as ever. “You sought the Blessing?” “Bravo, dear sir! Did my crew bare their souls, or did you crack the books properly?” “Both. Please…” “You lie! Lie! Lie!” I leapt up, pounded Alexander. My fists didn’t reach his head — every blow sank into his thick forearm. Sobs choked me; my voice tore like frayed cloth. Rina snapped awake, head whipping, lunged for me—the Lieutenant Colonel stopped her: “Don’t touch.” Strength fled; I crumpled to my knees. My head split into a billion question-shards, my chest blazed, my heart seemed ready to smash the ribs. “You wanted truth. You wanted Papa,” he said soft. “She’ll stroke out!” Rina yelled. “You jackass!” She yanked an aid kit from a cabinet, grabbed a syringe, stepped to me — and took my fist to her shin. Weak, probably, but she backed off. “I don’t believe it,” I forced the words out, lifting my head. “I don’t! He wouldn’t do that to me. Papa never betrays.” “We didn’t finish talking about you,” Alexander said. A new clip flared up. “Please, provide details of the operation”. “Honestly, it was no different from a standard one,” Papa replied. “But we’re talking your daughter.” “Anatomically, that adds no extra conditions.” “Shut it off, you idiot!” Rina screeched. “Why’re you torturing her?!” “Prushka, you want to see Papa? Should I stop it?” “Give me the remote, moron!” Rina couldn’t reach his hand, so she ripped the cord from the monitor. Papa faded to a black rectangle. “Brainless boot, you trying to kill her?!” I swallowed the lump in my throat hard and rasped: “Bring Papa back.” “She’s lost it!” Rina cried. “I’m fine. Play Papa. Or better — take me to him.” Alexander pressed the remote into my palm. Rina grabbed for it; he eased her back and plugged the cord back in. In a quiet, cracked voice, he said: “Your choice, Prushka. Yours alone.” I hit Play. Dreams flooded my eyes. I was hearing Papa's voice — and recalled the movements before my eyes, shortly before they seized being mine. The clip ended. Alexander knelt before me, flipped open the folder. A photo stared back — a black cartridge canister. A sticker, in Papa’s neat hand, bore my name. Next shot: the cartridge on a white table under a dome. Next: it’s cracked open—brain, lungs, guts, a few vertebrae. Next: brain and spine in a clear cylinder, liquid-filled. Last: Ido-Front’s incinerator chamber. My helm and boots sit in a bin for unburnable trash. Till late morning, I watched interrogation tapes. Papa; Umbra Hands; middlemen who bought his artifacts and supplied his needs; human traffickers; orphanage heads. Finally, kids — those who didn’t reach the operating table, and those rebuilt, like me. On Rina’s and Dara’s arms, I barely dragged myself to my room and fell into sleep — fitful, frail, slipping into sobs or endless loops of one question: Why? I woke for good near evening; Pyotr sat in the corner with a newspaper. His hand was bandaged; only the tips of swollen fingers poked out. “Awake,” he said, maybe to me, maybe to himself. “Why’re you here?” Truth be told, I wanted most to shut my eyes again — on the condition I’d die in my sleep. “To avoid trouble,” he grimaced, forcing a smile. The scientist stood, joints cracking all at once, and rummaged in the fridge. I’d gone without food God-knows-how-long, but the thought of eating just irked me. “I’m not having any.” “We figured,” he said, bringing me a tall glass with a straw, “but starving’s physically dangerous for you.” “Don’t want it.” His sunken red eyes brimmed with sorrow. “My colleagues’ll skin me alive. Then they’ll just hook you to a drip. And… look, respect others’ work, please.” I gave him a questioning stare. Pyotr pressed the glass to me, sat at my feet, and spoke, drilling the wall with his gaze: “At first, I didn’t believe what they wanted. Military’s got wild ideas, and with artifacts… you stop blinking. But there’s a limit. We’re not gods. Still, they pushed. The High Council — our version of parliament, cabinet, whatever, the brass — pushed too. Any means, any resources… Sure, mega-projects happen. Not whimsy — even if you bust at the end, you crack open tons of good stuff along the way. Like space flights, cell phones. You don’t know? Oh, never mind… You will. And us — we took it on. Not just for you lot. People die daily — car crashes, fires, disasters. It seemed impossible, with today’s tech… But we did it.” He paused, catching his breath. Part of me loathed this sermon — I wanted to never see or hear another soul. Yet, deep down, I was glad for the distraction. “What’d you do?” He caught the sound, not the words. Still, he rolled on: “I can’t believe it myself. Not all made it, but… We mulled different ways. Digitize a brain, make a full copy, a mold — maybe consciousness would spark in it. Stick it in virtual reality… But they nixed that.” “Virtu... what reality?” To humor him, I sipped a bit. A protein shake — sickly sweet. Everything tasted foul now anyway. “How to put it? Basically, a reality model in a computer. I'm oversimplifying… but it’ll do. A fake reality. They said no — gotta keep the original brain alive. Digital twin won’t cut it. Fine! We figured — no copy. We’d put you in a simulation. Wire up the nerves, fake every signal… So you’d think you’re living. But really — the brain is floating in a solution. Though, if you squint, reality’s not much different.” Something in me clenched. I recalled a film — Rina played it to teach me geography terms. The camera trailed a mountain path, swaying with the operator’s steps—like I saw it through my own eyes. What if…? “No, can’t be!” I thought fast. “Tastes, smells — I feel warmth, clothes on me!” But if eyes can be fooled, why not the rest? “Why’d they ditch that… virtuality?” I asked, voice dropping hoarse. Pyotr scowled. “Ethics! Damn it all. Shrinks reared up — said the model’d be flawed. Sooner or later, you’d clock the world’s fake. Spot the edges somewhere. Testing ground would peek out. You’d fall through textures…” I didn’t get a word, just nodded. “…and once you know it’s all a sham — you’d crack. Debatable, sure… What’s better — death or living in a fake world? I’d pick life, any day. But they fretted. Decided it’s a last resort… And the big thing — the Council said it’s no good for them either. Some bigwig dies now and then — what, their brains float in jars, chat through terminals forever? No way… They wanted it real. And us? Yessir.” “So this world’s real after all?” I asked, cautious joy flickering. “What else,” he shrugged, “to create something of this quality, you’d need a computer farm stadium-sized… And it’d still be shoddy. Your own brain does better — some folks, while in comas, dream up whole lives, kids, trips abroad… What’d we whip up? A cartoon. User’d spot flaws fast — handmade stuff is never perfect.” He smiled sad, shook his head; his gaze fogged thicker. “So what’d you pick?” I tugged him back. “Wanted cloning. A solid option! But that’s ten, twelve years growing bodies. And the brains in ‘em—trash ‘em? Unethical. Slow. Would’ve been ideal, though! Your own body — perfect match, your real look. Great. But… they wouldn’t wait that long. Though in the end it all took a while anyway. Still, you’re alive. That’s a win either way.” Answer already! I wanted to grab his collar, shake him. But I’d barely budge him an inch — maybe crumple his shirt. Yelling was out too — throat ached, and what if he freaked and scram again? “What’d you end up with?” I asked, holding the tremble back. He shrugged — his tone turned sheepish, almost ashamed. “Donors. People die… kids too. Head trauma, say — body’s fine, brain’s gone. That kind of transplant — ha, used to be sci-fi! Brain wouldn’t settle, immune system’d reject it flat, and good luck wiring every nerve — no surgeon’d dare. But we made, uh, mediator cells. Artifacts helped, by the way. These cells… body doesn’t fight ‘em. Adapts. Or they tweak it to fit. Load ‘em with the implant’s genetic code — they rewrite the body’s. Changing code mid-life… We used to think it impossible! Yet here we are. And… the result. You, other kids. In others' bodies, but alive.” I eyed my palms again. So it wasn’t just in my head… “That’s why no mirrors here?” I guessed. Pyotr nodded. “Shrinks said seeing an alien face instead of yours… Too much stress. But now… You’re ready. You know it all.” I grabbed his hand. “Show me!” “A moment,” he nodded quick, rising, “there’s a mirror in the staff bathroom. Let me grab it.” I didn’t want to let go. What if he tricked me, didn’t come back? What if Rina swooped in, preaching I’d learn later, it’s too soon, eat well, study, behave? But he didn’t fail me. A silver plate reflected a total stranger’s face. Not pretty, not ugly—just someone else's. Round brown eyes, yellow hair stubble, sharp chin. “Don’t worry,” Pyotr chuckled, nervous, “grow up — we’ll do plastic surgery. You’ll look how you want.” He clearly waited for a reaction; but my heart held a strange stillness now. I drained the glass, thanked Pyotr, faked sleep. He looked satisfied — no, more: like a man who’d shed a crushing load. Even his pallor seemed to lift. He sat, flipping the paper, while I peeked through half-shut lids, mulling… Nothing and everything at once. Last night scorched my emotions dry — without them, every thought turned a stark black-and-white sketch. Take my guardians, say. Did they earn thanks? They just did their jobs, followed orders. Same as Papa’s crew, killing those kids under someone’s will. Were there kids? Papa’s handwriting in that log — forgeable. I couldn’t pull it off, but a skilled hand could. And those who ordered me revived — should I thank them? They’re chasing goals. Not kindness — calculation drives them. Same with Papa — he didn’t kill me out of malice. I never met anyone kinder! But he had aims, lofty ones. If he’d had another path — he’d have taken it. He wouldn’t harm a hair on my head if he could’ve dodged it. I dozed off soon after; cracked my lids, and Pyotr was gone—Dara swapped out, then Alexander took over. The clock read noon. “Hello,” he said, catching my stirring. “Yeah,” I nodded. He settled on a chair, pulled out a portable computer, tapped at the screen — but every few seconds, his eyes flicked to me, sneaky. He clocked me watching, though; set the stylus aside, bit his lips — wanted to talk, clearly, but didn’t know how to start. The other coats must’ve chewed him raw for the other night’s stunt. “Don’t drag it out,” I snapped, sharp. He smiled. “How’s the new face?” Clown, I thought, that’s not what you’re itching to say! “Meh,” I grumbled, “Remayo’s was prettier.” “We can tweak it…” “I know.” He floundered for a reply. Scratched at the screen again — scribbles, I figured, just to keep his hands busy. But I felt it, skin-deep — he craved more talk. Weird thing: back at Ido Front, I never sensed this. Everyone there was quiet, all chat straight to the point. I was the one always itching to gab. Now, suddenly, I’d flipped sides. “I don’t blame Papa.” Alexander jolted like he’d touched a bare wire; but the shadow that fell on his face vanished fast. “You don’t believe us?” “That’s not what I said.” He set the computer down. You wanted a chat? Here it is, I snorted to myself. “You think he did right? His ways were adequate?” “No. That’s beside the point. I’ll say it again: I don’t blame him.” His eyes darted; he frowned, flustered — like my words rubbed him wrong, but he wasn’t sure I even grasped them. “Explain, please.” “I’m not mad at him. Not hurt.” “So you see nothing bad in what he did?” “Ugh, back to that!” I gritted my teeth. “I’m not judging what he did to others. I’m talking me. I don’t blame him for what he did to me.” Alexander shook his head: “But Prushka, he butchered you — savagely — and then meant to kill you outright!” I smirked: “Knew you wouldn’t get it. I’ll try breaking it down. He’s my Papa. He loves me, heart and soul — that’s fact, I know it. I love him too — more than anything. We’d do anything for each other. Even die. Get it?” The Colonel’s face flushed red: “He used you like a lab scrap!” I shrugged: “Had to, to keep him alive on another ascent.” “That—” he gulped air, “that… God! You were just a resource to him!” “I love him,” I smiled, “and I’d be happy saving him. Even if it cost my life.” Warmth spread in my chest. At last, I’d pinned words to the wild storms whipping through me while I watched those tapes. More — finally, I’d crushed that dumb “Why?” gnawing at me since. I wasn’t at fault. I’d just fulfilled my purpose. They helped me turn my love into action. “Sacrificing yourself for someone dear,” Alexander bowed his head, “I get you.” “Do you now?” Fresh clarity sharpened my mind, fueled me. I knew I’d done right — let no one down, proved a worthy daughter. That earned me a place beside Papa — not in flesh, but in spirit. Standing against foes who’d caged us, thinking our lives and deaths were theirs to rule. “I gave the army twenty years,” Alexander mirrored my smile, “I’ve been dragged from under bullets. Pulled others out too. Shared my blood.” “Well, I guess you might actually get it then.” He nodded: “Sure. Giving yourself for a comrade — that’s noble. For your own father? More than noble — it’s sacred.” His eyes, always kind and weary, turned prickly. He sees he can’t sway me, I realized, and now his real face’ll show! Torture, blackmail… Sure, I’m a prize lab rat, but that won’t stop him. Fine — let’s see what he’s got! I was dead wrong. “If someone shot at my dad,” he went on, “and I couldn’t stop the gunman, couldn’t shield us both, fight back… If it came down to living or taking the hit for him — I’d save him, no question. I know I’d step in front, no fear, no regrets. I’d be glad he’d live.” The Lieutenant Colonel stood, loomed over me. All friendliness drained; now his face was a demon’s icy mask. “But I know something else,” his voice hissed, a knife slicing meat, “if that happened, my dad would hate himself till his last breath. He’d curse himself daily, dream only of swapping places. Why am I so sure? I can picture me in his shoes. If my kid died for me — I’d damn their pride, their noble heart, my saved life a thousand times over. Because a parent brings a child into this world — and they’ve got to do everything to keep that child here. A kid’s not a bet, a tool, a rainy-day stash. Not a servant, not a donor. They’re the legacy of all the parent is.” Alexander sneered. The demon mask bared fangs. “And if,” his cold stare scorched me, “a kid’s sacrifice in a hopeless pinch is grief — logical, noble grief — your fate’s not that. Bondrewd offered you up by plan, no warning, no asking.” “If he’d asked — I’d have said yes!” I snapped, fierce. “Maybe. But he gave you no shot to say no. He carved you on his timetable — not to save his skin; he had a room stuffed with kids he never called daughters or sons for that—but for the Blessing. He raised livestock for slaughter; kept it tender with a lifetime of sweetness.” “Don’t you dare call me an animal,” I clenched my fists, “bashing Papa’s not enough — now you’re humiliating me too?” “I’m just naming things plain,” he tossed out. “Then I will too,” I bared my teeth, “you and your pals — bandits, snatching our land, stealing our relics. You caged a great scientist, tortured his crew. Think you’re heroes? Ha! Revived a couple kids, but bet you’ve butchered hundreds! And — did I ask to be brought back? You think I love being some science toy? Papa at least didn’t lie, didn’t play savior or saint!” “He played loving father.” I boiled over: “How’d you know!” “I’ve heard his tales plenty,” he said. “Not once did regret for you flicker in them.” He wasn’t lying: across hours of tapes I’d seen, Papa never mourned me. Spoke warm of me alive — but about the cartridge, not a shred of sorrow. Still, I clung to a thread. “You haven’t shown me everything!” “Fair,” he said. “After lunch, I’ll take you to the briefing room.” The demon glared from an icy peak. His voice wasn’t honeyed, his manners weren't soft. Papa wears a mask, I thought, but it’s his face. These people — it’s the other way round. I naively thought I’d seen it all. That now they’d show me trifles, nothing big. I don’t know if I was glad to be wrong. On one hand, I saw dear faces again, heard beloved voices. On the other, hour after hour, we sat in the interrogation room, listening to monstrous, awful things. Sometimes an officer forgot to cut the camera after a talk; left alone, he’d light up a cigarette and unleash a stream of gutter curses, bury his face in his hands, or kick the furniture wild — and it was hard not to feel why. Even for me, who saw these people as invaders, enemies. They sketched and explained operation plans before us — laid out chains of abductions and sales. Strange names flashed by; Alexander clarified — they were politicians, merchants from various nations. The whole world hunted Papa. The whole world used his services. The whole world fed him living stock. Breaks came now and then. Instead of the Umbra Hands or Papa, others appeared; the room shifted too — usually a cozy office, wood-paneled. Military gear swapped for suits; tables held water pitchers and glasses. Only the folders stuffed with papers stayed constant, both sides scribbling something every time. These were chats with Black Whistles, Orth’s admin, its big shots — bankers, captains, institution heads. White Whistles too. I recognized one from the book on their feats: a giant woman with an odd black-and-white hairstyle. She grinned eerie, but spilled freely about the Abyss’s deep layers, the Altar, Papa — and promised to guide military delves. Near the end, her tone dropped sharp, the grin vanished. She said, firm and grim: “Just don’t forget the main condition.” “Was about to say: therapy’s set,” Alexander nodded across from her, “we can start tomorrow. That work for you?” “Of course,” her voice quavered, “it’ll really help?” “We’ve long handled porphyria. Shadow Sickness isn’t much different.” Then came Nanachi and Mitty. I’d heard of them plenty from the Umbra Hands’ and Papa’s clips — the Blessing’s origin, sparking the cartridges and my end at Ido Front. Mitty was a shapeless meat lump — a huge eye, triangle ears — slumped on a stool, sides twitching faint. Nanachi leaned more beast than human, but the piercing gaze and lively speech screamed sharp mind. “Hello again, Lieutenant Colonel,” Nanachi's creepy stare locked on Alexander. “Glad to see you,” he offered his hand. He hadn’t shaken hands with any other speaker yet. “As you see,” he went on, “you’re topside, safety’s tight, and I hope the living conditions suit you.” “Comfy, yeah… So what’d you want to hear?” “In short—everything.” “Sorry?” “Everything. From your first memories to our meeting. I know it’s a lot, but it matters — for history, for the trial. It might hurt… But I’d owe you big.” “Nna-a,” Nanachi’s fingers drummed the table, thoughtful, “gonna be a long talk.” “We’ve got a wonderful cafeteria. If you tire out, hit the lounge — or head back to the hotel. Just… we need to dig to the core.” “Fine. Dim the lights, though… Mitty’s not used to this bright.” Alexander—here, on the chair beside me — paused the clip and said: “Coordinates and detailed steps to find Nanachi and Mitty — we got those from Bondrewd’s notes. The hut was well-hidden, rigged with traps all around — no surprise they stayed invisible all those years. If we’d stormed in blind, plenty of my guys would’ve lost limbs, maybe lives. So I went alone — white flag high, no weapons. Took hours explaining why we’re in the Abyss. Left a radio for them to reach me. They mulled it three days.” The video kicked back on. At first, I felt a sting of jealousy, eyeing this talking beast — Papa picked Nanachi, not me, to assist him; taught every trick, looped into research, not quite a partner but damn near his right hand… But the bitterness faded slow. I listened — orphan childhood, a ragged crew of street kids rounded up at Ido Front. How they vanished, day by day. What happened to Nanachi and Mitty after. And when the tale hit the first cartridges, tears burst from Nanachi’s eyes—I broke too. Onscreen and beside me, the Colonel knelt with a handkerchief, wiping our wet cheeks; his own eyes glinted with fiery streaks. For three more days, we watched tapes — morning to night. Hate and fury in my soul morphed into something strange; they tangled with a mess of other feelings — shame, guilt, pity, dozens more I still can’t name — and became something else. Heavy stones, they pressed my heart, but I didn’t want to scream or curse anymore. I shelved my plea for a meeting. Instead, the old routine crept back: tests and checkups, training and lessons. Even without appetite, I ate well; even when lazy, I did Rina’s bidding. The pool lost its pull for play — I just strengthened my body there. Cartoons I swapped for something tame, like nature films — cheer and dumb gags turned my stomach now. My world expanded a bit: a small covered courtyard bloomed in it, full of flowers and herbs. Before we went there, Dara brought me samples of each — checking for allergies. But this body’s old owner must’ve known surface plants well; I could roam there safe. A tiny garden. Narrow halls. Medical gear. Wonder if this is my whole life now? I thought. A vague fear stirred inside. It found a voice fast: one day, as Pyotr handed off to the Colonel, I asked them: “The brain can make simulations, right?” They swapped looks; I reminded Pyotr of his coma talk, then added: “Maybe it’s the same with me? You’re not real — I’m just dreaming a drugged haze in a cartridge. Can I ever be sure it’s not?” The Colonel turned to Pyotr, half-whispered: “You moron — kid’s not got enough grief already?” Pyotr’s eyes darted, guilty; after a beat, he answered: “None of us can swear we’re not in a simulation — or that life’s not a dream of some brain drifting through space.” “A simulation doesn’t scare me,” I said. “Even without a real body, it’d be fine — I’d know I’m alive, can talk to folks around me. But a dying delirium — that’s different. I’d be trapped in myself, with only oblivion ahead.” “I think it’s simpler,” Pyotr said, relief plain, “in a death vision, you can’t see anything new by default. Like a dream — brain pulls only from memory’s stash. Say a nightmare monster — it’s either a twist on something you’ve seen or a chimera built from a few. But whipping up something brand-new from scratch? Brain can’t do that asleep or delirious.” “I saw plenty of creature pics and landscapes at Ido Front,” I countered, “tons of tech, met heaps of people. Nothing I see now feels truly new. So by your logic, I’ve got no proof either way, sorry.” Pyotr dug into his portable computer, flashed a shot of a spotty beast with a crazy long neck. “Bet you’ve never seen a giraffe!” “Looks like a Ryusazai,” I shook my head. He shot a wary glance at the Lieutenant Colonel. The latter sighed deep and said: “Think it’s time, Prushka, you met the other kids. Busy mind’s got no room for dark thoughts.” So I started school. My little world grew — more classrooms, playrooms — and my circle gained four kids, my age, my kin from the operating slab. By the Lieutenant Colonel’s orders, I kept my real story mum — Bondrewd they barely knew, and my weird tale might’ve muddied things. New teachers joined my orbit too — soft, pleasant folks, each earning kind words in my memoirs. But then and now, my four gray coats stay top of the list. Half a year passed. I’d toughened up enough to race, wrestle, scramble up gym ropes nimble. My grasp of the outside world was far from perfect, but I understood leagues more than before. The inner courtyard garden gave way to a long glass greenhouse. School halls weren’t the limit anymore — we kids roamed most of the science complex free. We were local stars, sure, but plenty other work hummed here too — like studying the wretched Hollows pulled from caves under Ido Front. With Rina and Dara, I took my first steps outside. Night trips only at first — black sky, low clouds; they figured it wouldn’t jolt me too bad. It didn’t — I just saw a real high ceiling. But daytime… I didn’t lose my mind, but even now, wrapping my head around an endless void overhead is tough. My meeting request got the green light — more, Alexander stressed we should hurry it up. I was glad — not just for reuniting with Papa, but for a hard-won wish finally coming true. A minibus whisked us to a military prison; I’d never moved that fast, but excitement and nerves drowned out the thrill. Crossing the lobby, I checked myself in a mirror again. Dara dyed and curled my hair, brought red contacts; we picked a green dress and beret from a catalog — so I kinda looked like my old self. About as much as a glass of water looks like a pool. Armed guards saluted; heavy doors and grates hissed open. At the end of a long hall sloping underground, a glass wall waited — beyond it, a bright-lit room: iron bed, desk, chair, open shower doubling as toilet and sink. One bare gray wall bore endless scratched tallies — a personal calendar. No books, no computer—just concrete, metal, and the dead-white glow of halogen lamps. Papa stepped to the glass. His moves, his poise — unchanged a speck; even the shapeless gray robe couldn’t hide his noble bearing. “Endlessly glad to see you, Colonel,” he said soft, like greeting an old pal, “it’s been an eternity since your last visit.” He stretched a hand through a small slot in the glass — meant for passing stuff, probably. Alexander glanced at that palm a full minute, then said: “Even eternity’s too short. But you’ve got guests today, and rules say I stick around.” I stared at that hand, hovering. Nails clipped perfect. No dirt, no calluses. Papa swapped bodies, but he stayed himself. A jolt hit inside — like a lightning from my heart, a wild wave torching everything. I dropped to my knees, grabbed that hand, kissed it frantic, buried my face in it, and screamed: “Papa!” The hand went limp; that voice — velvet bliss, sweeter than anything to me — mocked: “I expected more from you, Colonel. What a circus! What’d you hope to pull with this cheap charade?” “Nothing,” the soldier said flat, “sometimes things are what they look like.” Papa chuckled. “Your effort’s truly admirable. Alas, I can’t rate it for anything but effort.” I prayed he wouldn’t pull the hand away. Squeezing his fingers tight, I chased every scrap of warmth, every whiff of scent. He doesn't recognize me — fine! Just please, let him remain close… Gates hissed behind us. Steps clomped loud. A faint tremor ran through Papa’s hand. “Marvelous! Colonel, I take it back — you do know how to spice an evening! Thrilled to meet you, Nanachi!” “Nn-a-a…” a strange gaze scanned me, “not mutual, Bon.” “Ah, how fast kids grow! You look stunning. And best yet — my guards were kind enough to tell me about your work. I’m so proud! To think I worked with such a remarkable mind…” “Enough, Bon. Just stop. I’m here to see your glossy mug one last time — and bid farewell for good.” His hand twitched again. “Time heals, Nanachi. Even the worst sin, with enough distance and wisdom, shows some good.” “Better if that distance was light-years. Later, Bon.” Steps faded; gates rustled. His hand slipped free; Papa wiped it on his pant leg. “Think it’s time we head out too,” Alexander said, “unless my charge objects.” I shook my chin silent. “Pity,” Papa sighed, “I rarely get visitors as is, and this was so rudely brief…” “Bad day, I guess,” Alexander said. “Next time, we’ll stay longer — I promise.” “Your promises, Colonel, aren’t worth much,” Papa sneered, “but I’d love to be wrong.” We left. Past gates, grates, doors, the street waited again. By our minibus sat another car — shiny black, massive. Two stood nearby: a hulking guy with a pistol on his hip, and Nanachi. Time stamps on the tapes — I missed them at first — showed they were five years old. Nanachi’d changed plenty: half a meter taller, kid clumsiness swapped for lean youth. Proportions still straddled beast and human, but a sharp-cut suit and coat masked it slick. “Might actually visit Bon again,” Nanachi’s voice dripped bitter mockery, “wonder if he’ll appreciate it. When’s it?” “December the first,” Alexander replied. “The Council approved the ultimate measure of social protection over four years back — no one’s even tried flipping it since. First time I’ve seen such unanimity! But I asked ‘em to wait for our little ones. Couldn’t risk them — might’ve needed him. And Prushka… She needed this.” “Get it. Nn-a-a, I’d spare no cash to twist that valve myself! But how’d I look her in the eye after?” Slit pupils slid over me again. Nanachi and the Colonel shook hands; the big guy swung the door open — I glimpsed a black shape on the wide back seat, a round canister with a formless mass and sharp ears jutting out. “You know,” Alexander said as the car vanished, “without Nanachi, you might not be here. Sure, lots of good folks worked reviving the cartridges, but this genius cracked it open. A born gift, a Blessing’s touch, or Bondrewd’s teaching? Either way, his creation fixed a sliver of the evil he'd done. A flicker of justice… Rare as hell in this world.” They executed Papa two months later. I didn’t attend, of course — though they’d let me if I’d asked. From witnesses, I heard: when Papa entered the chamber and the viewing window lit up, he called out: “Marvelous, Colonel — you’ve finally learned to keep your word! Nanachi, I’m flattered!” No sentence was read; they cranked the heat straight off. Papa stood still, silent, even as the floor and walls became red-hot. Only at two hundred degrees did he let out a low growl, swelling into a scream. My name never crossed his lips. The air outside grew colder. Rina led us kids to the courtyard, bundled in thick jackets and heavy hats. The day was bright, clear; the sky’s gray-blue pulled my gaze, hypnotic, making me forget games and freeze, head tipped back. Alexander slipped beside me, unnoticed. Ice in his eyes thawed to calm dark. “Don’t know if this is okay,” he said, “never been good with gifts… Just hope you don’t take it as a jab.” From his coat’s huge pocket came Papa’s mask — or rather its outer shell. The thin, tough faceplate bore scratches, tiny dents. On the back, faint marks lingered from the gear once fixed there. “What happened to the rest?” I asked. “Not the mask… All of it.” “We took Zoaholic apart piece by piece five years back,” the Colonel said. “Couldn’t rebuild it if we tried — some parts got wrecked during the research. And anyway, it’s too high-grade an artifact — study it, sure, but recreate? No chance. Bits of Bondrewd’s self hung on in the Umbra Hands and the main host after that, naturally.” “What about the team, by the way?” I realized, startled, I’d never asked till now. “Hanged ‘em once the investigation wrapped. All but Remayo,” a weird smile tugged his lips. “God, she drove us nuts! Taunted us—spelled out how she’d turn our kids into cartridges… Finally, I let the captain who did the questioning to untie her for a fair fight — no holds barred. We pegged her a rabid she-wolf; turned out she was the smartest of them all — made him kill her. Went out her way. The brass ripped me a new one for this, obviously, but behind closed doors, they admitted they’d have done the same. So we backdated her a rank in a fake ‘Ido Front Self-Defense Unit,’ logged the scrap as an officers' duel.” “So,” I said, “just the mask’s left then?” He nodded. “Till lately. Now its guts are split, sliced, scattered across labs and institutes. Memory modules got torched at the cremation.” My sadness felt light, a veil. It brushed waves of memory — me wandering familiar haunts, hearing familiar voices, seeing familiar faces. I should’ve cried — but I just sighed. It began to snow. I’d seen it before—in pictures, films—but now it dropped to earth before me, pristine and grand. I crouched, scooped some snow in my glove. “Weird,” I marveled, “always thought it’d be flakes… These are tiny plates.” “Snowflakes,” the Colonel said. “Never seen ‘em? Look close—you won’t find two the same. All fractals, but no shape repeats.” I studied them, sifted gentle to not break ‘em. Born in the sky on their own, they were perfectly balanced, flawless in their geometric dance… Each one unique. Eyes still on them, I said: “Please tell Pyotr I've found my giraffe.”