Seventeen years before the present.
Rain hammered the glass.
Soft rhythm.
Hard rhythm.
A pulse stitched through gray.
Beyond the window, city edges blurred into fog.
Light broke and reformed in smudged verticals.
No skyline—just veins of reflection.
Malric sat behind his desk, straight, unbent.
Movement rationed to necessity.
Papers covered the wood like abandoned attempts at order.
Reforms.
Declarations.
Ceasefire drafts—each one a failure sculpted into language.
Twenty years of diplomacy had bought only repetition.
Hate recycled through newer tongues.
Species rewriting instinct as ideology.
He watched bureaucracy feeding itself and felt nothing left to salvage.
Decision had germinated months ago.
Now the stem broke through.
Plan ready to move.
A different unification—one stripped of permission.
The door burst open.
Sound split the rhythm of rain.
A woman stood there, drenched at the shoulders.
Hair pressed to skin.
Voice sharp enough to pierce silence.
"Malric—your brother and his wife are dead. Two survived. The daughter. Two years old. Name Elizabeth. The boy—Reinhard. Two months."
No knock.
Unheard of.
He watched her mouth more than her words.
Rain reflected across her cheeks.
Information aligned itself in his mind, neat as ledger columns.
No grief.
Death, common variable.
But then—a flare of realization.
Small, electrified.
I won't be the one to unite the world, he thought.
They will.
Through me.
The storm outside dimmed into background sound.
Fatigue dissolved into exhilaration disguised as calm.
His wife's footsteps echoed from the corridor.
Haylen.
Always composed.
"It seems tragedy doesn't touch you," she said.
"Then I'll handle the children."
He raised a hand.
"Wait."
She stopped.
Expression unreadable.
"Keep them alive," he said.
"Feed them. Wash them. Only that."
Her eyes sharpened.
"Understood."
When she left, he reached for the phone.
Dialed.
One ring.
Two.
A deep voice finally answered.
"Adric."
"I need land," Malric said.
"A settlement on Noren. Thirty houses. Park. Hospital. Enough to fake a colony."
Adric paused.
"Three hundred million Franz, maybe more."
"A hundred people too," Malric added.
"Anonymous. Loyal. Ninety humans, ten Sturtles. Actors of life."
"With people, closer to five hundred million."
"Arrange it by next week."
He hung up.
The phone ticked in his hand as if cooling.
Money had never mattered; it was merely obedience in numerical form.
His name moved governments.
His work—healing the unstable—had turned him into myth.
The man who rebuilt broken societies.
Tonight, he would build one to break later.
He rose.
Coat.
Gloves.
Umbrella.
The door closed behind him like an instruction sealed.
Outside, streets drowned under steady rain.
Headlights smeared across pavement—liquid light.
His car slid through intersections empty of sound.
Each streetlight that passed drew his thoughts cleaner.
How to speak to the children.
When to touch them.
The right tone to breed attachment, not fear.
Conditioning wore many faces; compassion worked best.
"The gift first," he murmured.
He scanned nav console lights.
"Closest market sector."
Too far north.
Turned back.
Tires carved arcs through shallow puddles.
Storefronts flickered past—color dissolving under rain.
The plaza appeared at last: glass dome, faded letters glowing blue.
Inside—sterile light.
Cold air.
Toys lined the aisles like coded smiles.
He shook rain from his coat.
Approached the counter.
"I need the toy with the highest Nm rating."
The clerk blinked, startled before professional instinct took over.
"9.2 Nm, sir. Our best. One unit left."
He nodded once.
Nm—empathy-index of infant joy.
Shape symmetry, pastel warmth, harmonic cues.
Measured cuteness distilled into math.
9.2 near perfection.
She turned, scanning her pad.
Face fell slightly.
"Apologies. Sold minutes ago. We do have an 8.8 Nm. Indistinguishable for children."
Voice polite, likely false.
Selling was her aura's job.
"Show me," he said.
She guided him through the aisle maze.
Humming refrigeration units filled the silence.
As she turned sharply, her shoulder brushed his chest.
Small shock of proximity.
Her eyes lifted, wide.
His lips grazed her forehead.
An accident of space.
She froze.
Breath caught.
Color climbed her neck.
He saw the tremor in her pupils—the self-blame forming.
He understood its cost: shame breaks efficiency.
He rested two fingers under her chin.
Lifted her face.
A second contact.
Soft, calculated.
Kiss fraction of a thought.
Equalization.
Hierarchy erased.
Error mutualized.
She smiled faintly, relieved.
"Right this way, sir," she said briskly.
Professional composure restored.
Sold product, cleared guilt.
Perfect equilibrium.
He followed.
Transaction smooth.
Money left.
Bunny in hand—white, soft-stitched, expression mathematically gentle.
8.8 Nm. High enough.
Outside again.
Rain tapered into drizzle.
Streetlight halos shimmered off oil-slick roads.
His car moved through quiet districts where fences replaced faces.
The mansion rose from fog.
Gates opened automatically—no guard visible.
Inside: four floors, one buried deep beneath.
Orders in architecture.
Haylen's voice came from the hall.
"Welcome back."
Formality masked habit.
He gave the expected reply.
"Yeah."
He stepped into the living room.
Children sat on the carpet—Elizabeth tracing patterns with fingers, Reinhard crawling slow, unsteady.
Haylen watched with eyes half-focused on her screen.
He knelt.
Box torn open.
Two white bunnies emerged—identical.
He set them down.
Instant reaction.
Their eyes widened, black pupils blooming.
Hands reached, small gasps escaped.
Laughter followed—real, unfiltered.
He watched.
Observed without emotion.
Data collected itself.
Elizabeth came first, stepping close.
Her hand brushed his sleeve, tentative.
He patted her head once, measured rhythm.
Then Reinhard lifted both arms.
Malric picked him up.
Light—small bones, damp warmth.
The child laughed into his collar.
He turned to Haylen.
"No milk tonight," he said.
"They'll rest better."
Her eyes flickered, unreadable.
She nodded.
Hours unfolded under lamplight.
Laughter ebbed to yawns.
They slept still clutching the toys.
He stood watching—the slow even rise of their chests, the noise of machines beneath the floor blending into the night.
Morning came.
Crying replaced quiet.
They were hungry.
He placed the bunnies before them again.
The sound softened.
Distraction.
Temptation over need.
Then hunger returned, louder.
Haylen reached for the milk.
He stopped her.
"Not yet."
He left them crying.
Waited until exhaustion dulled noise to whimpers.
Returned hours later carrying a thermos and two bowls.
Inside—the formula glinted faintly.
Additives balanced exact.
Pleasure triggers layered into nutritional compounds.
No pain attached.
He fed them himself.
Spoon.
Pause.
Smile.
Every expression consistent.
Their sobs faltered.
Taste hit.
Relief spread, chemical and emotional indistinguishable.
And the brain learned: comfort arrived with him.
He repeated the cycle each day.
Longer waits.
Same pattern.
Hunger—then his return—then release.
Conditioning dressed as kindness.
By the sixth night, reflex replaced thought.
Hunger no longer frightened them.
Only his absence did.
He watched them sleep on the seventh morning.
Both children breathing slow, toys resting near open palms.
One smiled in dream.
He allowed himself a brief nod.
System complete.
Dependence forged.
Emotion rewritten at root.