Charles held me closer to the Organicizer's humming core, its sterile light bleaching the color from his fur. His gloved fingers tightened around my carrier as Jules' enraged shouts echoed—*thud*—against distant walls. "Sentiment," Charles murmured, not to me, but to the machine's flawless chrome surface. "The fatal flaw. Your sire mistakes bluster for brilliance. Your dad confuses numbness with neutrality." He tapped the console; a droplet of synth-caviar quivered, revealing a microscopic fracture in its otherwise perfect sphere. A twitch flickered beneath his eye. "Imperfection. Introduced by variables beyond control."
The air tasted metallic, sharp with ozone. Charles pivoted sharply, carrying me past Bernadette's abandoned gin bottle. Its jagged neck gleamed like a threat in the disinfectant mist. He stopped before a towering observation window. Outside, Mobius unfolded—a near greyscale sprawl of factories belching smog, laser fences crackling around sprawling slums. "Observe," he commanded. His breath fogged the glass. "Anarchy. Inefficiency incarnate. Those creatures scuttling below?" His gloved finger tapped the pane. "Fuel. Or obstacles." Below, a cluster of four-fingered Mobians hauled scrap metal through irradiated mud. Charles's lip curled. "Their neural pathways couldn't comprehend this machine's purpose. Like Jules mistaking noise for nuance."
A tremor shook the floor—distant artillery. Charles didn't blink. His gaze slid down to me, clinical and assessing. "Sentiment," he murmured, thumb pressing my forehead where Jules' diamond cufflink had bitten. "That's the contagion your sire peddles. Grandiose delusions draped in fake silk." From the hallway, Jules' voice roared, muffled but vicious: "*Discipline!*" followed by Bernadette's choked gasp. Charles' gloved fingers adjusted my carrier, turning me away from the sound. "Observe instead," he commanded, nodding toward the Organicizer. Its humming intensified, synthesizing scrap into shimmering nutrient spheres. "Efficiency. Precision. Unlike that… biological static." He meant Jules' shouting. Meant Bernadette's silence. Meant everything beyond chrome and sterile protocols. The synthesized spheres pulsed—cold, perfect, devoid of warmth or waste.
Bernadette's muffled sob echoed down the corridor—God, how did Sonic become so care free with an early childhood like this? Seriously, you would think he'd be like Shadow, brooding all the time—a raw, wet sound swallowed by thick oak doors. Charles didn't turn. His attention remained fixed on the Organicizer's shimmering output, the synthetic caviar spheres gleaming under sterile lamps. Each one was flawless, a testament to calculated perfection. Unlike Jules' bluster outside, hammering against Bernadette's defiance with fists and threats. Charles' gloved finger tapped the observation window, cold condensation smearing beneath his touch. "This is why I refuse to get married," he muttered, not to me, but to the machine's reflection. "Emotional volatility introduces unacceptable statistical deviations." Below, the Overlander ambassador's convoy inched through Mobius's smog-choked streets—five-fingered hands gesturing from armored transports. Charles' lip curled. "Observe their cognitive limitations. They mistake armor for security. As Jules confuses volume for victory."
The door shuddered under another impact. Jules' roar—"Disgusting, disgraceful, dispicable!"—vibrated through the paneling. Thank goodness I wasn't mentally a child. Actually this probably explains why Sonic doesn't cry at all later in the games. Charles continued to not acknowledge the violence, his focus laser-sharp on the Organicizer's output tray. He lifted a synthesized caviar sphere with sterile tongs, examining it against the sterile light. "Molecular cohesion acceptable," he murmured. "Unlike familial bonds." His pale eyes flicked to my carrier where I lay swaddled in thin hospital linen. "Your sire invests in diamonds for pacifiers. Foolish. Carbon allotropy provides no tactical advantage." Outside, the Overlander convoy's spotlights swept across the smog, illuminating graffiti-scarred walls: *NORTH BARONS EAT GUTTER GOLD*. Charles didn't glance up. "Observe the ambassador's transport. Reinforced plating, yet vulnerable to ion disruptors. Sentiment breeds flawed design."
Bernadette's choked sob cut through again—sharper this time—followed by the sickening crunch of something brittle breaking. Charles' gloved hand tightened infinitesimally on the tongs. "Auditory distraction," he stated coldly, placing the perfect sphere back into its tray. "Biological systems prioritize irrelevant input. Weakness." He pivoted toward a bank of monitors displaying scrolling genetic code. "Your lineage exhibits degenerative traits. Jules' prefrontal cortex favors grandiosity over logic. Bernadette's amygdala surrenders to chemical suppression." His finger stabbed a sequence highlighted in red. "Potential exists here. Provided external variables"—he gestured vaguely toward the pounding door—"are excised early." The Organicizer hummed, converting rusted gears into shimmering protein orbs. Efficiency. Order. Everything the hallway wasn't.
The oak door finally splintered open. Jules stood framed in the doorway, silk shirt rumpled, knuckles bleeding. Bernadette slumped behind him against the corridor wall, clutching her ribs, one eye swelling shut. Gin and blood streaked her gown. "Discipline administered," Jules panted, chest heaving. He strode toward Charles, ignoring Bernadette's ragged breaths. "Now, where's my heir? The ambassador's early!" Charles didn't relinquish my carrier. His gaze swept over Jules' dishevelment, Bernadette's broken stillness, the tear in his own lab coat where a gin shard had snagged it. Statistical deviations. Messy. Unacceptable. "The specimen remains uncontaminated," Charles stated, voice flatter than the monitors' glow. "Unlike its environment." Jules reached for me, his bloody hand outstretched. Charles stepped back, shielding the carrier with his body. "Sterility protocols," he hissed. "Wash. Decontaminate. Your chaos ends at this threshold." Outside, the convoy's sirens wailed—a dissonant counterpoint to Bernadette's wet cough.
Jules froze, fist clenched. "You dare—?" Charles pivoted, placing my carrier atop the Organicizer's output tray—cold chrome against thin linen. Synthesized caviar spheres pulsed nearby, smelling of ozone and nothingness. "Sterile procedure demands adherence," Charles stated, his gaze slicing toward Bernadette's crumpled form. Blood seeped through her gown where Jules' diamond cufflinks had torn fabric, not skin. "Contamination vectors multiply exponentially with emotional discharge." He gestured toward Jules' bleeding knuckles. "Decontaminate. Or forfeit proximity." Jules snarled, stepping closer. Charles didn't retreat. His gloved hand hovered over a console button labeled *Purge Cycle*. "The ambassador arrives in seventeen-point-three minutes," Charles noted flatly. "Your current epidermal state suggests… barbarism. Not brilliance." Jules glanced down at his stained silk, then at Bernadette's silent shudder. Apex predators recognizing incompatible ecosystems.
Bernadette coughed—wet, rattling. She spat crimson onto marble, tracing the splatter with a trembling finger. "Fuck you Jules," she slurred, gin-thick voice cutting through tension. "Just go and hide somewhere." Jules didn't look at her. His focus snapped to Charles' gloved hand hovering over the *Purge Cycle* button, then to his own bloodied knuckles. Statistical deviation. Unforgivable optics. With a choked growl, Jules whirled toward the decontamination arch, silk tearing as he ripped off his soiled shirt. Charles watched, impassive, as ultraviolet light scoured Jules' fur. "Seventeen minutes," Charles murmured, adjusting my carrier away from Bernadette's coppery scent. "Ambassador cognition processes punctuality as competence. Unlike emotional expenditure."
Bernadette dragged herself upright against the wall, smearing blood like war paint across peeling gilt. Her swollen eye fixed on Charles. "Sterile," she rasped, a broken laugh bubbling with phlegm. "Like your soul." Charles' gaze didn't waver from Jules scrubbing raw under UV. "Sentiment clouds assessment. Your neural degradation accelerates with each ethanol infusion." He flicked a switch; the Organicizer whined higher, synthesizing caviar spheres into perfect pyramids. "Observe efficiency. Unlike biological decline." Bernadette's laugh died. She stared at the machine's humming core, then at me—swaddled beside synthesized perfection. Her breath hitched. Not pain. Recognition. Ancient eyes in newborn sockets, reflecting sterile chrome. Charles mistook her stillness for capitulation. "Variables eliminated," he declared as Jules emerged, fur bristling under chemical sanitizers. "Proceed with debut parameters."
Jules snatched me from the tray, diamond cufflinks already digging fresh furrows. "The A
mbassador's limo is downstairs!" he barked, ignoring Bernadette's crumpled form. "Bernadette—hide yourself! You look like gutter scrap!" She didn't move, her good eye tracking Jules' frantic pacing. Charles adjusted his gloves, gaze fixed on a holographic feed flickering above the Organicizer. "Ambassador Kintobor disembarks," he announced, voice devoid of inflection. The image resolved: an Overlander unfolding from a chrome-plated limo-sled, shaven head gleaming under Diamond Heights' spotlights. His ginger mustache bristled like copper wire above lips pressed thin. Crimson irises and black sclera scanned the irradiated smog with palpable disapproval. Though imposing—more than tall and broad enough to eclipse Jules—his posture radiated weary concern, not menace. He wore practical navy synth-wool, unadorned, and frowned at a discarded ration wrapper swirling near his polished boot. "Maxx's incompetence," Jules hissed, mistaking the frown for intimidation. "He envies Sonic's debut!"
The penthouse doors hissed open. Ambassador Kintobor entered, flanked by lean Overlander aides in minimalist grey uniforms. His crimson irises swept the room: Bernadette now hidden behind a wall, Jules clutching me like a trophy, Charles standing beside the humming Organicizer with sterile detachment. Kintobor's nostrils flared at the metallic tang of ozone mixed with antiseptic—and beneath it, the faint coppery scent of Bernadette's blood lingering near the splintered doorframe. His expression tightened. "Minister Jules," he greeted, his voice a resonant baritone that carried surprising warmth despite the tension. He ignored Jules' outstretched hand, instead stepping toward the panoramic window. His gaze lingered on Sector 7's gamma-green quarantine fog, then dropped to the riots below—hedgehog kits scrambling over an overturned Northern Barony hover-tank. A discarded Eternal Serenity pill wrapper fluttered near his polished boot.
He stooped, picked it up, and deposited it neatly into a recycler-port on his aide's belt. "How sad," he murmured, not to Jules, but to the smog-choked vista. "This pollution. This suffering." His crimson eyes swept back to Jules, sharp with an intelligence that cut through Jules' practiced charm like a laser scalpel. "Your transmission mentioned... an heir?" Jules thrust me forward, grinning manically. "Ambassador Kintobor! Meet Sonic! Born faster than any Mobian in recorded history! His debut signifies—"
Kintobor didn't look at Jules. His gaze locked onto me. Not at the forced smile Jules had molded onto my infant face, but at the tension coiled in my tiny limbs, the unnatural stillness beneath the satin swaddling. His brow furrowed—not annoyance, but profound concern. He stepped closer, ignoring Jules' sputtering. "The infant..." he began, his resonant voice softening. "...he radiates distress. Micro-tremors in the musculature. Pupillary dilation inconsistent with ambient light levels." One large, gloved hand reached out, impossibly gentle. Jules stiffened, ready to deflect, but Kintobor's touch was feather-light, brushing my forehead where Jules' cufflink had bitten, then tracing the too-tight bindings Jules had insisted on. "These constraints... unnecessary. Restrictive. Harmful to neural development." He met my gaze fully. His crimson irises held no Jules-like calculation, no Charles-like cold assessment. Only deep, unsettling *sorrow* and a flicker of protective fury swiftly banked. "This environment," he stated, voice hardening as he looked past Jules to the humming Organicizer, its sterile glare, and the hidden scent of blood. "It is toxic. Not merely physically." He glanced toward the splintered doorframe where Bernadette hid. "Where is the mother? Her well-being is paramount."
Charles scoffed, adjusting his gloves. "Sentimental assessment, Ambassador. Biological metrics indicate—" "Metrics?" Kintobor cut him off, his baritone resonating with quiet authority that silenced the Organicizer's whine in Jules' ears. He gestured not at the machine, but at the faint bloody smear near the splintered doorframe. "True advancement fosters life. Not..." His crimson eyes swept the chrome monstrosity, "...mechanized consumption." Jules bristled, puffing his chest. "This machine transforms entropy into elegance! Sonic thrives—" Kintobor's gaze snapped back to me, sharp as a scalpel. "Thrives?" His large hand, surprisingly gentle, brushed the raw furrow Jules' cufflink had carved near my temple. "Observe the epidermal abrasion. Subdermal bruising consistent with compressive force." He lifted my tiny arm, the satin binding cutting into soft skin. "Circulatory restriction. Hypoxia risk." His voice remained calm, but his ginger mustache bristled above lips pressed into a thin line. Beneath the clinical precision, protective fury simmered, banked by decades of disciplined pacifism. "This isn't care, Minister. It's constraint disguised as curation."
At least this guy seemed nice, even if he was pretty ugly. Ambassador Kintobor's crimson irises held mine, the black sclera deepening the sorrow etched in his gaze. His large, gloved hand remained impossibly gentle against my temple, radiating warmth despite the sterile chill of Charles' lab. He didn't flinch from Jules' blustering protests or Charles' icy disdain. Instead, his thumb traced the edge of the raw furrow left by Jules' cufflink—a feather-light touch that somehow eased the throb beneath. "Hello there, my name is Julian Kintobor, house of Ivo," he murmured softly, his resonant baritone meant only for me. The scent of antiseptic clung to his practical navy synth-wool suit, undercut by something else—ozone, definitely, but also... damp earth and pine resin? An absurdly comforting aroma in this chrome nightmare. His ginger mustache twitched as Jules spluttered about "legacy" and "kinetic potential," but Kintobor's focus never wavered. He carefully loosened the satin bindings digging into my wrists, his touch methodical, unhurried. "Circulatory flow must be unimpeded for optimal synaptic development," he stated aloud, though his eyes spoke volumes to Jules: *This is cruelty disguised as care.*
Charles adjusted his gloves, pale eyes narrowing at the ambassador's "sentimental interference." "Ambassador Kintobor," he interjected, voice clipped as a scalpel. "You seem intelligent, my Organicizer synthesizes precisely calibrated nutrient matrices. The infant requires cellular fortification, not... tactile reassurance." He gestured toward the tray of shimmering synth-caviar spheres, their ozone scent sharp and artificial. Kintobor didn't glance at them. Instead, he lifted me slightly, his massive frame shielding me from Jules' frantic pacing and Charles' sterile glare. His crimson gaze swept the room—lingering on the splintered doorframe where Bernadette hid, the disinfectant mist still clinging to the air, Jules' diamond cufflinks gleaming like fractured ice. "Fortification," Kintobor echoed softly. His resonant baritone carried through the lab. "True strength begins with safety. This chamber reeks of gamma radiation and emotional toxicity." He traced the tight satin binding Jules had insisted on with one gloved finger. "Observe the capillary blanching. Restriction impedes growth." Jules bristled, stepping forward. "Safety? Sonic embodies—"
"You embody neglect, Minister," Kintobor stated calmly, cutting Jules off. His crimson irises held Jules' gaze, unwavering. Beneath the gentleness, an iron resolve solidified. "I catalogued Sector 7's radiation leaks en route. Your broadcast glorified 'Neo-Luminescence' while kits choked on fallout." He shifted his weight subtly, positioning himself between Jules and Bernadette's hiding place. "The mother requires immediate medical attention. Not concealment." Jules sputtered, face purpling. "Bernadette's hysterics are irrelevant! Sonic's debut—" Kintobor's large hand settled protectively over my spine, radiating warmth through the thin linen. "Irrelevant? Her neural scans would reveal cortisol levels exceeding combat veterans'. Trauma rewires infant cognition." His gaze flicked to Charles. "Doctor, run a bio-scan. Now. Prioritize maternal and infant vitals over... caviar synthesis." Charles stiffened, lips thinning. "My equipment serves efficiency, not diagnostics for—" "Doctor," Kintobor repeated, the word layered with quiet command. It wasn't a request. Jules lunged, grabbing for my carrier. "Enough! He's *my* heir!" Kintobor pivoted smoothly, using his bulk to block Jules effortlessly. Without raising his voice, he addressed his aide: "Lieutenant, secure medical transport. Stat." The aide nodded crisply, tapping her wrist-comm.
Heh, maybe this guy originally raised Sonic to be better than Jules ever could. Ambassador Kintobor's crimson irises remained locked on mine, the deep-set sorrow within them reflecting the sterile chrome of Charles' lab yet radiating an unexpected warmth. His large, gloved hand—surprisingly gentle—brushed the raw furrow on my temple left by Jules' diamond cufflink, a feather-light touch that eased the throbbing ache beneath. The scent clinging to his practical navy synth-wool wasn't just antiseptic; beneath the sterile tang lay notes of damp earth and pine resin, absurdly comforting amidst the ozone stink of the Organicizer. Jules sputtered about "kinetic legacy," but Kintobor ignored him, his resonant baritone softening as he meticulously loosened the satin bindings digging into my wrists. "Circulatory restriction impedes synaptic development, little one," he murmured, his words meant solely for me. His thumb traced the blanched skin where circulation had been cut off—a silent indictment of Jules' "curation."
Charles stepped forward, lab coat rustling with stiff precision. "Sentiment clouds biological necessity, Ambassador," he stated, pale eyes flicking dismissively toward Kintobor's gloved hands. "The Organicizer provides calibrated cellular fortification. Tactile reassurance is statistically irrelevant to nutrient absorption." He gestured toward the tray of shimmering synth-caviar spheres, their artificial brine scent clashing with Kintobor's earthy aura. Kintobor didn't glance at the machine. Instead, he shifted his imposing frame, positioning himself squarely between Jules' frantic energy and the splintered doorway where Bernadette hid. His crimson gaze swept the room—lingering on the disinfectant mist still clinging to the air, the faint coppery scent of blood near the doorframe, Jules' cufflinks gleaming like shards of ice. "Fortification," Kintobor echoed, his voice deepening with quiet authority that silenced Jules' next outburst. "Requires an environment free of gamma radiation and emotional toxicity. Observe the capillary blanching. This isn't care; it's constraint masquerading as control." He carefully adjusted my carrier, ensuring unrestricted movement. "James," he said calmly to his aide, not raising his voice yet cutting through the tension like a scalpel, "if you could please scan for residual radiation signatures in this chamber. Prioritize infant and maternal exposure levels."
Jules lunged, fingers clawing toward my carrier. "He's MY heir, you can't just try totake him like this you filthy Overlander!" Kintobor didn't raise his voice. He simply replied, "Perhaps not, but the Mobius Planetary Legal System will decide this, and I do warn you, my brother is a lawyer." Jules lunged, fingers clawing toward my carrier. "This is kidnapping! Robbery of what is rightfully mine!"
Kintobor ignored the outburst, his crimson eyes scanning the splintered doorway where Bernadette hid. His gloved hand hovered protectively over my carrier, radiating calm authority. "Lieutenant," he murmured, his resonant baritone cutting through Jules' fury, "bio-scan the infant and locate the mother. Prioritize neural trauma indicators and residual radiation signatures." James nodded, pulling a sleek scanner from her belt—its soft blue light bathing my face, instantly analyzing vital signs Jules had ignored. Kintobor's gaze softened as he watched the readout flicker. "Elevated cortisol. Micro-fractures in the occipital bone." His thumb brushed the raw furrow on my temple again, a feather-light touch laced with restrained fury. "This isn't debut preparation, Minister. It's systematic degradation."
Charles stood completely still, lab coat somehow rustling sharply. "Ambassador, your sentimental theatrics disrupt your logical thinking," he stated, pale eyes fixed on Kintobor's gloved hands touching my temple. His voice remained flat, devoid of inflection, yet simmering with disdain. "You mistake physiological distress for psychological trauma. The infant's elevated cortisol is statistically insignificant." He gestured toward his Organicizer's shimmering nutrient spheres. "Precision nourishment corrects biological inefficiencies faster than... tactile interference." Beneath Charles' clinical detachment lay a bedrock contempt—not just for Kintobor's "emotional irrationality," but for every Mobian outside his sterile walls. He saw Bernadette's drunken collapse not as tragedy, but as proof of neural degradation; Jules' violence as chaotic entropy. To Charles, intellect was measured in control, and everyone else—especially those bleeding on his marble floors—were variables to be eliminated or utilized.
Jules snarled, knuckles white around my carrier's handle. "He's manipulating this poor child! Poisoning his potential!" Kintobor's crimson gaze didn't waver from James' scanner readings. "Poisoning?" His resonant baritone sliced through Jules' bluster. "Minister, your heir's neural cortex shows gamma-induced lesions consistent with Sector 7's 'Neo-Luminescence.'" He traced the raw furrow on my temple—a deliberate, damning gesture. "And this? Micro-fractures from compressive trauma. Your curation is carcinogenic." Charles stiffened, pale eyes narrowing at the scanner's intrusion. "Uncalibrated instrumentation," he hissed. "My Organicizer neutralizes radiological contaminants. Emotional discharge is the true pathogen here." Kintobor ignored him, his focus shifting to the splintered doorway. "Lieutenant, extract the mother. Now." James moved swiftly toward Bernadette's hiding spot. Jules lunged to block her, but Kintobor's massive frame intercepted him effortlessly. "Stand aside, Minister," Kintobor commanded, his voice layered with quiet authority that froze Jules mid-lunge. "Or face obstruction charges documented by Overlander intelligence." Jules recoiled as if scalded, his grandiosity crumbling under bureaucratic threat.
Behind the fractured doorframe, Bernadette didn't resist as James gently lifted her. Her swollen eye met mine across the lab—a fleeting spark of defiance in the bruised stillness. Kintobor watched James guide her toward the exit, his ginger mustache bristling above lips pressed thin. "This isn't over," he stated, not to Jules, but to Charles' sterile monstrosity humming behind him. "Mobius Planetary Welfare Protocols mandate intervention. Expect auditors." Charles' gloved hand tightened on the Organicizer's purge lever. "Auditors?" His laugh was a dry rustle, like dead leaves scraping marble. "Sentimental bureaucrats quantifying chaos. My equations quantify *everything*." He gestured toward Jules, now trembling with impotent rage. "Including entropy's accelerating curve."
Jules lunged at Kintobor's retreating back. "You can't try to ruin my legacy Kintobor, I'll ruin you and all those other filthy Overlanders!" His claws scraped uselessly against the ambassador's reinforced synth-wool sleeve. Kintobor didn't flinch, cradling me securely against his chest—a fortress of unexpected warmth amid Charles' frigid lab. His crimson eyes burned with restrained fury as he glanced over his shoulder. "Legacy?" The word landed like a hammer. "Minister, your legacy is fractured bones and gamma scars on an infant. This will end soon." Lieutenant James supported Bernadette's swaying frame, her bloodied fur stark against the sterile white hallway. Jules screamed obscenities, but Kintobor's aides formed an impenetrable cordon. As the doors hissed shut behind them, I caught Charles' reflection in the Organicizer's chrome surface—pale lips curled in cold amusement.
Charles adjusted his gloves, the purge lever untouched. "Sentimental theatrics," he murmured, turning his clinical gaze toward Jules. "You invited that disruption, Jules. Your emotional incontinence contaminates every variable." Jules whirled, fist smashing into the Organicizer's control panel. Sparks flew. "He stole them! MY SON! MY WIFE!" Charles didn't react to the damaged equipment. Instead, he analyzed Jules' trembling hands with detached fascination. "Observe the adrenaline surge. Degenerative neural patterning." He gestured to a biometric readout Jules hadn't noticed flashing. "Your cortisol levels now exceed Bernadette's pre-collapse metrics. Inefficient." Jules slumped against the machine, breathing ragged. "He'll pay... I'll make him pay... Unholy Anarchy below, I'll make them all pay."
Bernadette lay motionless in the sterile med-pod, her breathing shallow beneath the bioscanner's blue glow. Ambassador Kintobor's gloved finger traced the jagged fracture line on her cranial readout—a brutal topography mapping Jules' diamond-studded knuckles. "Neural shearing," he murmured to Lieutenant James, his resonant baritone tight with suppressed fury. "Administer cerebral stabilizers. Full-spectrum trauma protocol." The ozone-scented air crackled as the injector hissed against Bernadette's neck. Her eyelid fluttered once—not pain, but something colder. Resignation pooling in bruised capillaries.
Kintobor turned to me next. His crimson eyes softened as he peeled back Jules' satin bindings still embedded in my wrist fur. "Observe the subdermal bruising," he instructed James, gently rotating my forearm to reveal mottled purple beneath downy quills. "Compression trauma from forced posing." The scanner hummed, painting holographic fractures across my occipital bone—ghostly echoes of Jules' "kinetic legacy" grip. Kintobor's thumb brushed the raw furrow at my temple. "Gamma lesions here... and here." His ginger mustache bristled. "Sector 7's 'glow' wasn't promotional. It was poison." From his medical kit came a vial of iridescent gel smelling of crushed mint and glacial water. He smoothed it over the wounds. Instantly, the throbbing eased—not numbness, but cellular whisperings knitting torn tissue. His gloved hand radiated warmth absent from Jules' diamond-clawed touches or Charles' chrome instruments. "Circulation restoration precedes synaptic development," he murmured, unwinding the bindings. Freedom prickled like static in my limbs.
In Diamond Heights' observation spire, Charles watched Kintobor's shuttle ascend through irradiated smog. Jules paced behind him, knuckles bleeding onto chrome. "He stole my legacy, Charlie! My heir!" Charles didn't turn. "Your entropy accelerates, Jules. Observe." He tapped a console, flooding the lab with biometric feeds—Bernadette's spiking neural trauma scans, Sonic's gamma-saturated tissue analysis. "Kintobor catalogs your negligence. His auditors will quantify it." Jules snarled, "I'll buy off the courts, threaten his family, fuck it, his brother's both—" Charles silenced him with a glacial stare. "Sentiment blinds you. Your heir is now a liability coated in Overlander fingerprints." He reactivated the Organicizer. Its whine deepened as it synthesized nutrient spheres glittering with synthetic perfection. "Entropy requires containment. Not theatrics." Jules froze, catching his reflection in a sphere—now purple-faced, trembling. Charles offered him a nutrient pellet. "Consume. Stabilize your degenerative patterning."
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Kintobor's gloved fingers worked with methodical gentleness, smoothing the mint-scented gel over my temple. The cooling sensation seeped deep, easing the bone-deep throb Jules' diamond cufflinks had left behind. "Neural inflammation," he murmured to Lieutenant James, his resonant voice low and urgent. "Administer pediatric-grade cortical stabilizers. Full-spectrum detox protocol." The injector hissed against my neck—not cold like Charles' instruments, but a warmth spreading through my veins like liquid sunlight. Beneath the sterile med-pod lights, Bernadette's fractured biometric readout flickered beside mine, twin testimonies to Jules' ambition. Kintobor's crimson eyes lingered on her still form, his jaw tightening. "Maternal separation exacerbates infant trauma," he stated, adjusting the pod's alignment so our fields overlapped. Bernadette's faint, labored breathing became a rhythm beneath the machines' hum—a fragile tether in the antiseptic gloom.
"Don't worry little one, everything will be alright now," Kintobor murmured, his baritone vibrating through my tiny frame as he administered the cortical stabilizers, though honestly, I doubted it for some reason his words were right.