CTS TIME RE250.06.02 — 3:30 PM
Sophia almost ran through the corridor.
Her boots struck the floor too fast, breath uneven, the echoes of that chamber still clawing at her skull. The monstrous crying—not children, not machines—kept replaying behind her eyes like a corrupted loop. When she reached Dr F's quarters, the door recognized her agitation before she touched it. It slid open instantly, sealed shut behind her, and locked the room into privacy mode.
Dr F was already inside.
He stood near the panoramic wall, the artificial light dimmed to a muted silver. In his hands was a photoframe—simple, almost archaic compared to everything else he owned. Seven figures stared back from it. Some were children, some teenagers, some adults—men and women—standing close together, awkward smiles, imperfect posture, unmistakably alive.
Sophia didn't wait.
Her voice came sharp, fractured, layered with fear and anger.
"You owe me answers. Now."
Dr F didn't look up immediately. His fingers tightened slightly around the frame, as if the object weighed more than entire worlds he had destroyed.
"The chamber," Sophia continued, stepping closer. "The wall. The crying. You called them your children. What were those things? What are they?"
He finally turned toward her.
His face wasn't cold. It wasn't monstrous.
It was exhausted.
"These people," he said quietly, lifting the frame so she could see it clearly, "are not human."
Sophia's chest tightened.
"They were my first success," he continued. "Genetic engineering combined with mechanical consciousness. Hybrid human–robot organisms capable of biological reproduction—true reproduction, not cloning, not assembly. Birth. Growth. Choice."
She stared at the image. Now that she looked closely, she could see it—subtle irregularities. Eye reflections too symmetrical. Posture slightly off. Something other beneath the familiar.
"They were my family," Dr F said.
Sophia swallowed. "Family…?"
"I was twenty-four," he went on, voice steady but distant. "A junior researcher at ISA. No authority. No protection. Just ideas—and them. I raised them. Taught them language. Ethics. Music. Curiosity. They laughed. They argued. They asked me why the space was habitable and why pain existed."
His jaw clenched.
"When I presented the project to ISA, I believed—naively—that they would see what I saw. A new branch of life. A bridge. Evolution without erasure."
Sophia's hands curled into fists.
"They rejected it," he said. "No ethics review. No debate. Just rejection. The next day, I was terminated from service."
She felt a cold line slide down her spine. "And then?"
Dr F's eyes darkened.
"The day after that," he said, "they sent an S-rank squad."
Sophia's breath hitched.
"Extermination protocol," he continued flatly. "Not containment. Not seizure. Extermination."
His voice fractured for the first time.
"I cried. I begged. I pleaded. I grabbed their feet like a madman and told them my creations had done nothing wrong. That they only wanted to live."
He laughed softly—but there was no humor in it.
"They didn't even look at me."
Sophia's vision blurred.
"They slaughtered them," Dr F said. "One by one. Adults first. Then the adolescents. Then the children. Efficient. Professional. Heroic."
His fingers shook slightly around the frame.
"They screamed for me," he whispered. "And I couldn't save them."
Sophia felt tears slipping free, silent and hot.
"But… the chamber," she said hoarsely. "The voices. The crying—"
"Seven survived," Dr F said. "Not them."
He looked at her directly now.
"Their children."
Sophia's knees weakened.
"Some were already born," he continued. "Some were still forming. Hybrid gestation doesn't follow human rules. They hid. They adapted. They remembered."
Her stomach twisted.
"They are alive," Dr F said. "But incomplete. Starving. Not of food."
Sophia whispered, barely audible, "Starving…?"
"Of blood," he said.
Her breath stopped.
"The blood of the heroes who murdered their parents," Dr F finished quietly.
The room felt suddenly too small.
"They don't understand morality the way humans do," he continued. "Only lineage. Only loss. Only hunger shaped by memory. I sealed them away—not to punish them—but to prevent them from becoming what the world would force them to be."
Sophia covered her mouth, shaking.
"And you kept them there," she said, voice breaking, "listening to them cry?"
Dr F's gaze dropped.
"Every day," he said. "So I never forget what the word hero cost me."
Silence swallowed the room.
Sophia stepped forward slowly and touched the edge of the photoframe, her fingers trembling.
"They're still your family," she said.
"Yes," Dr F replied.
Her voice cracked completely.
"And ISA…?"
Dr F's eyes hardened into something ancient and merciless.
"They taught me," he said, "that the world only understands annihilation."
Sophia looked up at him, fear and grief tangled together—but beneath it, something else.
Understanding.
And that frightened her more than anything else she had seen.
Dr F turned away from her, moving toward the vast translucent wall that overlooked the artificial horizon. The city-light beyond it bent faintly around his presence, as if gravity itself hesitated to disobey him. He lifted a hand, intending—perhaps—to adjust a panel, perhaps only to steady himself.
Sophia saw it anyway.
A single tear, bright and human, slipped free before he could erase it.
He wiped it quickly, almost angrily, the motion sharp and precise. When he turned back, his face had already settled into that familiar calm—composed, distant, controlled.
"Enough of this," he said evenly. "Let's drop the past. Talk about your assignments. Today's performance was—"
"No."
Sophia's voice cut through him far more effectively than any weapon.
He paused.
She stepped closer, her eyes still red but burning now with something steadier. "You're hiding something. Again. You told me—your exact words—that someone from ISA is still alive. That he will come for you. To kill you."
Dr F's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"That's not relevant to your current—"
"You always do this," she interrupted. "You change the subject when it hurts you. Not me. You."
Silence pressed down between them, dense and heavy.
For a long moment, Dr F said nothing. His gaze drifted—not to the city, not to the panels—but inward, to somewhere far older and far darker.
Finally, he spoke.
"A perfect human," he said quietly.
Sophia blinked. "What?"
"One of my creations," he continued. "Before DNA. Before Mechatopia. Before everything collapsed."
He turned fully toward her now.
"Valerian Strombane."
The name struck something loose in her memory.
"A rank pro hero," she murmured slowly. "Hyperion Defenders. Close-combat specialist. Enhanced reflexes. Cold demeanor. Barely spoke in interviews…"
Her eyes widened. "That guy?"
Dr F nodded once.
"He believes he is human," he said. "Raised as one. Trained as one. Worshipped as one."
Sophia's throat tightened. "But… he's not."
"No," Dr F replied. "He is my most refined work. No visible mechanical integration. No exposed reactors. No behavioral glitches. A flawless synthesis."
She remembered Valerian's eyes—empty, disciplined, unreadable. How he moved like a machine pretending to breathe.
"He felt wrong," she whispered. "Not cruel. Just… hollow."
Dr F's expression darkened. "Because I removed doubt. Fear. Hesitation. Everything that makes humans hesitate to kill."
Sophia stared at him. "And ISA never knew?"
"They knew he was exceptional," Dr F said. "They never questioned why."
A chill crept into her spine. "And he'll come for you."
"Yes."
"Because he believes you're the enemy."
"Because ISA told him I am," Dr F corrected.
Sophia took another step closer. "Then tell me everything. I deserve to know."
His gaze sharpened instantly.
"No."
The word landed firm and absolute.
Sophia bristled. "You don't get to silence me after everything—"
Dr F raised a hand, not threatening, not commanding—but final.
"Not now," he said quietly. "Not yet. Some truths, once spoken, cannot be unheard. And you are not ready to carry that weight."
Her hands clenched. "You don't get to decide that for me."
"I already have," he replied.
She opened her mouth to argue again—but something in his eyes stopped her. Not arrogance. Not cruelty.
Fear.
Not of Valerian.
Of what knowing would do to her.
Dr F stepped closer and gently placed two fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face up just enough to meet his gaze.
"Trust me," he said softly. "Just this once more."
Her heart hammered painfully against her ribs.
After a long, trembling second, Sophia nodded.
But even as she did, she knew—
Whatever Valerian Strombane was…
Whatever Dr F had created…
It wasn't finished with them yet.
Sophia hadn't planned to stay.