man on the moon.

One hundred years. Surviving an entire century in the care of yourself and nobody else was certainly enough to make you confident enough in your own body to never fall apart ever again. It would be an understatement to claim that the scientists’ work of taking away everything he had aimed for and trapping him here like a lab rat was a mere scratch to his ego. It was beyond his understanding how anyone could strip him so easily of the powers of a god and force him and people he had long considered as dead to live more or less comfortable lives here. It wasn’t just humiliating, it was downright threatening and while he hated the fact that he stood powerless in front of them, it was impossible for him to ignore their superiority. He was someone that admired and respected the strength of other’s - hostility toward him or not didn’t change anything about that.

Quietly, he walked down the empty hallway, walls and doors as white as snow to his left and right. His were the only footsteps breaking through the silence, thoughts circling around the past occurrences. If he was going to work toward getting back his powers, he’d first have to know exactly where to start. As far as he knew, not all of his abilities had been taken away. It was crucial to know what exactly he was able to do in his current position and what not, especially when the one man that had reduced him to nothing but a head was part of this so-called experiment as well. Their encounter had led him to another, far more pressing question - it had been a good idea to come to a place that could most likely answer both of them at once. 

From what he had heard, the person he was going to meet was a truly inspiring man on his subject. Gifted, and even if he wasn’t someone one would invite over for coffee and cake, he could safely assume that he wasn’t sent by the scientists in order to give him false information. As far as he had figured out, this entire city was run by participants just like himself. A doctor specialized in genetic engineering, as odd and unapproachable as his personality was supposed to be, was certainly going to be useful at some point.

By the time he finished his thoughts he had already reached the end of the corridor, not bothering to knock or otherwisely announce him opening the door and entering the room beyond it.  The first thing his crimson eyes caught sight of was a young man in a lab coat, sitting on a chair as rid of colours as everything else inside of his office. Their eyes met, and if he hadn’t gathered at least a couple of basic informations about the person in front of him, then the eyepatch above his right one would have probably surprised him. The aura he gave off wasn’t exactly hostile, but not the most inviting either. An odd man, which seemed to resemble the other doctor he had met more than he had noticed at first. As far as he could remember, their surnames had read the same as well - was it possible that this body was the shell of the other personality he had met back then?

He recognizes him, almost instantly despite the red that tinted his vision--his nose begins to ache as the memories of their--or rather, Sigma’s encounter flood his very being, his chest tightens and a pang of anxiety resonates throughout him. It’s not his own anxiety, strangely enough--it’s Sigma’s.

He knows few things regarding this man: he’s strong, he’s individualistic, and he’s little regard for the wellbeing of others. The same could be said for approximately 1/6th of humanity.

That hadn’t rendered him any less of a threat.

Had it been anyone else, he’d respond with a hostility--a deadline is a deadline. But he figures he’ll make time for this one; after all, a smart man studies his enemies.

Or rather, Sigma’s enemies. Whatever the case, he’ll restrain himself, just this instance.

“It’s fine. Take a seat,” he responds, an inconspicuous smile tugging at his lips as he motions towards the chair. A single eye roves over the man from head to toe, and his smile doesn’t fade, not once.

He wasn’t one for smiles, but he was certainly one for faking them--in this city, your survival was contingent on that skill alone.

Gloved fingers graze against the clipboard atop his desk, and idly clicks his pen prior to addressing the man seated before him.

“I’ve never been one for leisure or wasting time--I’m sure the same can be said for yourself. So let’s start, shall we? Allergies? Asthma? Behavioral disorders? Bladder disorders? Any issues with blood? Bowel syndrome? Diabetes? Erectile dysfunctions? Heart problems? Previous hospitalizations? Prone to seizures? Issues with speech? Vision? Any recent, ah, fights? A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to these questions will do.”

He was a busy man, after all.

Walking into the clinic feels like she had always imagined “coming home” would feel like. A warm familiarity and flashing images of the place of her creation and watching the good Doctor work in absolute silence are brought to the forefront of her memory and the programmed response of wistfulness fulls her artificial heart

. She can’t help but smile when she sees him. Part of her knew he would be here, even though the possibility of the first clinic in the city she walked into being the right one was a one-in-a-million chance mathematically something as akin to intuition as she could create simply knew.

“Take a seat.”

She smooths out her skirt and gingerly sits with nothing but the sound of rustling fabric accompanying it.

Her smile has disappeared and a part of her wonders if he had intended to program her with such an intimate knowledge of his tonality.

“Dying.” she stops, makes a face.

“Well, that…. Um.”

She grips at her skirt and tries to look at anything but him.

“I was shutting down. For good. Your younger self was there and he was holding me, I think, because he felt sorry for me. Even though I had failed you both.”

She inclines her head.

The second she stops looking is the second he starts. A lone eye roves over her face at last, his gaze meeting that of her own.

“You disobeyed direct orders,” he states at last. “Of course, some of what occurred was in accordance to the plans I’d established. I’m unable to say the same for the rest.”

Whether or not it truly was or wasn’t, whether he’d, in actuality, planned every bit of this was a secret of his own--and one he intended to keep.

Or maybe the truth of the matter was that he simply hadn’t known himself.

He idly grips his pen again, its point grazing against the papers settled before him--”When human beings are born, they’re akin to fleshy sacs of meat. Their genetics are programmed with survival instincts; nothing more. They cry for attention, they pucker their mouths to consume milk, they defecate when they’ve sustained enough nutrients to do so. But then, we decide to teach them to walk. We teach them to talk, to swim, to learn instruments, entirely new languages. That’s not present within their genetic coding; it’s conditioning. It’s evolution. It’s autonomy. It’s a feat of humanity.”

He arches back a slight bit, reclining his chair as he gazes off into nothingness.

“Even those children...you can teach two children socialized within the same household how to speak, how to walk, how to eat and they’ll perform all three activities entirely differently. The anthropological aspect of this phenomena still intact, it doesn’t account for individuality--nor do genetics. It’s a common debate within the field...variation serving as a genetic trait. I suppose the problem is that human beings don’t want to believe their own kind is beyond their control.”

A pause.

'You believed in me this whole time...’ you said. ‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘Even though I look like this?’ You ask. ‘Of course.’ I respond, once again.”

First person and past tense weren’t meant to align together in his world.

“You spoke of myself while we were in the garden--I don’t recall you instructing you to do that. Nor did Akane. Quite a show of individuality, if not autonomy.”

Welcome to the hive, Luna!

You will be housed in apartment i-5.

You will be given all the love in the world, because you deserve it.

Enjoy your stay!

It wasn’t often that he woke up in the middle of the night. Usually it was from the cats pawing at him around 5am for food too. But this was different. He’d woken up as soon as he heard a loud ‘thud’ going on somewhere in the house. Looking over to make sure his boyfriend was still asleep, he slid out of bed, nearly stepping on one of the cats in the process.

Shushing it gently as it meowed a bit from the near encounter with his foot, he tried to listen to what was going on. As quietly as possible, he opened the door from the bedroom to the hall, hoping to follow the noises to their source. From what he could tell it was coming from the living room, so that’s where he headed to, grabbing a broom that had been left in the hall on his way.

Gripping onto the broom tightly, he just inched forward slowly, trying not to alert whatever was making the noise to his presence. Once he got to the living room, he saw the outline of a person. Was it a robber? Honestly, he wouldn’t put it past the people in this city. It was more likely than not. Or an assassin, that also seemed like a likely guess.

He decided to hope for the former though considering he was pretty sure he wouldn’t know how to handle the latter.

Sneaking up on the figure, he just raised the broom above his head, making sure the figure didn’t know he was there. Once he was close enough, he brought the broom down, smacking whoever it was in the face.

A gloved hand grips the door and gradually enters, not bothering to kick his boots off--Sigma could tend to any tracks, he was sure. Sighing, he runs his fingers through his hair--the ticking of the clock echoes through the hollow, and he wagers that it’s 11 PM, hm? 

His phone doesn’t seem to be in agreement, however. 3 AM. Well, he was never particularly adept with telling the time.

No groans, no disembodied yelps...Sigma was undoubtedly sleeping. And so, he begins to motion towards the wall, fiddling with the decorations and ornaments scattered about. That is until--

A broom to the face.

He spits--he was never especially fond of the taste of dust. But then, without a moment’s worth of hesitation, he whips around, gripping the broom with one hand and striking Sigma’s cheek with a ‘smack’ with the other.

Imbecile.

He doesn’t stop there, however--how do you immobilize Sigma Klim? The answer is simple. He grips him by a single ear, yanking him down a bit, his other hand still curled around the broom.

“Conscientious, aren’t you?”