Hospital
Port Podesta
Year 2160, After the Atlantic Calamity
The white lights in the corridor gleamed with an almost cruel coldness, as if all warmth had been drained from the world.
The endless surgeries through the night had wrung every last drop of strength from the staff.
In hastily changed clothes, Ophelia stood by herself outside the intensive care unit, her weight pressed against the cold pane of the observation window.
Beyond the glass, Helentine lay still amid a web of tubing, as an oxygen mask covered her face. Patches and straps crisscrossed her wrists, her chest, the delicate skin of her neck.
......
The bandages wrapped her shoulders and brow, yet blood continued to rise from somewhere deeper, blooming through the clean white gauze in stains of red.
The monitor at her bedside kept up its thin, relentless beeping.
Nngh... agh...
It started as nothing more than a faint twitch of her fingers.
Then the trembling crept outward, little by little.
AAAAAGH!!
A violent shudder wracked her shoulders. With every ragged breath, blood bubbled up through the ventilator tube.
Her chest rose in lurches, only to cave inward again as though pressed down by something unseen.
A nurse hurried to her side and held her body firmly against the bed.
Within a few heartbeats, the clean sheets were drenched in red.
A second nurse moved in to secure the straps, then bent over the monitor to study the shifting numbers.
Beyond the cold glass barrier, the screaming went on and on.
...
A heavy door thudded as a man emerged from the room, every line of his body heavy with fatigue.
His collar was open, his sleeves rolled carelessly to the elbow. A dried track of blood ran along the inside of his left wrist. It might have come from the surgery, or it might have been his own.
Father...!
...
Instead of walking forward, he leaned against the wall by the doorway and let out a long, shuddering breath.
How is she...?
She's... not well.
Not well? What does that mean...? Please... I need more than that, Father.
We saved her life... but that's all we managed...
......
She already knew the answer. The doctors had made it perfectly clear to her.
Still, she had held on to a thread of hope and pinned it on her father, the man she had always believed could accomplish anything.
...That was all of the good part, wasn't it?
The man with his back to her let out a sigh.
Right now, she's only being kept alive by IV fluids, barely maintaining baseline vitals. But... the damage to her brain is catastrophic.
Whatever poured out of the Atlantic Eye is eating away at her cells. For her... it's like being burned alive from the inside.
He gathered his loose white coat around himself, as if the small act could restore the composure and distance befitting a man of science.
We've done everything we can, but the necrosis is still spreading.
I... I'll do what I can to... to minimize her suffering from here on.
Ophelia's shoulders trembled.
Minimize her suffering...? That's it?
There has to be something else. Father, this is your field, isn't it? Constructs, consciousness repair... you used to talk about so many possibilities.
How can there be... nothing?
The man's back trembled. A stunned silence hung in the air.
A long silence passed. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy, as though reciting words he had rehearsed a thousand times over.
...Construct modification isn't a miracle. It has requirements and boundaries.
Helentine has a strong affinity for Tantalum-193, yes. But her brain damage is... it's too severe for the procedure now.
No one can guarantee the surgery would even succeed in her state...
I'll keep her stable for as long as I can. Until brain death. Maybe I shouldn't have even...
A sob caught in his throat.
Footsteps echoed from the other end of the corridor. A young assistant in a lab coat hurried over, stopping several paces away, hesitant to approach.
Dr. Tavis... the OR still needs you to sign off on the aftercare protocol.
...Okay.
...I'm sorry, Ophelia. Let me just... take care of what's left.
Helentine will be moved to a general care ward soon. Spend as much time with her as you can.
The father let out a quiet sigh and walked away, each step weighted with sorrow.
Ophelia kept her hand pressed to the cold glass, gazing in at Helentine's body, still stained with blood on the bed.
She could not recall ever seeing her sister so broken.
Childhood memories surfaced. The praise for her sister had never stopped, not for as long as she could remember.
It was the last lesson before school let out.
The report cards were handed out as usual, thin booklets with the family emblems and school motto printed on the cover.
All right, everyone. Last class of the semester. Has everyone got their report card?
Helentine, come see me after class. I'd like to keep a copy of your essay. I'm putting it forward for recommendation.
Helentine simply closed her booklet and offered a gentle "alright."
Nobody found it strange.
That's the third time this semester, right?
You know, I let her borrow a novel a while back... and she actually worked a quote from it into her essay. When I asked her about it later, she could even tell me the exact page numbers...
Tch. She took first place from me in PE this time, too. Honestly, they should just print her name at the top of the year-end roster and call it a day.
Ah... haha... well, everyone's built differently, right?
She lowered her eyes and opened her own report card. The letter B sitting in the grade column lay there, quiet and still.
Born into the same house as twins, the two sisters had always been spoken of in contrast: Helentine the exceptional, Ophelia the unremarkable.
Ophelia had once believed that every person had their own gifts, that brilliance in one domain must be balanced by deficiency in another.
But Helentine's very existence proved that belief wrong. Talent was not a zero-sum game. Some people could simply outshine others in every single way.
At first, when people praised Helentine, Ophelia felt genuinely proud of her sister.
Yet as the years passed and that pride became a weight pressing down on her, her feelings toward Helentine became far harder to name.
What'd you score on shooting? The results are up! Come on, what'd you get?
How'd you do, Ophelia?
...Can we not? Let's talk about something else, Helentine.
I saw you out there during the exam, you know. I thought you might want to show off a little... or something.
Didn't we say we'd watch a movie tonight? What are we thinking? I'm voting horror.
...
If that's what you want.
Great! See you tonight, then.
That wordless weight always hung over her.
She knew all too well that no matter how hard she tried, she could never match Helentine's effortless brilliance.
She knew Helentine had never thought less of her. It was not her sister's fault. Still, the sense of her own insufficiency ate away at her all the same.
What kind of person do you think you are, Helentine?
...Huh? Where's this coming from?
Just. Answer. The. Question.
I'm not really sure myself... I just try to do what I can.
So that's why you bombed the exam on purpose? Your acting's terrible, by the way.
...
What's so wrong with that? The people who hate me get to feel a little better. And the ones close to me should understand why I did it.
Pfft. You're such an idiot.
I prefer "wisdom in disguise"... Can't you just say something nice?
Ab-so-lute-ly not. Playing the pity card is the one thing you've got zero talent for.
During her years at F.O.S. College, Helentine's grades had never once slipped from the top.
How could Ophelia find fault with someone so perfect? There was simply nothing to hold against her.
And so those feelings had nowhere to go but inward. The inferiority she felt living in her sister's shadow grew into a dark, bottomless void she couldn't even understand.
She had envied her. She had even resented her... But she had never spoken a word of it to Helentine.
Helentine. Once you graduate from F.O.S., I want you to take over the affairs of the Spelmin family. I don't recommend staying with the World Government.
Sending you to F.O.S. in the first place was your mother's dying wish. She wanted you to broaden your horizons there. You've always known that, I trust.
I understand. I'll give it proper thought.
...And what about me, Father?
...Ophelia, if you're willing, I'd like you to return as well to assist your sister. Unless you'd prefer a different position within the family...
Let me think about it, Father.
She knew others saw her as worth far less than her sister. The world produced prodigies in endless supply, and Helentine stood among them, while she did not.
People loved to say geniuses were no different from anyone else. Ophelia knew better. That was a lie, plain and simple.
Who matters more to the world, an ordinary person or a genius? The answer's obvious enough.
It was a reminder she had drilled into herself time and again during her days at F.O.S.
Even after Helentine took charge of the Spelmin family, Ophelia kept piling responsibilities onto her own shoulders, trying to prove she had value.
Now, at the observation window, she stared at her sister's motionless form while the monitors kept their steady rhythm. A tightness rose in her throat.
A painful, ugly thought coiled its way up through her chest.
Am I really the one... who deserves to survive?
If Helentine had never come to rescue her, or if she had managed to persuade her sister to stay behind, would everything be different now?
Would Helentine, her brilliant and perfect sister, have gone on to give so much more to the world?
Inside the office, the lighting was softer than the hallway's glare, yet somehow more oppressive for it.
Through the window, alarms and traffic from the hospital's direction echoed faintly. It was as if the catastrophe had not truly ended, only held back by thick walls.
......
Humanity's Chief Technician stood in front of Tavis' desk, wearing the same mild, untroubled look as always.
That serenity struck Tavis as almost cruel. Catastrophe, mourning, bloodshed, and death seemed to register as mere outcomes, never as events that could wound.
So, is that it? The Control Court finally got its sights set on me? Ready to brand me a conspirator? Did they send you here for a little chat?
The Atlantic Eye... how did it even come to this?
Please, calm yourself. I understand the guilt you're carrying. And I understand why you're so angry.
My time is short. The Tower and "them" have their eyes on me... I came to you today because I have something to ask.
Tavis frowned, unable to make sense of the cryptic words.
I intend to entrust the remaining half of the "Understanding" Sefirah to the Spelmins, to your family.
The anger drained from Tavis' face, replaced by shock.
Why... me?
What I'm about to say may sound impossible to you.
But under the present circumstances, the list of people I can trust has grown very short. Or to put it more precisely... among the researchers who are left, you are the safest choice.
You have a peculiar quality, Tavis. You don't hunger for scientific truth. You only care about what works.
To me, that quality places you at the greatest possible distance from the answer. But it also places you farthest from madness. Those who hunger for truth too often lose themselves along the way.
That doesn't sound like a compliment.
No, it is one. If I had met you a few years earlier, perhaps we could have been good friends, Tavis.
But that's a luxury time won't grant me anymore.
Dominik paused, his gaze softening.
Under your family's jurisdiction, Port Podesta's Tidal Hub will serve as a hidden container.
Tavis shut his eyes for a moment, as though fatigue had finally crushed him. Even his breath came heavy and slow.
...I have never liked the way you shift your burdens onto others, Dominik. A genius like you should be taking more responsibility for Phylotree of Ousia.
I hope you can believe that, at this very moment, I am taking that responsibility.
Dominik gently pulled aside his collar, revealing the twisted, fatal wound beneath.
Perhaps someday you will understand me. But not now.
I believe that, given your character and your pursuits, Port Podesta will be shaped by the legacy Phylotree of Ousia leaves behind.
Whether that change will be for good or for ill... I'm afraid that will depend on your own interpretation of the Sefirah.
You're not afraid I'll misuse it? Isn't this what you and Arius devoted your entire lives to?
The Sefirah still requires a great deal of time before it can be saturated with information. By the time it is ready, I suspect someone will have stepped forward to take it, regardless of whether you intend to use it for good or for ill.
Heh...
Tavis let out a quiet, humorless laugh.
You don't trust me. You're just putting your faith in mediocrity...
...
Tavis fell silent for a long time, as if wrestling with himself. When he finally spoke again, his voice was hoarse and worn.
I have one last question. In your eyes, has Phylotree of Ousia already failed? I need a proper answer, Dominik.
Cause and effect are notoriously difficult to prove. A single event can set off countless outcomes; some are chance, others are inevitability.
But as long as this world keeps turning, the chain will never stop extending.
So, if you ask me whether Phylotree of Ousia has "failed"... I would say it's far too early to tell.
Somewhere in the future, there will be an outcome that you find <u>satisfactory. Is that an answer you can accept?
The corridor fell silent once more.
Tavis retrieved the classified Phylotree of Ousia dossier and sank deep into thought.
By the time night fully claimed the sky, only a scattered few remained in the hospital's family lounge.
Ophelia sat at the table, the food on her plate barely touched. Tavis lowered himself into the seat across from her.
The table between them was small, but the silence filling the space felt as solid as a wall.
No appetite?
Tavis blinked back to the present and stared at his untouched food.
You should eat something, Father. You can't think clearly on an empty stomach.
Helentine's condition is stable for the moment. If she makes it through the critical window, she won't deteriorate any further, not in the short term, at least.
That... does sound like a good thing.
Tavis speared a few perfunctory bites, chewing for a long moment before he could bring himself to swallow.
Ophelia...
What if... and I mean purely hypothetically. What if there were still a way to keep Helentine alive, but it required a certain... sacrifice from you?
Would you... be willing to try?
Yes.
He had prepared so much for this. He planned out every word to steer the conversation toward the hardest thing he would ever have to say.
But Ophelia answered before he could begin, and all those delicate words fell useless.
Tavis paused for a brief moment before pressing on.
Human consciousness is not sustained by biology alone. It also requires a foundational substrate...
Helentine's problem right now isn't just physical.
The real issue is her consciousness substrate... a significant portion of her consciousness has been lost.
Which means?
It means even if we use Construct technology to give her a new body, we would first need to... restore that foundational substrate.
You are twins.
More than that, you share a lifetime of history. Your upbringing, your shared experiences, the imprints you've left on each other's consciousness... they are practically intertwined.
A part of Helentine is still alive, inside your mind.
Ophelia's fork stopped in the air.
I know my research has never interested you... but there is a technology I'm aware of. M.I.N.D. reconstruction.
In recent years, institutions across the globe have been studying the M.I.N.D.
I got a set of technical data from Arius' partner, the guy called Kurono. His team has been researching M.I.N.D. fusion.
The technology is still in its earliest stages, but after cross-referencing it with my own work, it became M.I.N.D. reconstruction I mentioned just now.
The procedure requires a set of highly compatible consciousnesses.
We preserve the primary consciousness, then use the other compatible ones, those with shared memories, to fill in the gaps in the substrate. Put simply... it's a kind of fusion.
I can preserve the primary consciousness's personality, with M.I.N.D. as the vessel.
In theory, reconstructing Helentine's consciousness and completing the Construct conversion... is entirely feasible.
I don't understand any of this. So what is it you're asking from me...?
Your consciousness, Ophelia.
This is the only way I can see to save Helentine.
Still holding the knife, Ophelia's hand locked as if turned to stone.
...What will happen to me?
I will ensure your safety. I'm confident... that even after contributing your consciousness, I can keep you living as a normal person.
We would simply need to use... that thing Dominik entrusted to me... to handle the processing. A human consciousness can also...
Watching him lose himself in his long-winded technical explanation, Ophelia lets out a small, quiet laugh.
And yet you still came to ask if I'm willing to save her, Father.
You already have the answer. This isn't a discussion. It's a formality... isn't it?
I...
Father, to you, am I anything more than a spare copy of my sister?
The Spelmin family... needs to ensure a worthy future.
The fork in Ophelia's hand trembled.
Father, if you really wanted to discuss this with me... you should have started by asking if I was afraid.
I hate you, Father.
Ophelia quietly pulled back her chair. Without another glance at Tavis, she walked toward the door.
Don't trouble yourself with guilt. This is my choice.
Because the Spelmin family... needs to ensure a worthy future.
The door clicked shut behind her, and silence reclaimed the lounge once more.
The food on the table had long gone cold. Not even a trace of warmth remained.
...What am I doing?
The man's head sank into his hands, fingers raking roughly through his hair.
The next light to come on was the one above the operating room.
Staff and machines alike stood ready: researchers, nurses, surgeons, monitors, data streams, backup lines, emergency ports. All of it was waiting.
Commencing Helentine's Construct conversion and M.I.N.D. reconstruction procedure.
Subject: Ophelia, designation S-02. Consciousness localization complete. Shared memory area flagged.
Please confirm proxy processing medium interface.
Interfacing "Understanding's" proxy processing.
Synchronization stress exceeding thresholds!
Tranquilizer! Administer now!
Time stretched unbearably long. Robotic arms lowered into place. Interfaces clicked home. Neural pathways began to bridge. The nutrient feed tapered off, and the monitors updated in an endless, silent rhythm.
Tavis stood rooted to the spot, barely moving an inch. Cold sweat trailed down his temples, dampening the hair at his sides, but he didn't seem to notice.
Construct frame stable.
Helentine's Construct M.I.N.D. reconstruction... successful.
It... It worked!
Tavis stayed frozen at the console, his hands clamped to its edge, his very bones seeming to seize under the pressure.
For a fleeting moment, he could not say whether he had rescued one daughter or broken something in both of them.
The thought flickered and died. A stronger feeling surged up and pushed it away.
His breathing turned ragged, his eyes reddening at the edges. Even the faint smile tugging at his lips looked almost broken.
The cheers erupting in the operating room drowned out the sorrow that should have been for Ophelia.
After all, the surgery only went ahead because she agreed to it herself.
They made it... both of them made it...
