Chapter Text
The first red flag, in hindsight, was the fact that they realized the kid was awake at all.
“We have consciousness,” someone says, jaw rigid behind his surgical mask. “Appearance is aligned with accelerated hair growth aspect of the operation.”
He can only dumbfoundedly agree with that statement, taking a good minute to eye the kid’s locks with awe. The hair used to be brown, for crying out loud. “The subject will undergo the basic post-op tests before being released to…” He hesitates. “Its room. Good work, everybody.” That last bit was mostly for everyone else’s benefit. A bookend on the most stressful surgery any of them will ever do, without question.
He lets his gaze shift back down to the kid, and with a start he realizes it’s eyes are locked on him.
Well , he thinks, very aware of their audience. The steering committee would probably like an example…
“What’s your name?” He asks.
For all intents and purposes, Kamukura Izuru should be functional enough to answer questions. The project and performance almost memorized, going through each individual talent as it was implanted. The surgeon basically knows Izuru’s brain more than he does his own.
“Hm?” Kamukura grunts, making a move to sit up before blanching. The next words come out cracked. “My name?”
That’s… a bit concerning. He shares a worried glance with another doctor. “Yes.”
“My name…”
________
Izuru wakes up at six o’clock, every morning. On the dot, no exceptions.
Infuriatingly, he thinks, raising a hand to cover his eyes. My programming is a bitch.
Of course, he learned his lesson on sleeping in the first week (because, really? Cattle prods? Was he a research project or a beast? A fucked up combination of both, is the answer to that). At this point it was all just part of the schedule, so he deals. Maybe, if he’s feeling particularly annoyed, he tries to see how long he can lay down inert until one of his teachers inevitably sounds over the loudspeaker.
Besides, he’s pretty sure if they wanted an Ultimate Hope with no chance of rebellion, the professor would have tried a little harder with the lobotomy. He’s made that thought pretty clear. Besides, maybe if they experienced raising a normal kid with a normal level of intellect, they would think twice about brain experimentation.
Not that he’s a normal kid anyways. What kind of teenager has no memories except a lingering feeling of frustration but knows how to dismantle a fighter jet?
“ Kamukura Izuru ,” a tired voice sounds over the speaker. Looks like he spent too long sulking. He gets up, stretching as the teacher continues. “ After you eat, we have some tests for you. ”
That gets his attention. “Talent related?” They have avoided testing for the past few days, mostly because of an incident that occurred during the last examination which totally was not his fault.
“ Yes. Ultimate artist. ”
Ah, low risk. No mechanical pieces that can blow up, depending on the medium they’ll be wanting him try. “Nice.” If anything, drawing is cathartic, right? He has just enough information from the Ultimate Therapist and Ultimate psychologist implanted in his brain to confirm it. “What will I be doing?”
“ You will be informed at the start of the test ,” Is all he gets before the speaker clicks off.
Right, Izuru thinks with an excessive lack of humor. Lab rat .
_o0o_
His morning ritual passes in a blur, Izuru’s mind going way too fast than what is acceptable for what seems to be normal getting-ready activities. He wishes he could just shut it off– gods know that he could do without the pitiful anger of knowing his meal nutrients were just left of perfect.
Ignorance is bliss , he thinks, spooning oatmeal into his mouth.
It isn’t necessarily a bad existence, he can admit. He should be grateful, being in a controlled environment where his teachers are a known evil versus the unpredictableness outside. It would be a logical train of thought he would stick with if Izuru wasn’t convinced that was part of his programming as well. A compliant weapon is a useful weapon, after all.
Sometimes he wonders if it was unfortunate, that his humanity stuck with him after the surgery. The teachers wouldn’t know how to manipulate an unfeeling beast. A teenager, though? Easy. Izuru would know how to do that without the Ultimate debate champion spelling out the guidelines in his head.
He wills the depressing thoughts away as he combs through his hair, mind fading into a dull buzz. He twists it into a ponytail though muscle memory, although he does remember needing to tap into the Ultimate hairstylist talent when he first started. He was so pathetic, back then.
He’s pathetic now , he laments, looking at the canvas in front of him.
“What do you want me to paint, exactly?” He asks, looking at his teacher. A woman, today. Above middle aged, poor lung health due to smoke inhalation at a young age, if her posture and breathing tempo has anything to say about it. Focus, Izuru .
The woman smiles, clipboard in hand. “Anything you want.”
Ultimate test, my ass , he thinks with a frown. “I haven’t seen anything outside my room and the testing rooms, before,” he reminds her. “And nothing in them is very exciting.”
The woman’s smile thins the smallest amount. “Problem solve, then.”
He’s about to ask what the hell that is supposed to mean when he gets the gist. He turns to the canvas again, picking up the palate to his side. “Right.” It’s supposed to be an emotional outlet, he guesses. Or some weird way to glean his emotional state without asking outright.
They’re giving him mixed messages here. First they want a machine that complies to their every whim, and now they want him to improvise?
They really should have been more specific, if they knew what was good for them. He picks up the brush, and lets his thoughts carry him away.
_o0o_
So, here’s the thing: Using talents requires a bit of intellectual distance.
Izuru isn’t really sure how to describe it, ironically– with all his talent, shouldn’t he know the methods to actually use them? He chalks it up to a flaw on the operating table, or something to that degree. Either way, it’s something he has to deal with.
Usually the tests that the teachers set up have outlines, specific instructions for what exactly he is supposed to carry out, the bare minimum of details and an unspoken rule of don’t ask questions. Izuru just takes a look at the order, picks up a tool, and zones the fuck out. He comes back when the task is completed, more often than not improved upon. He’s built a model ship in a bottle in about thirty minutes with that tactic.
The researchers have learned from experience to list out the exact protocols for each test, lest ‘zoning Izuru’ accidentally creates an atom bomb when ordered to create a carousel like some fucked up genie.
He’d like to state once again for the record, the malfunction from the last test was not his fault.
Even so, it’s slightly worrying. If not for the researchers, than for Izuru himself. What if he needs a talent in a field situation? He cannot afford to heal someone’s cancer with the original intent of just stopping a flesh wound.
Izuru mainly wants to blame it on the muscle memory aspect of the learning process. He figures it’s the same deal as being able to tie your shoes every day, but being unable to list out the exact step-by-step process once you think about it hard enough.
It’s kind of like a video game , he thinks. In a way.
It really isn’t. He isn’t sure where he got the idea.
_o0o_
He comes back to a girl.
It isn’t an actual girl, of course. He can’t think of a single situation where they would willingly bring a girl into his room, and he’s not really sure how he would react if put in said situation.
No, this girl is painted on the previously blank canvas. The setting of what the Ultimate photographer in him recognizes as Golden Hour showers her in an orange hue, toning the image in beautiful browns and earthy colors. Her face almost looks dazed, glancing at the viewer with blank eyes and a straight face. She’s wearing a uniform of some kind, the collar of her shirt peeking up over an unidentified blazer. Her hair is light, shoulder length.
She’s nearly in profile, Izuru distantly notices. There’s a fountain in the background.
“Are you done?”
He nearly jumps out of his skin when the researcher speaks, head whipping to face her. She’s scribbling something onto her clipboard. Izuru swallows, turning back to the painting. “Y-yeah.”
She writes something down out of the corner of his eye. “A painting like that would usually take about three months to complete, I think. You completed it in three hours.” She says this pointedly, like he should be proud.
Like you should be thanking them for the skill. He can’t stop looking at the painting. “Can–” He pauses, throat suddenly tight. “Can I keep this?”
The teacher’s smile takes on a pitying facade. “Unless you can make an exact replica in a short amount of time– no, don’t actually!” Izuru didn’t even realize he was reaching for the brushes. He moves his hand back, and she sighs. “We’re going to take it for inspection and an official artist critique. I can see about getting it back afterwards for good behavior, yes?”
“Right. Okay.” He shakes off the lingering discomfort, unsettling his ponytail.
“It’s interesting,” The teacher adds, almost noncommittally but so blatantly suspicious. Izuru tenses. “Your subject. She’s very beautiful.”
“I don’t know who she is,” he offers.
“She’s probably a figment of your imagination,” She continues, as if he didn’t speak. “Look, she even has a little spaceship hairpin. Dream genius girl, Izuru? Someone smart, just like you?”
She’s going above her station, he observes, frustration welling inside his gut. It’s something they’re concerned about, no doubt. Girls being a distraction to the Ultimate Hope. “If you don’t leave right now, I will smash this painting in half.”
She’s quick to leave, at that. Izuru doesn’t need a talent to destroy things, after all.
_o0o_
He’s chastised later for threatening a teacher. He fires back that she shouldn’t have spoken out of line. They tell him that he should grow accustomed to teasing, if he wants to be treated as an equal rather than an all-powerful test subject.
It’s an argument void of all logic, so he doesn’t respond.
They need to decide whether he is a human or not. Gods know he’s not sure what side of the line he falls on.