Chapter Text
The first thing M-16 felt was the cold.
Not the sharp sting of snow or ice, but the deep, numbing kind that seeped under the skin and settled in his bones. His eyes fluttered open, syrup-slow, blinking against the too-bright white light above. He was still floating, though the thick liquid around him was draining away with a soft gurgle. The glass lid hissed, releasing a blast of sterile air against his cheeks.
The cryostasis pod had opened early today.
He blinked again, lashes wet and clumped, and curled in on himself like a kitten waking from a too-long nap.
He was M-16.
That was what the Genomorphs called him. Not a name, just a number. A label. But it was all he had, and he clung to it like a crayon drawing no one else cared about.
He looked small. His arms and legs were stick-thin, his frame looked slightly smaller than a normal six-year-old's. The Genomorphs said he wasn’t what he was supposed to be. His mind was slower, softer. “ Faulty”, they whispered angrily. M-16 didn’t agree. He liked how he saw the world. Especially the parts that weren’t really there.
His inner world was full of color. Full of stories.
Full of The Voice .
The Voice wasn’t like the Genomorphs. They taught in gray pictures, numbers, and words that made his temples ache. But The Voice was warm, like sunlight spilling through a window. It told stories of heroes in capes, shining cities, monsters defeated by justice and kindness and strength. Best of all, it always spoke of Superman.
Superman! Just thinking the name made M-16’s toes curl with delight.
The Voice said Superman flew through the sky like a bird. He was strong enough to lift mountains. He saved people. He was brave and gentle and smiled like a summer day.
And “ he loves people like M-16 .”
At least, that’s what The Voice said.
Sometimes, M-16 wished The Voice were real. That Superman would come crashing through the lab ceiling in a blaze of light, scoop him up, and say, “ Don’t worry, bud. I’ve got you.”
Then they’d fly away, high and far, where the air was sweet and warm. Where nothing smelled like bleach. Where no one wore white coats.
He sighed, hugging his knees to his chest.
The Voice must have heard him, because it wrapped around his mind like a soft blanket. So tight and safe, it made his chest ache in the nicest way.
A hug.
That was what the Genomorphs had once called it, showing him an image of two people holding each other. That’s it, he thought. That’s what The Voice gives me. Mental hugs.
He especially needed them after the doctors came.
The doctors were never warm. They were sharp, loud, and cold in every part of their being. They didn’t teach—they tested. They poked him with silver tools, watched with hungry eyes, whispering when they thought he couldn’t hear. He always heard.
He hated them.
But one day, something changed.
After another round of tests that left his head buzzing and muscles twitching, one of the meaner doctors, the one with too-tight gloves and an always-angry voice, grabbed his arm. Hard. So hard M-16 yelped, but the doctor didn’t stop, dragging him down a long, gray hall under buzzing lights.
At the very end was a colder, darker room. Inside, a single pod.
Just like M-16’s.
And inside floated… a boy.
A very tiny boy.
He looked just like M-16, only smaller, and more squishy. His tiny fists were curled, his hair drifting in the liquid like petals of a flower. His pod was labeled in big red letters: K-12.
The doctor sneered.
“This is your replacement,” he hissed, pointing. “If you don’t shape up, we’ll shut you down and use him instead.”
M-16 ignored him.
He only stared at the boy.
He reached forward. Not with his hand, but with his mind, the way the Genomorphs had taught him. He brushed the edge of the sleeping consciousness in front of him.
‘Hello?’ he asked softly.
The mind twitched.
A questioning feeling, curious but sleepy. Like a baby peeking out from under a blanket.
M-16’s eyes widened.
Alive.
He was alive.
And in that instant, The Voice jolted awake in his mind—alarmed and curious at the sudden new presence in their mental link. It flooded him with questions, but M-16 only smiled and tugged it towards K-12.
‘Look!’
he cried gleefully.
‘ New!’
But new what?
‘Friend?’
No, not quite. Something… closer.
He searched his lessons for the correct word. Finally he found it.
‘Brother?’
No.
‘Little brother!’
Excited, he turned to The Voice, thoughts soft and shy.
‘And you?’
he asked.
‘ If K-12 is my little brother… what are you?’
There was a long pause, as though The Voice wasn’t sure how to answer.
When the reply came, it was not a word, but the shape of one wrapped in uncertain love.
Not rejection.
That was enough.
M-16 pressed his forehead against K-12’s pod and smiled.
For the first time, he didn’t feel alone.
Not anymore.
~
M-16’s bare feet made soft pat-pat sounds against the cold metal floor. The corridor hummed faintly, like a song just out of tune, tickling his ears and making him feel lonely all over again.
He hugged his arms to his chest and imagined a cape, bright red and flapping in a breeze that didn’t exist down here. If only he could fly. The Voice said Superman could fly. soaring above the clouds, faster than anyone, stronger than anything. But M-16 wasn’t like that. Not yet. Not until his powers caught up to him. For now, he walked.
He rounded the corner quietly, just as the Genomorphs had taught him, and slipped through the hidden panel into his favorite room. The one no one else ever visited.
At its center stood the pod, glowing faintly blue-green, like the firefly videos the Genomorphs once showed him. Inside floated a boy that looked about three years old, with M-16’s face. His label read K-12 , but M-16 never called him that anymore. To him, the boy was just ‘little brother’.
He ran to the pod and pressed his hands to the warm glass. A soft buzz brushed his mind as he reached out.
‘
Wake up’,
he thought gently, like a backwards lullaby.
‘I’m here.’
The boy stirred, face scrunching in his sleep. Slowly—soft as a feather landing—his mind blinked on.
‘?’
That always made M-16 smile. K-12’s puzzled little greeting felt like a puppy tilting its head at a butterfly. Giggling, he sat cross-legged in front of the pod.
“Hi, little brother,” he whispered, though he didn’t need words.
“I brought stories.”
K-12 responded with a flurry of sleepy warmth. He was always excited when M-16 came. He asked endless questions, like what colors were, and what birds tasted like, and if clouds were soft. Sometimes M-16 didn’t know the answers, so he would pass the questions on.
‘Voice?’ he would call out. ‘ What do clouds feel like?’
And the Voice always came. Warm, kind, patient. M-16 imagined him tall, with strong arms and a voice like thunder that never scared you. He gave him kind eyes, like Superman in the Genomorphs’ slideshows. Superman loved the sun, sunflowers loved the sun, so M-16 decided sunflowers were the best flower of all.
“…and that’s why sunflowers are the best ever,” he finished proudly.
K-12 blinked confusion from the pod.
‘
Because Superman likes the sun. And the Voice likes Superman. And I love the Voice. So obviously, sunflowers are the best!
The Voice didn’t say anything, but M-16 felt their bond twist faintly red in embarrassment. His thoughts looked like a tomato.
M-16 giggled. The Voice was so silly sometimes.
Then— click.
The door opening froze the sound in his throat. Panic iced down his spine. He ducked behind the pod, heart pounding.
Two scientists walked in. One wore yellow gloves and spoke with a gravelly voice. The other carried a clipboard thick with scribbles.
“I’m telling you, M-16’s finally showing stable development. We won’t need the K-series much longer,” Gravel Voice said.
Clipboard nodded. “Might as well put this one to use. Pull it apart, run a full internal scan. Learn what we can.”
M-16’s breath caught.
He peeked around the pod, trembling. Gravel Voice tapped lazily at the controls. Then came the hiss of draining fluid. M-16’s stomach twisted.
The light in the pod dimmed.
K-12’s body sank like a falling leaf until it slumped at the bottom. His eyes snapped open. Baby blue, meeting M-16’s mirrored lens for the first time.
K-12 was awake.
But not safe.
A burst of confusion and fear slammed into M-16’s mind. K-12 didn’t understand why the water was gone, why the room was colder, why the world was suddenly so loud.
M-16 clutched the glass, shaking. He didn’t know what to do.
The scientists droned on about bone density and neural tissue, but he barely heard. All he felt were his brother’s panicked cries, muffled inside his own mind, like screams into a pillow.
So M-16 did the only thing he could.
He called.
No—begged.
‘Voice’, he pleaded, pouring every ounce of fear and desperation into the connection. ‘ Help! Please. Help him! They’re going to hurt him. I don’t know what to do. VOICE!’
For a moment, there was only silence. Then—
Like thunder rolling in from far away.
Like the sun breaking through stormclouds.
The Voice came.