Chapter Ten: Emerge

  November 15th, 2024 – (Mara, T.LAC, and Yozora, Age 5)

  The world around them was a monotony of white and gray. The ceiling stretched overhead in a stark, lifeless white, while the floor below was a dull, cold gray. There was no color in their clothes—just simple, plain fabric. Shoes? They’d never known them. The only sound that broke the stillness was the hurried tapping of small, barefooted footsteps as Mara dashed ahead.

  "T.LAC, hurry up!" Mara called over her shoulder, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. "I want to be the first on the hill today!"

  T.LAC groaned, trailing behind. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve said that a million times,” he muttered, though the smile on his face betrayed his affection for her antics.

  As they reached the top of the hill, Mara closed her eyes, letting the wind sweep through her hair. The breeze was cool, gentle, and carried with it a sense of quiet freedom. T.LAC watched her for a moment before breaking the silence.

  “Mara,” he asked, “why do you always come up here and beg me to come with you... just to let the wind blow through your hair?”

  Mara opened her eyes, the light in them softening. “It’s not just that,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s to remind myself that I’m alive. That if I keep surviving through the S.T.A.R.S program, I’ll make it—maybe one day, I’ll create a happy life.”She turned to T.LAC, her smile faint but hopeful. “You see, T... we’re free, in a way. This hill reminds me of the freedom we’ll have one day. Together, we can make it.”

  Mara’s words were interrupted when she noticed something down the hill—a commotion. Her eyes widened. “T, come here! Do you see that? We should go help!”

  T.LAC squinted, spotting a group of kids in the distance. "Help what?" he replied, unimpressed. "If it’s a kid who can’t defend himself, he’s doomed anyway."

  “I don’t care about that!” Mara shot back, already on the move. “Now hurry up!”

  As they approached, they saw several boys surrounding a lone figure, cornering him like prey. Mara’s voice rang out, firm and fearless. “Hey! Get your hands off him, all of you! Why do you guys always do this?!”

  One of the boys shrugged nonchalantly, clearly unbothered by her protest. “I don’t know. It’s fun,” he said with a smirk. He turned to his gang. “Let’s go, fellas. I’m sure we’ll see this punk again soon.”

  The group dispersed, leaving the battered boy alone. Mara rushed over, her eyes full of concern. “Are you okay?” she asked softly. “What’s your name?”

  The boy flinched, avoiding her gaze. His voice was cold, distant. “I don’t have a name. 369 is my name.” He looked at her with a scowl. “Now leave me alone. I’m sure you’ll treat me like dirt too. Just go away!”

  With that, 369 turned and ran, disappearing into the shadows, back to the small box where he hid from the world. It was the only place he ever felt safe—unlike Mara and T.LAC, who found solace in each other.

  Mara stood there, stunned by the boy’s harsh rejection, her heart aching for him. Tears welled up in her eyes. “T,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “We should give him a name... like we did for each other. We have each other, and others seem to have their own groups... but he... he’s all alone.”

  For the next few weeks, Mara made it her mission to protect 369. Whenever bullies tried to pick on him, she would chase them away, and T.LAC, though more reluctant, followed her lead. But no matter how hard they tried, 369 remained distant, isolated, refusing to let anyone in.

  One day, they arrived late. By the time they found 369, he was lying on the ground, bruised and battered, his small body trembling in pain. Mara knelt beside him, tears spilling down her cheeks as she tried to comfort him, while T.LAC stood nearby, his fists clenched in silent rage.

  That day, T.LAC decided. "Lets call him Yozora," he said firmly, his voice filled with determination.

  Mara sniffled, her tears momentarily pausing as she looked up at T.LAC. "Yozora?" she asked, a faint smile creeping onto her face. "He looks like a Yozora... but what does it mean?"

  T.LAC's expression softened as he looked down at their new friend, lying still but no longer alone. “It means Night Sky,”he whispered. From that day forward, the boy who had been known only as 369 became Yozora—the night sky in their little world.

  T.LAC lifts Yozora into his arms, his body cold as ice, yet beneath the freezing surface, Yozora’s heartbeat pounds like a slow, steady drum. A deep unease settles in T.LAC’s gut as he glances around. “Mara? Where are the other kids? The ones who usually gang up on Yozora?”

  Mara wipes away her lingering tears, sniffling. “I don’t know… Maybe they got bored and left?” But as the words leave her lips, doubt creeps in. Something doesn’t add up. Then, she sees it—a leg, barely visible, sticking out from behind a small corner. “T…?” Mara’s voice wavers. “Over there—do you see that? Someone’s hiding.” Without waiting for an answer, she sprints forward, fiery determination surging through her veins. “You little cowards! I’ll burn you all to a cri—” The words die in her throat. Her steps falter. She drops to her knees.

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  “T…they’re all frozen solid.” Her mind races, piecing together the impossible.

  T.LAC, still carrying Yozora on his back, rushes over. “Mara, are you—” His words catch as his eyes land on the scene before them. “What the… Mara, those are the kids…”

  She cuts him off. “I know.” Her voice is quieter now, laced with an eerie realization. “They’re the same kids who bullied Yozora… but who—what—did this?” Then, a new chill floods her veins—not from the frozen bodies, but from the sharp sensation of being watched. She turns, locking eyes with Yozora. His gaze pierces through her, void of warmth, void of recognition.

  “T,” she murmurs. “Put him down.”

  T.LAC frowns. “What? He’s still unconscious.”

  Yozora’s lips barely move, his whisper colder than the frozen corpses around them.

  “Let go.”

  A shiver crawls up T.LAC’s spine, his body jolting involuntarily. Before he can process it, his arms move on their own, releasing Yozora as if burned by an unseen force. He stumbles backward, rubbing his neck. “Dude, his voice… it felt like it was freezing my throat.” T.LAC studies Yozora warily. “Did you do this to them?”

  Yozora stares at his hands. They feel untouched, unscathed—as if the injuries inflicted upon him earlier had never existed. His broken arm… gone. His bruises… erased. “My wounds…” His breath quickens. “I was beaten. They broke my arm. I blacked out.” His head shakes, fingers trembling. “I don’t remember what happened.”

  Mara and T.LAC exchange wary glances before pointing at the frozen bodies. “Those kids…” Mara says slowly. “They’re all frozen—the same ones who tormented you.”

  Yozora hesitates, then leans forward to see for himself. As his gaze falls upon the frozen forms, his mind is suddenly flooded with fragmented memories—images flashing before him like a shattered mirror piecing itself together.

  The pain. The rage. The suffocating cold. But before he can say another word, the shadows shift. A S.T.A.R.S. operative emerges. His movements are swift, precise, his presence carrying authority. “Director, the missing kids have been located. Vitals indicate life, but they remain in a frozen state. We have also identified the source of the thermal event—Subject 369.” The operative’s gaze sharpens as it lands on Yozora. In a single breath, he utters the words: “Soporific Art: Sleeping Dragon.” Yozora doesn’t even have time to react. His body slackens, consciousness slipping away like a whisper in the wind. Before he can hit the ground, the operatives catch him with practiced ease. “Subject 369 is secure. Porting to you now, Selene.”

  "Copy that," Selene orders, her tone sharp. "Make sure the other subjects are defrosted and debriefed on what they saw. Report directly to me with your findings, understood?!"

  The S.T.A.R.S. operative responds with a curt nod. "Hard copy, Selene."

  Without hesitation, operatives close in around T.LAC and Mara. "Escort these two to their rooms. We’ll debrief them once the investigation is complete and this mess is cleaned up."

  Meanwhile, in a sterile, dimly lit room, Yozora begins to regain consciousness. His mind is hazy, his body sluggish from the sudden knockout. As his vision clears, a cold realization settles over him—he recognizes this place all too well. His dull, emotionless eyes scan the ceiling before he mutters, "More cutting and blood samples. Lucky day."

  Footsteps can be heard through the sterile chamber, growing closer to the operating table where he lies restrained. A composed yet authoritative voice follows. "Subject 369, what an eventful day. My name is Professor Selene."

  Yozora’s gaze shifts lazily to Selene, his expression unreadable. "Strapped to a table again… poked with needles, cut open—again. Just get it over with."

  Selene regards him with measured disdain, sighing as she folds her arms. "Subject 369…" She pauses before continuing. "Do you know why life at S.T.A.R.S. is so volatile for subjects like yourself?" Settling into a chair at the examination desk, she pulls up a file, scrolling through lines of data. "Each subject is graded at birth by Toro conversion speeds and Hindo potency levels. Subject 369, born November 15th, 2019." She swivels her chair toward him, her gaze cold. "Out of all S.T.A.R.S. subjects, you ranked dead last. The runt of the runts. Born with a fractured Toro and practically zero Hindo potency."

  Yozora remains unfazed. "Yes, I’m told every day—by examiners as they splice my flesh and drain my blood. Then again, when I’m beaten by the other subjects. Story of my life."

  Selene studies his expression, searching for a reaction that never comes. Her voice turns analytical. "And yet, today—like a raging storm—you emerged. Your Hindo levels are off the charts, impossible to calculate. Your Toro, once fractured and unstable, is now in overdrive as if it was never broken." She types rapidly into her tablet. "The S.T.A.R.S. Program exists to create the most elite Tuners. It’s built on survival of the fittest. Most of you die before ever taking your first breath. If a subject survives the birthing stage, they undergo rapid growth, a process that claims even more lives." Selene stops typing, her gaze locking onto Yozora once more. "Then comes the survival stage, from ages one through five. The goal is to force an Emerge. S.T.A.R.S. ensures this by selecting early-Emerged subjects and charging them with weeding out those who haven’t. They beat them down, break them, until the subject either Emerges—or dies. If a subject fails to Emerge by five years old, they are deemed defective and flatlined."

  Selene’s eyes darken. "Today, Subject 369, you turned five. If you hadn’t Emerged today, you’d have taken your last breath."

  Yozora meets her gaze, expression vacant. "Death sounds peaceful. Would it really be so bad to just... cease?"

  Selene hesitates for a fraction of a second before composing herself. "You should be grateful that life has given you another chance to keep breathing. You’re part of the 0.5% survival rate. Life will improve for you now."

  Yozora stares up at the fluorescent lights, his mind processing the weight of her words. "Whatever. What happens now?"

  Selene smirks. "Let’s move on." She taps her screen, pulling up the surveillance logs.

  "According to security footage and investigation reports, a surge of blue lightning struck you. Moments later, a secondary event occurred—thermal scans of the area went completely cold, turning blue. The other subjects tasked with forcing your Emerge have been defrosted, but they don’t remember anything aside from waking up." Walking over to the operating table, she picks up a scalpel, twirling it between her fingers. "Today is special because you’ve finally Emerged. This’ll be the last time we test and extract samples from you. How fast do you heal? How much damage can you withstand? How strong is your skin?" Her tone remains clinical, yet an unmistakable excitement lingers beneath it. Leaning in slightly, her voice softens, almost coaxing. "So please, sit still and don’t complain. This research allows S.T.A.R.S. to create Tuners capable of protecting Earth."

  Yozora doesn’t flinch. His voice is flat, devoid of resistance. "Just get it over with so I can go back to my room. No need to justify it. S.T.A.R.S. owns us anyway."

  Selene shrugs, unbothered by his indifference. She presses the scalpel to his arm, about to make the first incision when—A sudden transmission crackles through her frequency feed.

  "Selene, stop."

  She freezes. Brow furrowing, she listens as the voice continues. "The Director has ordered a full pause. The Twelve Pillars have spoken. Until further notice, all procedures are suspended. Release Subject 369 to his room and report to the Director for briefing."

  Selene’s grip on the scalpel tightens for a moment before she exhales through her nose, stepping back. "Looks like you get to keep your skin for now." A smirk tugs at her lips. "A special day indeed, Subject 369. It seems today keeps bringing you gifts." With a flick of her wrist, she unfastens the straps binding him to the table. "You’re free to go. Straight to your room."

  Yozora sits up slowly, his gaze unreadable. Without hesitation, he snatches a scalpel from the tray beside him, pressing the blade to his throat. Selene’s eyes narrow, but she remains still, watching. "That scalpel wouldn’t have worked anyway. Not now, at least." His voice is low, edged with something unreadable. Without hesitation, he drags the blade across his neck—once, twice, three times. The metal slices cleanly, yet his flesh remains unmarked. He tilts his head slightly, his expression cold. "See that? No cuts."

  Then, with a single stomp, an arctic pulse erupts from beneath him. Frost engulfs the room instantly, crawling up the walls, coating every surface in crystalline ice. The sterile facility becomes a frozen wasteland in an instant. Yozora steps forward, the ice crackling beneath his feet as he walks past her. "Put that in your report. If it helps you." His voice is distant, detached—like she is no longer worth acknowledging.

  Selene remains motionless, her breath curling in the frozen air. She watches him go, unease settling deep in her bones. The realization is unavoidable. "Subject 369… I fear a Kamiotoshi has awoken."

  “Took you long enough, Selene.” The Director’s voice calm yet weighted with authority. “The boy has finally emerged, thanks to your harsh but undeniably effective methods. However, your approach has drawn the attention of the Twelfth Pillar—Enola. S.T.A.R.S. cannot operate as we once did.”

  Selene’s face remains unreadable, yet a storm of emotions brews beneath her composed exterior. The mask she wears before Yozora must remain unshaken, but here, in the presence of the Director, she allows herself the slightest release. “Any method that ensures his survival is worth the pain,” she replies coldly. “Enola would never have allowed him to be harmed. She was born the Twelfth Pillar, a being with the power to shape the cosmos itself. While Subject 369 was still an infant, crying and unaware of the world, Enola entered existence with full awareness—of herself, of those around her, of the world beyond her. She could communicate through telepathy before she could even take a breath. I understand that things must change, especially with her watching our every move.”

  The Director studies Selene carefully before speaking. “Then we start now. Moving forward, subjects will no longer be numbers—they will have names. Subject 369 has a name now. The two subjects who protected him named themselves, and today, they named him Yozora.”

  The words linger in the air before the Director continues. “You should tell Zephyr about him soon. He deserves to know. I cannot keep this secret from him forever.” She exhales softly before offering a rare, almost teasing smirk. “For now, only Enola, you, and I know the truth—that Yozora is the son of Zephyr… and you.”

  Selene’s breath stills.

  The Director turns, glancing back one last time before adding, “As long as you make me his godmother.”