Adrift in calm waters, a dream—or perhaps a memory—rose in my mind. A scorched world stretched endlessly, its barren land consumed by fire, while a soft teal star hung above. Its light shone with a gentle warmth, casting down onto the desolation like the touch of a tender guardian. From the ashes, a single sprout emerged, fragile yet defiant. It pierced the dead soil, growing steadily as the star's glow nurtured it, feeding the bud like a solitary parent. But the star's light began to fade, dimming into the void. The young plant, its petals barely unfurled, was left alone to face the burning wasteland.
A slow exhale escaped me, bubbles slipping from my lips and tickling my face as they danced upward. The sensation jolted me—I was asleep. My eyes fluttered open, and I found myself suspended in a vat of green-tinted water. Tubes snaked across my body, connecting to my arms, legs, back, and neck, while straps pressed against me, securing me to the underwater bed within the pod.
"Who am I?" My voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and weak. "Where... am I?"
The murky water blurred my vision, but I could just make out two figures standing beyond the glass. Reaching out, my hand pressed against the cold surface, though it did nothing to free me.
"The production of artificial pilots is progressing well," one of the figures said, his voice detached.
"There's been a steady influx of materials. Fewer conscriptions are needed now," the other replied. He tapped on the metal tablet in his hand, his expression souring as the screen flashed red. "Tsk. This one's a defect. The neural link isn't syncing with the auto-knight's software."
A humorless chuckle followed. "Sign her up for the Constellation Program. Maybe one of those units will sync with it. If not, we'll recycle the materials."
"Understood." The first man stepped closer, brushing dust from the pod's surface. He squinted at a label on the glass. "Serial number... AKP-11,003. Unlucky thing." He sighed and tapped his tablet with a flicker of frustration. "She still needs to go through orientation before testing with the Constellation models. Waste of good resources, if you ask me."
"We're not paid to care about waste," the other said with a shrug. "Let's finish this batch's awakening sequence and grab lunch." He leaned closer to the glass, his gaze sweeping over me. "Huh. She's awake already? That's not supposed to happen."
He pressed a button on the control panel, and the tubes attached to my body hissed, injecting something cold into my veins. A wave of drowsiness crashed over me, and I sank back into unconsciousness.
The dream resurfaced, pulling me deeper. The lone sprout stood amidst the flames, no longer fragile. It had transformed into a brilliant emerald flower, its glow mirroring the light of the vanished star. The fire, once threatening to consume it, shifted. The flames turned golden, spreading outward like ripples, igniting life across the barren land.
[Awakening sequence for: AKP-11,003 initiated.]
The pod hissed as the water drained away. My eyes opened again, greeted by the sharp clarity of the world outside. Cold air bit at my damp skin, and the pod's door lifted with a mechanical whine. The assault of sensations—raw, unfamiliar—was overwhelming. How was I supposed to process it all?
Gripping the pod's edges, I pulled myself upright. The chilled metal stung my wet palms, and the tubes and wires connected to me snapped loose with ease. My head dipped forward, and a curtain of damp, light-grey hair fell over my eyes.
"What is..." I muttered, dazed.
"That's called 'hair,'" a voice interrupted, flat and disinterested.
I looked up to see a gaunt man with brown stubble and tired eyes. His malnourished frame gave him an air of lethargy, yet his expression remained sharp. "Your designers thought a more human appearance would improve functionality. It's not just for show—it's advanced tech that aids your processing speed. Don't damage it."
Pushing the strands aside, I met his gaze. A flicker of discomfort crossed his face as he looked at me, but he quickly masked it. "Get out of the pod and follow the yellow markings with the others, AKP-unit," he said before turning to his computer.
"Yes, sir." The words left my mouth instinctively, devoid of emotion. Why had I responded like that? And why did he speak only to me, ignoring the others in their pods?
Stepping out, water dripped from my body, pooling at my feet. I scanned the room. Nine others stood like me, each with the same light-grey hair. Four girls and five boys, all designed to resemble children of twelve or thirteen. They moved in eerie unison, following a yellow path toward a pair of sliding iron doors.
The cold floor shocked my bare feet as I joined the line, trailing behind them. Questions bubbled to the surface—*Who are these people? Why do half of us look so alike? Why aren't they asking anything?*—but before I could speak, the march ended, and the doors slid open.
We entered a vast hall, its walls lined with rows of children. Thousands of them, grouped by gender, their faces tight with unease. Their whispers buzzed faintly, like static.
"Hey, it's the artificials."
"Cyborgs..."
"Shh! One's looking this way!"
Wherever my gaze landed, the children flinched, quickly averting their eyes as if burned.
'Weak. Undisciplined. Unfit for combat. Low threat level.' The thoughts came unbidden, cold and analytical. '...Why did I think that?'
The line halted, and I nearly bumped into the boy ahead of me. We stood before a raised podium flanked by uniformed soldiers. Their badges gleamed under the harsh lights—a shield and a three-pointed star, symbols of rank. At the podium's base, higher-ranking officers stood silent, their presence commanding.
A man ascended the podium with heavy, deliberate steps. Broad-shouldered and grizzled, he placed a folder on the stand and adjusted the microphone. His badges gleamed brighter than the rest: five stars encircling a royal tiara.
"I am Major-General Tatelov," he began, his voice booming with authority. "I oversee your training to become knight pilots in service of Her Majesty, Empress Lucione Aina Trigrata the First, and her war against those who threaten our civilization."
His gaze swept the room, sharp and unyielding. "At this facility, there is no mercy. If you cannot keep up, you will die. If you do not strengthen, you will die. If you do not endure, you will die. That is the doctrine of the Nymphas Empire. The battlefield has no place for weakness or waste."
The weight of his words settled over the room like a crushing force, extinguishing any lingering hope among us.