CHAPTER 11
Wearing a proper labcoat was a luxury I hadn't expected to achieve in this world. I'd Imagined I'd have to scavenge one from whatever vault I'd encounter or cobbled something up myself. But here I was, in a white tailored lab coat, with more pocket space than I knew what to do with. Underneath, a loose black sweater, khaki slacks, and rubberized loafers completed the outfit. It was utilitarian, but comfortable. Too comfortable.
They were trying to make me feel welcome. Important. Probably so I'd leave behind as many notes as possible for them to crib off of without actually having to compensate me for.
The workspace I've been assigned wasn't something grand or enormous, but it was well equipped. As I entered the lights flickered on— a smooth cool white covering everything. The laboratory was clean, modular, and well-lit in that sterile,Everything gleamed with that Institute brand of perfectionism—clean, modular, quiet. I was more used to the brutalist reds and blacks of the Nation's labs, where everything had edges and nothing was ever just decorative.
Tables ringed the room in arcs, most of them already populated with diagnostic tools, surface assemblers, synth interface ports, and an actual functioning culture suite—basic, but functional. On the far side, a narrow fabrication stack with several add-on arms clearly jerry-rigged for non-standard tasks. A few of the tools were laughably outdated by my standards, but Beggars miles under the sea can't be choosers—not when stepping outside turns you into paste.
And then, the view: a wide, armored observation window that peered into the quiet abyss of the ocean's depths. Filtered blue light, faint drifting shapes. Occasionally something large and distant passed beyond the reach of the spotlights. A gentle reminder of the pressure just outside this ancient retrofitted facility.
I reached for one of the complimentary cigarettes they'd left for me in a sleek little silver tin. A peace offering, no doubt. Lighting it with a snap of my fingers—bioresonance amplified friction, parlor trick I remembered asking about from some of my colleagues, when I was still a head-blind little peon—I took a slow drag. Synthetically grown tobacco. Crisp. Not bad. And something else beneath it. A faint trace of mentats? Haven't tried those yet, can't tell. A quick burst of retrocognition confirms my hypothesis. Genetic cross-modification. Sneaky and Clever. Not bad.
North wall—observation slit. Tinted glass one way window. A way for Zhao or one of her proxies to watch me without actually stepping into the room. Charming. Giving it a little wink as I approach my workstation.
I'd bullshitted her pretty thoroughly earlier about how long it would take me to make their systems compatible with mine. Truth was, it wasn't hard—it was just annoying. I needed an ad-hoc attachment for my co-processor. Something that could function as both a secondary port and a translation layer. The Institute's operating language was dated but flexible—not unlike early pre-War machine code. Sloppy. Overwritten. But readable.
In layman's terms: I just needed to make an emulator. Something to run their OS and act as a real-time translator as it piped data into my implant. Hopefully she doesn't point that out and start bitching at me. (She will.)
It took me about four hours to piece it together, using the rather generous stockpile of materials they'd "limited" me to—which I made sure to appreciate, thoroughly. The result? A little clip-shaped device that wouldn't snap in half if you breathed on it too hard. Think of it like a Bluetooth USB. It slots in just above my co-processor, right below the ear. I plug it into a terminal, and boom—I can issue commands and transfer data from my implant like I'm right there.
Compared to what I had to deal with in Nachtsonne? What they call 'limited access' here is essentially a blank check in my books. Back then, we had to "share resources." Which was a polite way of saying juniors like me surrendered most of our allotment to the senior researchers... or faced consequences. Usually quiet, bureaucratic ones. Always career-ending. Usually ending with a one-way transfer to our neighboring facilities. Mines. Also on Leng.
Now, the device's secondary function: data transfer. Specifically, porting over the Replika OS and base programming for the mechanical systems I'll be building using the local materials. That gives me one half of what I need to recreate a functioning Replika: the hardware's data.
The other half? Still stored in my co-processor—thankfully preserved by whatever cosmic absurdity landed me in this world. Neural snapshots. Dozens of them. Bioresonant-capable minds, and nearly every Replika I've ever worked on or encountered, some of the data I possess is corrupted or incomplete due to the nature in which I obtained said snapshots. Once, those were just echoes. Useful for analysis, maybe—but inert.
That was before I became bioresonance-sensitive. Now, They're templates. Keys. I can overlay them atop a prepared organic mind to recreate the neural pattern I wish to use.
Creating a usable template will require me to essentially wipe the host—removing everything unnecessary from a 'volunteer'—and overlay the snapshots using my talents. Then, once stabilized, I'll pull a copy of the neural pattern from that overwritten mind into the freshly grown Replika's wetware.
It's a raw, unrefined method. Ugly, compared to proper imprinting. But necessity doesn't care about elegance. And the neural templates I actually need? Those are realities away.
…Funny. It reminds me of how the original gestalt template for LSTR units was lost. They had to fall back on existing units—using older LSTRs as the basis for new ones.
I rub my chin, the thought lingering.
A Synth might work for this. Something to consider.Thoughts for later.
Choosing which Replika I wanted to use as a basis for the proof of concept I'm about to showcase... I wanted to use the FKLR. Desperately.
Taking advantage of the excessive materials available while I still had access to this facility, but the snapshot I possess is incomplete. Fragmented. I only managed to obtain it during a brief visit to Hirsch's lab, catching a sliver of her work on one from the corner of my eye and committing it to storage on instinct.
My eyes furrow.
Hirsch…
That might work.
Technically—technically—I could splice the incomplete FKLR snapshot with the one I have of Hirsch herself. She oh-so-generously gave me a clean neural reading once, completely unaware, while enthusiastically rearranging half my designated lab's layout with applications of effortless telekinesis, all to fit her idea of "ideal positioning." Add in a little KLBR for the missing scaffolding and motor control…
It wouldn't be her. Not really.
But it would be close. And a part of me that finds it oh so cathartic to have some version of that sadistic, smug bitch under my thumb is getting louder.
My stomach growled seemingly butting in at the thought of something being louder than itself.
I glanced over at Elias—or whatever his real designation was—still standing sentinel by the door at Zhao's orders. The synth hadn't moved in hours. "Gonna go get some food in me, care to guide me?" Nothing, the dick.
The mess hall was as sterile as the labs, all polished surfaces and humming dispensers. I grabbed a tray and mug, filling the latter with a dark liquid that bore only a passing resemblance to coffee. The dispenser's menu offered various numbered pastes, each claiming to mimic some long-forgotten flavor.
I turned to my silent shadow. "Got any recommendations?" Nothing. Not even a twitch. "Right. Of course not."
"U-um..."
The voice came from my left. A junior researcher—red hair cut in a practical bob, freckles standing out against pale skin—hovered nearby. Her eyes kept darting to my Projektor nodes before she forced them away, only to drift back like magnets.
"I'd... I'd recommend Nutrient Paste 46," she stammered. "It's supposed to taste like... chicken? Apparently?"
The way she said it suggested she'd never tasted real chicken in her life. Even If half of me had only eaten it in heavily preserved ration form—and that was being generous with the definition, she's is really pitiable.
I narrowed my eyes slightly as I punched in the selection.
Is this their idea of a psyop? Send in a soft-spoken sad sack to tug at my sense of pity and loosen my tongue? Either that, or I'm just being paranoid.
With a wet plop, the paste landed in my tray—holding its semi-gelatinous shape even as I poked at it with a spork.
A quick, surface-level brush—nothing that she'd detect— against her mind confirmed it: no layered intent, no handlers feeding her lines through a covert earpiece. Just a curious, quietly miserable introvert with too much time and not enough stimulation.
I exhaled slowly through my nose. Gesturing for her to follow me to the table I've chosen.
She complies, if nervously, as I set the tray down and scoop up a sporkful and took a tentative bite. It had a texture somewhere between flan and regret. "Mmm. Poultry-adjacent."
She gave a small, nervous laugh, then seemed to instantly regret it.
"I'm Doctor Emil Vogt, by the way," I said, tone light. "Or do they not tell you the names of the weird consultants they drag in?"
"They said you were... 'Classified External Talent.'" She flushed. "I'm Kara. Junior Researcher, Biochem Division."
"Ah. The prestigious purveyors of meat-flavored paste."
"I don't—um—personally make it," she said, flustered, "but... yeah. That's us."
I tilted my head, studying her. "You always recommend nutrient paste to strangers, or is this a special occasion?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "You looked... lost."
I took another bite. Swallowed. "Well, yes. First time in your lovely mess hall, so technically I was lost. But seriously—the Institute can synthesize organics but they can't handle proper food science enough to make it actually appear somewhat appetizing, and not this.." Giving it another poke. "Slop?"
She looked like she wanted to sink into the floor.
And for some reason—maybe it was the texture, maybe it was the look on her face—I started giggling. Lightly at first. Just a breath of laughter under my breath.
I could feel Emil burning a hole into the back of my skull with his eyes, still standing at his post like a silent watchdog.
I didn't stop laughing.
Finally returning to my assigned Lab, I begin construction of the endo-skeleton frame of the would be Replika.
Once the emulator clip was slotted in and the FLKR-esque schematics were uploading,— I'd have to look up at it, still worth it— the rest moved fast—faster than I expected. Something about working with my hands again, surrounded by half-decent tools, brought out a rhythm I hadn't felt in years. Maybe decades, depending on how you count cross-dimensional drift.
The skeletal frame came first. Ti-7Al-4Mo alloy. Lightweight, pressure-resistant, beautifully overkill. I routed it through the fabrication stack's add-on arms, then tuned the parameters manually.
The hum of the printer filled the room. Articulated spinal segments extruded in seamless loops. Shoulder ball joints. Servo-coupled elbows. Precision anchor points for synthetic musculature. I only half-watched as each piece took shape—already on the next task in my mind.
The torso was laid out across a magnetic cradle within the hour. Ribs, reinforced. Sternum, removable. Modular connector hub where the heart should've been.
Then came the arms. FLKR-standard: long, elegant, made for leverage and precision. Finger joints fine enough to thread wire, strong enough to crush reinforced glass. I modified them slightly—just enough for flair.
No legs. Not yet.
The head was next, partially modeled from the Hirsch snapshot. Sleek cranial architecture. Backward-angled audio receptors. Extra reinforcement around the skull base for resonance feedback shielding. I caught myself holding my breath as the facial mounting plate formed—blank, unreadable, almost serene.
I left it featureless. For now.
Internal components followed—cooling arrays, sub-dermal sensors, a scaffold of interface nodes. I routed the neurobus cabling by hand. Like threading a nervous system through bone. Redundant memory cores slotted into the spinal mounts with a satisfying click. Still inert. Still waiting.
By the time I sealed the skeletal frame, the lab stank of ozone and stress sweat. I stared at the assembled parts.
By now, the endoskeleton was more than a frame—it was a body in the making. The spine housed the primary resonance conduit, sheathed in insulated threading to keep interference from disrupting signal loops. One by one, I began slotting in the internal systems.
The oxidant flow system was first. Clear polymer tubing fed into micro-regulators and pressure valves, routing artificial oxygen analogues to where they'd be processed—mostly redundant, but vital for simulating respiration feedback. It threaded from the torso's intake ports, down through the arms and up into the skull housing. I snapped the lines into place with a satisfying click.
Then the biooxidizer units—compact lung-analog modules. I mounted them into the thoracic cavity with a bit of elbow grease and gel-sealant. These weren't true lungs, of course. Just chemical processors designed to break down oxidant input and route the necessary electrochemical conversions back into the main circulatory channels.
The biowaste system came next. Compact, minimalist. A closed-loop fluid filtration rig tucked behind the abdominal cavity plating. Waste would be filtered, broken down, and reconstituted into energy when possible—or excreted through discreet valves if needed. Not elegant. But efficient.
Beneath all that, nestled near the lower spine, I mounted the bioreactor. Heart and stomach in one, it pulsed faintly as it powered up on test mode—circulating synthetic oxidant and churning low-grade biomass into usable energy. I calibrated it with a few cautious pokes at the interface panel. Stable. So far.
Once the systems were wired into the internal matrix and the auxiliary sensors synced, I paused to examine the whole chassis.
It was skeletal and raw. But the way the structure caught the lab lights—filaments glowing faintly within the ribbed torso, tubes pulsing like veins—it had a kind of brutal beauty. Not alive, not yet. But close.
I moved to install the protective gel cushion overlays—thin, clear layers that covered joint nodes, high-stress connectors, and mounting sockets. These would reduce kinetic trauma during sudden movement or impacts. An almost tender touch.
The frame was complete. Bones of titanium alloy and impulse-trace memory wire, joints locked down with high-torque servos calibrated to FLKR tolerances. It stood there on the cradle, head bowed, arms slack. Waiting.
Time for the organics and limbs.
I didn't bother with an armored torso shell. Not worth the effort, not with what they gave me. I'd have needed a proper polymer press.. What I had was a makeshift organics lab and a stack of smart scaffolds that smelled faintly like recycled nutrient paste.
So the torso would remain almost entirely organic. Grown, not built. Riddled with interface ports, pressure sensors, and a makeshift resonance buffer webbing stitched straight into her nervous substrate. Still stronger than most synths, still more precise than a human body. But soft. Vulnerable. Alive.
The limbs were a different story.
For those, I cheated. A custom composite—stitched together from leftover industrial elastomers, reconstituted silicone sheeting, and a proprietary flex-weave the Institute used in its high-pressure environment suits. I dubbed it Siloxite-C. Not elegant, but it held together under strain, handled extreme temperature shifts, and still had enough give to allow full tactile feedback through the dermal mesh beneath.
It even looked clean— black Siloxcite-C encompassing the limbs, over the synthetic muscle. Gleaming under the lab lights.
I heat-bonded the sheaths onto the armature segments by hand, layer by layer. It was tedious. Intimate.
The legs were worst—long and inhuman, graceful and wrong in all the right ways. Their shape was designed for movement no person could mimic: bounding strides, impossible pivots, silent balance on impossibly narrow stabilizer feet. The Siloxite stretched taut over the joints like skin, but cleaner. Less fallible.
By the time the limbs were fully attached and the torso scaffold submerged in the growth tank, I looked like I'd been through a med school final exam and a forge shift back to back. My gloves were coated with biomass. My neck ached.
Still.
It looked like something. Not someone yet—but something close.
"Almost there," I murmured, watching the 'skin' form over the torso.
For the last portion—the brain—the mechanical components were already installed alongside a Projektor-equivalent: my own patchwork rig of emitter filaments, sub-cranial induction coils, and an array plate cobbled together from repurposed Courser hardware. A poor man's imitation of an AEON-grade interface node, but good enough to scrape signal from the edge of resonance.
The organic brain was still forming—slick with growth medium, its neural lattice slowly weaving itself into the scaffold. I didn't need it finished. It just had to be developed enough to catch the imprint I was about to pour in.
Thankfully, I'd managed to convince Zhao to hand over a blank-slate Gen-3 synth as the neural platform. Not ideal, but better than using some poor bastard from the Wasteland. They came preloaded with trauma, dogma, or both. If the Institute truly wanted to see this through, they could've offered one of their own. They didn't.
So I took the synth. Stripped it to root code. Ripped out its firmware, gutted its personality matrix, wiped its memory lattice clean—left only programmable substrate behind. A body without a mind. A vessel.
The imprint was just a fragment. A ghost. Sourced from Hirsch's snapshot, along with the incomplete FLKR, and bits of KLBR—sanitized, reduced, and filtered through a resonance key I'd embedded into the Projektor's control node. I was careful. Very careful. There would be no echoes that could be traced, no memory that could come loose and crawl screaming back into consciousness.
When the transfer was done—when the pattern locked—I'd wipe everything. The synth, the interface, the schematics. FLKR units were never meant to be rebuilt or tampered with like this. Gen-6 Replikas were apex command constructs, prototypes balanced on the knife's edge between machine and myth. They bore the image of the Great Revolutionary—tall, impassive, 'divine'. And because of that, they became more than soldiers. They became symbols. Belief systems in black coats. Orders carved into bone.
No one here would understand what I'd done. Not truly. The purge protocol was already queued to trip the second the imprint finalized. Drives scrubbed. Backups loop-trashed. Physical schematics flushed into oblivion.
They'd have footage, sure—whoever was watching me from the observation window. But it wouldn't be enough. I'll be generous, leave behind the schematics for KLBRs and EULEs. Let them chase shadows. They might be able to coax some function out of a synth-EULE hybrid, but it'd be lifeless. Hollow. No Bioresonance to speak of.
I wasn't about to hand the Institute the blueprint for a demigod.
The Projektor hummed low and steady, its resonance harmonics climbing like a heartbeat. Subvocal clicks rippled across the lab walls as I adjusted the feed regulators, keeping the waveform stable. I've done my part, everything should just be letting the pattern settle, and for the flesh and epidermis to finish forming over the torso and face plate.
My hands drifted to the control panel—then stopped. Not from hesitation.
From exhaustion.
My spine gave out first.
One moment I was upright, fingers dancing across the console's fading glow—the next, the world tilted on its axis. My knees buckled like rusted scaffolding. I barely caught myself on the office chair's armrest before collapsing into it, my vision swimming with static.
Fifty hours. Fifty goddamn hours without rest, without relief. Thinking back on the last time i'd slept was at the Children's Lighthouse, the mentat-cigarette burns between my fingers long gone cold. My final conscious thought was of Elias, still standing sentinel in the corner, unmoving as a statue. Had he even blinked?
Consciousness returned in waves. First the ache—neck stiff as welded steel, back screaming from hours hunched over consoles. Then the taste—copper and coolant, my mouth a desert of neglect. Finally, the light—the lab's night-cycle illumination painting everything in submarine blues.
My Projektor was silent.
My breath caught.
I stood—too fast. Vertigo slapped me sideways, and I caught the edge of the synth housing to steady myself. My joints popped. My muscles screamed. I blinked away the gunk crusted in the corners of my eyes.
Elias' rifle clicked as he tightened his grip.
And there she was.
Still. Upright. Unshackled from the nutrient tubing. Her skull was sealed. Hair slicked back, drying in the filtered air. Her eyes—dark, unreadable—locked onto mine the moment I moved. unshackled, upright, awake. Nutrient tubes dangled from her chassis like shed snakeskin. Dark eyes tracked my every movement with predatory focus. Not just active—observing. Calculating.
She was already awake.
Not idle. Not booting. Awake.
She wasn't as tall as the full Falke template, but built with the same bearing. The same presence. She wasn't Hirsch, but her posture had that tilt of the head, that split-second delay before speaking—as if parsing not just what you said, but what you meant behind it.
Her expression was unreadable. Still forming, maybe. Or maybe she just didn't need to show anything.
I looked down at the console. Imprint complete. Transfer successful. No errors.
"FKSR" I rasped, the designation forming on my tongue.
The purge had already started—drives ticking down line by line, code devouring itself in silence.
Falksir took a step forward. No hesitation. Perfect balance. No creaking servos, no start-up twitch.
"Good morning, Doctor Vogt," she said. Her voice was calm. Neutral. Hirsch's cadence, filtered through something colder. More focused. "Your work is... adequate."
The console behind me beeped weakly. Data purging protocols I'd programmed at 87%. Schematics dissolving into digital ashes.
She took a step forward. No startup calibration. No joint stiffness. Just perfect, terrifying grace.
I became acutely aware of three things:
1: The exit was blocked (Elias)
2: My muscles had turned to wet paper
3: She was between me and all sharp objects
Her lips quirked—not a smile, but the shadow of one. "Shall we discuss my operational parameters?"
Somewhere beneath the fatigue, a spark of pride flickered. She was magnificent.
And I might have just made the worst mistake of my life.
A.N: Her name's meaning : FKSR (Führungskommando-Sekretär-Replika) Her avian both the: secretary bird (Sagittarius serpentarius) and the FLKRs Falcon.