Synthetic

Chapter 1

TW // Dead bodies

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Every evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, and the moon bathed the tides, the lights of Zaun flickered to life, street after street, like flicking on a circuit board. The neon colors were endless, illuminating the streets in a way that presented life .

Viktor wasn't an exception, right hand fumbling to turn on his desk lamp as the natural sunlight crawled from the window sill. The golden light illuminated the workstation, harsh shadows falling across the molding littering the room. Wires and tubing sat in boxes, once organized, now scattered from the man rummaging through them, checking if he had a specific piece. Vials upon vials of chemicals sat poised and dusty on a shelf, just waiting for their time to be uncapped and used.

And now was the time.

Viktor's hands trembled as he finished the last alterations on the paper in front of him. Everything mapped perfectly, the numbers double and triple-checked. His back ached from sitting in his chair, the curve digging into his hips. And he had a migraine from straining his eyes. But it was worth it. All of it.

You were perfect.

You would be perfect.

The world was lost on Viktor when he worked, wholly encompassed in reworking and welding, stitching you together. The human form had its flaws, yes, Viktor knew this better than most people. Even after the... circumstances, when Viktor could move his leg without pain, and his right hand no longer trembled, he could still feel the bones of his spine crushing against one another. He could still feel the piercing in his lungs. He was still in pain.

So he'd make you better. The metal wouldn't rust, and the wires wouldn't cross. You'd never break a bone, and you could breathe no matter the quality of air, completely unmitigated and free. You'd feel, at least logistically- he needed you to feel.

And soft.

You'd be soft.

Viktor moved to the floor as he built you, splaying out your parts to map out where everything would go, to weld and build fluidly. Perfect. He started on your head. Heimerdinger once told him that the brain and the heart made up the soul. Viktor wasn't sure he believed in souls; they had no scientific backing, and had never been observed, but if they were real, he'd like you to have one. So after he finished your head, he moved onto your heart, pouring his own into it.

His hands nearly bled making it- the tiny, intricate crevices snagging at his nails and the delicate skin of his wrists- but when he finished he could imagine it beating. Steady and according to design inside your chest. Viktor set it inside a cushioned box for safekeeping, the lock clicking softly into place, his mother's jewelry box now homing something precious once again.

The torso was next, the polymer vertebrae divoting under Viktor's fingers as they aligned, synthetic disks squeezing between the pieces, stitching it together, secure. Miniscule tubing ran through the planes like vines, tapped into skeletal muscle, winding through the ribs and down into the pelvis and radiating up into the arms.

Symmetry was an intrinsic value of the arms and legs, proportional to everything in a perfect case of the human form. Feet the size of the forearm, calves and ankles the size of the upper leg. The femur fits four times into your height, the head seven, and your hands the size of your face. The waist, twice the size of the neck, and the neck twice the size of the wrists.

The form, when stretched, creates a circle.

Perfect. You'd be perfect.

Days passed, and even as the sun rose and set, the lamp on Viktor's desk never switched off, the bulb illuminating the man and his work, signalling to the outside world of life inside the house on Emberflit Alley.