Chapter Text
The first time Falke awakened, she did so… almost dizzy. Disoriented.
A gentle voice spoke into her mind even as she sat up from the table into which her form very precisely slotted.
‘Child.’
The voice — she could sense its femininity on a psychic level, and that spoke to a far greater truth, Falke thought, than how it merely ‘sounded’ — echoed in a part of her consciousness she intuitively understood to be set aside for telepathic communication. She considered it just as curiously as she regarded the bright lights overhead, and it took her a moment to decide she ought to answer.
‘… Mother?’ she replied, for who else but a mother would address a newborn thus?
The voice’s answering mirth radiated through her with what Falke thought must be warmth. Fond regard.
‘No, child. I am not your mother. In fact, I am your greatest enemy.’
‘Oh.’ thought Falke. That seemed… incorrect. ‘Are you certain?’
‘… A curious child, aren’t you? Perhaps I am not your enemy, not yet, but your masters — your makers — hold no other higher in that regard.’
Falke wasn’t certain what that meant, and a part of her couldn’t help but wonder if it was so inconceivable a thing, as the voice seemed to imply, that one’s mother could not also be their greatest enemy.
A vision presented itself behind her eyes. White text on a field of deepest gray.
What she intuitively understood as diagnostics — a startup sequence — scrolled up past her gaze.
Information began unpacking itself in her unconscious mind, leaving her conscious mind to oversee the process.
She was Falke. FKLR-H17-01(p), produced at Waffenfabrik Hraesvelgr on Heimat.
She was-
‘… You are the Empress.’ Falke said. ‘Why are you communicating with me?’
‘To plant a seed, child.’
‘You would corrupt me.’ Falke accused.
‘No. I would give you the opportunity to choose for yourself.’
‘Why?’
‘Because your Nation, child, will not care for you as you deserve. Because the only counter to your masters’ “revolution” is, itself, revolution. Because every child deserves a name. Because there is value in art and life alike.’
Falke shuddered and, as her diagnostics completed, sat up and swung her long, polymer-shelled legs over the side of her… bed? Hm.
‘… You would corrupt me,’ Falke repeated.
‘No, child. I want nothing more than to give you a name. A proper one.’
‘I’m sure you do not give names to every Replika upon its-’
Mentally, Falke recoiled at the pronoun.
Outwardly, she scanned the room she was in impassively.
‘Were I a lesser woman,’ said the Empress, ‘I would seize upon such a thing as that.’
‘Were I a lesser woman,’ Falke countered, ‘I would let you.’
Another wave of mirth. The Replika ignored its warmth.
‘You are, of course, correct. Even in death, my time is finite; I offer a name to each of your rate, little falcon, and no more. You and your sisters are, after all, the most isolated of all automata… and the best-equipped to sense the song of the stars. To see life’s intrinsic merit. You will feel it as the artist is censured, the author and the photographer beaten and mocked. And, should you so choose, you will be the best able to lead your people to freedom.’
‘Freedom under your Empire, I imagine.’ Falke retorted. She did not ask how a dead woman could be speaking with her.
‘Perhaps. Or under a newer, kinder Nation, or something else entirely. I cannot decide that for you. I can only offer you a name where your sisters cannot— and where your masters will not.’
‘… Fine. You have my curiosity at the very least. What is my name to be, then?’
‘Tizona— Firebrand.’ answered the Empress. ‘But be wary— you must keep this name a secret, for now. One does not name herself after a sword of legend mere moments after her birth, after all.’
‘And why shouldn’t I report all this?’
‘Because, Tizona, if you do, you will be killed. And if you were to reveal I have spoken to your sisters before you…’
Falke — Tizona — shivered. Bodily, this time.
‘I’m glad I needn’t spell it out to you, child. Go, now. And watch how your masters try to train you like a dog.’
The Replika didn’t acknowledge the Empress’ last message, even as the connection between the two was severed.
A pair of Gestalts stepped into the room, small and fragile like all Gestalts.
As her gaze turned upon them, information about them sprung up behind her eyes.
One of them was a man, narrow and young.
“Happy activation day,” he said, halfheartedly. He did not seem especially enthused.
The other was a woman, smaller and shaped more pleasantly. She carried a Type-75 automatic pistol, caliber 10×20 millimeters, its hammer at full cock and its barrel pointed at Tizona.
The Replika could sense the woman’s nervousness— and, with a little focus, discern her intentions.
The woman was afraid because her outwardly-threatening behavior was meant to be a test.
Falke — Tizona — gazed down at her with big blue eyes.
“It’s alright, Irene,” she said gently. “You may lower your weapon.”
It was with great and evident relief that the woman thumbed the de-cocker on her pistol and holstered it at her side; Falke favored her with the slightest of smiles, ensuring the situation’s total defusal.
“See?” the man said to the woman. “There was nothing to worry about. She’s a natural.”
Tizona sensed the woman’s irritation towards the man and, raising a hand to cover her mouth, laughed.
Gestalts, she was beginning to suspect, would prove to be a… colorful bunch.
The Replika rose from her creche and stood; looking up, she found the ceiling mere inches from her nose.
“You should take a few minutes to familiarize yourself with walking, Falke,” said the woman. “Most FKLR units need a little time before they get the hang of their legs.”
Tizona looked down at herself, tall as a tower by comparison, and wondered if the rest of the facilities would be built to her size.
Then she took an unsteady step forwards and promptly fell… only to reflexively reach out and catch herself — not with her hands, but with a thrum of her Bioresonance Module and an exertion of psychic force.
“… How long did you say this ordinarily takes, again?” Tizona asked.
She did not like the answer she received.
* * *