The Extra's Rise

The next morning brought disturbing revelations wrapped in bureaucratic language and clinical terminology. I'd requested access to the complete project files, exercising my Cardinal authority to override standard security protocols. What I found in those classified documents made my blood run cold.

"Cordelia," I said quietly, sliding a particular file across our temporary office table. "Look at Section Seven."

She opened the folder and began reading, her face growing progressively paler as she absorbed the contents. "Termination Protocol Theta," she read aloud. "To be implemented in the event of project compromise, external security threats, or subject psychological deterioration."

There it was. The confirmation of what I'd suspected from the moment I'd seen how tightly controlled this facility was. Subject Zero wasn't just a valuable asset—she was a potential liability that could be eliminated the moment she became inconvenient.

"Psychological deterioration," Reika repeated, her voice tight with controlled anger. "They have execution authorization if she shows too much independent thinking."

I leaned back in my chair, processing the implications. My initial instinct when Cardinal Akasha had been absent was to simply walk out with the child, using my authority to override any objections. But if I'd acted on that impulse, we would have triggered the termination protocol within hours. The moment security realized she was gone, they would have activated tracking systems, pursuit teams, and ultimately the failsafe that would kill her rather than allow her to fall into enemy hands.

"The neural implants," I said, pointing to another section of the file. "They're not just for power regulation. They contain explosive compounds."

"They can kill her remotely," Reika breathed. "Arthur—Matthias—this changes everything. We can't just extract her. The moment they realize she's missing..."

"She dies instantly," I finished. "Which means we need a different approach."

Think. The termination protocol was designed to prevent exactly what we were trying to accomplish. But every system had weaknesses, and every protocol had loopholes. I just had to find them.

A soft chime from the facility's communication system interrupted my planning. "Cardinal Matthias," came Sereth's voice through the speaker. "We've received a priority transmission from Vatican Sanctum. Cardinal Akasha will be returning ahead of schedule. He'll arrive in five days rather than the originally planned two weeks."

Shit. That compressed our timeline dramatically. Whatever we were going to do, we had less than a week to accomplish it.

"Acknowledged," I replied. "Continue normal operations until her arrival."

After the communication ended, Reika fixed me with a questioning look. "What does this mean for our plans?"

"It means we need to accelerate everything." I stood and began pacing, my mind racing through possibilities. "But it also might present an opportunity. Akasha's early return suggests something has changed at the higher levels. Maybe enough chaos to provide cover for what we need to do."

"What exactly do we need to do?"

That was the question, wasn't it? Traditional extraction was impossible due to the termination protocol. Fighting our way out would trigger the same failsafe. And we couldn't simply destroy the facility—that would definitely result in the child's death.

"We need to disable the termination protocol first," I said slowly, the plan beginning to form. "Then we need to find a way to remove the neural implants safely. Only then can we consider extraction."

"And how do we accomplish any of that?"

"By making ourselves indispensable to the project. If they believe we're valuable enough, they'll share more information. Trust us with more access." I stopped pacing and looked directly at her. "We need to convince them that we want to expand the program."

Reika's eyes widened with understanding. "You want to propose creating more children like her."

"More weapons," I corrected grimly. "That's how they see her, so that's how we need to present our interest. Cardinal Matthias and Bishop Cordelia, impressed by the project's success and eager to establish similar programs in other regions. Of course, they know this is only possible because of the special material Cardinal Akasha got, but we can suggest creating weaker versions of her."

It was a horrific plan. Playing into their ambitions, encouraging their monstrous research, all while secretly working to save the one victim we'd already found. But it was the only approach that might give us the access we needed.

"I hate this," Reika said quietly.

"So do I. But it's the only way."

An hour later, I was back in Subject Zero's containment chamber, but this time I carried a small bag that I'd acquired from the facility's supply stores. The child looked up when I entered, and I was gratified to see that the wariness in her expression had lessened slightly.

"Hello again," I said, settling into the same chair as yesterday. "I brought you something."

Her dark eyes fixed on the bag with curiosity, but she made no move to reach for it. Still too well-trained to show desire.

"It's not a test," I assured her. "It's just a gift."

"I don't get gifts," she said matter-of-factly. "I get rewards for good performance, but only if I earn them."

'Every word out of her mouth breaks my heart a little more.' "Well, this is different. This is just because I thought you might enjoy it."

I opened the bag and withdrew a small stuffed animal—a butterfly with soft purple wings and a friendly embroidered face. It wasn't much, but it was the closest thing to an actual butterfly that the facility's limited supplies could provide.

The child's reaction was immediate and heartbreaking. Her eyes went wide, and her hand moved toward the toy before she caught herself and pulled back.

"I can't," she whispered. "Personal possessions are discouraged. They create emotional attachments that compromise operational effectiveness."

They won't even let her have a stuffed animal. "What if it wasn't a personal possession? What if it was... educational material?"

She tilted her head, confusion replacing fear. "Educational how?"

"Well, you're studying pattern recognition, right? And strategic thinking?" I held up the butterfly, examining its embroidered details. "This could help you understand wing patterns, color distributions, symmetrical design principles..."

For the first time since I'd met her, she almost smiled. "That's not really what it's for."

"Isn't it? How can you be sure unless you study it carefully?"

Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out and touched one of the soft wings. The moment her fingers made contact, her carefully maintained composure cracked completely. She pulled the butterfly against her chest and held it tight, tears streaming down her face.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I'll be good. I promise I'll be really good."

'She thinks she has to earn kindness.' The realization hit me like a physical blow. This child had been so systematically deprived of basic human affection that she interpreted any gesture of kindness as something she had to repay.

"You don't have to be good," I said gently. "You don't have to earn this. It's yours because you exist, not because of anything you've done or might do."

She looked at me with confusion, as if I'd spoken in a foreign language. "But if I'm not good, you'll take it away."

"No. I won't. Even if you're bad—which I don't think is possible—the butterfly is still yours."

We sat in comfortable silence while she explored her new possession, her small fingers tracing the embroidered patterns with wonder. Finally, she spoke again.

"What's your real name?"

The question caught me completely off guard. "What do you mean?"

"Everyone here calls you Cardinal Matthias, but that's not your real name. I can tell." She hugged the butterfly closer. "You don't feel like the other Cardinals. You feel... different."

Perceptive child. "What makes you say that?"

"The way you look at me. Like I'm a person instead of a thing." She met my eyes directly. "So what's your real name?"

I considered my options. Revealing my true identity would be dangerous, but continuing to lie to her felt wrong after the promise I'd made yesterday. Then I found a middle ground.

"Arthur," I said quietly. "My real name is Arthur."

"Arthur," she repeated, testing the sound. "I like that better than Matthias."

"What about you? Do you have a name besides Subject Zero?"

Her expression grew sad. "They never gave me one. Numbers are more efficient than names."

That's going to change. "Would you like one?"

"I'm not supposed to want things," she said automatically, but I could see the longing in her eyes.

"Everyone deserves a name," I said firmly. "Even weapons. Especially weapons."

She was quiet for a long moment, clutching her butterfly toy. "Could I... could I think about it?"

"Of course. Take all the time you need."

As I prepared to leave, she called out softly. "Arthur?"

"Yes?"

"Will you come back tomorrow?"

"I promise."

Walking back to our quarters, I reflected on the morning's revelations. The termination protocol had confirmed that simple extraction was impossible, but my conversation with the child had revealed something equally important: she was starting to trust me. That trust would be essential for whatever came next.