The Extra's Rise

The seventh day of my visits to Luna brought an unexpected request from the child herself.

"Arthur," she said as I settled into my usual chair, "what are those colorful sticks the researchers use to mark their papers?"

I followed her gaze to where Dr. Vance had left his tablet on the monitoring station, complete with a set of digital styluses in various colors. "Those are pens for writing and drawing," I explained. "They make different colored marks."

Her dark eyes lit up with curiosity—an expression I was beginning to recognize and treasure. "Drawing? Like the pictures in the books you bring me?"

Of course. Luna had been surrounded by clinical white walls and sterile equipment her entire life. The concept of creating art, of making something beautiful just for the joy of it, was completely foreign to her.

"Would you like to try drawing?" I asked, already planning my next supply acquisition.

"Could I?" The hope in her voice was heartbreaking. "I promise I wouldn't break anything or make a mess."

'The fact that she has to promise not to make a mess when asking to draw... ' "Luna, making art sometimes involves making a little mess. That's part of the fun."

She looked at me with confusion, as if the concept of 'fun' requiring explanation. Which, given her upbringing, it probably did.

"I'll bring you some proper drawing supplies tomorrow," I promised. "Colored pencils, paper, maybe some markers. Would you like that?"

The smile that spread across her face was radiant. "Really? Just for me?"

"Just for you."

The next morning, I arrived with a small bag containing art supplies I'd convinced the facility's procurement office were "cognitive development materials." Colored pencils, sketch pads, erasers, and even a few basic how-to-draw books aimed at children.

Luna's reaction when I opened the bag was pure joy. She reached out tentatively to touch the colored pencils, as if afraid they might disappear.

"They're so pretty," she whispered. "All different colors."

"Pick one," I encouraged. "Any color you like."

She selected a bright yellow pencil, holding it carefully like it was made of glass. "What should I draw?"

"Anything you want. There are no rules when it comes to art."

No rules. I could see the concept struggling to take hold in her mind—Luna had lived her entire life surrounded by rules, protocols, and expectations. The idea that she could create something without guidelines was revolutionary.

She started with simple lines, marveling at how the yellow pencil left marks on the white paper. Then she added more colors—blue for what might have been sky, green for grass, red for what looked like flowers.

"Tell me about your picture," I said, settling back to watch her work.

"It's the garden from the book," she explained, adding more flowers with careful concentration. "But I made the butterflies bigger so you can see them better."

'She's drawing from memory.' The garden book I'd shown her days ago had clearly made a deep impression. But more than that, she was adapting it, making creative choices about what to emphasize.

"Who's this?" I asked, pointing to two stick figures she'd added near the flowers.

Luna blushed slightly. "That's you," she said, indicating the taller figure. "And that's me. We're looking at the butterflies together."

The simple drawing hit me harder than it should have. Two stick figures in a garden—one tall, one small—representing a bond that shouldn't exist but was growing stronger every day.

"It's beautiful," I said honestly. "You're very talented."

"Really?" She looked up at me with such earnest hope that my chest tightened. "Do you think I could draw more pictures? Maybe one for you to keep?"

She wants to give me a gift. This child who had never owned anything of her own wanted to create something to give away.

"I would treasure any picture you made for me," I assured her.

For the next hour, Luna drew with the focused intensity of someone discovering a new world. Simple shapes became flowers, houses, animals she'd only seen in books. Her technique was crude, but her imagination was vivid and pure.

"Arthur," she said as she worked on another drawing, "when people live in houses like this one"—she pointed to a crooked rectangle with a triangle roof—"do they draw pictures too?"

"Many of them do. Children especially love to draw and color."

"Children like me?"

'Children exactly like you.' "Yes, Luna. Children exactly like you."

She was quiet for a moment, adding windows to her house. "Do their grown-ups keep their pictures? Like you said you'd keep mine?"

"The best grown-ups do. They put them on refrigerators, or in frames, or keep them in special boxes to look at when they want to remember."

Luna's pencil stilled. "Remember what?"

"How much they love the child who made the picture."

She looked up at me with those too-knowing eyes. "Do you love me, Arthur?"

The question was so direct, so vulnerable, that it took my breath away. Here was a child who had never experienced love asking if she might be worthy of it.

"Yes," I said simply. "I do love you, Luna."

Tears formed in her eyes, but she was smiling. "I love you too. Is that okay?"

Is it okay for an engineered weapon to love the man planning to steal her away? "It's more than okay. It's wonderful."

She returned to her drawing with renewed enthusiasm, and I found myself studying her small hands as she worked. Hands that had been designed to wield terrible power, now carefully guiding colored pencils across paper to create simple beauty.

As our session ended, Luna carefully tore out her first drawing—the garden with two stick figures—and handed it to me.

"For you to remember," she said shyly.

I took the picture, noting how she'd written "LUNA" in careful letters at the bottom, along with a heart drawn in red pencil.

"I'll keep this forever," I promised, and meant it.

"Tomorrow can we draw animals?" she asked hopefully. "I want to learn how to draw cats. Do you think cats would like me?"

"I think cats would adore you. And yes, we can definitely draw animals tomorrow."

Walking back to our quarters, I looked down at the drawing in my hands. Two stick figures in a garden, labeled with a child's careful handwriting and decorated with a red heart.