A doctor watches over a group of nurses setting up the equipment for an emergency operation. The two terrified parents of the patient are sitting on a couch in the back of the room. The doctor looks at the egg:
I stare at the egg. Its energy levels are skyrocketing, shattering the physical limits for a hatchling. Hell, it's almost doubled them already. You really shouldn't be so damn greedy. For now, the egg shields you from the consequences of this energy overload. But the moment that shell cracks, so does your protection. We can only hope, in vain, that the energy levels will drop back to at least the physical limit, but I highly doubt that will happen. The energy levels are nearing the next tier, and the egg is practically vibrating with power at this point. This sort of raw talent, following closely after that similar incident three months ago—something fishy is definitely afoot.
I swivel around to face Hidas, who's now frozen solid, gawking at the egg with eyes practically bugging out of his skull. The palpable thrum of energy encircling him is almost nauseating. No doubt, he's racing through a thousand and one scenarios in that overactive brain of his, trying to figure out how to fix this mess. And, as always, he lands on the best course of action being to clutch the trembling Vilkas tighter, her face glued to his chest like she's trying to merge with him. Through the third eye, their helplessness and sheer despair hit me like a goddamn punch to the gut.
Why in the blazes does such a godforsaken ordeal have to rain down on these decent souls, who've done nothing but show an outcast like me—yes, me!—pure kindness? For dragonic folks, having a kid is already a one-in-a-million shot, not to mention the nightmare-inducing process that comes with it. I could easily name a hundred scumbags who deserve this hellish torture instead of them.
But I need to get my shit together. I pull my hair into a bun and turn to the aid on my left.
"Whatever you see inside that damn egg, do not stop going for the link, got it?" I lock eyes with the young Energy Manipulator. This smug bastard was looking down his nose at me just this morning, and now he can't tear his eyes away from the energy level monitor. Annoying, right? Raw, irritating talent.
"I will not stop going for the link, no matter what I see. Okay, doctor," he says, pulling himself together, fiery jealousy still burning in his eyes.
I turn to scrutinize the spells and machines surrounding the egg. The egg is like an impenetrable fortress around the child. We have no clue what type of energy this kid has, and we need to reel in the overloading core within its physical limits. Rarely does an eggling hit their core's limit, even among dragon folk, but it's more frequent for us than any other species. Such is the cursed fate of a magically endowed race.
"It's going critical!" a nurse yells.
"Get ready," I snap at the aid.
At first, only a minuscule crack appears. Then, a searing light shatters through the fissure, crashing into the protective barrier encasing the egg with a deafening zap. The initial burst sends a shockwave through the entire shield, a clear sign of a mighty blow. The child's energy is so overloaded that rays of it are leaking out of him?! This situation is bound to get hazardous. Soon, another crack forms, followed by yet another. With each new crack, the child's screams grow louder and more frantic. With the protective shell now compromised, I can feel the child's energy surging through my heightened perception – their thoughts and emotions lay bare. The child's mind is a chaotic storm of confusion and fear. Energy shoots out in every direction, warping the very space around us, creating distortions in the light that resemble floating shards of a broken mirror.
"It's a manipulator!" I bellow to the aide over the child's agonizing screams, and then to the nurses,
"Clear the damn shell!"
A nurse springs into action, manipulating the machinery and casting spells to dismantle the shell. At last, the child is visible. A frail newborn with ghostly white curls and a foreboding black oval third eye lodged in the center of its forehead curls up in a fetal position among the remains of the egg. A variant, undoubtedly. Another violent surge of energy bursts through its skin, the agonized cries tearing through the room as it uncurls and trembles.
"GO!" I yell, shoving myself past the barrier. Crouching next to the podium, I reach out to touch the child, feeling the aide rush in behind me. Focusing inward, I try to sense the child's energy through the contact. Once I find it, I envision my own inner space connecting and intertwining with the child's tumultuous energy.
In my mind, I envision a space, a vast, untamed wilderness. Nestled within this wilderness is my core: an intricate tapestry of shapes and patterns manifesting the very essence of my magic and consciousness. Beside it lies the aide's core: similar in its geometric symphony, yet inferior in its overall composition. Mine, undeniably grander and intricately complex, symbolizes the chasm between our magical prowess.
The presentation of these cores adheres to strict principles. Each geometry within the core must connect seamlessly. Energy can't meander through the geometry; thus, the core must have intentional gaps. The core's heart, the innermost sanctum, must be contained to prevent uncontrolled energy dispersion within its owner's body.
Then there's the child's core before us, shattering every rule in the book. Not a single piece connected to another, an array of isolated and absurdly warped geometry. Energy flowed uninhibited through the entire transparent mess, as if whispering a silent "screw you" to the laws of magic. The structure was a chaotic, stagnant dance, moving only in the mind's eye. At the center—a glaringly bright vortex of rampaging energy, outstripping both mine and the aide's combined. It sucked in everything hungrily, my own core included, pulling at my very essence.
I am dumbstruck. Lost for a solution. The longer I gawk at it, the less it makes sense. Even greater confusion radiates from my beleaguered aide. All I can do is stand there, time flowing differently in this ethereal realm, agonizing over the looming disaster: the impending self-destruction of my dearest friends' child.
The weight of everyone's stares presses upon me, the child's included. Sensing the odd one out, I lift my physical form just enough to peer over the podium I'm using as a cover, locking eyes with the child. Bleeding and slowly disintegrating, the child still trembling from pain had muffled their screaming to gaze at me with hauntingly beautiful, wise and certainly blind white eyes saw nothing. Still blinded by the first light of its life, those wild, pulsating pupils betrayed their disorientation by staring at him. Given this state and for the first time, they sensed our connection and knew precisely where I stood. I was paralyzed, just staring, as the link tightened, pulling my focus inward once more. The child's core had started to move, metamorphosing instantaneously, connecting, and solidifying, turning opaque. Within moments it reshaped itself, almost mirroring mine but significantly larger. This was staggering. Our energy types are leagues apart, yet they grasped my fundamental concepts and adapted seamlessly in mere seconds!
I coughed, a cocktail of confusion and relief. The overload had ceased. The room had noticed the child's silence, but before I could announce the good news, the aide decided to be a damned fool.
The aide observed that the child had deemed my core the more optimal model and thus mimicked it. Through my third eye, I sensed the aide's embarrassment, disgrace, and fury. Yet a professional should leave emotions at the door. But the aide, in their infinite idiocy, imposed his will upon the child's core, suggesting an "improvement." The core, under uncomfortable duress, shifted to match the aide's pitiful suggestion, swelling his misguided pride.
But then, a new emotion within the child: amusement, laced with burning anger.
The core shifts again, more deliberately this time. The child's contemplation was palpable. They were applying learned knowledge, albeit slowly yet still swift in physical time. The core now dwarfs mine, manifested as two pyramids tip to tip.
It was astonishing, the child's rapid learning mirrored one from months back. An uncanny resemblance in both ability and appearance set my thoughts racing. Something was definitely amiss.
Then, everything unraveled. The child forcibly imposed their will onto the aide's core, transforming his initial disappointment into terror. The aide was skilled in "proposals," leaving the actual reshaping to the core's owner. But the child wasn't proposing; they were dismantling and reshaping the aide's core to something more, shredding his fundamental concepts in the meantime. This couldn't be done. You can't force comprehension of a complex concept. The child, through sheer spite, fury, and ignorance, began to fracture the aide's very essence into the shape of a torus.
I severed my link abruptly, turning to the affrighted aide, still entrenched in core space. I pushed the young student away, breaking their bitter link. The aide collapsed, gasping, his hands clutching his chest, his core teetering on the edge of shock. I laid my hand on him, guiding his core back to safety with a protective, steadying force.
I stand up and turn to the two bewildered parents now hovering in front of the couch. Hidas clutches Vilkas, restraining her from bolting to her child. My mind reels, still grappling with the bizarre tableau I witnessed, but gradually, the implications of the child's actions piece together in my head. I swivel my gaze to the child, still sprawled amidst shards of the eggshell and their own blood. In a grotesque feat, the child shifts past the shattered shells to the edge of the podium to look down on the aid, collapsed but breathing on the floor.
Then, the child turns and locks eyes with me, blinking rapidly, sending a chill down my spine. Can you see me? A nod. It nodded. What in the world? Did it just acknowledge me? Did you answer my question? No. Could it be? The child then glances up at the mirror behind me and their blood-smeared face contorts into a wide grin, culminating in uncontrollable giggles. After taking out an adept Energy Manipulator and now drenched in blood, the sight is downright sinister.
Everyone in the room swings their gaze to the child. The only sounds are the child's eerie giggles and a man's panicked gasps for air.
"Healing! Hey, quickly! Heal the child!" I bellow at the stupefied nurses. They snap out of the trance the child had cast and scramble to operate the machines. A melodic chime echoes as the magic takes effect, staunching the bleeding and closing the wounds. Some scars will remain on the child's body. Core overload unravels the fundamental structure of the body, making restoration through most magical means impossible. An irrefutable consequence of breaching the magical limits of a physical body. A fact I am all too familiar with.
Finally, Vilkas and Hidas dash towards their child. Vilkas scoops the child up, clutching it to her chest. Hidas stands beside her, just as bewildered as I am. He turns to me, tears streaming down his face. Through the third eye, I can sense his relief mingled with fear. I shrug. We turn back to the child. Vilkas spins in place, emitting high-pitched murmurs between frantic breaths, while muffled giggles and immense joy radiate from the child in her arms.
This child is undoubtedly conscious and aware of others. Traits that manifest only in beings with the depth of living experience. Poor parents. Poor child. To be born into this twisted nest, this tribe with such a trait.
How utterly unfortunate.