The Siren's Rise Ch. 01 - Teaser (Patreon)

Dr. Kray’s cane tapped a steady rhythm against the polished synth-tile of the hospital corridor as he left yet another consultation room, MIRA’s silent steps close at his side. His eyes were clouded not with age, as his optic implants had corrected that long ago, but with disappointment. Another possible candidate and yet another dead end. The DNA printout he’d bribed from the attending physician still fluttered faintly in his hand like a mocking slip of parchment.

Too much homogeneity and too many genetic bottlenecks in the latest patient from the accident circuit. Another descendant of Europe’s once-monolithic stock, stripped of the diversity he needed. There were no branching sequences to exploit and no flexible code to reprogram. Nothing that could withstand the rebuild at any rate. He crumpled the sheet with a grunt of irritation and shoved it deep into his coat.

“Doctor,” MIRA said softly, her voice carrying the precision of engineered empathy. “Your heart rate has spiked, and prolonged frustration is detrimental to your health.”

He growled under his breath, a brittle rasp that betrayed his one hundred and forty years. “Allow me a moment, girl. Even an old man has earned that much.”

She inclined her head, accepting the rebuke, and for a few steps, silence stretched between them as they moved through the hospital’s atrium. Then the air shifted from cold and sterile to warm, fragrant and rich. Dr. Kray’s nostrils twitched, pulling in the unmistakable scent of roasted coffee beans and sugar-glazed pastries.

He slowed, his cane halting mid-step, and turned toward the glass-fronted café tucked neatly beside the lobby. A relic of an older time, its neon sign promised indulgence in half a dozen languages. His lips curved despite himself as his eyes ran over the shop that was built right into the hospital.

“It’s been long enough,” he murmured, eyes lingering on the steam curling up from a row of fresh cups. “Let’s see if they still know how to make a proper cup.”

MIRA said nothing as the doctor ambled over, stepping into line. She could have reminded him of cholesterol levels, blood pressure, and the dangers of sugar at his age, but she knew better. Little vices kept him tethered and a small rebellion against the endless tide of loss and disappointment was warranted. So she simply shadowed him into the café, positioning herself between his frail body and the room with the reflexive precision of a bodyguard.

The café was bright and bustling despite the relaxed hour. Nurses were on break, orderlies tapped at tablets, and a handful of patients savored the moments of normalcy. When Dr. Kray settled into a chair with his coffee and a delicate almond danish, it seemed as though the air itself softened around him.

He leaned back, closing his eyes as the first sip touched his tongue, and for an instant the bitter, rich taste pulled him back through decades. Back to mornings when he was still respected, still relevant, and dreaming of what humanity might become. MIRA tilted her head, watching him for a moment.

“Would you like to hear something pleasant while you enjoy this, Doctor?” the android asked. Walden Kray’s eyelids fluttered open and he smiled faintly at her.

“Yes. Please.”

A quiet click from her core processors, and then the air filled with a sound that didn’t belong to 2175 at all. Strings and harpsichord, swelling with Bach’s ordered complexity, then melting into the warmth of Mozart, and the subtle fire of Haydn. Notes from three centuries ago cascaded into the café like sunlight through an open window.

Conversations dimmed, and the barista froze mid-pour. Heads turned, curious, then softened as the music wrapped around them. Many of them had never heard such melodies before, as classical archives were rare, buried in forgotten servers or hoarded by the wealthy. For a few minutes, the hospital café wasn’t a place of fatigue and rushing shifts. It was a sanctuary.

Dr. Kray let it wash over him, eyes closed once more. He remembered his youth, excited when his first breakthroughs in neural mapping came through, and his colleagues gathered around glowing screens, filled with the sense of infinite possibility. He remembered mornings just like this: coffee, pastries, music, and the future unwritten. A sigh slipped from his lips, and the lines in his face softened.

When the piece tapered into silence, he opened his eyes again, clearer now, steadier. He broke off a piece of danish, chewed slowly, and sipped his coffee with deliberate calm.

“Thank you, MIRA,” he said at last.

“Of course, Doctor,” she replied soothingly. He drew a long breath and set the cup down. The melancholy was gone, replaced by the relentless focus that had defined his life.

“Enough indulgence. Somewhere out there, the subject exists. Male or female, it doesn’t matter. I will find them before my time is up,” he stated with conviction in his voice. Though his hand trembled faintly as it lifted the cup once more, his eyes were sharp again and there was steel under the fragility of old flesh.