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It was an utterly mundane, utilitarian-looking box of a building. A flat, featureless stone exterior, inset doors forged of sturdy metal, no windows to speak of. For all the world it looked like your average warehouse, but if Philza’s information was correct – and he had no reason to doubt it, as messed up as the whole thing was – the building was anything but average.
The legendary avian folded his wings and glanced around surreptitiously. His murder was uncharacteristically quiet, though he could spot countless of the familiar black shapes perched on surrounding roofs and in nearby trees. Silent and waiting. They hadn’t been happy to learn they couldn’t follow him inside, but the underground was no place for birds.
Phil didn’t much want to go himself either, but he had to see the truth. And the crows were out here, with instructions to fetch backup should he not return within a set time.
Phil was lucky to have a friend on call he could fully believe could bust him out of a secret bunker, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to the Blood God having to come in after him. This was supposed to be a peaceful infiltration, after all.
He was only here for information.
A deep breath, and the Angel drew himself up to his full height, chin up and suddenly oozing easy confidence touched with a hint of annoyance, his hand reaching for the button of what had to be a door radio which buzzed to life.
“What... who is this?” The voice coming from the speaker seemed young and alarmed – most likely a junior scientist made to play doorman. A common thing in places like this, and a perfect in for Phil.
“Philza Minecraft. I’m here for the tour. I was led to believe someone was supposed to be meeting me out here.”
The voice responded with what sounded to Phil like muffled cursing.
“I– we don’t– nobody’s told me anything about–”
“Look, mate.” Phil interrupted the flustered doorman before he could pull himself together. Best to keep him off balance. People were eager to shunt unexpected issues up the command chain when cornered. “How well or badly your internal communications work isn’t my business, but I’ve been here for a little bit already, and I doubt you want to be the one who ends up having to explain why I’ve been spotted here by the public.”
“H-have you...”
“Not yet, but the longer this takes the more likely it gets. This place isn’t exactly isolated.”
“R-right, Mr Minecraft, sir. I’ll just...” The voice trailed off, and after a few moments of silence the doors beeped, clicked, and swung open on silent hinges.
Easy as pie.
As Phil had suspected, the inside of the building was still almost as much a façade as the outside. There was a security checkpoint and from what he could tell peering around while the young scientist – and wasn’t it satisfying to have his thoughts on who was minding the door confirmed accurate – made increasingly frantic internal calls with his communicator, a selection of locker rooms and empty offices. The Angel wasn’t particularly worried that his cover would be blown just yet, as there was currently no working outbound line, and the murder had been causing minor outages of similar nature for a couple of weeks in preparation. Long enough for the place to have gotten used to them, but not yet had them fixed.
In a handful of minutes, a pair of obviously senior scientists hurried in, trying and failing to entirely hide how flustered they were by the presence of the Angel of Death himself. Phil may not have been very fond of his reputation, but at times like this it sure came in handy.
“Welcome, welcome! Our deepest apologies for the unprofessional reception, Mr Minecraft. There have been lapses in outward communications since last month’s thunderstorm, and—”
Phil raised a hand to silence the scientist. He could recognise the type. A nervous talker – best to get him rambling about whatever was getting done in here rather than excuses.
“I’m not here to listen to apologies, mate. I’m on a schedule.”
“Ah, of course, of course! A full tour, yes? Follow us, please.”
The senior scientists waved off the rather relieved-looking junior one, and started guiding Phil deeper into the complex and to a distinctly secure looking elevator. One busied himself with the code lock and card reader beside the doors while the other launched into what seemed to be a well-rehearsed pitch. Rather odd, considering this wasn’t actually an official visit, but then again, Phil was banking on these people being so desperate for his approval of their little project that they wouldn’t question whether the people in charge actually had recruited him.
As if he’d ever accept being subjected to science experiments without his knowledge let alone consent.
“...and of course, there are difficulties in working with preserved plasma and naturally fallen feathers, as we quickly learned early on in the Project. We will be delighted if you decide our cause worthy, as fresh material is increasingly difficult to come by these days, and we’re at the cusp of a breakthrough.” The scientist’s voice filled the elevator, droning but excited, like holding a lecture on his favourite subject. It was disturbing, to be honest, but Phil needed to know how far their twisted experiments had gone, and what they’d gleaned from his blood.
If they’d managed somehow to replicate his magic. If they’d uncovered his origin. At least the reactions to his presence confirmed that this wasn’t about devising something to kill him.
“A breakthrough?” Dark wings shifted minutely against Phil’s back as the elevator finally stopped, deep underground by the feel of it, and the true facility opened before him. Sterile quartz walls, tiled floors, the tell-tale scent of obsidian in the air all but buried beneath the sharp tang of disinfectant. It smelled like an underground bunker and a hospital wrapped into one. Quiet beeps and the whirr of intricate machinery wove a kind of white background noise, the place almost unpleasantly high in tech.
What were they doing that made the place feel like a hospital?
“Yes! There is so much yet to learn, but realising we couldn’t use gene technology based on mundane Avian physiology enabled us to originally embark on the correct path.” The scientist’s eyes shone with excitement and enthusiasm, his quieter partner beaming silently as he guided them down spacious corridors. “With what we do here, in the long run we may even be able to entirely revive your species!”
What.
Oh, Prime. They knew what he was. Or at the very least that he was a practically extinct type of hybrid. And they were planning to... sweet Ender, this may be even worse than he’d thought. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, to destroy what they had and ensure this could never be done again, but Phil pushed the rising bile down and smiled politely.
“That’s quite a claim there.”
“Oh, but not unfounded! We could take you through the minutiae and the nitty-gritty of the processes, but I believe the best way to convince you of the worthiness of our goal is to take you right to the heart of things.”
“Voker, are you sure it’s—” the other scientist spoke but was quickly waved off by Phil’s primary guide.
“Of course! How else are we going to convince the Angel of Death himself that we’re more than just dabblers in things that belong in his purview, that we have something of worth to offer? The man needs to see results.”
Phil didn’t much like the sound of that but nodded in agreement anyway. He needed to know.
With a triumphant look, the scientist – Dr Voker, apparently – took the lead, marching down a corridor that Phil’s instincts told him was a central one. Other people in a variety of scrubs and white coats were present, and some actually joined them, hushed questions and explanations exchanged with his quieter escort. For better or for worse, it seemed Phil was finally getting to the heart of things.
There were reinforced doors at the end of the hallway, and the two scientists escorting Phil split to the sides of them, coordinating the timing of their code inputs, and finally having two escorts despite one doing all the talking made a bit more sense beyond courtesy. This had to be it. Phil wasn’t sure what to expect.
The chamber past the doors was mostly dark, save a faint glow from a back corner, and a console about halfway in with a handful of gently flickering indicator lights. Dr Voker stepped in first, clapping his hands once and called out in a sing-song voice as lights flickered to life to bathe the room in sterile brightness.
“Rise and shine, Tee-zeroes! We have a guest who wants to see you!”
The quieter scientist entered as well and headed to the console with a huff. With the lights on Phil could now see the chamber more clearly, and realised the back of it was a separate room, split off from the front by what had to be a wall of reinforced glass.
What the hell had they done.
The quieter scientist fiddled with the console and spoke quietly to a microphone protruding from it, his voice echoey in a way that made Phil realise the barrier had to be at least partially sound-proof, and the console the official access through it, in a way.
“Good morning, T00-M1-NN1-T. I will drain and unlock your stasis chamber now. Step to the centre panel for routine interview once you are able.”
For a full minute, there was little sound save the whirring of machinery, and it took all of Phil’s willpower to stay still and keep looking unconcerned to the scientists around him. He was at the heart of the complex now. He couldn’t slip up. Finally, a large cylinder of metal and frosted glass at the back corner of the room split, the halves retreating into the floor and ceiling, and revealed its contents. Standing there, blinking owlishly at the lights, was a child.
What in the name of the End...?
It was a boy – Phil tried not to think too deep into why he was certain of that – and a young one. Most likely not even ten years old. The boy was dressed in little more than a simple hospital gown, his sandy gold hair cropped short. The eyes blinking at the fluorescent lights were a pale wintery blue much like Phil’s own, but they held no spark. No emotion. Nothing to show this was truly a child, and not some cruel joke, an automaton made in his image.
Because looking at the child in the cage of quartz and glass, the Angel couldn’t deny it was like seeing a younger version of himself, in some ways. Sickening, disturbing ways.
“Isn’t he marvellous?” Voker breathed out next to Phil with a sense of awe in his voice. “Sure he’s a bit... defective, but we have high hopes based on the successes that led to him, regardless.”
“How... old is he?” Phil found it almost impossible to tear his eyes away from the eerily familiar-looking child as it steadily picked its way towards the centre of the room to stand in front of the console, behind the glass wall.
“Hm. By traditional counting I’d say getting close to seven years, but of course we’ve had him in the lab for longer. The change from embryo to infant is a sliding scale when gestational chambers are involved.”
Seven. They’d cloned him, already succeeded in doing so, even if incompletely, seven years ago. Prime. Getting rid of this laboratory might not be enough.
“Beginning routine cognition check-up #6-341. Researcher Vex conducting the interview, with doctor Voker in supervisory attendance. Do you know who you are?” The quiet scientist – Vex – droned into the microphone, and the side of the room where the scientists and Phil stood grew silent.
“Yes. I am T00-M1-1NN1-T.” The boy’s voice had little to no inflection, like a robot. An automaton. A doll.
“I like to call him T-zeroes when we’re not making official records.” Voker whispered. “The full code is a bit of a mouthful and while it has all the data on which strain he came from, it feels kind of redundant to use all the time, considering.”
Considering? Phil had a feeling he was expected to know something, and wouldn’t like what it was once he caught on.
“Good. Do you know what you are?” The interview continued unimpeded by their whispering.
“I am an alpha level prototype of Project Genesis.”
“Good. What is alpha level prototype T00-M1-1NN1-T?”
“The only surviving clone of the T00 set, built from a DNA strain of the Angel of Death.”
Phil hadn’t wanted to think about that, but it was impossible to not get the message when it was spelled out like that, by a voice that felt all too familiar yet strange at the same time. The size of this place. The desperate hope that they’d let him in with, trusting blindly that his knowing they were here meant he was on their side. The excitement of showing things off to him.
The dead eyes of the thing in the shape of a child behind the glass wall, its voice like a hollow recording, reciting words no six- or seven-year-old had place understanding and stringing together in such a way.
How many times had these people tried before they’d succeeded? How many versions of him, flawed and broken, had been put together and then taken apart again once discovered to not be viable? How many more had almost made it, breaking apart from the inside out at the last possible moment?
For a moment, instead of the twisted image of himself, Phil saw the child behind the wall as someone different. Chestnut curls and gentle brown eyes, a slightly oversized yellow jumper hanging on his frame and small wings, still downy, on his back.
If these people had no qualms creating and destroying life at this scale, trying to recreate him, what would they do if they ever learned Wilbur existed? His precious hatchling, so reluctant to learn the ways of violence, even for the purpose of defending himself. So young, lacking the instincts and defences Phil himself had accumulated through the centuries of his life.
“You... called him defective. Elaborate on that.” He needed to focus on here and now, not on a nightmare scenario of the future, or a vision of a past that never came to be. Wil would be safe. He’d make sure of it.
“Well... some of it is pretty obvious, yes?” Voker intoned, gesturing between Phil’s rigidly folded wings and the child’s... clone’s... lack of such appendages. “We were hoping it was just a developmental quirk, but there is no physiological sign he’s ever going to grow wings. We also had to, ah, poke the DNA a little bit to make a subject survive to childhood at all, so while the projected extra height could be considered an upside, it’s a good example that a lot more than merely the ability to tolerate existing at all was affected.”
Phil wasn’t particularly surprised, to be honest. He hadn’t even considered that these people would see a lack of wings as a defect in their test subject, though of course it made sense when it was brought up. They were trying to recreate him after all.
And they had no idea how everything that made him the Angel of Death had come to be.
“We were actually hoping you could offer some insight to that, though of course not until contracts have been drafted and compensation arranged.” A dreamy smile crept onto Voker’s face as he watched the proceedings. “Ah, the check-up is almost over. Once we’re done you can ask the prototype questions yourself, if you want to.”
At the central console Vex had been making the clone do some basic hand-eye coordination and balance checks, and finally told it to turn around, which seemed odd at first, but as the child turned, Phil could clearly see it.
Clear as day, stark against snowy-pale skin, a trio of hearts crossed the nape of the boy’s neck, so different from Phil’s own, unmarked flesh. A defective clone indeed. Relief washed over the Angel. Whatever this boy was, it was mortal. And above those tell-tale hearts of three mortal lives, juts beneath the boy’s shorn hair, there was something else, tattooed into white skin in stark black lines.
A barcode.
A phantom feeling ghosted across Phil’s own neck, like pins and needles. He felt sick. This thing with his face really wasn’t a person. Not in a way that mattered.
“With that the standard stuff is concluded. Would you like to talk to the subject, Mr Minecraft?” Voker beamed at him expectantly, and even Vex had his hands hovering at the console, ready to facilitate conversation.
Phil felt swallowed down a wave or nausea. Somehow seeing that barcode on the skin of what was an artificially made copy of himself, if flawed, had really driven the whole thing home. These people might think they were helping revive a near-extinct species at the price of following other orders, but Phil knew the people pulling the strings. He knew what they were after.
Him, but obedient. Him, but controllable.
Their own pet angel of death.
“Thanks, but no thanks, mate. I think I’ve seen enough of this for now. Need to think about it a bit more.” He offered a faint smile to the scientist, who rushed to agree. “Show me your theoretical records in the meanwhile?”
.-.-.
The Angel of Death perched on the top of a high cliff, watching a thick column of smoke rise in the distance. His murder cawed and clamoured, some of the black birds almost forming a cloud above his head. The tips of his wings were still stained red, though the blood was starting to dry and flake off the feathers.
“No survivors, then?” A monotone voice inquired, a much heavier body lowering itself down to sit atop the cliff beside the Angel. “You didn’t even leave any for me.”
The Blood God didn’t sound all that bothered by being left out of the action this time, truth be told. Phil suspected it was the knowledge that almost everyone in that underground complex had essentially been a civilian, lacking battle training beyond the very basics at best. It had been a one-sided slaughter to the point where the Angel had stopped bothering with the people and simply wrought his destruction and set the place up to blow, only keeping perimeter with his friend in case anyone had been unlucky enough to escape the collapse of the underground structure.
“Thanks for the help, mate. Had to make sure none of what they had found its way out of there.” Phil brushed fingers through his wing, dislodging a twisted feather. In the past, he’d just let the wind take them, but now...
He crushed the feather in his hand, turning it to little more than dust with his will before letting go. “They had a live one, Techno. Wingless, but...”
“Prime.” The hybrid godling shook his head in sympathy. “That’s messed up.”
“It had my face, Techno. It walked and talked but... it had my face, and at the same time it didn’t look like it was even really alive. Like one of those guardian golems of metal and prayer some of the outlying villages use for security, but instead of kindness and strength it only knew obedience.”
“You did the right thing then, getting rid of it. A kindness, even.”
“I hope so...” The Angel sighed. “According to their files it was unlikely to survive for long without access to the gestational pod they had it sleep in, anyway.”
“What did they even call it? Phil 2.0?”
“A string of code. It had a literal barcode tattooed above its lives. The head doctor had given it a nickname, though. T-zeroes.”
“Figures.” The Blood God huffed in amusement. “Fitting, really.”
“What do you mean, mate?”
“The name. They took the blood of a god and the best they could make they couldn’t even be sure qualified as a demigod.”
It took Phil a bit to follow his friend’s line of logic, but eventually he got it. And really, Technoblade was right. It was fitting, in a messed up, tragic way. And while Phil himself couldn’t think of the child, the clone, as something truly living, maybe he didn’t have to in order to feel sorry for it. Relieved, yes, but still sorry. After all, oblivion must be better than the existence it had in that laboratory.
Rest well. T-zeroes. Theseus. You were never meant to be.