The 39th week of my new existence was drawing to a close.

  Narrating everything that transpired would be far too exhaustive…

  I naturally passed away as an elderly woman… but certainly not a dull one!

  I never had a penchant for "rehashing" work-related anecdotes.

  Therefore, I resolved to turn to what comes instinctively to me.

  A chronicle!

  It’s quite reminiscent of an anamnesis, is it not?

  Though I have yet to devise a title for it.

  Perhaps — "Case History of a Reincarnated Infant"?

  Or simply "I am the Patient, and This is My Developmental History."

  ** the ambitions of a research fellow continue to haunt Siana **

  "The third month of my life, entrapped within this tiny vessel, commenced with anomalies…

  And culminated in a game of 'detective'."

  Not bad?

  Not bad at all.

  In all seriousness — I genuinely expended an entire month on perpetual observations of my parents.

  Of our domicile and its appointments.

  You may congratulate me — I have emerged victorious in a rigged duel against myopia!

  It is that "delightful" condition of the ocular muscles where one cannot see a damn thing beyond a range of 30-50 centimeters.

  As if an amateur photographer had applied a Gaussian blur to the entire background.

  And it was here that my knowledge base began to undergo an overload.

  I alluded to an "anomaly" previously… It manifested when I first managed to witness my mother at work.

  We are all acutely aware that tailoring is an endeavor of no small complexity.

  It demands precision, dexterity, and unwavering oversight of the entire process.

  It is akin to performing surgery upon threads and fragments of textile… But this woman!

  She did not even deign to glance at the garments she was fashioning!

  Initially, it bore a striking resemblance to a game of "detective."

  My mother would hoist me up with one hand, engaging in that insufferable "baby talk"…

  ** Why doesn't Siana add that it infuriated her to the point where her tiny hands yearned to stifle her mother’s mouth? **

  And subsequently, the moment my small frame made contact with the warm fabric of the bed—I would behold a finished gown!

  Or a hat… Or something else entirely!

  To be perfectly candid?

  I am on the verge of a literal explosion!

  …

  From sheer curiosity.

  How?

  When?

  Precisely what technique is she utilizing?

  Could she perhaps possess nanorobots?

  Or is she an "android"?

  Gradually, my "detective" game gained significant momentum.

  I began to scrutinize everything within the limited periphery of my fixed infant gaze.

  I swear, damn this postnatal development to hell!

  Why is human maturation so agonizingly protracted?!

  Yet even that could not thwart Siana Sha’Tyes, the youngest detective in recorded history!

  The floor!

  Why is it perpetually pristine?

  It requires washing, wiping… Sterilizing, does it not?

  ** Curious… how would Siana know of such things? She has never once performed the task herself **

  And my swaddling clothes?

  They represent some sort of ma-a… ma-a-g…

  Anomaly!

  Why are they incessantly warm?

  Why the hell are they —I reiterate— constantly warm?!

  Not once have I beheld my mother and an iron together… within a single frame of my binocular vision!

  Either she is concealing herself from me (which is preposterous)… or this world is governed by laws hitherto unknown to me.

  I had become so accustomed to the automated systems of my former life.

  It hadn't even occurred to me to discern the provenance of the illumination here!

  Candles—you might surmise.

  Hardly!

  I detected no scent of sulfur whatsoever, nor the characteristic acoustic signature of a match head igniting.

  So many inquiries… so many hypotheses!

  ** our doctor is spiraling **

  — "The fifth month of the infant-detective's life in a world of incomprehensible physics" —

  The subsequent two months elapsed rather swiftly.

  Presumably due to the persistent fatigue wrought by deciphering the linguistic nuances of this peculiar realm.

  I had already become adept at recognizing my mother’s phonetic patterns.

  Owing to this woman, I was able to ascertain that their tongue bears a resemblance to Kolosian.

  Much like the Kolosians, Mother utilized a phonetic system.

  Thank heavens they weren't logographic systems!

  But there was something unsettling…

  My mother delighted in… activating holographic projections while swaddling or playing with me.

  This "interface" typically displayed exquisite renderings of celestial bodies.

  A scorching sun, a blinding supernova… the mysterious event horizon of a black hole.

  This young woman enjoyed "cooing" and poking her slender fingers into my tiny chest.

  I am half-inclined to bite her fingers off for these "infantile" games… but what recourse do I have?

  How is she to know that I am seventy-four years old?

  Each time an image of the Sun materialized, she would utter "El-ra-na"… and the caption on the display consisted of three characters.

  The same occurred with the black hole, which featured two characters in the image and was articulated by Mother as "En-De."

  Ah, precisely… you may ask, what "holographic projections"?

  As if I knew, damn it!

  It continues to shatter my scientific brain every single time…

  This woman would approach my crib, which was never cool to the touch (another cursed enigma!).

  She would "snap" her fingers and… the image simply manifested above me…

  Ha-ha… Ha?!

  WHAT?!

  You must be mocking me!

  What manner of multi-century technological leap is this!

  If I were capable, I would be weeping and tearing my hair out, sequestered behind a mountain of books that would serve as my dugout.

  Oh, Hippocrates, grant me euthanasia.

  And were this the full catalog of anomalies, I might yet contemplate "composing" myself…

  But they simply persisted in "leaping out" from every corner… I implore you, make it stop!

  I utterly loathe that which I cannot explain…

  ** Can it be that the brilliant physician Sha’Tyes is incapable of explaining something? **

  I feel a profound constriction within.

  Like an aluminum can beneath a magnetic sledgehammer.

  And then, from my ears poured the incandescent lava of disillusionment regarding my own cognitive faculties…

  One morning, prior to feeding:

  Mother leaned over me, cradling a bottle of milk.

  However, she did not offer it immediately, as had been her established custom…

  She articulated "Ma-Ma" and traced her index finger through the air like a laser pointer.

  Phew… Inhale-exhale… Inhale and exhale…

  I beheld a symbol, triangular with a crossbar through the center.

  Manifested right there in the air.

  Ha!

  Absurd!

  Do I have a CATARACT, OR WHAT?!

  Oh, Hippocrates… Siana Sha’Tyes has surrendered her final grain of sanity and begun hallucinating…

  Where are my white slippers?

  — "The seventh month, which bestowed hope upon me" —

  I spent this month engaged in my own "linguistic terror."

  My patience was so utterly exhausted that I abandoned my dignity as a Kolosian of science!

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  I began to deliberately point at objects, waiting for Mother or Father to name them…

  But, oh, those poor, dear fools; they did not realize that this was insufficient.

  I required more empirical data concerning previously documented anomalies.

  Thus, I would not retract my finger until they compelled the air to succumb to their anti-scientific motions… and displayed the symbols to me!

  I observed, absorbing every conceivable fragment of information… Correlating what I once knew with that which I was witnessing for the first time.

  Comparative analysis—the ultimate ally in a state of the unknown.

  Yet every day culminated in the same fashion.

  My infantile brain would suddenly broadcast a "Low Battery" signal.

  Black spots would materialize before my eyes—the intellectual exertion causing a precipitous depletion of glucose…

  Every time I yearned to exclaim "Eureka!", but only a few minuscule droplets of saliva escaped my lips before I plummeted into a profound, amnesic slumber.

  Nevertheless, there was something fantastical.

  I was finally able to construct a cohesive image of my father!

  Context: I had seen him so infrequently throughout this duration simply because I was asleep whenever he was home.

  As I came to understand, this young man holds several positions of employment.

  At first, it was merely a suspicion… but I cheated, forcing myself to sleep earlier than usual on several occasions.

  This afforded me a strategic reserve of "free" time and the opportunity to see my father more frequently.

  And my null hypothesis was confirmed.

  He would return home at least thrice during the daylight hours… He changed his attire three times.

  Twice out of those three—different sets of coveralls, a highly functional fashion.

  Varying suspenders, compartments for instrumentation.

  Traces of grease or some other lubricant?

  It is worth noting that my father was quite tall.

  Definitely taller than his wife… By two heads, if not all of three!

  He possessed broad shoulders, and his muscles were "work-hardened."

  My tiny soul immediately sensed that he was accustomed to heavy loads, grime, and metalwork.

  Though he had a somewhat "simian," rather coarse countenance… That formidable jaw of his, a broken nose.

  Small scars beneath the left eye and several others, more substantial, upon his neck.

  And yet, how lucid his eyes were, how vibrant!

  He smiled more frequently than Mother. Perhaps he missed us?

  But how arduous it was to radiolocate that smile within his ungodly stubble!

  His hair was disheveled, constantly redolent of oil or smoke… Much like the hands with which he held me.

  I could imagine him in any profession… And everywhere, he would have been pertinent.

  Such was my new father.

  Significantly superior to the old one.

  ** Is this perhaps some personal drama, Madame Siana? **

  I do not know how to explain it, but when he was home—it seemed as though everything became more secure.

  Not because he was omnipotent… Rather, I believed that he would stand for us until the end.

  However, this sense of security was not the only thing Father bestowed upon my young self.

  I… saw… technology!

  TECHNOLOGY!

  Ah!

  At last… At l-l-last!

  — "And it spoke in the eighth month… And nearly killed itself" —

  Most of all, I wish to share my grand success!

  I am unsure of the precise mechanism, yet by the eighth month, I was able to comprehend the language of my parents…

  Yes, of course, it was not entirely flawless.

  Many words still remain "hollow" to me, and some sounded like a random sequence of phonemes altogether.

  Nevertheless, I deciphered approximately 60% of the dialogues that occurred between them with phenomenal celerity.

  The other 40% fell to failures and frustrations, delays, exhaustion, and the like.

  This comprehension began through the similarity of certain "keys" to the Ro'Zeta language studied on Kolos.

  For me, this was an incredibly fascinating pursuit even during my institute days… This enigmatic Ro'Zeta tongue.

  Many of my classmates failed the tests in this subject, but not I!

  Somehow, I took such a liking to this language that for an entire week, I attempted to speak exclusively in it.

  Perhaps that is why I received my grade long before the final examinations.

  ** Siana certainly hasn't forgotten how to flaunt her knowledge **

  And the "keys" were an entirely serendipitous discovery.

  One day, Father brought home something resembling a desk lamp… Only it possessed neither wires nor a magnetic base.

  I was lying comfortably on Mother's shoulder, wishing to witness another anomaly… And then he uttered a word that I recognized immediately.

  I heard and understood it with absolute clarity, without a moment's hesitation or the slightest expenditure of mental energy.

  Lumen.

  "Eureka!" flashed through my consciousness, "It’s Ro’Zeta! That damned Ro’Zeta!".

  I remembered distinctly that the Ro’Zeta tongue was the most ancient in the cosmos… even on Lexium-Prime, it was a subject of intense fascination.

  We were taught that this was the language employed by the "Architects of Death and Life."

  The Imperium Astarte had bestowed the Ro’Zeta stone upon us as a token of "friendship" between our races long before the "Golden Millennium."

  Legend has it that the first linguists were instructed by the Emperor himself, Lexius von Fayon.

  And so, the moment my father uttered "Lumen"—I instantaneously translated it in my mind as "Light."

  Predictably, the lamp ignited.

  This wasn't magic at all!

  Ha!

  I knew it!

  I KNEW IT!

  It’s programming!

  Perhaps phonetic, perhaps logically sequential… perhaps even quantum.

  That was when everything began to coalesce.

  The symbols I saw my mother "drawing" in the air—they were the Ro’Zeta alphabet.

  A bit more sophisticated, naturally… but it was unmistakably Ro’Zeta!

  Could it be… that this symbolic system is even more primordial than the one provided to us by the Imperium?

  Damn my parasympathetic system!

  Ah… ah!

  What if I’ve ended up in the very world where the Ro’Zeta language originated?

  Eh?

  Could that be possible?

  Please, let it be so… I BEG of you!

  By virtue of my proficiency in Ro’Zeta, I can state with absolute certainty that it saved my life.

  This is why, children, one must study alien languages… you never know when a tongue that has been dead for some seven hundred thousand years might prove indispensable.

  ** Siana was overjoyed, of course… now, at the very least, she understood the discourse between her parents… perhaps she might even hear her own name? **

  My mother actually possessed an iron, imagine that!

  But it wasn't powered by any electrical grid…

  On several occasions, I saw something resembling a rusted knife in my father’s hands.

  Initially, I was appalled by the lack of hygiene… but it turned out to be a "thermal scalpel," activated in the same manner as that wretched lamp.

  The secret of the eternally warm diapers was next… I already gathered that this wasn't mere "fabric."

  Through arduous manipulations that demanded the full extent of my scientific potential… I realized they possessed a form of "intelligence."

  An integrated thermoregulation system causes them to emit a faint glow, constrict slightly, and elevate their temperature.

  Dammit, it’s ingenious!

  The next enigma that required immediate "cracking" was the phenomenon of the "energy source" for these anomalies…

  But could I, in fact, replicate such a feat?

  Would I be able to "activate" the technology myself?

  Heh-heh-heh!

  I already had a plan in place…

  ** It strikes me that this could have ended quite poorly for our "sophisticated" little one... though, at the very least, we won't be bored. **

  Every evening, even before the first stars emerge, Mother gathers me into her arms and carries me from my small room into the kitchen...

  There, she awaits Father.

  Next, she activates that peculiar kettle using the "Calidus" anomaly... But I, for one, already grasp its nature!

  "Become warm"—I reminded myself of the word's signification.

  Afterward, she places me upon those "smart" fabrics near the table with the mystical kettle... and proceeds toward the door.

  Usually, she stands there for a minute, perhaps two at most.

  Father turned out to be a damnably punctual man... Of course!

  But twenty seconds will suffice for me...

  Turn the head... Sight the kettle... Utter "Frigus."

  The primary challenge is to avoid choking on my own saliva while attempting to enunciate the "R."

  I could, naturally, have commenced with "Frigesce," but my youthful tongue is not yet capable of surmounting those sibilants and protracted guttural sounds.

  Upon witnessing the kettle cease its heating, I shall conclude the experiment and affect a facade of "cooing."

  Oh, Hippocrates... Is it even worth mentioning that I have mired myself in colossal shit?

  ** and we said it would be something interesting **

  The definitive X-moment... Everything is proceeding according to plan.

  Mother takes me; I am the most composed infant in existence.

  She settles me onto the warm little blankets... switches on that piss-poor kettle, walks to the door...

  And I, a foolish idiot, nevertheless resolve to utter that "key-word"...

  But the kettle was in such close proximity... that I felt an overwhelming urge to touch it.

  Well, just to ascertain with certainty that everything functioned correctly... right?

  However, I froze... like an antiquated computer.

  The very instant the first millimeter of my plump finger brushed the kettle's steel cage, it was as if I received a blast of "frigid air" to the face.

  I was permeated by a force impulse hitherto unknown to me... as if I were the X-ray and the kettle were the patient.

  My eyes began to perceive... the kettle's viscera?

  Is that what I should call it?

  Everything in the periphery turned gray... nearly black, save for the kettle, which remained the sole focus of my vision.

  Indistinct white lines... like my mother's threads, moved at a languid pace where the boundaries of its metallic chassis once resided.

  Inside, I discerned a faint cerulean "coil" of other threads. They were sturdier... denser!

  Intuitively, I understood this to be water.

  This imagery mirrored those from my hospital, back when we would initiate an MRI... I was a living MRI!

  For a fleeting moment, I fancied I saw "spots," just as in my previous life... when we endeavored to locate tumors or infections.

  Reflexively, without a second thought, I began to "treat"... the cursed kettle...

  The sensation was as if someone had driven a hook deep, deep into my chest... and commenced pulling with inconceivable force.

  It wasn't pain... rather, a profound discomfort.

  An unpleasant pressure against my back and head.

  It felt as though I were being pushed and pushed...

  Micro-fissures within the conductor-crystal sealed themselves... conductivity intensified.

  And for some reason, I possessed a superlative command of what I was doing... yet I didn't even pause to ask myself: "Where did you acquire this knowledge, Siana?!"

  Those "spots" vanished with remarkable celerity... and a sense of fulfilled duty emerged, identical to the sensation I once felt in the hospital.

  It was surreal—unnervingly, bone-chillingly surreal!

  However, I had overlooked a critical variable...

  That iron bitch was overheating... and if one were to diagnose these "spots" as the "kettle's pathology,"

  It stood to reason that it would now begin to heat more rapidly, more intensely...

  The appliance surged with a power output for which it was never engineered.

  It didn't merely reach a flash boil—it began to emanate a blinding, incandescent white light... like some goddamn quasar!

  My brain registered the nociceptor overload even before I could cognitively grasp that...

  My finger had simply liquefied.

  Shock serves as a protective mechanism, yet for a pediatric central nervous system, it can be terminal.

  I had encountered such agonizing pain only once before in my existence... during my own clinical death.

  My infantile physical form began to sob... to scream...

  To shriek as if I were being lacerated by a hundred blades.

  Not a single drop of blood even managed to reach the table... it simply combusted.

  It just vanished in flames, along with my epidermis, my musculature... and my tranquil existence.

  The odor was emetic, yet the agony was so profound that my stomach seemed to have forgotten its reflex... Heh-heh.

  Amidst this infernal concoction of hormones, panic, and excruciating pain—I resolved to improve the situation further...

  I was hurting, wasn't I?

  It was burning, wasn't it?

  That cursed, scalding kettle...

  "Well then... let's freeze this bastard, damn it all!"—a brilliant clinical plan, wouldn't you agree?

  With the last vestiges of my strength, I let out a shrill "CONGELA!"

  Which, in the most literal sense, means—Turn to ice.

  ...

  Hippocrates, why am I so profoundly idiotic?

  I recall perfectly well that the confluence of extreme heat and extreme cold yields but one result...

  A steam explosion.

  Siana... YOU OLD FOOL!

  And as I descended into the darkness of demise, certain that death would grant me no third reprieve...

  The final image etched upon my retina was my mother.

  She wasn't screaming.

  She stood in the doorway, paralyzed like a stake driven into the earth.

  In her eyes was that same catatonia I had observed in the relatives of patients...

  Whenever I emerged from the operating theater with downcast eyes.

  Except this time, the patient was me.

  And the operating theater... it simply shattered into fragments, along with the prospect of my peaceful childhood.

  Oh… Precisely, I neglected to mention.

  I was delivered by my Spark.

  In what manner?

  Let her recount the tale herself.

  //— Not a problem, little lamb, - a profound and predatory voice, that very one. Lupine //

  Wolf.

  // — You merely sustained an energetic shock… A touch of neurotoxicosis, ha! - the entity laughs with an unearthly rhythm, — And that explosion was quite substantial. Your arm was completely severed. //

  It was excruciating.

  // — Naturally it was painful, - a tone reminiscent of a head nurse, — Who in their right mind would amalgamate two thermal anathemas? //

  I had no inkling that the cursed kettle would commence levitating and emitting that ultrasonic shriek!

  I was petrified… I was in agony…

  // — "Let us freeze everything," you thought? //

  It was the most logical resolution.

  // — Had I not stabilized the air, contained the blast, and transpositioned the potential energy into the Vacuo… Had I not immediately commenced the resuscitation of your corpus and superseded your severed limb with "Absolute"… You now possess the finest arm in the cosmos. Albeit a counterfeit one, - the lupine voice enumerated with exhaustion, — You truly would have perished. //

  Should I offer you an apology, or what?

  // — No, rather recount what ensued… Your father nearly lost consciousness. And your mother..! That expression upon her visage, - that now-familiar laughter, — Oh! And the city! We traveled afterward… //

  Indeed… My poor mother.

  And my father, poor soul as well.

  Nevertheless, the journey was truly superlative.

  // — But we shall speak of that later, shall we not? //

  Of course, for now I wish to…

  Sleep… I am utterly depleted of strength.

  // — Sweet dreams, little lamb. //