Yale and Oliver

Word quickly spread that the ball hanging from Yale's belt could talk. While this continent was home to all manner of Daimons, nothing could prepare first-time visitors for the shock of seeing a small, grinning orb suddenly spit out "civilised" phrases in a sharp, biting boyish voice. Yet, just as surprising as the talking ball was Yale's reaction, his stammered apologies often revealed bits and pieces of the truth: the ball, affectionately named "Tot Popper," was actually a bomb of his own creation, containing the soul of someone named Oliver. Despite spending so much time together, Yale still found himself stumbling over his words whenever Oliver started harshly critiquing a customer's taste.

Nestled in a secluded corner of Scarletriver, a shabby little toy shop known as "Snap 'n' Spark" quietly stands. Curiously, unlike typical toy stores that greet early visitors with open doors, this one remains firmly closed, even during daylight hours.

A few particularly curious children once mustered the courage to push open the door, and they each walked away with some rather peculiar toys, presumably a reward for their bravery. Among these treasures were kaleidoscopes that dazzled the eyes, wooden ducks that waggled and waddled across the floor, and the most intriguing of all, a magic "lollipop." When its tail was ignited, it would shoot up with a whoosh and burst into a magnificent firework, drawing excited cheers from the kids.

But even more mysterious than the whimsical toys was the shopkeeper himself: Yale, a boy of short stature who seemed perpetually shrouded in an aura of enigma. Oddly enough, many claimed to have heard two distinct voices echoing from within the shop, further deepening the mystery surrounding it. Legend has it that one moonless night, driven by irrepressible curiosity, a group of intrepid children sneaked in through a barely secured window. Their adventure ended abruptly as they fled home in sheer terror.

"The orange... ball... it could... talk... and... it... yelled at me..." one child recounted between sobs, struggling to catch his breath through the tears.

On one occasion, a particularly mischievous child managed to swipe Yale's bomb while he was distracted. The child, thinking he could gain the upper hand with numbers on his side, rallied his friends to teach the rude bomb a lesson. But no matter how much they jeered or insulted it, the bomb remained unresponsive, which later sparked whispers that perhaps Oliver's soul was not in the bomb at all, but resided within Yale himself.

In a stark white room stood a white table, upon which lay Yale, dressed in a white hospital gown. Facing him was a man clad in a lab coat. Scattered across the table were black mechanical parts.

Yale's memories invariably began with the cold, clipped directive from the man in the white lab coat: "Assemble them." This was always followed by Yale's blank stare as he fumbled with the components, and ended with the sound of the door slamming shut in the man's disappointment.

Yale had no idea how many times this sequence had replayed in his mind, nor could he measure the amount of time that had elapsed. In this realm of perpetual monotony, the concept of time was reduced to an insignificant abstraction.

During these endless moments, Yale occasionally entertained the notion that perhaps the entire world was an illusion, a construct inhabited solely by himself and the man in white. Within the confines of his mind, he couldn't recall the sound of anyone else's voice.

That changed the day a strange voice pierced the silence, setting the stagnant time into motion once more.

He vividly remembered the first word that broke through the silence, delivered in a sharp, disdainful tone..."Knock-off."

Yale had always despised the smell of hospitals, the harsh scent of disinfectant, and the overpowering odour emanating from bottles of potions and drugs. Even the herbal fragrances worn by pharmacists from Huaxu made him instinctively want to keep his distance, despite knowing it was rather rude. These smells brought back memories of the Alchemy Academy, the lingering scent of Yale's past nightmares.

One cold winter morning, the people of Scarletriver first discovered the strange boy named Yale. The baker's wife, while cleaning her oven, stumbled upon a young boy lying unconscious behind her house. His clothing was in tatters, and his skin was marred with burns, he looked like a little critter that had accidentally rolled through the coals of her bread oven. Curled up tightly, he also resembled a distressed newborn.

At the baker's wife's call, the townsfolk quickly gathered. Some offered clean towels, others brought burn ointments, and a few murmured prayers under their breath for the boy's swift recovery.

One young man noticed something peculiar: the collar of the boy's discarded white shirt was embroidered with the letters "SPATHATOI." As one of the few literate people in town, he recognised these letters stood for the Spathatoi Alchademy, a branch of the military. After a long moment of hesitation, he made a decision, he threw the shirt into the roaring fire. As the flames consumed the tattered garment, they seemed to erase the boy's troubled past. Shortly thereafter, a new toy shop with a weathered appearance opened in Scarletriver. The shopkeeper, always hunched behind the counter, spent his days inventing and tinkering with all manner of peculiar toys.

Deep within Yale, the consciousness of Oliver lies dormant. When Yale chooses to switch to Oliver, he grasps the bomb with his right hand. If the bomb is in his left hand, it signifies that Yale is the one in control.

"Knock-off."

Yale vividly remembered the first time he heard that voice, it felt like a pebble suddenly tossed into a serene lake, sending ripples through his mind. He jolted awake, only to find himself staring at the same sterile white walls.

The man in the white lab coat appeared once more, carrying the familiar black components, his voice as aloof as ever: "Assemble them." It was the same command Yale had heard countless times in his recurring memories.

Yale picked up the parts, turning them over in his hands. But this time, something was different, he no longer felt lost. It was as if his hands had a memory of their own. The intricate parts fit together as effortlessly as children's building blocks, each piece snapping perfectly into place, as if Yale had always known their proper arrangement.

As the final piece clicked into place, like a key turning in a lock, Yale stared in disbelief at the small black object he had created. Across from him, the man in white dropped his pen in astonishment. For the first time, his usually indifferent eyes gleamed with a frenzied joy, like a ravenous vulture spotting a dying lamb. He embraced Yale tightly, repeatedly murmuring, "Wonderful. You did it. Absolutely wonderful."

Finally, Yale mustered the courage to ask the question that had been burning inside him: "Who are you?"

"I am a researcher," the man replied. "You can call me Mr Jones."

"Mr Jones, researcher," Yale repeated the words soundlessly to himself, trying to let them sink in. After a moment, he asked another question, "Who am I?"

"You are Yale," Mr Jones responded. "You are my creation."

Yale nodded, then shook his head in bewilderment. At that time, he had no understanding of what it truly meant to be a "creation."

First, draw a vertical line with a slight hook at the end, that's the nose.

Below that, stretch a long curve for the mouth.

Finally, add two small black dots at the top, those will serve as eyes.

And with that, the finishing touch on Tot Popper, Oliver's physical form, is complete. Despite Oliver's constant complaints about Yale's drawings, Yale still cherishes these bombs as his own creations.

Yes, creations.

Yale thought to himself as he picked up one of the bombs - In the very same way, Mr Jones used to excitedly watch over his progress, investing countless hopes in him. Yet, Yale knew for sure he was different from Mr Jones.

"Late on the night of July 13th, a devastating explosion followed by a fierce fire erupted at the Spathatoi Alchademy, situated within the 9th Legion's outpost on the outskirts of Scarletriver, capturing the attention of residents across the city.

According to eyewitnesses, the fire broke out with alarming intensity, sending thick plumes of smoke into the sky as flames rapidly spread to surrounding buildings. The situation on the ground was described as extremely perilous. The 9th Legion responded promptly, launching an emergency rescue operation, while nearby residents spontaneously organised to assist with evacuations and the transport of essential supplies. After intensive efforts lasting a full day and night, the fire was finally brought under control. The full extent of casualties remains under assessment.

Preliminary investigations suggest that the accident was triggered by the mishandling of volatile materials during an ongoing research operation at the Spathatoi Alchademy, which operates under the 9th Legion's command. The mishap led to the release of hazardous substances, which ignited and caused a large-scale explosion, resulting in extensive damage. Several individuals associated with the incident have been held accountable and are currently under investigation." The Scarletriver Gazette, Issue No. 1012, Front Page

Occasionally, before bedtime, Oliver would sit by the balcony window, softly playing a lullaby on his bone flute, a tune known only among the Charon people. In those moments, Oliver was unusually quiet, making it hard to distinguish him from Yale.

Yet, when or how Oliver had learned to play the flute would forever remain a mystery to Yale.

Before Yale knew Oliver's name, their relationship was fraught with tension.

On one hand, the occasional voice that emerged in his mind had been quite unfriendly, even a child as isolated as Yale couldn't bring himself to befriend the speaker. Actually, to describe it merely as "unfriendly" would be an understatement, the voice not only routinely berated him as a "knock-off" but also interspersed its harangues with cruel and jarring curses, as if Yale had committed unforgivable sins that even the Misty Sea could not cleanse. Frustrated and feeling wronged by the baseless accusations, Yale often tried to retort. But hampered by his stutter, he would only manage to stammer an ineffectual "Y, Y, You..." This, unsurprisingly, only fueled more ruthless mockery from Oliver.

Yet what truly intensified the hostility between them was Mr Jones's reaction when he discovered the existence of this voice. The normally stern man would descend into an unusual frenzy, clutching at Yale's delicate shoulders, his fingers trembling as they dug painfully into the boy's flesh.

"You've heard his voice, haven't you!? Tell me you heard it! You must not lose to him, my dear boy, my precious creation. You need to control it, conquer it, and kill it! Do you hear me? Answer me! Now!!!"

Mr Jones's face twisted with obsession, his forehead pressing against Yale's, spittle flying onto the boy's face. It was a profoundly unsettling experience. Only later, when the assistant researcher explained different emotions to Yale, did he vaguely understand that what he felt was fear, a deep, pervasive fear. Confused, Yale couldn't fathom why Mr Jones reacted so violently and eventually attributed it to the strange voice in his head.

Their strained relationship persisted for a long time, until one day, the assistant researcher brought a record player into Yale's room.The record player brought a touch of colour into Yale's otherwise black-and-white world, and for that, he cherished it deeply. Every night, he would look forward to discovering which record would be placed in the machine and what melodies would emerge to fill the room. Conversely, Oliver harboured a strong dislike for the record player, or more precisely, for the persistent static noise it emitted, a noise that made him even more agitated and uneasy. Realising this, a strange thought crossed Yale's mind, perhaps the voice in his head feared that static noise. Yale understood what it felt like to fear something, it was a terrible feeling that made one want to desperately run away. So, the next time the assistant researcher came with a new record, Yale stopped her from playing it.

"Don't you like this record anymore?"

"I do, I really do, but I... I just don't want to hear it anymore."

Incapable of lying, Yale couldn't explain his abrupt change of heart to the assistant researcher. Ultimately, she acquiesced and took the record away.

That night, Yale found it harder to drift off to sleep without the calming influence of music. Half-asleep, he heard a strange yet familiar humming. The sound was soft and melodious, like a gentle, soothing lullaby for a newborn baby.

Yale had long believed he would be forever friendless. The Alchemy Academy was a place of cold sterility, corridors bathed in harsh white light, researchers clad in stark white lab coats, and towering stacks of experiment reports on every desk. This monochrome existence draped over him, filling the days of his memory.

In this lifeless setting, Yale yearned for a friend. His artistic skills were limited, the best he could manage was a ball, or rather, a somewhat misshapen circle. Initially, the white light reflecting off the white paper made the circle seem cold and uninviting, until Yale added a splash of orange, which was the first vivid colour in his life.

A renowned psychologist was once invited to conduct a psychological evaluation of a test subject at the Spathatoi Alchademy. Due to confidentiality protocols, the psychologist and the subject communicated only through an opaque curtain, which separated them visually but not auditorily. The boy's voice, tinged with shyness, drifted from behind the curtain. Though he tried to mask it, the psychologist could still detect a slight speech impediment.

"Let's begin," the psychologist instructed. "I'm going to say a word, and I want you to tell me the first thing that comes to mind. Don't overthink it, just respond."

"O, Okay."

"Morning."

"C, Curtain."

"Clothes."

"White."

"Experiments."

"Waiting."

"Freedom."

"Walls."

"Apple."

"Half."

"Yale."

"A good boy."

"One last word, your researcher, Jones."

At the mention of this name, the boy, who had been quick with his responses, suddenly fell silent. The psychologist's pen paused mid-note. Then, through the curtain, a fierce shout laden with bitterness and resentment erupted:

"Jones! He's a bloody rotter!!!"

As the psychologist was about to call for assistance, fearing the subject was losing control, a pained moan followed. Then, the boy's timid, stuttering voice returned:

"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't catch that. Could you re, repeat it, please?"

The psychologist exhaled softly, relieved but still cautious, and repeated the query with prudence.

"Your researcher... Jones."

This time, the boy responded without hesitation:

"Father."

Yale had once read about a particular animal behaviour: cuckoos, known for laying their eggs in the nests of other birds. After hatching, the cuckoo chick would push out the nest's rightful offspring to claim the undivided attention and resources of the foster parents for itself.

Though he understood this as a natural act, Yale still felt an inexplicable surge of anger. Parasitism, taking nourishment and shelter from another, deserved nothing but disdain. It wasn't the innocent fledglings that should suffer and fall, but the deceitful cuckoos.

This view stayed with Yale for a long time, unchallenged even when, one day in the future, he stumbled upon a confidential document titled "Controlled Alter Personality Experiment Log."

Yale never attempted to escape the black straps that bound him to the operating table. He couldn't understand why they felt the need to bind him so tightly, he had no intention of resisting.

The floor was littered with dozens of documents stamped "Confidential" in bold red. When Researcher Jones noticed that Yale had read these documents, his demeanour once again turned frenzied. He roughly secured the young boy to the operating table and administered an experimental catalyst that wasn't scheduled for use until several months later in the final stage of the experiment.

"You naughty rascal, you've seen what you shouldn't have, now I want you to kill him! Do it!"

A sensation akin to magma flowing through his veins overwhelmed Yale, triggering an excruciating pain that elicited a piercing scream from the usually soft-spoken boy.

"Oi, knock-off."

The familiar yet foreign voice intruded into his thoughts. Yale abruptly opened his eyes, not to the sight of the operating table, but to a gaze as calm as his own, it was another boy who looked exactly like him. Beneath them surged a sea of magma, as red as blood.

"Who are you?"

The other did not respond but instead grasped Yale's throat decisively. His inhuman strength made it impossible for Yale to breathe, forcing him into a futile struggle for air. Only then did the owner of the hands speak, his tone slow and laden with contempt:

"I'm Oliver... the rightful owner of this body. You're just a knock-off version of me, don't play dumb, you already know all about it."

Yale gazed blankly into Oliver's eyes, recalling the confidential file titled "Controlled Alter Personality Experiment Log." The documents detailed the entire experimental procedure, filled with data on the dangerous preliminary personality tests, each page inscribed with the name "Oliver."

On the final page, Yale's name abruptly appeared, signifying the successful completion of the personality replacement experiment.

" Yale, I will make you my perfect creation."

So this was the true meaning of "creation." Precious memories of a happy childhood, life outside the lab, and a loving family, all of these were blank in Yale's mind, not due to forgetfulness, but because they had never existed.

So, who was he, really? He was Yale. And who was Yale? Oh, that's right, Yale was nothing more than a coward, a pitiful creature always obedient to the researcher's commands, an imperfect creation, and a parasite who stole a nest that wasn't his.

Only this time, Yale decided to help the poor little bird in that stolen nest. He let go of Oliver's hand, ready to surrender himself to the magma and embrace the fiery demise awaiting him.

However, the anticipated suffocation did not follow. Instead, Yale was abruptly hoisted up. As Oliver's curses filled the air, it felt as though countless bombs were detonating around them, the intense ringing in his ears akin to bullets tearing through, churning his brain into chaos.

All the anger, the fear, the hatred, they erupted in that explosive moment, only to be silenced by a final, resounding boom.

Yale looked up at Oliver, whose expression remained as hostile as ever, yet Yale sensed that something had subtly shifted; though outwardly, everything appeared unchanged.

"Hey, knock-off, there's actually a way for both of us to make it out alive. Are you in?"

Compared to Yale's questionable taste in art, what truly vexed Oliver was Yale's occasional thought of "I should give the body back to Oliver." They would argue incessantly over this, sometimes sulking and not speaking to each other for days.

Every now and then, Yale would grumble that Oliver simply couldn't appreciate his good intentions. What really intrigued you wasn't their disagreement, but how surprisingly articulate Yale became when voicing these grievances.

Oliver had never said it, and perhaps he never would, but you could clearly sense it:

Yale sitting at the workbench in Snap 'n' Spark, carving new toys from cork with a chisel, then adding his own whimsical doodles with watercolour pens, all while Oliver offered his spirited critiques, this peaceful life was the conclusion to their story that Oliver found most satisfying.

The researcher, a man over fifty, lay on his hospital bed, his limbs charred almost to cinders, suffering from massive burns. The explosion had also caused his internal organs to rupture and bleed, and his facial skin was festering and peeling, exposing his raw gums.

At the emergency ward of Flagson Provincial General Hospital, the nurses failed to reach any of the researcher's relatives. The researcher named Jones Bryan had lost his parents, friends, and even his wife and children to the war. As a result, no one was there for him in his final moments.

According to the medical staff, Jones Bryan showed no fear as death approached. Instead, an unsettling smile tugged at his lips, his mouth trembling violently.

Those who leaned in to catch his last words heard only one phrase, repeated over and over:

"The experiment... succeeded."

Controlled Alter Personality Experiment Log: Yale

Research Subject: Primary Personality - Oliver / Alter Personality - Yale

Location: Spathatoi Alchademy of the 9th Legion, Scarletriver

Research Team: Dr Jones Bryan and Associates

Objective: To domesticate the powerful but overly aggressive Charon by creating a highly submissive alter personality. This alter personality is designed to inherit the magical abilities of the primary personality and effectively suppress it. Upon meeting control standards, these entities can be mass-produced and deployed for combat operations.

Risk Management: Should the alter personality fail to control the primary personality, it is required to eliminate the primary personality after mastering all its capabilities. Failure to control or eliminate will prompt the research team to initiate a termination protocol for the subject.

The searing pain snapped Yale back to reality. At some point, the restraints that had bound him to the operating table had been undone. Lifting his head slowly, Yale locked eyes with Jones, whose bloodshot eyes were filled with incredulous glee.

For the first time, Yale, who had never lied, had to deceive Jones.

He inched closer to the researcher, each step a monumental effort. With every pause, tears silently slipped down his cheeks, tracing a miniature galaxy in the dark confines of the lab.

Jones seemed to be smiling, likely thinking Yale was crying over Oliver's death. He was convinced that this timid subject was, after all, an obedient child, a perfect creation that would never defy orders.

Only Yale knew the real reason for his tears. For the first time, he willingly embraced Jones, the once formidable man no longer seemed frightening at all.

"I've killed Oliver."

Yale's sobs grew more intense as he clung to Jones, crying uncontrollably in his arms. He even felt Jones gently pat his head, a rare gesture, almost like the father Yale had always wished for.

Yet, this was all inauthentic. Despite the warmth of Jones's touch, it came from a pair of hands that had orchestrated countless experiments that tormented him and Oliver and ruined their lives. It was time to bid farewell to these hands.

Yale pulled out the device he had been assembling every day, the one Oliver had dubbed the micro-bomb. All he had to do was press it against Jones, and in the ensuing chaos of the fire, he could escape to the vast world outside this white prison.

"Do it, Yale. It's okay if you want to cry for this man's death later."

The alchemy lab was ablaze, flames voraciously spreading, painting the night sky a vivid, grotesque red, erasing all traces of the sterile white.

Yale ran with every ounce of strength he had, his spirit soaring as he and Oliver alternated control of their body, gulping down the air outside that white prison. The air, thick with smoke, was acrid yet oddly sweet. Yale understood it was the scent of "fire." No one could stop them now. They left Jones behind, left the lab behind, and left the Alchemy Academy behind.

Finally, Yale collapsed, utterly spent, but the overwhelming sights around him kept his eyes wide open. The liberating breeze tempted him to struggle to his feet, even though he had no strength left.

As consciousness began to fade, Yale heard Oliver's voice once more, but this time it was calm, a tone he had never heard before. Oliver, taking off and tossing away the nameplate on Yale's chest, declared:

"From now on, Yale is no longer anyone's creation."