Anomaly

My interactions with the members of the reaction team gradually became noticeably lighter after some time talking. In the beginning, they seemed hesitant to extend conversations with me, always weighing their words to avoid saying anything that might offend me.
Little by little, though, that tension faded. These days, they’re much more sociable — some even venture into asking relatively personal questions, delivered with a kind of timid but genuine curiosity.
Throughout that entire process, I tried to show that my more rational demeanor wasn’t a threat, and that sincerity or informality didn’t bother me. That ended up making everyone far more comfortable, creating a more natural and relaxed atmosphere between us.
Rupert, Victor, and Arthur would also join the conversation from time to time. Overall, the three of them usually added light-hearted comments or tossed in their own questions — though most of the time, they were relatively trivial. Still, it helped keep the mood easygoing. Rarely did they ask anything more serious.
Probably because they already knew pretty much everything there was to know about me... and also because I’d hardly be able to answer. It’s no secret that I’m literally an amnesiac anomaly — and they, of course, were well aware of that limitation.
As I was getting lost in these thoughts, one of the team members suddenly broke the silence with a question that, to be honest, I’d heard more times than I would’ve liked: “So... what exactly is your gender? I really can’t figure out what you are. Even though you look like a woman, something tells me that’s not entirely right. I guess the closest term would be... an effeminate boy? But even that doesn’t sound exactly right for you”
The others seemed just as curious, turning their attention toward me while waiting for an answer. Rupert, however, was watching me from the corner of his eye, a look of pure amusement on his face. Up until then, he seemed to be enjoying every second — especially at my expense.
Pulling my focus away from Rupert and back to the member who had asked the question, I let my words resonate clearly for everyone nearby: (If possible, I’d like you to see me as male... But the truth is that, biologically, I don’t have a gender at all. I’m an asexual form of life, shaped more by my essence than by any physical definition)
I thought I had clarified everything they might want to know, but my answer did the exact opposite. Everyone raised their eyebrows at the same time, clearly confused, and exchanged quick glances. Then, after a short silence, one of them — his voice filled with genuine curiosity — finally asked: “You mentioned you have some sisters, right? Are they like you too? Without a defined gender?”
I nodded in confirmation: (Although they’re also fundamentally asexual lifeforms, they prefer referring to themselves using feminine words and gestures. Unlike me — who sees myself as a man — they see themselves as women. And honestly, that’s never been a problem. Even without having a biological gender, our identity seems to be shaped much more by how we perceive ourselves than by any physical appearance or whatever we’re theoretically supposed to be)
I nodded again. He seemed confused once more; his expression tightened briefly before becoming thoughtful. After a moment of hesitation, he took a cautious step forward and asked, his voice low and uncertain: “Wait a second... if all of you are asexual... then what exactly created you?”
I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. To be honest, it was the first time anyone had asked me something like that, so I was nowhere near prepared. I’d never stopped to think about an answer — much less have one ready in case someone ever decided to ask.
Although Emily — along with Laura and a few other scientists — had asked similar things before, I’d say that even if the intention was the same, the kind of answer they seemed to want didn’t carry the weight or meaning of the question I had just been asked. Rupert, who had remained silent until then, finally spoke up, as if he had reached the same realization I had.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, raising his eyebrows slightly in genuine surprise: “Now that is an interesting question”
I glanced at Rupert for a moment before turning back to the reaction team member who had asked. I remained silent, choosing my words, trying to decide what kind of answer would be appropriate. As far as I knew, “She” — the only figure I could consider something like a “Mother” — didn’t have a defined gender either.
Just like us, She was completely asexual. Even so, it was undeniable that She was the one who created everything, like a mother shaping the world with her own hands. She was also the one who created me and my sisters. But the process... it wasn’t anything like giving birth. It was something else, something fundamentally different.
Once I managed to organize my thoughts — or at least most of them — I tried to explain it simply: (First of all, I understand exactly why you used the word “created” a moment ago. You probably used humans as your reference for how new life comes to be. But that idea, on its own, is flawed. For starters, the act of creating life doesn’t follow a linear path, nor does it rely on a single method. There are nuances, variations, and exceptions that go far beyond such a straightforward view)
Everyone seemed to be paying close attention. Even so, I didn’t intend to go on too long; I only wanted to give some basic context before continuing. So with that said, I gave them the answers they had been waiting for: (The entity you humans refer to as “Mother” created both me and my sisters to escape her own primordial loneliness. After that, each of us was given different tasks — paths that rarely crossed. To be honest, I hardly interacted with my sisters at all)
The members of the reaction team softened their expressions at my words. It was clear they didn’t really know what to think; from their perspective, none of it made much sense.
Even though some human women choose to have children out of loneliness, that still wasn’t remotely the same as the entity I might call my “mother” — or anything similar to that concept.
None of the other members asked any questions or even tried to probe me. It was as if their minds were still reeling, trying to process—maybe even decipher—the weight of my words.
I could almost see the silent effort in their expressions as they tried to grasp what kind of entity this “Mother” I mentioned actually was, and why, of all things, she had chosen to “have” children.
Arthur, who had remained by my side in silence, gently spinning the tip of his cane between his fingers, was the one who finally broke the quiet: “Interesting...” he murmured, tilting his head slightly: “That lines up with some of the guesses and theories I’ve been working on over the past few months. The fact that you’re asexual is probably just a matter of convenience, not deeper logic—especially when we take into account the nature of higher entities like the Virtues”
I turned my gaze to Victor and blinked a few times, trying to understand. I tilted my head slightly before asking, my voice thick with doubt: “What exactly do you mean by convenience?”
Arthur shrugged, and a faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He glanced out the window before murmuring, his tone cryptic: “Who knows? What is that supposed to mean, anyway?”
I kept watching Arthur as I tried to figure out the logic behind hiding something like that from me. As far as I knew, he had absolutely nothing to gain from it. He noticed my insistent stare and only shrugged again, as if the matter couldn’t matter less.
I thought about saying something—a question, maybe a comment—but the moment I began forming my next words, my senses spiked. It was a sudden jolt, almost like a shock running through my body.
It lasted so briefly that I couldn’t even identify what exactly my instincts had picked up. Just an echo of a warning—too fleeting to grasp... but strong enough to set me on edge.
My eyes scanned the surroundings. I wasn’t really focusing on anyone or anything specific, but to the others, it probably looked like I was. Rupert, Victor, and Arthur were the first to notice my strange reaction.
Rupert, who had been lounging casually until then, straightened up and adopted a more alert posture. Victor, previously indifferent, reacted almost instantly as well, as if an invisible current had passed through all of us.
Arthur, on my right, who seconds earlier had a faint smirk on his face, did the opposite: the humor drained from his lips, and his fingers tightened around his cane.
“I don’t like it when she does that” Rupert muttered, anxiety creeping into his voice: “Why is she doing that?” he asked, keeping his eyes locked on me as if expecting an immediate answer.
I wasn’t really listening to him—my attention was glued to that sensation I’d felt moments earlier, something intense and inexplicable that had simply dissolved like smoke. I kept trying to understand what it meant when, suddenly, a sharp thud jolted the aircraft we were flying in.
The impact was so strong that nearly everyone was thrown upward, slamming their backs against the metallic interior of the aircraft, which echoed with a muffled boom. The air filled with short gasps, held breaths, and the desperate creaking of the structure trying to stabilize.
“What the hell...?” Victor muttered as he regained his footing, dusting off his clothes and trying to steady himself.
“Damn it... I told you I don’t like it when she starts acting like that. What the hell is going on? Were we attacked?” Rupert growled, his voice slightly louder than usual as he reached for his back, where a sharp sting made him grimace in muted pain.
The other members looked visibly confused and worried too, leaning toward the windows as if expecting to see something outside that might’ve hit us.
I did the same, but I couldn’t see anything—not from where we were, anyway. It was frustrating: even when I tried to imagine the scene from above, as if observing everything from a third-person view, my sight remained limited.
In the end, all I could do was interpret what little I could “observe” from inside. Stuck within the aircraft, my perception simply couldn’t reach whatever was really happening out there.
So I turned my gaze back to the windows. I had tested this before, purely out of curiosity, and even though my vision remained limited—really limited—it was still better than what I could see at the moment.
Even with all those restrictions, I should at least be able to pick up some general information about what was going on outside—enough to try to make sense of the situation.
Looking out, I once again tried to rely on my other perspective. That’s when I noticed the storm spreading. The sky, once just grayish, was now as dark as pitch, and constant thunder tore through the clouds, lighting them up for brief moments.
And in one of those flashes—just for a heartbeat—I saw something move within the dense clouds. Something immensely colossal, whose presence seemed to warp the darkness around it.