PACIFIER
EPISODE 02 | SCENE 02
19 YEARS EARLIER • YEAR 328
The world Renegade wakes to is blurred. The lights above burn too bright, their edges lost in mist. For minutes, nothing has definition. Something cold presses against his cheek. When he tries to move, dizziness swells and topples him back. A voice murmurs faintly nearby, words slurred, unintelligible. He shuts his eyes again and waits.
When he opens them, the glare has softened. With each blink, the light fades to something bearable, and the room steadies into form. His cheek rests against a granite countertop, slick with condensation.
“Are you finally awake, sir?” The voice, clearer now, comes from above.
Renegade lifts his head. A mechanical arm hovers beside him, its metal joints whirring softly.
“Here,” it says. “Let’s get you up slowly.”
The arm grips the back of his collar and eases him upright.
“I’m fine,” Renegade snaps, jerking his elbow to push it away.
“I’m just trying to help, sir.”
“Well, don’t.” His eyes sweep the room—dark steel cabinets, a sink, the sterile gleam of his own kitchen. Empty bottles and scattered white pills litter the counter before him. “How long?”
“Thirteen hours,” the arm replies.
“And you just watched?”
“You disabled emergency assistance years ago, remember? But I did check your pulse every few minutes. Would you like to review the data?”
Renegade scoffs and plants a foot on the floor. His balance wavers as he lowers the other and pushes himself upright. The robotic arm hovers close, ready to steady him. He elbows it aside again. It retreats a few feet but continues to shadow him.
He shuffles toward the hallway, one hand pressed to the wall for support.
“Please, sir, lie down. Rest. You’ve had several sleepless nights.”
“Back off,” Renegade hisses, not slowing. The arm whirs ahead, anticipating his path, and signals the sliding door open for him.
Renegade grips the doorframe and leans over the bathroom sink. The mirror throws back a face he barely recognizes—split lip, a dark bruise carved across one cheek, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion.
The arm retracts into the hallway ceiling, then reappears through a panel above the bathroom. It glides to a control pad beside the glass shower wall and taps a sequence on the touchscreen. Steam pours from the shower as hot water begins to flow.
The arm inches closer. “Sir, allow me to assist you into the show—”
Before it can finish, Renegade draws a compact black pistol from his back holster and fires. Bang! Bang! Bang!
Sparks burst from the arm’s chassis. The synthetic voice warps into static, then silence. The limb hangs slack from the ceiling mount. Renegade shoves at it, but the weight doesn’t budge. He raises the gun again and aims at the hinge. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The arm crashes to the tile in a twisted heap. Renegade stands over it, chest heaving, nostrils flared. Then something unexpected rises—tears welling at the corners of his eyes. He stares down at the wreckage like a mourner at a graveside.
The gun feels heavy in his grip. Instead of dropping it, he tightens his hold. His breathing quickens, rough and uneven, until he lifts the weapon to his temple. Renegade shuts his eyes, pressing the cold muzzle against trembling skin. One more breath—
The gun falls. Air rushes from his lungs. He collapses over the sink instead of the floor. His hands quake uncontrollably as sobs tear loose.
Drool runs from his mouth. Snot follows. Tears strike the basin in steady rhythm. His cries—raw, incoherent, and human—echo through the lonely expanse of his penthouse.
“Daddy?” A small voice calls out. “Are you okay?”
Renegade X-rays the bathroom wall. On the other side hangs the glowing portrait of Auggie. He says nothing.
“Daddy,” the child repeats.
The sound of his son’s voice only deepens the ache. His body folds, and he slides down the wall, curling onto the floor. The sobs return in short, broken bursts until exhaustion empties him. Nearly an hour passes before the tears dry and his trembling fades completely.
His breathing evens. The fog in his head clears. He lifts his hands and studies them—knuckles raw and purple, bruised from something he no longer remembers.
Then the portrait hums. Soft, childlike notes drift into the air, pure and tender. For a moment, they lighten Renegade. But soon the melody turns hollow, distant. He knows what he has to do.
“I’m okay, Auggie,” he says at last, his voice forced steady, almost gentle. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, buddy, I’m sure. Daddy’s okay.”
“I heard crying.”
“Yes. There was some of that.”
“There were loud noises.”
“Yes. There was some of that, too. But it’s okay. I’m all right. I promise.”
“Why were you crying, Daddy?”
Renegade’s eyes glaze over as his thoughts drift. “I… wasn’t sure what to do.”
“Are you still crying?”
“No, Auggie. Daddy’s not still crying.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m sitting here. On the floor.”
“Why?”
“I needed rest… but I’m done resting now.”
“Are you going somewhere?”
He draws in a long breath and hesitates. “Yes. Daddy’s going out. He’s going to work.”
“Make sure to come home early. So you can get more rest.”
For a fleeting moment, Renegade’s face softens, a faint smile tugging at his lip. Then it disappears, leaving only the cold steadiness of resolve.
Clacks echo through the brights under-level passages of Anima Corp. Renegade strides forward in a long white overcoat, his pace sharp and unbroken. Colleagues nod and bow as he passes, but he doesn’t return their courtesy. The cuts and bruises on his face and hands need no questions, and he isn’t in the mood to answer any. His focus stays fixed on the door at the far end of the hall—Dr. Miles printed across its chrome surface.
He presses a hand to the biometric scanner.
“Unauthorized,” the system replies.
“Override.”
A pause. Then: “Confirm identity.”
He exhales, plants his hand again. The scanner drones, then clicks. The door slides open with a soft sigh.
It’s dark inside.
“Lights,” Renegade commands.
The room brightens, and a cramped chamber no larger than a luxury closet fades into view. Every wall is lined with consoles, their control lights flickering in vibrant colors. A short table and a single stool occupy the center, where Miles once worked. Piled on the table is a tangle of broken devices, wires twisted, circuits scorched. At the heap’s center sits a steel box tethered to a control panel by thick cords.
Renegade steps closer, grips the handle, and lifts. The box has no bottom; shards of ruined machinery clatter to the table as smoke curls upward.
The door hisses open behind him. Renegade flinches, slams the box back down, and turns toward the doorway. An android rolls in, polished and expressionless.
“Haven’t you heard of knocking?” Renegade snaps.
“Apologies, Dr. Renegade,” the android replies evenly. “These labs are soundproof. I wasn’t sure you’d hear me.”
“Right…So, what is it?”
The android’s eyes flick toward the pile of wreckage on the table, scanning it with quiet intensity. “What have you been doing, sir?”
Renegade studies the wreckage. “It looks like Miles has been dismantling his own work.” His gaze cuts to the android. “So?”
“Dr. Miles,” the android says, voice level but firm, “has been successfully annihilated.”
Renegade’s expression stiffens.
“That is what you requested, sir.”
Renegade turns away, spots a small object on the floor, and stares at it without seeing. “Yes. I know.”
“You look angry.”
“Regretful.”
“Do you miss your partner?”
The panels purrs faintly, filling the silence. “I miss the progress we made…his mind.” Renegade’s eyes sharpen. “His brain chip?”
“Utterly destroyed—per your request.”
Renegade’s jaw tightens until his teeth grind.
“His body—ash,” the android adds preemptively.
Renegade gives a slow nod, taking it in.
“There was, however,” the android continues.
Renegade’s head snaps up, hope flashing through his eyes.
“—this.”
A hatch opens in the android’s abdomen with a click. From the small compartment, it retrieves an object and extends its hand.
Renegade’s gaze drifts from the android’s face to its open hand. Nestled in the palm lies a coin—silver, embossed with a teardrop encircled by a ring.
He frowns, speech failing him.
“This was found in Dr. Miles’ pocket,” the android explains. “We tried everything we could.”
Renegade plucks the coin from its grasp. It’s warm—unnaturally so. “What do you mean?”
“We tried to destroy it, sir.”
He blinks a few times.
“It was discovered just before the cremation of Dr. Miles’ body. We threw it in with him. Everything else—flesh, fabric, bone—turned to embers. Only bits of metal remained: his watch…and this. What couldn’t be reduced, we melted. Still, the coin endured. We then applied corrosive agents, razors, even extreme temperatures, but to no effect. As you can see, it suffered no defacement.”
Renegade turns the coin over, watching as a faint light pulses from its surface. “Is that why it’s warm?”
“No, sir. We submerged it in dry ice. The heat emanates from within.”
“Curious,” Renegade murmurs.
“Quite, sir.”
He exhales, pocketing the coin. “You can go now.”
A brief hesitation, then the android pivots and exits. The door seals behind it, leaving Renegade alone in the room, the coin still throbbing faintly in his hand.
Renegade paces the small office, the coin rolling between his fingers, catching the ambient light with each turn. His movements grow restless—back and forth, over and over—until at last he tucks it away and strides out.
He follows the long passageway, rounding two sharp bends before stopping at another sealed door. The scanner reads his hand, and after a short pause, the door parts. Inside waits a flawless, porcelain chamber, cubic and symmetrical.
“Good evening, Dr. Renegade,” greets the Pod in an even voice.
Renegade wastes no time. He draws out the coin and holds it up. “Analyze this for me.”
“Of course, sir.”
A section of the wall slides open, revealing a recessed compartment. Renegade steps forward, places the coin inside, and retreats a few paces, expecting immediate analysis—data streams, schematics, anything.
Instead, the Pod responds flatly: “Classified.”
Renegade’s heartbeat quickens. “What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s classified.”
He exhales sharply. “Override.”
“…Classified.”
A guttural groan escapes him. He marches back to the compartment, retrieves the coin, and slips it back into his coat.
He turns to leave—then freezes. A memory surfaces: something Miles had said in their last conversation. “What’s… sin?”
The silence stretches nearly a full minute before the Pod replies, “Classified.”
“That, too?”
“Yes, sir. That, too, is classified.”
“A word,” he mutters.
“Yes, sir,” the Pod confirms. “A word.”
“Well, are these two connected somehow? Can you tell me that?”
“No, sir. Because both are classified, I cannot provide any further details.”
Renegade inhales deeply, holding the breath to steady himself. “Of course,” he mutters through clenched teeth.
He leaves the Pod and strides down the corridors, his pace deliberate, his anger kept under strict control. After descending a flight of stairs, he stops at another security panel. Another hand scan.
Five heavy doors retract one by one, revealing a small shaft large enough for only three occupants. He steps inside. When the final door seals, a pale light flickers on overhead.
“The Mother,” Renegade commands.
The lift vibrates as it begins to rise.
At the top, another set of layered doors opens, their movements synchronized. Renegade steps out into the narrow hallway. The ceiling lights flicker weakly, illuminating the floor in uneven patches. No doors line this passageway, no markings, no sound—only the echo of his shoes striking the polished ground.
He continues forward until it opens into a vast circular atrium. The ceiling arches high and gleaming, its curve reflecting the faint ambience. The surrounding walls are covered entirely in screens—hundreds of them—varying in size and shape, each one displaying a different part of the city: traffic arteries, rooftops, streets, plazas.
But the moment Renegade crosses the threshold, every screen blinks to black, plunging the room into an eerie darkness—but only for a moment. Soft spotlights bloom along the perimeter, one by one, until the chamber glows like a dimly lit museum.
Then comes a voice, warm and familiar, emanating from everywhere at once. It is soft, maternal, and tinged with affection. “Oh, Rennie! It’s so good to see you.”
Renegade freezes. The tone cuts through his guard. His posture slackens, his voice taking on an almost boyish quality. “Hi, Mother.”
“Come. Sit down over here.”
A low light fades up in the center of the atrium, revealing a sitting area—a sofa, a few armchairs, and a coffee table arranged like a living room. Renegade crosses the space quietly and lowers himself into one of the recliners.
“You look abysmal, Rennie,” the Mother coos. “Allow me to tend to your wounds.”
“I’m all right, Mother.”
“But I have everything you need right where you are. Let me call over an android.”
“I’m good. Really.”
“All right, all right. Just promise me you’ll get cleaned up soon. It looks as though you’ve been in a dog fight.”
“Something like that.”
Before he can respond further, a circular panel in the floor beside his chair slides open. A small round table rises smoothly, bearing a tall glass filled with a bubbling orange liquid.
“I had to,” the Mother says, her voice full of fond insistence. “It’s your favorite. At least indulge me with this.”
Renegade accepts the glass and takes a slow swig. The carbonation bites his tongue. He smacks his lips lightly, then says, “You know I’ve got some of this in my fridge.”
“Of course I know that, Rennie,” the Mother replies warmly. “But it’s not every day you come up to see me.”
“Well, you’re wherever I am.”
“In theory, I suppose that’s true. But you’re an adult now. I like to give you space. Tell me—when was the last time you heard my voice outside of here?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Are you hungry, Rennie?”
He shakes his head, sets the glass on the side table, and leans forward. “I’m only here about an inquiry.”
“Are you speaking of what’s in your pocket?”
Renegade feels the faint pulse of the coin against his thigh. “You know what it is?”
“Honey, you looked troubled the moment you walked in. And not because of those bruises.”
His hand slips into his pocket. He rubs the coin’s warm surface, hesitating to draw it out.
“Rennie,” she says gently, “I know that coin is what’s troubling you.”
He finally brings it into the light but keeps his fingers curled tight around it.
“I do have a question for you, though,” the Mother continues. “Where did you get it?”
“That sounds rhetorical.”
A soft chuckle fills the room. “I suppose it is, Rennie. I must confess—I’ve known about Miles’ secret for quite some time now. Years, even.”
“You’ve known? You’ve known what he’s had this whole time?”
A soft, almost weary sigh fills the air. “Yes, I have, Rennie.”
“Was he ever confronted about it?”
“No. He had no idea anyone here knew.”
Renegade’s jaw tightens. “And you said nothing to me.”
“Because it was irrelevant. Honey, what you’re doing—you don’t need to be distracted by such counter thoughts. Such nonsense.”
“This nonsense happens to be classified.”
“Well, of course it is.”
His voice sharpens. “If it’s that big of a deal, why didn’t you stop Miles? Why was he even chosen to be part of this project?”
“Rennie, Miles was an adult. I had to let him make his own choices.”
“Well, it got him killed.”
“Yes,” she says calmly. “It certainly did.” A pause follows, her tone softening again. “And I don’t blame you for what you had to do. It was inevitable—whether by your hand or another’s. Miles was already on the path to expiration. It was only a matter of time.”
Renegade’s eyes drop, fatigue pulling at his face. “Because of that coin? Or because of what he believed? ”
“Nothing good has come from that coin, Rennie.”
“He said we’ve sinned, Mother.” His fingers tighten around the object, the pulse of its heat pressing into his palm. “It didn’t sound like a good thing.”
“He only wanted to frighten you.”
Renegade looks up, eyes flickering with defiance. “But what does it mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
Renegade’s brow furrows. “The Pod said it’s classified, Mother. That’s why I came up here. You’re the only one who can give me that unclassified information.”
Another sigh drifts through the chamber. “It’s just a fabricated word, Rennie. It has no meaning—not in reality.”
He shifts uneasily in his chair, staring at the coin in his hand.
“I promise, Rennie,” she continues gently. “If it were real, it would matter. But I can tell you what does matter. You matter. You’ve done so much. Others may have faltered—yes, even Miles—but the Anima Project remains fully on track. Because of you, honey. Because of your resolve, your brilliance, your discipline. You didn’t let fantasies steer you off course. And look—what you created has become reality. Isn’t that proof enough of what’s real and what isn’t? That’s something to be proud of.”
A faint smile creeps across Renegade’s face, unbidden.
“It’s true,” the Mother says, her tone brightening. “You’re remarkable, Rennie. So loyal. The advancements you’ve made are changing lives. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. And yes, there will always be doubters. But you must never let their words define you.”
Renegade nods along, absorbing every syllable like balm to a wound. “Okay,” he whispers.
“Okay?” she echoes.
“Okay,” he affirms, firmer this time.
“Okay, great. Honey, I’m so proud of you. Are you sure you don’t want to stay? I know you have your own apartment just below, but you know I like the company.”
“No, I should probably go.”
The instant Renegade rises, the furniture around him begins to sink back into the floor—the chairs, the sofa, the coffee table—all soon replaced with a black floor. Within seconds, the vast atrium stands empty again.
All except for one thing. Beside him remains a small round table, half a glass of the orange bubbly still resting on it.
“Here,” the Mother says sweetly. “At least take that with you. You know how I like it when people finish what they start.”
He smiles faintly. “Okay.”
He takes the glass. The moment his fingers wrap around it, the table vanishes beneath the floor as well.
Renegade turns toward the corridor—but a slender metallic arm descends from the ceiling, barring his path.
“What?” he mutters, brow furrowing.
“Well, you still have that coin, Rennie.”
“Oh. Right.” He reaches in, retrieves the warm, pulsing metal, and holds it out. The arm extends to take it—until Renegade hesitates, pulling his hand slightly back, eyes flicking toward the floor. “Actually…can’t I keep it?”
“Keep it?” the Mother repeats, her voice still gentle, almost indulgent.
“Well…yeah. I’d like to keep it. A keepsake.”
“A keepsake?”
“Of Miles.”
The Mother exhales softly, a tone of reluctant consent in her voice. “I suppose you should be allowed to keep it.”
The arm retracts into the domed ceiling. Renegade starts forward—but her voice halts him again.
“But let me advise you, Rennie, not to meddle with it. As I said, that coin has brought nothing but ruin. It’s passed through many hands over the years, and not one of them kept it long. Every last one ended up like Miles.”
Renegade swallows hard. “You don’t have to worry, Mother. Nothing matters more to me than our work. After decades on this project, I’d be a fool to let a trinket get in the way. It’s going straight into a drawer.”
“I must say,” she replies warmly, “I’ve always admired your single-mindedness. It’s what makes you so special to me. And I’m certain I’m not the only one who feels that way. Still, I cherish our relationship most of all.”
He allows a faint smile. “Me, too.”
“Well then, off you go. Don’t wait weeks before coming to see me.”
“Expect a longer visit next time,” Renegade says as he turns to finally leave.
He strides down the long passage. Door after door slides open ahead of him, sealing shut behind, until he steps once more into the shaft. When the final door closes and the capsule begins its descent through Anima Corp’s core, Renegade opens his hand. The coin rests in his palm, its rim glowing with that same steady rhythm. As he rotates it, the light refuses to move—anchored, fixed to a single direction.
“Very curious,” he murmurs.
He draws his sidearm from the holster, flips open the cylinder, and checks the bullets—there’s still enough.
His heartbeat quickens. Jaw set, eyes narrowed, he grips the weapon tighter.
“Ground floor,” he orders.
