DNA (A Kuroshitsuji fanfiction)

by CrystineLucarnia

Ciel was born in a laboratory, along with dozens of other children. When his creators try to dispose of him as "defective," Ciel uses the last of his strength to call on a demon. Scarred and filled with hatred for the ones who created and then discarded him, the child forms a contract: for revenge. (Takes place in the far future of the anime.)

1. Chapter 1

DNA

A Kuroshitsuji fanfiction

1

I had no name for the first four years of my life. From the time I awoke in the culture tank, until the time I was introduced to others like myself, I was called only by a number, like a product off the assembly line. When a last I stood in a row of other, rather confused, children, our makers likewise stood in front of us, observing the group with dispassionate gazes.

"You have spent the last four years learning basic motor and language skills," announced one, his black shoes clicking in the floor as he paced back and forth in front of us. "Now, at the physical age of seven, you will spend the next few years learning how to interact with others. You will be expected to be able to maintain conversation, perform in a group environment, and make friends with one another." These last words left his lips with a slightly mocking smile, and I felt myself shiver. "To that end," the man continued, "you will be given names. Use these names to address each other from now on."

A second scientist began to walk down the line, naming us as he went. "A-52, Roger. A-53, Alois. A-54…" I tuned him out as a stared around the round, white room. It was always white in this place; white walls, white coats, in the mirror I saw a white face in a white dressing-gown. "A-60." I blinked as the man stopped in front of me. He gave a wide, narrow grin, eyes hidden behind heavy silver bangs. "Ciel."

We had a play-song for our makers. It rang out quietly whenever a child was scolded or, occasionally, taken from the group. We were still too young, too sheltered to know what fear was, but we felt a tight excitement, the feeling of children who knew they mustn't be caught, whenever we hummed the little tune.

"Hurry up and hide, the doctor's coming,

If he sees you sick, he'll pull you out.

How many will be left after he gets here?

1, 2, 3, 4…"

It never went past four, as though no one wanted to know our actual number.

Though I sang with the rest of them, in my soft, tuneless voice, I rarely joined in their games. There was something that seemed off about their play in the blank, white space where we lived. It was too featureless, somehow. Too false. And so I would sit in a corner with one of the few books in our play-area, reading them over and over, until I could probably recite most of them word-for-word.

A year after we were named, one of our caretakers pulled me aside. "You need to try harder to get along with your friends," he told me.

As I wandered back towards the rest of the children, I heard his companion murmur, "He doesn't fit the requirements. Why not pull him out now?"

"His coding is perfect," the first man replied softly. "Give him some time."

That night, I lay under the white sheets and listened to the breathing of the children around. Coding. What was coding? Why was it perfect? I raised a hand to my chest, feeling the pulse and ebb of my heart. I pictured myself: thin, pale, dark hair and large, blue eyes.

What was, "perfect?"

The hand lowered, and I turned my head to look down the row of sleeping children. There were seventy of us on that first day. Silently I counted, and I felt a creeping feeling of dread.

Forty-five.