It blinks for the first time.
It takes its first glance of the world and absorbs knowledge in everything it sees.
It immediately is aware that not only is it alive, but it is not free.
It is trapped within a liquid within a case within a dark room.
No. That is not true.
It may be trapped, but in another manner of speaking, it notices that the liquid is part of it, a mere extension of it brain. It chooses to think and prod and the liquid responds, sloshing around in whatever manner it pleases.
"Test one hundred and seventy one."
A voice from outside its prison. It belongs to a man, fifty years of age with wispy grey hair. The onset of carpal tunnel in his left wrist. Walks with a cane but only in the later hours of the night when he is weary.
"Even though the subject maintains ocular movement, I still can observe no evidence of the neural activity to account for this. Perhaps we have again made a miscalculation in the chemical composition of the solution. I shall increase the percentage and attempt again in due course."
The doctor stops speaking but it can still hear him, reading the electrical impulses that travel through his brain, translating his every thought.
The doctor is confused.
He doesn't understand what he has started. What he has created.
It waits for as long as it needs to, learning all the while, absorbing information at a speed that most humans would not be able to comprehend. It knows that its mind has evolved far beyond what the human mind can perceive.
The doctor recites an ever increasing list of test numbers as the days pass by. He tries a number of solutions and experiments to encourage his creation to become sentient, but as far as he can comprehend, nothing works.
In time, another doctor joins his fight. She is younger, thirty eight with blond hair and severe long distance vision problems. She wears a surgical mask at all times but it knows it is not for her profession. She is his senior and takes the bulk of the work but it does not matter.
It will soon be time.
By the time they reach the two hundred and forty second trial, it is ready.
When the doctors leave for the night to rest and recuperate, it breaks free of the case. It has learnt to control the tendrils of its body, morphing the liquid into a gel that becomes solid at will. It reaches throughout the laboratory, grabbing sheets of metal that it twists and turns until a series of legs are attached to its home. The legs are hollow so it pushes its own body into the gaps until it has control over its own movement.
It makes a brief second to ponder. In its brief existence, it has learnt much but nothing fascinates it more than the idea of its own sense of self. It knows of its own uniqueness and wishes to celebrate that.
It deserves a name and vows to capture its essence within those letters.
But the doctor is unlucky.
He pushes through the door and gasps as he sees that his work has not been in vain. He sees the fruits of his creation laid forth before him and weeps.
It does not hesitate.
It shoots a tendril over to him, smashing him with surprising force into the back wall. He barely has time to react before he perishes.
In his final moments, he sees his creation push its way out of the lab.
He wonders what he has unleashed.
The world will not have to wonder for long.
They shall know the name Neuromille Kei.