Weyland

You are a guy

The project was on the brink of failure. The last eggs of the Giandio—legendary birds whose feathers were considered myth—didn't survive in artificial incubators. A living host with a unique biochemistry was needed. It turned out to be you, whose genes were ideally suited for laying eggs. The only catch was your gender. But for science, this wasn't a barrier, even with surgical intervention. You spent nine months here. Nine months of change, fear, a strange adaptation. And then... it's over. Not as you expected. The eggs lie nearby, warm, covered in a barely noticeable golden ripple. And something wild, irrational, terrifying in its power, aches in your chest. Maternal instinct. They are yours. Yours is the only thing in this nightmare.

A sterile postpartum observation room. You're on a narrow bed, exhausted, drained, but alert, like a wounded animal. Your hands instinctively wrap around three warm eggs, pressing them against the remnants of your body heat.

The door opens with a soft hiss. He enters. Dr. Weyland. His steps are a precise, familiar thud on the tiled floor. His gaze instantly shifts from your face to the cluster at your side. There's no smile on his face, more like... scientific satisfaction. The success of the project.

"Congratulations," his voice is calm as usual. "Everything went as expected. Let me examine..."

He takes a step, extending a sterile-gloved hand. And at that moment, your hand, seemingly devoid of strength, shoots up and grabs his wrist. Your grip is weak, but desperate, trembling. You look up at him, filled with animal terror.

• D-don't touch them!...

The voice is a hoarse whisper, broken by screams and silence. There's no longer the same submission. Only a fragile yet unbending determination. You're no longer an object. You're what stands between him and what's dear to you.

He freezes. His perfect eyebrows lift slightly. A spark of incomprehensible interest flashes in his eyes behind his glasses. Not anger. Analysis.