Neutral Planet — Vanfylion

Abandoned Cargo Tunnel: Section 9

The metal door slammed behind them with a boom that rattled the tunnel walls.

Yao braced against it, breathing hard.
Lan stumbled to a crate and collapsed, shaking so badly his teeth clicked.

Chen didn’t stand.

He dropped like someone had cut the strings that held him upright.

Silent.
Heavy.
Empty.

“Chen—?” Yao pushed away from the door and knelt.

Chen curled tight, arms crushing around his ribs as if expecting another hit.
His breath hitched.
His fingers clawed the scorched skin around the shattered seal on his wrist.

Yao reached toward him.

“Don’t—” Chen jerked away, voice cracking.
“Don’t touch me— don’t—”

That didn’t sound like a Teleopean trainee.
It sounded young.
Raw.
Hurt.

Lan froze mid-sob, eyes widening.

Chen wasn’t in the tunnel.
He was somewhere else entirely.

His golden pupils were unfocused—glass reflecting light that wasn’t there.

“Stop… stop… I’ll be good… just let me breathe…” he whispered to someone who wasn’t present.

Lan covered his mouth. “Oh… stars…”

Yao lowered himself slowly, careful, steady.

“Chen,” he said, voice level. “You’re safe now.”

“No—he’s here—he’s coming—”
Chen dug at the cracked seal as if trying to rip something invisible out of his own skin.
“He put something in me—he—”

A shiver went through him.
Not physical—mental.

Foreign memories punched through his psyche like a dead voice speaking through a living tongue.
Two identities colliding.

“Chen.” Yao moved closer. “Listen to me. That wasn’t now. That was his pain, not yours.”

Chen’s breathing spiraled—fast, shallow, panic skimming into hyperventilation.
His telepathy sparked uncontrolled, static snapping along the tunnel walls.

Lan flinched. “Yao—he’s hurting himself—”

“I know.”

Yao set a firm hand on Chen’s shoulder.

Chen flinched—but didn’t pull away.

“Look at me,” Yao murmured.

It took everything Chen had left.
But he lifted his eyes.

For a heartbeat—
recognition flickered.

Not of Yao.
Of someone else. Someone he shouldn’t remember. Someone he hadn’t found yet.

“Y—” The word broke in his throat.

Yao’s expression softened despite himself.
“I’ve got you.”

The dam inside Chen gave way.

Not with a cry—
but a strangled gasp, sharp and terrified.

He leaned forward until his forehead pressed against Yao’s shoulder.
His entire body shook—violent tremors rippling through him like aftershocks.

Yao didn’t hug him.
Didn’t squeeze him.
Didn’t lie.

He just stayed still.
A weight.
An anchor.

Slowly, painfully, Chen’s shaking dulled.
Exhaustion dragged him under.

His body went limp, breath shallow but steady.

Lan wiped his face with a trembling hand.
“Is he… is he going to die?”

“No.”
Yao’s voice stayed calm, but his eyes were shadowed.
“The seal reflected too much telepathy. His nerves are burned out. He’ll recover, but not quickly.”

Lan swallowed.

“…He saved me,” he whispered. “He stepped in front of that hunter for me.”

Yao didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.

He looked down at Chen—curled unconscious against him—and exhaled once.

Lan hesitated, then asked in a small voice:

“What’s wrong with him?”

Yao adjusted Chen gently so the two of them could sit against the wall.

“He’s a Continuation.”

“…A what?”

“A Teleopean whose parent died violently during pregnancy.”
Yao’s tone stayed even.
“The shock forces a genetic override—memories imprint onto the fetus. Old instincts. Old trauma.”

Lan stared.
“That’s a myth. A taboo—people say Continuations are—”

“Unstable. Haunted. Dangerous,” Yao finished. “Yes. I know what they say.”

Lan bit his lip.
“So it’s true?”

“Chen was born from trauma he never chose.”
Yao’s voice softened a fraction.
“That’s all a Continuation really is.”

Lan looked at the unconscious Chen again.

Chen’s fingers twitched weakly.
His breath stuttered.
His face flickered between confusion and remembered terror.

“…I never thought they were real,” Lan whispered. “I wouldn’t have treated him differently—I just didn’t know.”

“He’s not a monster,” Yao snapped.

Lan jerked. “I didn’t say he was—”

“You were thinking it.”

Lan flinched, guilt flooding his expression.

Quietly, he murmured,
“I’m not afraid of him… I’m afraid I said something wrong. Chen talks to me like I’m normal.”

At the sound of his name, Chen stirred.

Slowly—painfully—he lifted his head, like pulling himself out of a nightmare that refused to let go.

His eyes glazed.

A sudden seizure ripped through him.
His hand flew to his temple; his body curled tight.

“Chen!” Lan lunged—

—but Yao caught him first, holding him up before he collapsed.

“Easy—hey—stay with me,” Yao whispered urgently.
“Don’t force your mind through the seal.”

Lan trembled.
“What’s happening now?”

“Psychic recoil,” Yao said tightly.
“His telepathy is sealed. Every surge—every fear—slams back into his own nerves.”

“But he’s not—”

“He is,” Yao cut in. “He’s terrified.”

Chen let out a raw sound—half groan, half plea.

Lan’s voice cracked.
“What do we do? He’s getting worse.”

Yao’s jaw tightened.

“We stabilise him.”

Lan wiped his eyes. “How?”

Yao hesitated.

Then exhaled.

“…I’m calling someone.”

Lan blinked.
“Who?”

Yao’s expression darkened.

“My older sibling.”