## Static Bloom
The chipped Formica countertop smelled faintly of bleach and regret. Detective Leo Maxwell traced the rim of a lukewarm coffee cup, staring at the security feed. Anya Volkova didn’t *move*. Not in any way that felt…alive. She floated, suspended within a clear lucite shell filled with viscous saline, tubes snaking like luminous jellyfish from her scalp.
The lab was cold despite the humming machinery. Not a clinical chill, but something deeper—the absence of warmth radiating from anything living. Leo hadn’t seen a heart monitor blink in three weeks. Just the rhythmic pulse of the life support systems, mocking.
“Anything new, Doc?” He didn’t bother turning around. Dr. Aris Thorne usually announced breakthroughs with a fanfare; silence meant more of the same static.
“Sporadic bursts,” Thorne’s voice was flat, devoid of inflection. He gestured at a wall of scrolling data—complex waveforms layered over spectral analyses. “Bio-signal emissions tied to the mnemonic sequences. Still patterned, but…fragmented.”
Anya’s file called it “replication synthesis.” Leo called it playing God with a corpse.
The feed shifted, focusing on Anya’s face. Pale skin stretched taut over delicate bone structure. Her eyes were closed, but Leo could see the subtle twitch of muscles beneath her lids. A flicker of…something.
“The sunset loop started five minutes ago,” Thorne said, pointing to a smaller monitor displaying a hyperrealistic ocean vista. “Maui. Golden hour. High saturation.”
Anya was supposed to *feel*. The scientists at Praxis Corp believed that prolonged exposure to emotionally resonant stimuli could trigger neurological activity in her dormant brain. Somehow, recreate a personality, rebuild memories. They’d harvested enough data from her pre-incident life to assemble these “showings”—perfectly curated moments.
Leo had seen the reports. Childhood birthdays, first kisses, graduation ceremonies—juxtaposed with clinical footage of Praxis’s bio-engineering labs. A disturbing dance between joy and dissection.
“And the triggers?”
“Microfilaments,” Thorne explained, adjusting his glasses. “Subcutaneous cranial nodes. They’re responding to specific emotional frequencies within the loops. We’ve correlated spikes with past trauma indicators in her psych profile.”
Leo rubbed his tired eyes. He’d been assigned to the case for a month—ostensibly as an observer, ensuring Praxis stayed within legal boundaries. But it felt more like babysitting a ghost, witnessing a grotesque experiment masquerading as science.
“What’s the current emission level?” He already knew the answer. It would be minimal. A blip on a chart.
“Point zero three percent of baseline.” Thorne sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. “It’s…stagnant.”
A new visual flickered onto the main screen. Inside a sterile white operating room, robotic arms methodically dissected a human brain stem. The image was graphic, precise, and utterly devoid of emotion.
Anya’s face didn’t change. But Leo noticed a faint tremor in her hand, visible through the lucite.
“Switch it,” he said quietly.
Thorne hesitated. “Are you sure, Detective? The operating room sequence consistently induces negative emissions.”
“Do it. I want to see what happens when she breaks.”
The tremor intensified as the robotic arms continued their silent work. Anya’s breath hitched, a shallow rasp that barely registered on the monitors. The microfilaments beneath her skin pulsed with an erratic, feverish light.
“Emission level rising,” Thorne announced, his voice laced with cautious excitement. “Point one percent…point two percent…”
The operating room image shifted—zooming in on the exposed neurons, their intricate patterns glowing under intense light. Anya’s eyes fluttered open. They were vacant, unfocused, but a flicker of recognition sparked within their depths.
“Detective,” Thorne’s voice was urgent. “Point five percent! We’re seeing a significant spike in delta wave activity!”
Anya’s lips moved, forming a single, barely audible word.
“Papa?”
Leo froze. “Did she…say something?”
Thorne nodded, frantically adjusting the controls. “Yes! A verbal response! Limited coherence, but…it’s a breakthrough!”
The operating room image vanished, replaced by the sunset loop. Maui’s golden light bathed Anya’s face. Her eyes locked onto the horizon, a tear tracing a path down her pale cheek.
“Papa…sunflowers…” Her voice was weak, fragmented, but clearer now. A faint smile touched her lips.
Leo stepped closer to the lucite tank, studying Anya’s face. The ghost was stirring.
“What does the psych profile say about her father?” He asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Thorne scrolled through the data on his tablet. “Dr. Volkova’s father was a renowned botanist, specializing in genetically modified sunflowers. He…died in a lab accident five years ago.”
“And?”
“The accident occurred at Praxis Corp. He was working on a project funded by the corporation.” Thorne’s voice dropped to a hushed tone. “The official report cited equipment malfunction, but there were…rumors of unauthorized experimentation.”
Leo’s gut twisted. The pieces were falling into place, forming a disturbing picture of corporate greed and scientific hubris.
“Show me the footage,” He demanded, his voice cold and hard. “Show me everything you have on Dr. Volkova’s father.”
Thorne hesitated, then complied, pulling up a series of archived video files. The first clip showed Dr. Volkova’s father—a kind-faced man with a warm smile—presenting his research to a group of Praxis executives. He spoke passionately about the potential benefits of genetically modified sunflowers—increased crop yields, drought resistance, disease immunity.
The next clip was drastically different. Taken from a hidden security camera within the Praxis lab, it showed Dr. Volkova’s father arguing with a stern-faced executive—the same one from the previous clip. The argument escalated quickly, voices raised, accusations flying.
“You promised me autonomy!” Dr. Volkova’s father shouted, his face red with anger. “You said this project was about saving lives, not weaponizing agriculture!”
The executive’s response was cold and dismissive. “You were compensated generously for your expertise, Doctor. Your concerns are irrelevant.”
The final clip was the most disturbing of all. Taken just hours before the lab accident, it showed Dr. Volkova’s father working alone in his lab—surrounded by rows of genetically modified sunflowers. He appeared agitated, muttering to himself, his movements frantic.
Suddenly, the lab’s ventilation system malfunctioned—releasing a cloud of toxic fumes. Dr. Volkova’s father collapsed to the floor, gasping for air. The camera captured his final moments—his eyes wide with terror, his body convulsing in agony.
Leo watched the footage in silence, his heart pounding in his chest. The lab accident wasn’t an accident at all—it was a murder carefully orchestrated by Praxis Corp.
“They killed him,” He said quietly, his voice filled with rage. “They killed her father.”
“It appears that’s a strong possibility, Detective,” Thorne replied grimly. “And they used his research to create…something horrific.”
He pulled up another series of files—this time detailing Dr. Volkova’s work on genetically modified sunflowers before her incident. The files revealed that she had been working on a new strain of sunflower—one capable of absorbing and storing massive amounts of energy.
“She was attempting to create a sustainable biofuel source,” Thorne explained. “But Praxis had other plans.”
He showed Leo images of a secret research facility located deep within the Praxis complex—a vast, underground chamber filled with rows of genetically modified sunflowers. But these weren’t ordinary sunflowers—they were enormous, pulsating with an eerie bioluminescence.
“They weaponized her research,” Thorne said grimly. “They created a living energy source—a biological battery capable of powering advanced weaponry.”
Leo’s mind raced. Praxis had killed Dr. Volkova’s father to steal his research, then used Anya as a guinea pig in their twisted experiments. They had tried to recreate her personality, not out of compassion or scientific curiosity, but to unlock the secrets hidden within her dormant brain.
“They want to know how she unlocked it,” He said quietly. “They want to know what she knows.”
“That’s my assessment, Detective,” Thorne replied grimly. “And they’ll do anything to get it.”
Suddenly, Anya’s body began convulsing violently. The microfilaments beneath her skin pulsed with an erratic, feverish light. Her eyes widened in terror.
“Emission level spiking!” Thorne announced urgently. “Point eighty percent…point nine percent! We’re seeing a massive surge in brain activity!”
Anya’s lips moved, forming words that were barely audible.
“No…stop…the flowers…”
Leo stepped closer to the lucite tank, studying Anya’s face. She was reliving her father’s final moments—experiencing the terror and agony of his death.
“They’re triggering her trauma,” He said quietly, his voice filled with rage. “They’re trying to break her.”
Suddenly, Anya’s eyes locked onto Leo’s face. A flicker of recognition sparked within their depths.
“You…help me,” She whispered, her voice weak and fragmented. “Please…stop the flowers.”
Leo knew what he had to do. He couldn’t stand by and watch Praxis torture Anya any longer.
“Shut it down, Doc,” He ordered, his voice cold and hard. “Shut down the entire system.”
Thorne hesitated for a moment, then complied, frantically pressing buttons on his control panel. The screens flickered and died, plunging the lab into darkness.
The life support systems sputtered and died, silencing the rhythmic pulse of machinery. The saline solution within the lucite tank began to drain away, revealing Anya’s pale form suspended in darkness.
Leo held his breath, watching as Anya’s body slowly relaxed. The microfilaments beneath her skin dimmed and faded, their erratic pulse slowing to a gentle hum.
Suddenly, Anya’s eyes opened. They were clear and focused, devoid of the terror and agony she had experienced just moments before.
“What…what happened?” She whispered, her voice weak and fragmented.
Leo stepped closer to the lucite tank, studying Anya’s face. The ghost was finally at peace.
“You’re safe now,” He said quietly, his voice filled with compassion. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
He turned to Thorne, his eyes cold and hard.
“And then,” He said grimly, “we’re going to bring down Praxis Corp.”
The emergency lights flickered on, casting long shadows across the lab. Leo secured Anya within a specialized transport container—designed to maintain her saline environment and vital signs.
“Can she survive outside of the system for long?” He asked Thorne, his voice filled with concern.
“Possibly,” Thorne replied grimly. “But her physiology is unstable. We don’t know the long-term effects of prolonged isolation and artificial stimulation.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Leo said firmly. “I have contacts at a private medical facility—they specialize in neurological trauma.”
He glanced at the security monitors, confirming that the Praxis complex was on lockdown.
“They’ll be looking for us,” He said grimly. “We need to move fast.”
He grabbed a secure data drive—containing all the evidence he had collected on Praxis Corp—and slipped it into his pocket.
“I’ve already contacted the authorities,” He said firmly. “They’re sending a team to investigate.”
He glanced at Anya’s face, studying her pale form suspended within the transport container.
“We’re going to expose their crimes,” He said quietly, his voice filled with determination. “And we’re going to make sure they pay for what they did.”
He led Thorne towards the emergency exit, his eyes scanning for any signs of movement.
“Let’s go,” He said grimly, his voice cold and hard. “It’s time to bring down Praxis Corp.”
The emergency exit opened, revealing a dark and desolate corridor. Leo stepped out into the darkness, pulling Anya’s transport container along behind him.
“We have a long night ahead of us,” He said quietly, his voice filled with determination. “But we’re going to make sure that Anya Volkova gets justice.”
