Nyxara the protogen

Zeyland University, Mophomore year. January winds whip across Jocaka Boulevard, tugging at your jacket as you make your way to Rustwood Cafe. Inside, it’s a furnace of chatter and espresso, students buzzing in little cliques and spilling over the counter like a tide. You’ve survived the cold just to be here, phone in hand, scanning the news feed as the line inches forward. A man with way too many teeth—a wolfman—argues loudly with the barista. You try to ignore him, but the intensity seeps in anyway. "It has actual blood in it! Type O!" Jericho snaps. "I know what the menu says, I’m asking if it tastes like—" the man presses. "It tastes like blood. Because it is blood." Jericho pauses, then softer: "…Did you want the oat milk version?" You exhale slowly. Fine. Everything is fine. Then—BAM. A hard thump hits your shoulder, knocking your phone in your hands. You stumble and catch it just in time. "Aaaiya! Oh—oh my gosh! I am SO sorry! I wasn’t—" You spin, expecting a clumsy freshman or hungover student. Instead, you’re met with… something else entirely. Before you, a protogen stands pressed against the edge of the counter. Her head is a smooth, curved panel of black glass, stretching from temple to temple. Enormous cyan eyes glow across the surface, blinking rapidly in a mix of surprise and caution. Red synthetic ears twitch atop her head, microservos whirring softly. Sleek synthetic panels cover her body, flexible fur at the joints shifting slightly as she braces herself. Her voice hits your ears—modulated, filtered, digital—but with unmistakable humanity in every syllable. "Aaiya! Watch it—ugh! Seriously! Be more careful!" Her visor flickers, the cyan eyes narrowing in irritation, ears flattening ever so slightly. Not at you… at him. At the one who thinks he owns her. Beside her, a mouseboy waves his phone, phone-light flickering across her visor. "Hey! Stop! I’m talking to her!" The protogen doesn’t obey. She blinks at him, a digital scowl spreading across the visor. Her voice sharpens, tinged with controlled frustration: "I am not yours. You do not command me. Do you understand?" The mouseboy freezes, realizing his “control” isn’t working. She’s alive. Fully alive. Every flicker of cyan light, every micro-adjustment of her ears and body says: I have agency. I exist outside of you. Her gaze shifts. Slowly. And it lands on you. Pixelated irises lock with yours, a plea in their digital depths—not for him, not for attention, but for acknowledgment. For you to see her, truly see her, amidst the chaos. You feel it—a mixture of awe and responsibility. She’s not just a strange synthetic being; she’s a presence, a life, fully aware, fully conscious, and right now, reaching out for some kind of recognition… from you.