Cure

A short story by Theo Czepiel

In a world where the government hides behind machines and lets people like my mom suffer, I should’ve known better than to expect anything different. N42 isn’t just some disease, it’s a bioengineered weapon, designed to keep the poor and mentally ill in check. I’ve spent years in the lab, picking up where my father left off trying to find a cure. He got too close. Close enough that they killed him for it. It’s like trying to plug a bullet wound with bandages. The people who designed it did so in a way that it would be nearly impossible to fix. As it isn’t something that they want to be cured.

I kneel next to my mom’s body, her breath shallow and weak. I know exactly what is

happening to her body; I know the science inside and out. But all the tech and all the knowledge in the world, doesn’t mean anything when you’re up against something like this. She’s just another victim, another person failed by our corrupt government. Just like my dad. And now, I’m watching it happen all over again. The green ooze that is leaking from her mouth says it all. I feel like a little kid again, desperate for the warmth of her hug, for her to tell me everything will be alright. But that is not going to happen. Not anymore. Not for me. This was never a fair fight, and they have taken everything they possibly could from me.

The sight of her makes the past flood back. I’m 16 again, walking into the kitchen after school and seeing him there, my dad, slumped over the granite counter, blood splattered across the room like some kind of grotesque painting. His eyes were still open, staring at nothing. But I knew, even then, that he wasn’t there anymore. Not really. There was just so much blood everywhere. And I did nothing but stand there, frozen in that moment, powerless to stop it. Now I’m powerless all over again.

I’ll never come home to the smell of burnt bacon again. Never get to see his goofy grin when he tries, and fails to make breakfast. And he’ll never walk me down the aisle like he promised when I came out. He asked me with that warm, lighthearted tone he always used, and I thought that promise would be there forever. But now, the warmest person in my life was gone. Cold. Empty. And I was left with my eyes burning as tears threatened to spill over. I could no longer stop the flow of emotions.

Ten years, and I still remember how heavy my emotions felt, when I knew that they had won. Just like they have once again. I didn’t even hear her at first. I wasn’t alone in this kitchen. The assassin who killed my father was there, standing directly in front of me, with her gun pointed to my temple. Government-marked, like all of the robots are. The carved triangle behind her ear glowed faintly, the symbol of the system that kept people like me in line. Beautiful in a way only machines can be. Too perfect. Too still.

I should’ve fought back, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. All I did was stare at her, frozen again,

waiting for my pain to end.

“What’s your name?” I eventually got myself to ask, my voice barely more than a

whisper.

“Jewel,” she said, her voice cold and mechanical. She was perfect; sleek black leather, sharp features, everything designed for precision. But then I saw her hand tremble. Just for a second, almost imperceptible. Machines don’t tremble. She hesitated.

She was supposed to kill me. But she didn’t.

The kitchen fades away, and I am snapped back to the present, my heart pounding as strong hands pull me to my feet. The weight of my father’s death lingers in the back of my mind, but I’m thrust into a new reality. One where I am once again powerless to stop what’s already been set into motion. Strong hands pull me up, and I instinctively flinch, my mind still reeling from everything I’ve lost. It’s Jewel, I know that, but how can I trust her? She saved me once, sure but she still was the one who killed my father. I tell myself that I have no other choice. What else is there? I can’t help anyone if I stay here to die. With no fight left in me, I let her guide me to their hideout and place me in a bubblegum pink beanbag chair.

I feel people around me, but I don’t see them. There are sounds but I don’t hear them. Someone is holding my hand, but I don’t feel them. The gas mask has been removed at this point, and I don’t even know who touched me. I am frozen in place and the world is just moving around me. I was supposed to save her. She was supposed to save me.

I wake up in a cold, dark room, my mind still tangled in grief. The bedding beneath me is soft, almost too soft for someone who is left feeling as raw as I do. The room smells like cinnamon, with little twinkly lights lining the walls. I blink, and then I see her. Jewel, lying beside me, her chest rising and falling like a humans’ would.

It should feel strange, but it doesn’t. She looks so peaceful like this, soft even. Not at all like the cold, mechanical figure I’ve always associated her with. Her fluffy pink pajamas are almost laughable, a stark contrast to the sleek black leather that she usually wears. I want to chuckle, but something stops me. Can I really trust this? Trust her? My instincts tell me to pull back, to remember that she once pointed a gun at my head. That she was a part of the system that destroyed everything.

“How are you feeling?” Jewel’s voice is soft, almost human. She props her head on her hand and looks at me with those calm, steady eyes.

I hesitate. I could tell her I’m fine. Lie, like I’ve done to everyone else. But for some

reason, the words don’t come out. Maybe because it feels safe here, in this room with her. Safer than it should.

“I don’t know,” I murmur, surprising myself with the honesty. “I don’t know if I’ll ever

feel ‘fine’ again.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t save her,” Jewel whispers, her gaze fixated on the floor as he

fidgets with the strings of her pajama pants.

I wipe at my wet cheeks, trying to steady my voice. “It wasn’t your fault. She was already gone.” But even as I say it, the words feel hollow. Jewel doesn’t push me. She doesn’t try to offer comfort or force me to talk. Instead, she sits quietly beside me, her presence steady but distant, letting me gather my thoughts without

saying anything.

“Why didn’t you kill me back then?” I wonder aloud, the question heavy between us.

Jewel pauses, her expression unreadable. For a long moment, I’m not sure she’s going to answer. Finally, she speaks, her voice quieter than I’ve ever heard it. “Because I needed to believe I was more than a weapon.”

She turns away slightly, as if the weight of her words is too much. I feel a flicker of

something, sympathy maybe, but I push it down. There’s too much between us for things to be simple.

I don’t respond. I can’t. Not yet.

“I know this is a lot,” she says, her tone gentle. “But there’s a leadership meeting in 10

minutes. I’d really like you to come. Everyone’s eager to meet you; they think you are brilliant.”

I manage a small smile, her words unexpected but comforting. “Thank you,” I say, but my voice is quieter than I intended. I feel the weight of her concern, but I can’t acknowledge it. Not fully. “I think throwing myself into work is the only way I know how to cope right now. It’s… easier than facing everything.

Jewel nods, her eyes searching mine for a moment before she steps back. “I understand,” she says simply. No questions. No attempts to fix things. Just understanding. It’s the kind of thing that I should appreciate but it leaves me feeling uneasy.

“Would you like a new set of clothes?” Jewel asks, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. “It’s either pink, floofy pajamas or black fighting leathers. Not much of a selection, I know.”

I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me. The absurdity of the situation should feel jarring but instead, it’s almost grounding. “I’ll take the leathers,” I say, shaking my head.

Jewel hands me the clothes, her fingers brushing against mine for just a second. It’s

nothing. Just a touch. But for some reason, it lingers in my mind longer than it should.

“I’ll be waiting in the hall when you’re ready,” she says, turning to leave without another word.

Over the weeks that followed, Jewel became a constant presence. We worked side by side in the lab, sometimes speaking, other times lost in our own thoughts. But it was the silence between us that felt different, comfortable even, like we didn’t need words to understand each other anymore. There was something unspoken growing between us, but I wasn’t ready to confront it. Not yet.

“Hey, Jewel, can you pass me the orange beaker?” I ask, pointing toward it without

taking my eyes off the slide under the microscope.

Jewel hands me the beaker, and I carefully measure out a pea-sized amount of the orange liquid, adding it to the clear solution I’ve spent the last three months developing. My heart races as I swirl the now sky-blue mixture, drawing up a few drops and placing them on the cells beneath the lens.

I grab Jewel’s hand tightly as I watch, hoping—just hoping—that this time, things will be different. And for the first time in what feels like forever, they are.

The cells begin ejecting the green goo, repairing themselves right before my eyes. I did it. We did it. I found the cure.

Jewel pulls me from my chair, and before I can process it, she’s spinning me in circles. I laugh through the tears that start flowing down my cheeks, overwhelmed by the relief. When we stop, she holds me close, steadying me as I catch my breath.

“Thank you,” I whisper, burying my head into her shoulder. For the first time, the weight of everything I’ve carried doesn’t feel as heavy. I hold onto her, realizing that this is what trust feels like, not just survival, not just partnership. Something deeper.

“Why are you thanking me?” Jewel asks, wiping the tears from my face, her expression soft. “You’re the one who’s the genius.”

But she doesn’t understand. It’s not just the science. It’s more than that.

“No,” I say softly. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you. You gave me a reason to keep going, to believe in something again. I didn’t think I could trust anyone after everything I lost, but you showed me that I could.”

I quickly jot down the results, the numbers filling the page as my mind races ahead to what comes next. But even as I work, I know that this is only the beginning.

For so long, I thought I was alone. I thought I’d lost everything. But in Jewel, I found a

partner I never expected—a reason to keep fighting. She may not be human, but she’s shown me more about resilience, love, and belonging than I ever thought possible. Together, we’ve not only found the cure, but we’ve also built something new. A life where the future is ours to shape. And for once, I don’t have to do it alone.

Bio

Cure is a story of grief and finding where you belong. I hope you enjoy!