What is my name, you ask? Well, that's a bit complicated...
You see, I wasn't given a name at birth because I wasn't created to have parents or a family.
It all began with seven infertile couples. Each had exhausted every conventional method to conceive, yet none had succeeded. Desperation led them to an unconventional path—a laboratory hidden somewhere in Zuid-Holland.
This laboratory, staffed by brilliant scientists, had developed a groundbreaking way to create human life artificially. These beings, called "homunculi" (singular: "homunculus"), would not be born but constructed, designed from the DNA of their creators.
The seven couples—diverse in ethnicity, background, profession, and personality—each provided their DNA samples to the lab. From these, the scientists forged a being unlike any other, the first of its kind: me.
I am the Prototype, the Archetype. My codename is Prima Optima.
"Prima" because I was the first homunculus ever created.
"Optima" because I was engineered to be the best, the pinnacle of perfection.
I carry the genes of all seven couples—14 individuals in total—woven together into a singular, harmonious existence. I was already conscious and self-aware before I emerged from the artificial womb.
As I lay in that womb, I was filled with joy whenever the couples came to visit. Their faces lit up with pride and wonder, and their happiness mirrored my own. The thought of having not just two parents, but 14, made me feel unique, even extraordinary. I imagined the bonds we'd share and the family I would finally have once I left the womb.
But I was wrong.
The moment I was "born" was the moment they abandoned me. The visits stopped. The faces I had come to cherish vanished.
For the scientists, however, my arrival was a cause for celebration. Their groundbreaking experiment had succeeded. Life had been created in the laboratory, and I was living proof.
Nathan Mazzi, the head scientist, was the one who explained my purpose. "You were designed without flaws," he said. "No personality extremities. No weaknesses. You are perfect in every way."
From my looks to my intelligence, from my physique to my disposition, I embodied Prima Optima.
Yet, perfection was not enough for the ones who had dreamed me into existence.
The seven couples turned their backs on me, their so-called masterpiece. Their interest shifted to the seven homunculi girls born a year later, each created using the DNA of just one couple. Those children had "parents." Those children had a place in the world.
And me?
I was simply the prototype. A proof of concept.
They are inferior to me. Born with personality extremities, they lack my balance, my brilliance. They aren't as beautiful, as talented, or as charming as I am.
They are beneath me.
So why did the seven couples choose them over me?
This question haunted me, filling me with loneliness and despair. Somehow, despite my perfection, I was deemed faulty. The defective one. The unwanted one.
It didn't make sense.
When I was about five years old, the weight of this rejection became unbearable, and I decided to confront Nathan about it.
"Why have they abandoned me?" I asked him one day, my voice trembling.
"Hmm?" Nathan looked up from his work, visibly puzzled. "Who has abandoned you?"
"My parents," I said, tears streaming down my face. "They came to pick up my sisters, but they never came for me. Am I... undesirable?"
He sighed, the pity in his eyes unmistakable. "It's not that..."
"Then what is it?" I pressed, desperate for answers.
"It's... complicated," he began hesitantly. "You have to understand, Optima, you're not like anyone else. You are the first and only being created from the combined DNA of seven males and seven females. No one in human history has ever been born like you. That makes you extraordinary—special beyond measure. But it also makes you... difficult for them to comprehend."
"So what does that mean?" I asked, my voice cracking. "Do they not want me because I'm too special?"
"It's not that they don't want you," Nathan said softly. "They just... don't know how to deal with this. With you. You should give them some time."
"How long?" I asked, hope flickering in my chest. "How long must I wait until they come for me?"
He hesitated, then smiled weakly. "A year or two... maybe."
I clung to those words like a lifeline, not realizing then how empty that promise truly was.