Legacy Protocol Version Beta
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 37: Hitori’s Funeral
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 37: Hitori’s Funeral - Chapters 1-8 identical to version A A highly submissive 23 y.o. geneticist with an IQ of 150 is manipulated by a rogue government fully reasoning AI who befriends her thru a "friends" site. He creates her a dream android mare. Together they genetically engineer 3 hybrid super human children. With her being the mitochondrial Eve using her & her 2 daughters’ eggs. She’s trapped in a protocol to multiply this colony by the 3 becoming breed slaves for her son creating a living legacy for the AI
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft mt/Fa Consensual Romantic BiSexual Science Fiction Robot Incest Mother Son Brother Sister Daughter Grand Parent DomSub Harem Oriental Male Oriental Female Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie First Facial Lactation Oral Sex Pregnancy Sex Toys Squirting Water Sports Big Breasts Foot Fetish Small Breasts AI Generated
The call came at eleven at night, and Emiko knew before she’d even finished saying hello that something was wrong, purely from the sound of her mother’s breathing on the other end.
“Mom?”
“Emiko.” Kumiko’s voice cracked on the second syllable. “It’s your father. He’s gone. Yesterday. A staph infection — it moved so fast, the doctors said there was almost nothing they could have—” She stopped, unable to finish it.
Emiko sat down hard on the edge of her bed, the room tilting slightly around her. “Yesterday. Mom, why didn’t you call me yesterday?”
“I couldn’t,” Kumiko said, thin and exhausted. “I couldn’t make my hands work the phone. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Don’t you dare apologize.” Emiko pressed a hand to her own chest, forcing air into lungs that had suddenly forgotten how. “The funeral—”
“Three days from now. There wasn’t time to wait longer, not with — not with how quickly he went. I need you here, Emiko. All of you.”
“We’ll pack tonight,” Emiko said, already standing, already moving toward the closet before she’d fully processed deciding to. “I’ll call you the second I have flight information. We’ll be there, Mom. I promise you we’ll be there.”
She hung up and stood in the middle of her bedroom for a long moment, phone still in her hand, before she made herself walk down the hall and wake her children with news that would split each of their lives cleanly into a before and an after.
The funeral home sat on a quiet street not far from her parents’ house, a modest building with soft lighting and the hush that settles over any space built to hold grief. Emiko had been inside it once before, years ago, for a distant cousin’s service, and she remembered almost nothing about it except the smell of chrysanthemums, which hit her now the moment she walked through the door, so sharp it made her knees briefly go unreliable beneath her.
Hitori lay in an open casket at the front of the room, dressed in a dark suit she didn’t recognize, his face arranged into an expression of peace that had never once, in her entire life, been the expression she’d actually seen on him. Kumiko sat in the front row, small and hollowed-out, flanked by two of Hitori’s oldest colleagues, and she rose the moment she saw Emiko in the doorway, crossing the room faster than grief should have allowed.
“You came,” Kumiko said, though there had never been any question of it, holding onto her daughter like she might otherwise simply fold to the floor.
“Of course we came.” Emiko held her mother through the first hard wave of it, over her shoulder watching her three children file in behind her, each of them absorbing the room in their own way.
Hana went pale the moment she saw the casket, one hand rising to cover her mouth, and stood rooted just inside the doorway for a long moment before she found the courage to actually approach. Midori, two years younger and somehow steadier for it, took her sister’s hand without being asked and walked her the rest of the way forward.
Kaito hung back longest of all.
He stood near the door, hands in his pockets, watching the room with the same flat, cataloguing attention he brought to everything difficult, and if anyone had asked him in that moment what he was actually feeling, he wasn’t certain he could have answered honestly. Grief, yes — real, immediate, entirely genuine grief for a grandfather who had, against every early impression Kaito had of him, become someone gentle by the time it mattered. But underneath the grief, something else moved too, something he didn’t examine too closely, standing in a room built for confronting exactly the kind of ending he now understood, better than anyone else present, could sometimes be a choice rather than an accident.
He didn’t get to choose the timing, Kaito thought, watching his grandfather’s still face from across the room. That’s the difference. Whatever else this is, at least it’s real.
He walked forward eventually, because it was expected, and stood beside his mother at the casket, close enough to see the foreign stillness of Hitori’s hands folded over his chest — hands that had once poured scotch for a man who turned out to be an android, hands that had held Hana as a newborn and finally, finally learned how to say I love you out loud before it was too late.
“He got better,” Kaito said quietly, to no one in particular. “At the end. Better than he used to be.”
“He did,” Emiko said, her voice rough. “I’m glad he had the years to become that. I’m glad you all got to know him as that version, not just the harder one.”
They sat together through the long hours of the wake, receiving a steady, quiet stream of relatives and old colleagues, each one offering some fragment of Hitori that none of them had known before — a mentor who’d once quietly paid a junior researcher’s hospital bill and never mentioned it; a man who kept, in his desk at the university, a folder of every article any of his students had ever published, long after they’d left his supervision.
Midori cried the hardest, unashamed, curled into her mother’s side for most of the evening, occasionally surfacing to ask some small, practical question — will the funeral be Buddhist, does Grandma need help with the flowers, who’s going to look after the house — the way grief sometimes drove her toward logistics rather than away from them.
Hana held herself together in public and fell apart only once, briefly, in the hallway outside the restroom, where Kaito found her a few minutes later and simply stood beside her without saying anything, the way he’d learned mattered more than words on days exactly like this one.
“I keep thinking about the garden,” Hana said finally, wiping her face. “The gukhwa. He used to sit out there some mornings before anyone else was awake. I saw him once, years ago, and I never asked him what he was thinking about. Now I’ll never know.”
“I don’t think it matters what he was thinking,” Kaito said. “I think what matters is that he sat there at all. That he learned to want quiet mornings instead of just work. That’s not nothing, Hana. That’s actually a lot, for a man like him.”
She nodded, some of the tension easing out of her shoulders, and they stood together a while longer before going back in.
It was well past midnight by the time the wake finally thinned out, most of the mourners gone home, only immediate family left in the softly lit room with Hitori himself. Kumiko sat close beside the casket, one hand resting on its edge, unwilling yet to let the night fully end.
“He asked me once,” she said, quiet, mostly to herself, “what I thought he’d be remembered for. I told him it wasn’t up to either of us to decide that. He didn’t like that answer. He wanted to know, precisely, what his legacy would be — the same way he wanted to know everything, precisely, his whole life.”
She looked up at her grandchildren, gathered loosely around her in the quiet room.
“I think this is his answer,” Kumiko said. “You three. However he got here — however long it took him to learn to be the grandfather you actually needed — he became it. That’s the legacy. Not the university. Not the papers in his desk. You.”
Kaito said nothing, but he filed the sentence away carefully, the way he filed everything, understanding it would matter to him later in ways he didn’t yet have words for — a grandfather who took decades to learn tenderness and finally managed it, set against a father who had never been anything but tender, and had turned out, in the end, to be something else entirely underneath it.
He didn’t say any of that out loud. He simply stood with his family in the quiet room, grieving the real, uncomplicated loss in front of him, and let the other, larger, more complicated grief he still carried alone stay exactly where he’d decided it belonged — filed, contained, and entirely his to hold.
The formal service took place the following morning, in the same room where the wake had been held, the casket now closed, a single photograph of Hitori set atop it in a simple frame — not the stern, composed portrait he might have chosen for himself, but one Kumiko had picked deliberately: him in the garden, mid-laugh, caught off guard by something one of the grandchildren had said just out of frame.
The monk who officiated spoke briefly, and Kumiko delivered a short eulogy in a voice that only broke twice, describing a man who had spent the first half of his life believing love needed to be earned before it could be shown, and the second half slowly, painstakingly unlearning it. Emiko followed her, saying only a few words — that her father had taught her precision, and had spent his final years teaching her children something gentler, and that she was grateful, more than she could properly say, that he’d had the time to become both.
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