Legacy Protocol Version Beta
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 50B
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 50B - 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
Two weeks after Grandma returned from Korea, the Timonium house had begun dividing itself into what would go west and what would remain.
The boxes in the front hall belonged to Montana.
They were marked in Hana’s careful block lettering: PRIMARY BEDROOM, NURSERY, FAMILY ROOM, OFFICE — EMERGENCY FILES, GRANDMA, KUMIKO — FIRST WEEK.
The kitchen did not have the same labels.
The kitchen belonged, for now, to Midori.
She stood barefoot at the counter in one of Kaito’s old T-shirts, a marker tucked behind one ear and a roll of blue tape hanging from her wrist. Containers of dry food covered the island. She had grouped them into piles with a seriousness that made Hana pause in the doorway.
“What are you doing?” Hana asked.
“Saving Mom from herself.”
Emiko looked up from the dining table, where three encrypted tablets, a secure phone, and a stack of Hopkins files had slowly taken over the space where breakfast should have been.
“I am right here.”
“I know,” Midori said. “That is why I am saying it where you can hear me.”
She lifted a rice cooker from the counter.
“This stays.”
“We have one in Montana.”
“Yes. You have one in Montana. You will be here.”
“For six weeks,” Emiko said.
Midori placed the cooker in the cabinet beneath the counter and shut the door firmly.
“For six weeks. Which is long enough for you to decide coffee counts as a meal.”
“I eat.”
“You buy food,” Midori said. “That is not the same thing.”
Hana tried not to smile.
Emiko looked at her.
“Do not encourage her.”
“I am not,” Hana said. “I am observing.”
“Then observe quietly.”
Midori opened the refrigerator and began removing containers one at a time.
She had made lists. Of course she had.
Meals that could be frozen.
Meals Emiko could reheat without thinking.
Groceries that needed replacing each week.
The things Emiko would eat if they were already prepared and the things she would forget existed if they required more than five minutes of effort.
Grandma sat in the adjoining sitting room with Kumiko in her lap, keeping the baby away from the moving boxes and the constant rip of packing tape.
Kumiko had woken early.
The house felt different to her. Not in any way she could name, but through the rhythm of it: people walking in and out of rooms, drawers opening, closets emptying, luggage appearing near the stairs.
She watched all of it.
Grandma did not make her watch for long.
When the activity in the kitchen became too busy, she carried Kumiko upstairs to the guest room and closed the door behind them. The room was mostly packed now, but Grandma had left the bed made until the last possible minute. Kumiko sat on the quilt with a basket of large safe toys beside her and a familiar blanket near her hands.
The baby watched Grandma fold one small sweater and place it in the carry-on.
Then another.
Then she reached toward the suitcase.
“No,” Grandma said softly. “Not that one.”
Kumiko leaned farther.
Grandma moved the suitcase out of reach and gave her a soft cloth block instead.
The baby accepted it, but her eyes stayed on the bag.
Grandma smiled faintly.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Something is changing. I know.”
Downstairs, Kaito ended a call with Montana and stood in the center of the front hall, checking the departure list one last time.
The laboratory wing had passed its final operational review.
The family portion of the house was complete.
The hangar was still being finished, but the landing area, secure access road, gate systems, power backups, and communications network were fully functional. The barn and paddocks had been cleared. The perimeter cameras were live. The drone routes were programmed and tested.
There were still workers on site.
There would be workers on site for weeks.
But the house was ready.
Ready enough.
Kaito had learned that “ready enough” was not a phrase he liked.
Hana stood beside him with her tablet.
“The nursery has been cleared,” she said. “The family wing is restricted. The construction teams have the access map and the new service schedule. The laboratory equipment delivery is Friday, so they will stay on the west route.”
“The service entrance only?”
“Yes.”
“The contractors understand they do not enter the family wing?”
“Yes.”
Kaito looked at her.
Hana sighed.
“They understand, Kaito.”
“They understood before.”
“And now they have it in writing, in their access instructions, and in the daily briefing. No one comes through the main residence unless one of us approves it.”
He nodded once.
“The chopper?”
“Fueled at Glacier. Flight plan filed. The pilot clearance is confirmed.”
“I am flying.”
“I know,” Hana said. “The aircraft is cleared, the weather is clear, and the route is short.”
“The weather can shift.”
“It can.”
“The baby—”
“Has an approved infant restraint installed in the rear cabin. Grandma will sit beside her. Her familiar blanket and supplies are in the flight bag. We are not improvising anything.”
Kaito looked at the tablet.
Hana softened her voice.
“We are ready.”
He glanced toward the stairs.
Upstairs, Grandma was humming quietly to Kumiko.
For a moment, Kaito did not answer.
Then he nodded.
“Ready enough,” he said.
Hana looked at him.
“That is growth.”
“Do not tell anyone.”
“I will put it in the family archives.”
Kaito gave her a flat look.
Hana smiled.
The final morning moved quickly after that.
Not chaotically. No one allowed chaos around Kumiko anymore.
Grandma handled the baby.
Hana handled the departure documents, the carry-on inventory, and the final checks on what had been loaded.
Kaito handled the movers, the security confirmation, and the departure timing.
Midori handled everything else.
She moved through the Timonium house with a cloth over one shoulder and a list in one hand, stopping only long enough to make sure Emiko had eaten the breakfast she had set beside the tablets.
Emiko had not.
Midori stood over her until she did.
“You are leaving in twenty minutes,” Emiko said around a bite of toast.
“I am not leaving,” Midori replied.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. And you are still eating.”
Emiko looked toward the window, where the Montana luggage was being loaded into the car.
“I should be going with you.”
Midori’s expression changed.
Not angry.
Not surprised.
Just firm.
“No.”
Emiko looked back at her.
“No?”
“You are going later. That is not the same thing.”
“Midori.”
“You have patients who are still yours. You have records that cannot be moved casually. You have meetings, consultations, consent work, and people at Hopkins who need to know exactly what happens after you leave.”
“I know.”
“And you need someone here who will not let you pretend a refrigerator full of condiments is a meal plan.”
Emiko gave a small, tired laugh.
“I could hire someone.”
“You could,” Midori said. “But you would not listen to them.”
Emiko did not deny it.
Midori set a hand over hers.
“Six weeks,” she said. “We finish this properly. You transition your work properly. I keep the house running. Then we go home.”
The word settled between them.
Home.
Emiko looked toward the hallway.
Kumiko made a soft sound upstairs.
“I hate that she is leaving,” Emiko whispered.
“I know.”
“She is going to change in six weeks.”
“Yes.”
“I will miss things.”
Midori’s hand tightened gently over hers.
“You will miss ordinary things. You will not miss her.”
Emiko looked at her.
“She will see you every day. You will talk to her every day. Grandma will send videos. Hana will send too many videos. Kaito will pretend he is not sending videos and then send them anyway.”
“He does not—”
“He does.”
Emiko smiled despite herself.
Midori leaned closer.
“And when we get there, Kumiko will know you.”
Emiko looked down at the toast in her hand.
Then she finished it.
Grandma came downstairs with Kumiko just before it was time to leave.
The baby wore soft travel clothes, warm socks, and a small cardigan Midori had chosen because it would be comfortable in the helicopter cabin. Her dark hair was brushed neatly. Her eyes were already alert, moving from person to person as the adults gathered in the front hall.
She saw Emiko first.
Kumiko’s body shifted in Grandma’s arms.
Her hands opened toward her mother.
Emiko crossed the room immediately.
Grandma gave Kumiko to her.
For a long time, Emiko simply held her.
The baby pressed one cheek against Emiko’s shoulder. One small hand caught in the collar of her sweater. Then Kumiko pulled back and looked at her face with the same deep, serious attention she gave everything that mattered.
“I know,” Emiko whispered. “I know.”
Kumiko made a small questioning sound.
“I am coming,” Emiko said. “Not today. But I am coming.”
The baby did not understand the sentence.
But she heard the voice.
She saw the face.
She felt the arms around her.
Emiko kissed her forehead.
Then Midori came close.
Kumiko reached for her, too.
Midori held her next and pressed her face briefly against the baby’s hair.
“You be good for Grandma,” she said softly.
Kumiko grabbed the marker still tucked behind Midori’s ear.
Midori laughed through a breath that almost became a sob.
“Fine,” she said. “You can have it.”
She took it away before Kumiko could put it in her mouth.
“No. You cannot have it.”
Kumiko objected immediately.
For a moment, everyone laughed.
The sound eased something in the room.
Kaito picked up the final bag.
Hana checked the time.
Grandma took Kumiko again.
At the door, Emiko looked at Kaito.
“Call when you land.”
“I will.”
“Call when you reach the house.”
“I will.”
“Call if the weather changes.”
“I will.”
Midori raised an eyebrow.
“You know he has flown in worse weather than this.”
Emiko looked at her.
“I know.”
Kaito stepped closer to Emiko.
For a moment, he rested his forehead against hers.
It was not a dramatic goodbye.
It was not the kind of goodbye either of them believed in.
It was a promise with no audience needed.
“Six weeks,” he said.
“Six weeks,” Emiko answered.
Then the front door opened.
The car waited outside.
Grandma settled into the rear seat beside Kumiko’s car seat. Hana sat in front. Kaito drove.
Emiko and Midori stood on the front steps as the car pulled away.
Kumiko had fallen quiet.
Not asleep.
Watching.
She turned her head toward the rear window, tracking the figures on the porch until the house disappeared around the bend.
Grandma rested one hand gently against the baby’s foot.
“They are coming,” she said.
Kumiko looked at her.
Then, finally, she leaned back against the car seat.
At the airport, the trip west became efficient and private.
Kaito moved them through security with the quiet precision he brought to everything. Hana kept the carry-on bag close. Grandma stayed beside Kumiko, giving her only what she needed at each moment: milk, a clean diaper, a familiar blanket, a calm voice.
The flight itself was long enough that Kumiko slept for part of it.
When she woke, the cabin lights were low.
Grandma held her against her shoulder and looked out at the changing land below.
Fields became plains.
Plains became darker ground broken by rivers and long shadows.
By the time they landed at Glacier Park International Airport, the mountains had returned.
They rose beyond the runway in blue and gray layers beneath a bright western sky.
Kumiko woke fully as the plane slowed.
Her eyes moved to the windows.
Grandma could feel her body become alert.
“We are here,” she whispered.
Hana met them at the aircraft door after speaking briefly with ground staff. The transfer was already arranged. They did not enter the public terminal. A vehicle waited to take them across to the general aviation side, where the helicopter stood beyond the hangar doors.
It was larger than Grandma expected.
Not enormous. But solid, sleek, and purposeful, its dark body reflecting the late-afternoon light. The rotors were still. The cabin door stood open.
Kaito walked around it once, checking what he always checked himself even when others had already checked it.
Hana watched him from beside Grandma.
“He will do that every time,” she said.
“Good,” Grandma replied.
The rear cabin had been prepared for Kumiko.
Her infant restraint was secured properly beside Grandma’s seat. The moon blanket had been tucked nearby. A small bag of supplies rested beneath the seat in front of them.
Grandma settled Kumiko into the restraint slowly.
The baby did not like being buckled in.
She twisted once, protesting with a sharp sound.
Grandma put one hand over her small chest and spoke softly.
“I know. We are going somewhere new.”
Kumiko stared at her.
Then at the window.
Then at the helicopter cabin around her.
The engine started.
The vibration came first.
Kumiko went very still.
Grandma recognized the change immediately.
She did not add more words. She did not bounce her or offer another toy. She kept one hand resting lightly against Kumiko’s blanket and let the baby watch.
Hana sat across from them, her headset already on.
She caught Grandma’s eye.
Grandma nodded once.
Kumiko was not afraid.
She was taking it in.
When the helicopter rose, the airport dropped away beneath them.
The runway became a pale line.
The buildings became small blocks.
The mountains widened across the horizon.
Kumiko’s eyes fixed on the window.
Below them, the land moved differently than it did in the drone feeds. Not like a screen. Not like a bright image held in someone’s hands. It was deeper, wider, alive with shadow and distance.
Grandma watched the baby track the roads.
The trees.
The turns.
Then, far ahead, the property came into view.
The access road curved through the land.
The gate stood dark against the pale gravel.
The main house appeared beyond it, its roofline warm beneath the lowering sun.
The laboratory wing extended to one side. The barn and paddocks lay farther out. The unfinished hangar rose near the service area, steel bright against the darkening ground.
Kumiko made a sound.
Not loud.
Not frightened.
Recognition.
Grandma looked out the window.
“She has seen it,” she said.
Hana leaned toward the glass.
“On the drones.”
Kaito glanced back once from the controls.
Kumiko was staring at the property with complete attention.
The gate.
The curve of the drive.
The pale roof.
The familiar shapes she had watched move across a screen had become real beneath her.
“Now she sees it,” Grandma said.