BIOLOGICAL SUPERCOMPUTER SYSTEM

Fabian, his brow furrowed in curiosity, turned his attention to Luke. The latter had been observing the various weapons on display, his eyes reflecting the glinting steel and polished wood. "So, what'll it be for you? A sword, a bow, perhaps something more exotic?" Fabian inquired, his voice echoing in the vast armory.

Luke, his fingers tracing the edge of a nearby table, pondered. His eyes drifted over the assortment of weapons. His gaze was thoughtful, almost introspective, as he considered his options.

His eyes then settled on Fabian. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I think I'll go for a Flyssa," he said, his tone confident but not arrogant.

Erik, standing a few feet away, couldn't help but chuckle at Luke's choice. He'd expected nothing less from his clones.

They shared more than just appearances; they shared skills and preferences too.

The Flyssa was a familiar weapon, and they all knew how to wield it with deadly precision.

Fabian raised an eyebrow, surprised by the choice. The Flyssa was a unique weapon, not commonly chosen by those unfamiliar with its intricacies.

But then again, these were Erik's men, and if their leader wielded a Flyssa, they might also be drawn to it.

"A Flyssa, you say?" Fabian echoed, his eyebrows arching in surprise. His eyes gleamed with a newfound respect. It was an excellent choice and one that required a skilled hand.

He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back. "You're sure about this?" He asked.

Luke met Fabian's gaze, his eyes sparkling with determination.

He nodded, his expression resolute and his posture straightened, radiating confidence. "Yes, I'm sure," he said, his voice steady.

His hand instinctively moved to the space at his side where the Flyssa would rest. "It's a weapon that offers both reach and precision," he said, his voice taking on an admiring tone as he spoke of the weapon. "Qualities I find appealing."

"Very well," Fabian conceded, a hint of approval in his voice. He pulled out a sleek digital pad from his pocket, its screen glowing in the light. His fingers danced across the surface, jotting down the details with practiced ease. "A Flyssa it is."

He then lifted his gaze, his eyes scanning the room. A playful smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he asked, "And for the rest of you, gentlemen?" His tone was light, almost teasing.

The clones, who had been huddled together and listening to the exchange. They found themselves under Fabian's gaze.

One by one, they each voiced their choice, and to Fabian's growing astonishment, everyone also opted for a Flyssa. Ari, Yori, Nick, Damon, and Swaran chose the same weapon as their leader and the second-born, Luke.

"A Flyssa for me as well," Ari stated, stepping forward. His voice was firm, and his decision made without hesitation. His eyes glowed with a certain determination, reflecting the certainty of his choice.

"Same here," Yori said, nodding his agreement. A grin spread across his face, revealing his excitement. His hands clenched and unclenched as if already feeling the grip of the Flyssa.

"Make it another Flyssa," Nick chimed in, his voice echoing in the room. He crossed his arms over his chest, a playful smirk playing on his lips. His eyes sparkled with a shared camaraderie, appreciating the unanimous decision.

"I'll go with the Flyssa too," Damon said, his voice softer but no less resolute. He gave a small nod, a quiet intensity in his gaze. His fingers traced an imaginary Flyssa in the air, already visualizing the weapon in his grasp.

"And I'll round it out with yet another Flyssa," Swaran concluded, his voice carrying a note of finality. A knowing smile spread across his face as he looked at his fellow clones.

Fabian couldn't help but marvel at the unanimity of their choices. It was unusual for an entire group to opt for such a specialized weapon, but he held his tongue.

"Alright, then," Fabian said, still jotting down notes. "Six Flyssas, each customized to its wielder. This will be quite the project, but I'm looking forward to the challenge."

The clones nodded, their faces reflecting a mix of anticipation and satisfaction. They had made their choices, aligning themselves with a particular weapon and a shared identity, a collective strength that mirrored their skills.

Fabian's eyes settled on Noah, who stood apart from the others. The masked figure seemed to wrestle with a decision, his posture betraying a hint of uncertainty. "And for you, sir? Will it be another Flyssa to complete the set?"

Noah stood there, his eyes darting between the Flyssas and the other weapons displayed on the walls.

His mind was a whirlpool of conflicting thoughts. On one hand, he felt a powerful pull towards the Claymore, its broad, double-edged blade and cruciform hilt resonating with something deep within him.

It was as if the weapon spoke to his very essence, promising a blend of power and balance that felt just right.

On the other hand, there was the Flyssa—the weapon of choice for Erik and the other clones.

Choosing it would mean fitting in and aligning himself with the collective identity they were forming.

The Flyssa was more than just a weapon; it symbolized their unity and shared purpose. To deviate from that felt like a betrayal, a rejection of the bond he shared with Erik and the others.

Would Erik, their shared origin and mentor, be disappointed if he chose a weapon different from the Flyssa? Would his choice cause a rift, a subtle shift in the dynamics of their tightly-knit group? The thought of Erik's possible disapproval sent a chill down his spine, causing his heart to pound in his chest.

And what about the others - his brothers? Would they see him as less committed, less a part of their unique brotherhood?

The mere thought filled him with a sense of dread, an icy knot of fear forming in his stomach.

He could almost see their questioning glances, their expressions of surprise and, perhaps, disappointment.

The weight of these questions, these possibilities, bore down on him like a crushing burden.

They swirled in his mind, intensifying his inner turmoil. His palms grew sweaty, his breath hitched, and he could feel a lump forming in his throat.

He was standing at a crossroads, his decision carrying more weight than just the choice of a weapon.

He felt Erik's eyes on him and sensed his master's understanding. It was a silent acknowledgment that the choice was his to make, and whatever he chose would be accepted.

But that freedom, instead of easing his burden, seemed to make it heavier. It was one thing to be told what to do; it was another to choose for oneself and live with the consequences.

Like a beacon in the storm of his thoughts, Erik's words broke through the fog of his indecision. "It's alright if you don't want a Flyssa, Noah. Choose what feels right for you."

The older clone's voice was firm yet gentle, his gaze understanding. His words were not just a suggestion, but a permission - the permission Noah didn't know he needed, the nudge that tipped the scales of his wavering decision.

With Erik's words echoing in his mind, Noah took a deep, steadying breath.

He could feel the tension easing from his shoulders, the knot in his stomach unraveling.

Raising his head, he met Erik's gaze. His eyes, previously clouded with uncertainty, now shone. "I'd like a Claymore, please," he declared. His voice was steady, his decision made.

A sense of relief washed over him as he spoke the words. His choice laid bare for all to hear.

The room fell silent for a moment as everyone absorbed his decision. Then, to Noah's surprise and relief, smiles spread across the faces of his brothers - not of disappointment, but of acceptance and respect for his choice.

He looked at Erik, searching for any sign of disappointment or disapproval, but found none. Instead, he saw a nod of affirmation, a simple gesture that spoke volumes.

At that moment, Noah realized that his choice was not a rejection of Erik or the others but an affirmation of himself—of his right to be different, to choose what felt true to him.

And as he stood there, at peace with his decision, he felt a newfound sense of freedom, a liberation from the invisible chains of expectation and conformity.

Fabian's eyes widened, taken aback. After a string of Flyssas, the choice of a Claymore—a weapon so different in form and function—was unexpected.

"A Claymore, you say? That's quite a departure from the others. But it's your choice and a fine one at that."

Erik was pleased that Noah had chosen a weapon that suited him, regardless of what the others had picked. It was a moment that underscored the individuality within their collective identity.

"Alright, gentlemen," Fabian said, regaining his composure. "Since Erik has already decided on the hilt design, you can focus on the materials and other aspects of the blade itself. Any preferences?"

The clones, now more relaxed, discussed their choices. Some opted for specific alloys to enhance durability, while others chose intricate etchings to add a personal touch to their weapons.

Noah, still feeling the weight of his unconventional choice, decided on a high-carbon steel blade with a fuller to reduce weight, making it easier to wield.

Fabian, his fingers gliding over the digital pad, noted each specification. His eyes sparkled with an unmistakable excitement, the prospect of the challenge ahead lighting a fire within him.

"Seven custom weapons, each unique in its way. This will be a project to remember," he said, his voice filled with anticipation.

Erik stepped forward, his tall figure cutting an imposing silhouette in the lit room. He extended his hand towards Fabian, a gesture of gratitude and respect.

"Thank you, Fabian, and you too, Matthias. We look forward to seeing your craftsmanship." His voice was firm yet warm, expressing his trust in their abilities.

Fabian looked up at Erik, meeting his gaze. He reached out, clasping Erik's hand in a firm handshake.

Fabian shook Erik's hand, a smile spreading across his face. "It's always a pleasure, Mr. Kay. Your weapons will be ready in three months. We'll make sure they're worth the wait."

Matthias, who had been observing the proceedings from the sidelines, now stepped forward.

His usually stoic face softened into a small, appreciative smile as he extended his hand to Erik. "We'll put our best into these weapons. You can count on that," he said, his voice steady and sincere. His eyes held a spark of determination, reflecting his commitment to their task.

Erik nodded in response, a sense of mutual respect and understanding passing between them.

His gaze then swept over his clones, their faces lit up with anticipation and excitement. "Alright, guys, let's head out. We've got a lot more to do," he announced, his voice carrying a note of leadership and determination.

As Erik's words hung in the air, the clones moved. Some nodded their agreement, others clapped their companions on the shoulder, all of them buzzing with renewed energy.

As they left Matthias' Blades, each clone felt a sense of anticipation and a newfound purpose.

While they were indeed Erik's clones, they were also unique individuals in their own right and deserved to be treated with the same dignity and respect as any other person.

They were more than just replicas; they were sentient beings with their own identities, existing not merely to serve Erik. Despite their created purpose, they were living entities and were deserving of respect and consideration.

As they stepped out into the bustling streets, the sun setting on a day of decisions and beginnings, they all knew that their choices today were but the first steps in a journey that promised to be as challenging as it was rewarding.