[Day 8]
“Alright, Lance, what about your genetic stability stat?”
“It’s at 4.6 now.”
“4.6? That’s incredible!” Ananya’s voice rose an octave. “You’re among the top performers in our clinical trial. Your progress is truly remarkable.”
Lance shifted in his seat, a blend of pride and unease flitting up and down his face. “Is that... good?”
“Good? It’s phenomenal! Most participants struggle to break 4.0.” Ananya tapped her tablet, scrolling through data. “And your Mind stats... they were high to begin with, but they’ve increased dramatically since our last check-in. Have you been doing anything special?”
“Well, I’ve been learning Krav Maga,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Had my second lesson this morning, actually. The genetic treatment seems to be making it easier to grasp new concepts and train muscle memory.”
“Kay, we’ve noticed this with another patient. Seems learning new skills really boosts those stats. It all has to do with the brain.
“I guess…that makes sense,” said Lance. “The messages had slowed down, but when I started Krav Maga yesterday, they picked back up again.”
“Either way, that’s awesome, but just to keep things clear: it’s not the genetic vaccine. It’s this energy we’re dealing with. They started calling it ‘arma’ colloquially. We’re still trying to figure it out, but as you’ve probably guessed, humanity’s gonna have to learn to live with it.”
“Arma?” Lance asked. “What does that stand for?”
“Not sure, actually. Good question.”
“So, this arma is... enhancing us?”
“In a way, yes,” said Dr. Patel. “But it’s more complex than that. We’re still uncovering its full effects. As I explained before, the gene therapy only allows your body to regulate it. Which brings us to today's visit. I’ve got some news for you."
"What's up?" Lance asked.
"We've developed a second dose of the genetic vaccine. It'll help your HUD identify and catalog your energy classification."
"Another dose? I don't know..."
"It's totally optional," Dr. Patel said, her words tumbling out rapidly. "But it might help you better understand this new world. We just finished it yesterday—used all the data we've collected on how the foreign energy behaves in the human body."
Lance tapped his fingers on the armrest, mulling it over.
"As I said, not required, but if you want it, one of the nurses can bring it over and it’ll be faster than the flu shot." Dr. Patel said between small nods.
Great. More unknowns to deal with. I hope it’s not a quest system, he didn’t say out loud.
After a moment, Lance exhaled slowly. "Well, if it'll help me get a handle on things... Sure, why not?"
"Great! I'll message Marta to bring the paperwork and get things ready."
"So, what exactly will this do?" Lance asked, crossing his arms.
"Think of it like an upgrade for your internal HUD," Dr. Patel said, her hands typing on her computer. "It'll give you more detailed info on your energy output, classification, all that good stuff."
"Seems like it could be useful. Alright, I'm in."
"Trust me, it's cooler than it sounds. Like going from standard def to 4K." Dr. Patel grinned. "But with less pixelation and more genetic awesomeness."
"If you say so, doc." Lance frowned, a new thought occurring to him. “Wait a second. This energy... it only affects humans, right? What about animals? My dog Jiro seems completely normal.”
A nurse—presumably Marta—entered, wheeling a small metal cart with medical supplies, and began preparing a syringe for the injection.
“That's a great point, Lance. Actually, That's one of the most fascinating aspects of this whole shebang. The energy appears to interact exclusively with higher-order neural structures. Specifically, those found in human brains."
“Only human brains? Shit, that’s scary.”
"Yes, and to be honest I haven't touched the subject much, but some of our more caffeinated colleagues have done tons of studies on various animals. Mammals, birds, reptiles - none show the same susceptibility to NARS or responsiveness to the gene therapy that humans do.” She cocked her head to the side for a slight moment then said: “Chimpanzees did show some minor signs, but the data is so negligible it's barely worth mentioning. For all practical purposes, it's just us humans.”
“Okay, higher-order neural structures, got it. And here I thought my dog was just really good at hiding his superpowers,” Lance said. “So what makes human brains so special?"
"Well, our leading hypothesis - and I stress, it's still a hypothesis - is that this energy specifically targets the most developed areas of the human brain, particularly the prefrontal cortex."
Questions cascaded like a cognitive avalanche. “But why? How is that even possible?”
"We think—here at BioNova—that this energy might be acting as a catalyst for rapid genetic changes in humans. Not quite evolution in the traditional sense - that takes millennia - but more like... forced adaptation on steroids."
Lance sat back. "Evolution? In my cells?
"Not quite. It's more like... imagine if your DNA suddenly decided to play Jenga with itself. The energy seems to be the toddler shaking the table."
"That's... that's insane. Why isn't everyone freaking out about this?"
“Well, you know how it is. The government's keeping things on the down-low to avoid widespread panic. They're focusing on NARS as a disease and the gene therapy as a cure, rather than the broader implications.” This time she sat back.
“Plus,” Dr. Patel added, “most people are too focused on immediate survival to contemplate the larger picture. But make no mistake, Lance. What’s happening now could redefine what it means to be human.”
“Dr. Patel, the treatment’s ready,” the nurse said.
“Thank you, Marta. You can go ahead, I think Lance is ready too.”
He nodded slowly, the weight of this revelation settling on him. He thought about the changes in his body, the newfound abilities, the strange messages in his vision. It wasn’t just an epidemic or a genetic vaccine side effect. It was evolution in action, playing out in real-time within his very cells. Or as Dr. Patel put it: rapid adaptation, or was it forced evolution?
A sudden rustle of papers broke his train of thought.
"Mr. Lawthorn, before we proceed, I need you to sign this informed consent form," Marta said, offering Lance a clipboard. "It's similar to the one you signed for your first treatment. It outlines the potential risks and benefits of this second dose."
Lance skimmed the document, his eyes catching on phrases like "experimental treatment" and "unknown long-term effects."
"Any questions about the form?" Marta asked.
"Nah, I'm good," Lance replied, scrawling his signature at the bottom.
The nurse nodded, taking back the clipboard. "Alright, then. Please roll up your sleeve, Mr. Lawthorn."
She turned to prepare the syringe as Lance complied. Then…
"You might feel a slight pinch," Marta warned.
"Yeah, I remem—ow," Lance grunted.
"Sorry about that. Almost done... there we go. All set, Mr. Lawthorn."
"Thanks," Lance said, but Marta was already wheeling her cart out the door.
The entire process appeared to have taken less than a second: Needle in. Sharp pain. Cool bandage. Nurse gone.
"Fantastic," Ananya chirped, snapping Lance's attention back to her. “Where were we?”
Wrapping up his questions, Lance asked, “So, what does all of this mean for the future?”
“That is what we’re all trying to figure out,” she said. “That’s kinda what we’re doing right now, in a way.”
Lance leaned back, exhaling heavily as he processed the implications. The silence stretched for a moment before Ananya glanced down at her tablet. “Is there anything else of note you’d like to mention for my report?”
Lance’s eyes widened suddenly. “I, uh... I lifted my car the other day.”
“A car?!?” Ananya’s pink-rimmed glasses slipped down her nose as she gasped. “You what? Lance, that’s incredible! Why didn’t you lead with that? How much did you lift? For how long? Did you experience any strain or—”
“Whoa, slow down,” Lance chuckled, holding up his hands. “It’s not that impressive. It’s a very small car, and I only managed to lift the front end a few inches. Plus, I’m still pissed that I broke the bumper. That’s gonna be expensive to repair.”
Ananya laughed, shaking her head. “Well, that’s certainly an interesting development. We’ll have to look into the implications of that kind of strength increase.” She tapped a few more notes into her tablet. “Well, I think that concludes our report for today. And thank you for coming in on such short notice.”
“No big deal. Besides, I’m pretty sure I don’t have a job anymore, so my schedule is wide open.”
An awkward silence fell between them. Ananya straightened, her lab coat rustling as she leaned forward eagerly.
“Oh... I’m sorry to hear that. Well, um, good luck with everything, Lance.”
Lance stood up, stretching his arms above his head. “Thanks, Doc. Same time next week?”
“Yes, that would be perfect. We’ll continue to monitor your progress closely—Oh! I can’t believe I almost forgot. Lance, do you know what type your arma is?”
“My arma type?” Lance asked, tilting his head slightly. “I just heard about arma five minutes ago. Is this like some monster-catching thing? Am I water type or fire type?”
“Ha! Not exactly, but I appreciate the analogy. Don’t worry about it. Your system should help you identify it, eventually. If you find out, please let us know. It’s crucial data for our research.”
“Suuure,” Lance drawled, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I’ll just wait for my internal HUD to ding with a ‘Congratulations, you’ve unlocked your arma type!’ message, shall I?”
“That’s... not entirely inaccurate, actually. Your neural interface might very well present the information that way.”
“I’m gonna go now.”
As Lance turned to leave, Ananya called out, “Uh, Lance? Try not to lift any more cars without supervision, okay?”
Lance grinned over his shoulder. “No promises, Doc. No promises.”
Water type or fire type. He smirked at his own joke—it was brilliant, he thought—as he strode out of Dr. Patel’s office. But the reality was far more complex, wasn’t it? This wasn’t some game. This was his life now.
The sterile corridors of BioNova felt different somehow. Colder. More clinical. Or maybe it was just his senses picking up on details he’d missed before. The faint hum of air conditioning. The subtle scent of disinfectant. A familiar floral perfume teased his nostrils, growing stronger as he approached the lobby.
Great, Lance thought wryly. Time to reunite with my biggest fan, Zara, was it? I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see me again. Maybe she’s even got the police on speed dial this time.
But as he entered the lobby, he spotted another familiar face across the open space. Carl—the guy from that day, the one who’d gotten a front-row seat to Lance’s impatient desperation, who’d watched wide-eyed as Lance grabbed the first syringe in sight and jabbed it into his own leg, the same man who’d probably spent those chaotic moments shaken and confused, wondering if he’d just lost his chance at protection—nah, they probably gave him my dose. It was paid for, he thought with a grin.
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“Hey, Carl,” he called out, raising a hand in greeting.
Carl’s head snapped up, his eyes doing a comical double-take. He visibly flinched, shrinking back into his chair. “You-you’re that guy,” he stammered. “I... uh... hello.”
“Look, Carl, I owe you an apology. What I did the other day... it wasn’t okay. I was desperate, terrified, you know. Thought I was gonna die if I didn’t get that shot right then and there.”
“It’s... it’s fine. We were all scared.”
“No, it’s not fine.” Lance shook his head. “I acted like a complete asshole. Probably scared the hell out of you and everyone else there. I’m sorry.”
Carl’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Thanks, I guess. It was pretty intense.”
“Yeah, that’s one way to put it,” Lance chuckled nervously. “I feel better, seeing they gave you a gene shot.”
“They did,” Carl nodded. “Got mine right after... well, you know. They, uh, actually did end up giving me yours. I think.”
The tension in the air dissipated slightly. Lance opened his mouth to speak again when movement caught his eye. A young man, probably in his late teens, strode past them. His clothes—all black—screamed money: designer jeans and a leather jacket that probably cost more than Lance’s monthly rent. An older man in a crisp suit trailed behind him, carrying a sleek briefcase.
Carl’s eyes followed the pair. “Speaking of assholes,” he muttered.
“You know him?” Lance asked.
“Not really. Seen him around here before. Some rich kid. Always barking orders at that poor guy following him around.”
As if on cue, the young man’s voice rang out, sharp and demanding. “Jenkins! Where the hell is my phone? I told you to have it charged!”
The older man—Jenkins, apparently—fumbled with the briefcase. “I’m terribly sorry, Master Preston. It should be fully charged by now.”
“Should be? It better be, or you can kiss your Christmas bonus goodbye.”
Lance winced. The kid’s voice dripped with entitlement, each word laced with casual cruelty. He glanced at Carl, who wore a look of disgust.
“Charming,” Lance said.
Carl snorted. “Yeah, real prince charming. Makes me almost grateful for...” He trailed off, his face clouding over.
“For what?”
Carl shook his head. “Nothing. Just... this whole situation. The pandemic. It’s been rough, but at least my kids aren’t turning out like that brat.”
Lance nodded, a pang of guilt hitting him again. Here he was, enhanced as fucked, while people like Carl were just trying to keep their families safe. “How are they doing? Your kids, I mean.”
Carl’s face softened. “They’re hanging in there. It’s been tough, you know? But they’re resilient. They got their dose. We’re making it work.”
“That’s good to hear.” Lance meant it. In all the chaos of his transformation, he’d almost forgotten about the human cost of this pandemic. The families torn apart, the lives upended.
‘Click-clack. Click-clack.’ Footsteps echoed all around the open lobby.
The rich kid—Preston—was heading back their way, his face twisted in annoyance. “Jenkins! We’re leaving. This place is a waste of time.”
As they passed, Preston’s shoulder slammed into Lance’s. Hard.
Lance reeled backwards, the impact like a meteor strike to his sternum. He’d expected the boy to bounce off his iron-hard frame and teach him a lesson, but reality had other plans. Lance staggered, struggling to stay upright as the shock of the collision radiated through his body. Preston, seemingly unfazed, continued walking as if he’d brushed past a feather. The surprise was Lance’s, and it tasted of rust and disbelief.
Fuck me! I need to get stronger, he thought, but nonetheless played it cool. His jaw clenched, throat tightening as he fought to keep his breathing steady. He stood there, desperately trying to project an air of indifference while his insides churned with a toxic mix of humiliation and panic. Lance hadn’t been in many fights before, but this was, by far, the hardest he’d ever been hit.
“Watch where you’re going, you clumsy oaf!” Preston snarled, his eyes flashing red.
Lance blinked, momentarily stunned by the kid’s audacity. He felt a surge of anger rising in his chest, his fists clenching involuntarily. Easy, he told himself. Play it cool. He’s like fourteen years old. One wrong move and you’ll be explaining your new Krav Maga skills to a judge.
“I believe you ran into me, actually,” Lance said, keeping his voice level. “Maybe you should pay attention to your surroundings instead of treating people like garbage.”
A new shade of red Lance didn’t know existed crept up Preston’s neck and face. “Do you have any idea who I am? My father could buy and sell this entire building!”
“And yet, here you are, getting treatment just like the rest of us,” Lance retorted. “Funny how money can’t buy immunity to a global pandemic, huh?”
Preston’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. For a moment, Lance thought the kid might actually try to take a swing at him. But then Jenkins stepped in, placing a gentle hand on Preston’s arm.
“Master Preston, perhaps we should be on our way. Your schedule is quite full today.”
Preston glared at Lance for a moment longer before turning on his heel. “Fine. Let’s go. This place is full of peasants anyway.”
As they walked away, Lance heard Carl chuckle beside him. “I guess that’s your MO? Trouble anytime you’re around?”
Lance grinned. “Yeah, well, someone had to knock him down a peg or two.”
“True enough.” Carl glanced at his watch. “I should get going. My appointment’s in a few minutes.”
“Right, of course.” Lance nodded. “Take care, Carl. And again, I’m sorry about before.”
Carl gave him a small smile. “Water under the bridge. Good luck with... whatever it is you’re dealing with.”
As Carl walked away, Lance felt a weight lift from his shoulders. One small wrong, at least partially righted. But as he turned to leave, his enhanced hearing picked up Preston’s voice from outside BioNova’s doors.
“Jenkins, find out who that guy was. I want his name, address, and tell Mark to pay him a visit.”
Lance sighed. Great. Just what I need. A spoiled rich kid with a grudge.
The brief moment of relief he’d felt after patching things up with Carl evaporated. From one problem to another—that seemed to be his life now. Enhanced abilities or not, he was still just fumbling through this new reality. The simple days of donning a mask of outgoingness and likeableness and maneuvering through corporate politics and grabbing after-work beers with colleagues were long gone.
Maybe now I’m just a glorified lab rat after all, he thought as he stepped out of BioNova’s sleek glass doors and the chill air slapped him in the face, prompting him to zip up his black leather jacket and shove his hands deep into his pockets.
Well, this lab rat’s about to run the whole damn maze and “I’m gonna raise the fuck out of his genetic optimization.”
His breath came out as wintry white puffs of fog.
But damn. Just... damn. When did it get so frigid? So he hurried on.
The streets were as the streets had been this past week: no honking horns, no chattering crowds. There was one thing different, though.
Halfway home, something caught his eye. A military NARS treatment station, manned by the U.S. Public Health Service, stood like a fortress of hope amidst the desolation. Lance slowed his pace, observing the small queue of people waiting for their shot at survival. Regular folks, he thought. No super strength or enhanced senses for them.
***
Hours passed. Lance fed Jiro, scrolled through countless websites, and paced his apartment. His search for answers yielded little. Dr. Zoe Blackwell offered no insight or videos on arma types. Most online sources drew blanks. But buried in obscure forums, conspiracy theory boards, and dubious health blogs, Lance uncovered scattered bits of information. Pieces of a puzzle he couldn’t quite assemble. Although incomplete, these fragments hinted at some interesting narratives. Superpowers!
The internet swore arma was the equivalent of superpowers for folks who’d gotten the right gene mod.
Which brought Lance to his current predicament. He’d learned that “Enhancer” seemed to be the most common arma type by far. To determine this, netizens swore by “The Spoon Bend Challenge.” The test was simple: Take a standard stainless steel spoon. Grip it with your thumb on the handle near the bowl, index finger at the handle’s end. Focus your energy. Try to bend it.
Lance stared at the spoon in his hand, concentrating hard. Very hard. Extremely hard.
But all he managed to do was spend thirty minutes gawking at his own distorted reflection—his face stretched into a comical oval, nose bulbous and elongated—while his arm slowly went numb from holding the spoon so tightly. He felt less like a superhuman and more like a sleep-deprived mime practicing a particularly absurd routine.
So he moved on to “The Houseplant Whisper Test”
It sounded like something out of a new-age self-help book, but at this point, he wouldn’t have batted an eye if someone told him to stand on his head and recite the alphabet backwards.
He eyed the potted fern on his windowsill and exhaled slowly through pursed lips, but still approached the plant, feeling slightly ridiculous. Holding his hands out, palms facing the fern but not quite touching it, he took a deep breath, just as the questionable websites suggested. Focus, he told himself. Channel your inner plant whisperer.
Minutes ticked by. Lance maintained his position effortlessly, his enhanced physique barely registering the strain. He squinted at the fern, searching for any sign of movement. A leaf twitch. A stem bend. Anything. Nothing.
The fern remained stubbornly still, its fronds swaying only with the gentle breeze from the open window. Lance gritted his teeth, pushing his concentration to its limits. He imagined his energy flowing out through his palms, willing the plant to respond.
Come on, you glorified weed. Do something.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty. Lance’s body showed no signs of fatigue, but his patience was wearing thin. The fern, utterly indifferent to his efforts, continued its plant-like existence without so much as a quiver.
Frustrated, Lance finally dropped his arms, glaring at the uncooperative plant. “Well, that was a waste of time,” he said to himself. “So much for being a plant whisperer.” Not that he was secretly hoping he wouldn’t be. Talking to plants wasn’t exactly high on his list of desired superpowers.
He turned away from the fern, the next test already crystallizing in his thoughts. The Static Electricity Challenge. It sounded simple enough, and hey, at least it didn’t involve talking to vegetation.
Rummaging through a drawer, Lance found an old party balloon, surprised he even had one. He blew it up, tying it off with a quick knot. Then, feeling slightly foolish, he began vigorously rubbing the balloon against his hair.
The static electricity built up quickly, making his hair stand on end. A bark of laughter escaped him as he caught his reflection in the mirror. He looked like he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket.
Pay attention, he reminded himself. Time to move some paper.
He grabbed a handful of Post-it notes from his desk, scattering them across the coffee table. Taking a deep breath, Lance held the balloon above the papers, willing them to move.
At first, nothing happened. Then, slowly, one of the Post-its began to lift, drawn towards the static charge of the balloon. Lance felt a surge of excitement. Was this it? Had he finally discovered his arma type?
But as he watched, his hopes deflated. The paper rose only a few centimeters before falling back to the table. No matter how hard he concentrated, he couldn’t make it move any further or influence the other papers.
Just normal static electricity, he realized with a sinking feeling. Nothing special about it at all.
Dejected, Lance flopped onto the couch, the balloon bouncing off his head and floating to the floor. He ran his hands through his still-static-charged hair, feeling utterly defeated.
“Some superhuman I am,” he grumbled. “Can’t bend spoons, can’t talk to plants, can’t even master static electricity. Electricity powers—now that would’ve been sick. But this must be a joke. And I fell for it.”
He glanced at his phone, considering calling Dr. Patel for advice. But he hesitated. She’d given him her number for emergencies, and this didn’t qualify. Besides, she’d told him not to worry—his HUD would reveal his abilities eventually. No need to bother her over this.
There has to be something I’m missing, Lance thought, frustration gnawing at him. Some key to unlocking these abilities.
He stood up, pacing the room restlessly. His enhanced senses picked up every detail—the faint hum of the refrigerator, the subtle shifts in air currents as he moved, the soft rustle of his clothes with each step. All these incredible changes, and yet he felt powerless to control them.
Lance’s gaze fell on the fern again. It sat there, mockingly serene, so glad I don’t talk to plants. For a moment, he considered tossing it out the window in a fit of pique.
No, he thought, reining in his frustration. That’s not going to solve anything, he thought while looking at Jiro.
“You don’t have to deal with arma, do you—”
‘GRRROWL.’
Lance’s stomach growled.
The failed attempts at discovering his arma type had left him mentally drained and physically famished. So, he padded to the kitchen, bare feet silent on the cool tiles, drawn by the aroma of leftover noodles that he’d picked up on his way from BioNova this morning at the Chinese place near his apartment. The always-smiling owner, who never failed to throw in an extra egg roll, had amazingly kept the place open throughout the pandemic. They never close, do they?
As he reached for the takeout container, his fingers brushed against the smooth, cool surface of his titanium chopsticks. A gift from his mother, brought back from her trip to Japan earlier that year. The memory of her excited face as she presented them to him tugged at his heart. How long ago that seemed now, in this new world of arma and enhanced abilities and supposed superpowers. Before the world went to hell. Before NARS. Before... this.
He shook off the melancholy and settled on his couch.
Between mouthfuls of noodles, Lance fired up his laptop. He navigated to a particular tab he’d left open during his earlier “arma research.” Curious to know what it was about, he clicked it open.
ENHANCED INDIVIDUALS SUPPORT GROUP
Durham Chapter
Are you struggling with recent changes?
Feeling alone in a world that no longer makes sense?
Join us every night at 7 PM!
- Share your experiences
- Learn coping strategies
- Connect with others like you
All levels of enhancement welcome. Confidentiality assured.
Where: Durham Community Center, Room 201 1234 Oak Street
When: Mon-Fri, 7:00 PM
Who: All enhanced individuals welcome
This is a safe space for those affected by the NARS pandemic and subsequent enhancements.
For more information, call: (919) 555-HELP or email: [email protected]
That’s not far, he thought, then looked at the clock in the usual corner of his computer screen.
[6:45 PM]
His chopsticks froze mid-twirl for a moment before he continued slurping noodles.
Huh. Not a bad idea. Could be helpful for some folks.
He pictured himself in that community center room, sharing his “enhanced” experiences. Nah. He twirled more noodles around his chopsticks. Between BioNova, Krav Maga, and his own experiments, his schedule was pretty full. Plus, he wasn’t exactly struggling. Different, sure, but not lost. He closed the tab and reached for his drink. Maybe someday, if things got weird. For now, he had noodles to finish and more questionable arma tests to try out.