[Day 5]
Carpe diem, he thought, chuckling at the cliché.
Scoop of cookies and cream whey powder.
Handful of frozen berries.
Splash of almond milk.
Lance slammed the blender lid shut. Whirred the protein shake into existence. Gulped it down in three swift motions. No time to waste.
The sun barely peeked over the horizon, but he was already moving. Energy coursed through his veins, electric and insistent. New day. New Lance.
He grabbed his gym bag, pre-packed the night before. Efficiency was key!
Would Titan's Den even be open with everything that’s going on? He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. Only one way to find out.
He grabbed his keys, headed for the door, and once outside, started running. The gym was only a few blocks away - perfect for a quick warm-up. By the time he'd arrive, his blood would be pumping, muscles primed for lifting.
The streets were just as quiet as the day before, if not even more so, yet Lance's mind raced, unbothered by the stillness. Ideas, plans, possibilities – they tumbled over each other in a whirlwind, each new thought igniting fresh excitement. He had been given a second chance, and he'd be damned if he didn't make the most of it.
The gym loomed ahead, a temple of self-improvement. Lance's lips curled into a determined smile. Time to push limits. Time to become more—
Wait, a second… I don’t feel tired. His breath came easy, no hint of exertion. Must be the cold October air.
As he approached Titan's Den, he let out a frustrated sigh. The windows were dark, the parking lot empty. Of course. What had he been expecting?
But then—a flicker of movement inside. Lance quickened his pace, hope rising in his chest. He reached for the door handle, half-expecting it to be locked.
It wasn't.
The familiar scent of sweat, determination, rubber mats and disinfectant greeted him as he stepped inside.
The gym seemed empty, save for the obvious activity coming from deep within.
As Lance entered the free weights room, his ears were immediately overwhelmed by an avalanche of cheers and shouts and the loud bang of a fully stacked barbell crashing onto the padded floor near the deadlift station.
Lance spotted Brad's red cap worn backwards and next to him stood Ethan—his neon green resistance band looped around his wrist was impossible to miss.
When he approached, his eyes widened. The Beast—Diego—was there, gripping a bar loaded with an insane amount of plates. Brad and Ethan flanked him, their faces red with excitement as they hollered encouragement.
"Come on, Beast! You got this!" Brad's voice boomed through the nearly empty gym.
Diego's muscles strained, veins popping on his forehead as he lifted. The bar inched upwards, plates clanking against each other.
Silence.
Then, with a primal roar, Diego straightened, the bar now at hip level. Brad and Ethan erupted into a frenzy, jumping and screaming like they'd just won the lottery.
Lance found himself clapping, genuinely impressed by the feat of strength he'd just witnessed.
Thud.
The weights hit the ground, and Diego stumbled back, chest heaving.
Brad's head whipped around at the sound of Lance's applause, a grin spreading across his face. "Lance! My man! You just missed it—The Beast here just broke the world record!"
Lance's eyebrows rocketed toward his hairline. "Seriously?"
"We've been here since very early. He started adding plates and just... kept going. It's insane!" Ethan nodded vigorously.
Diego, still catching his breath, managed a tired smile and a nod in Lance's direction.
"That's... incredible," Lance said, meaning it. He looked at the three men, noting their flushed faces and bright eyes, and the fact that all three of them were wearing Titan's Den tank tops—the kind with exaggerated cutoffs that exposed most of their torsos, proudly displaying the gym's logo of a snarling lion's head inside a Greek column. They seemed... fine. Healthy. A stark contrast to the world outside.
Lance appreciated these guys. They didn't wear masks here. They came because they wanted to, and they were unapologetically themselves. Even if Lance didn't fully embrace the "gym bro" mentality, he respected their genuineness.
"World record? How much weight is that?" Lance asked.
"1,155 pounds, man. That's thirteen 45s on each side, plus the 45-pound bar. Just shattered the mountain's world record by over 50 pounds! Absolute beast mode!"
“Wow, that’s impressive.”
Brad clapped him on the shoulder. "Good to see you looking so chipper, bro! With all this NARS shit going around, we weren't sure..."
"Yeah," Ethan chimed in. "You're looking great, man. Got your shot?"
Lance nodded, a pang of guilt flashing through him as he remembered how he'd obtained it. "Yeah, I... managed to get one."
"Lucky," Brad said. "We all got ours yesterday. Except for Tank—speaking of, has anyone heard from him?"
The mood shifted, concern creeping into their expressions.
"Not since Tuesday," Ethan said quietly.
Lance frowned. "Is that why you're here so early? How'd you even get in?"
Brad held up a key. "Tank gave me a spare for emergencies. Figured with everything going on, it qualified." He shrugged. "Plus, we needed a distraction. The news is... rough."
Lance nodded, understanding all too well. "Yeah, it is."
A moment of somber silence fell over the group before Diego broke it, his voice gruff. "You know, despite all this shit, I feel stronger than ever. It's like... I don't know, man. Something's different."
Ethan nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, I hear you. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? And we definitely didn't die." He chuckled, but there was an edge to it.
Lance stroked his chin, considering their words. "You know... I can't help but agree. I do feel stronger, which is strange since I didn't eat anything for two days."
"Ah, you also spent the sickness glued to the toilet? Worst two days of my life,” Brad chuckled.
Lance, Diego, and Ethan exchanged knowing looks, shared discomfort passing between them.
Ahem. "Not all the time,” Lance admitted awkwardly. He flexed his arm experimentally, surprised by the definition he saw. "Aaanyway, guess it really is true."
Brad's eyes widened. "Wait, you feel the gains, too? I thought it was just us. You think it's the gene therapy?"
Lance shrugged. "I don’t know, maybe? Could be. Or maybe it's a side effect of surviving NARS. Either way, it's... interesting."
Diego flexed his bicep, admiring the pump. "It was that shot, bro. Must've had some next-level anabolic compound. I swear my muscles are denser, and my recovery time is insane. It's like I'm running the most effective cycle ever, but all natural."
The group exchanged glances of excitement and uncertainty and barely contained energy. Whatever was happening, it was clear their bodies were responding in ways far beyond normal human limits. Lance found himself squinted at the distance, considering Diego’s comment. Could the gene therapy or NARS trigger such dramatic changes? It seemed too good to be true. Maybe it was just adrenaline, or some kind of placebo effect from surviving a global health crisis. Or perhaps there was something else at play, something they hadn't considered yet.
Diego, still admiring his bicep, suddenly dropped his arm and grinned.
"Enough talk. More lift."
Brad's enthusiasm returned instantly. "Hell yeah! Let's see if you can beat your own record, Beast!"
As Brad and Ethan returned their attention to Diego, Lance moved towards the free weights, ready to start his own workout. Challenges beckoned. Lance cracked his knuckles. Let's do this.
A familiar back routine would be the perfect therapy to clear his head in a world turned upside down.
He grabbed a pair of dumbbells, the rough knurling on the handles biting into his palms and grounding him in the present. As he began his first set of curls, his mind kept wandering off to the point where he lost count of his reps, the motion becoming automatic.
If one hundred million died yesterday, what’s the death toll today…
Focus.
He pushed the thoughts away, concentrating on the burn in his muscles. One rep at a time. That's all he could do for now. One rep at a time.
[Intense physical activity detected. Genetic optimization in progress.]
Woah, he stepped back as a strange message flashed across his vision. He blinked, startled, but the message vanished as quickly as it had appeared. What the hell was that? He glanced around, half-expecting to see an out-of-place screen or projector. Nothing. For a moment, fear gripped him—was he hallucinating? But the message had seemed so real, so crisp. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Probably just my imagination. Or maybe I'm more tired than I thought. Still, the incident left him unsettled, a nagging sense of wrongness he couldn't quite shake. Was this the ‘scary neurological stuff’ Dr. Blackwell mentioned?
Eager to move on, Lance decided to switch exercises. He approached the pull-up bar, his muscles still warm from the earlier exercises. He reached up, gripping the metal, and let out a short, controlled exhale. With a slight jump, he pulled himself up, chin clearing the bar with ease.
One.
He lowered himself smoothly, then pulled up again. The familiar burn in his lats and biceps felt different somehow. Sharper. More defined.
Two. Three.
His mind wandered as his body worked. Here he was, doing pull-ups like it was just another day at the gym. But it wasn't, was it? He'd been given a second chance.
Four. Five.
Lance's usual wall of nine pull-ups loomed ahead, but his arms showed no signs of fatigue.
Six. Seven.
As he pulled himself up for the eighth time, he realized he needed to make some changes. Big ones.
Breakthrough.
He kept going, surprising himself. His job at Qualtech suddenly seemed trivial, meaningless in the face of what had happened. What was the point of designing yet another app when the world was falling apart?
Nine.
Maybe it was time to pivot. Use his skills for something more... impactful. He always dreamed of starting his own business—an engineering LLC. And had ideas brewing in the back of his mind, concepts that could make a real difference. Now might be the perfect time to bring them to life.
Ten. Eleven.
Lance's arms burned, but it was a good burn. A burn that said he was pushing past his limits, growing stronger with each rep. Just like he needed to do with his life.
Twelve. Thirteen.
He thought about the NARS treatment, about BioNova. There was so much that needed to be done in the medical field. Could he contribute somehow? Use his programming skills to help streamline research or gene therapy distribution?
Fourteen. Fifteen.
Or maybe something completely different. A career change. A fresh start. The pandemic had shown how fragile the world's systems were. There had to be a way to make them more resilient, more adaptable.
Sixteen.
Lance's arms trembled slightly, but he pushed through. Each pull-up represented a step towards a new future, a new purpose—or at least that’s the sort of ‘cringe’ thing he told himself. He just had to figure out what that purpose was.
Seven...
...
...teen.
He dropped from the bar, landing softly on his feet. Lance stared at his hands in disbelief. Seventeen pull-ups. He'd almost doubled his previous record.
Impossible.
Yet here he was, breathing heavily but not exhausted. Not even close. He flexed his fingers, feeling the usual burn and tightness, but noticeably less than expected. Whatever was happening to his body, it was... different. Unexpected. He couldn't make sense of it. Maybe his muscles were just fresh after nearly a week of rest, he reasoned. But even that didn't fully explain what he was experiencing.
[Strength increased by 35%. Endurance increased by 52%. Genetic optimization continuing...]
The message had popped up in his sight, clear as day. No hallucination this time. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, but the afterimage lingered in his mind.
What. The. Fuck. Was that?
His heart pounded, a mix of excitement and fear and utter bewilderment coursing through his veins. Lance took a deep breath, forcing himself to think rationally. He was an engineer, dammit. He could figure this out.
Okay, let's break this down. The message mentioned genetic optimization. That had to be related to the gene therapy, right? But how? And why was he seeing it like some sort of augmented reality display?
Lance's mind flashed back to Dr. Blackwell's video. She'd mentioned a synthetic nucleotide sequence injected into DNA. Could that be causing these... upgrades?
Upgrades. The word sent jolts of anxiety throughout his body. It sounded too much like science fiction, yet here he was, experiencing it firsthand.
He flexed his arms experimentally. They felt... different. Stronger, yes, but also more responsive, as if his nervous system had been fine-tuned.
Shit. Lance raked his fingers across his scalp, struggling to make sense of it all. Pondering. Calculating. Was this happening to everyone who got the gene therapy? Or was he some kind of anomaly?
Fear gripped him for a moment. What if this was a side effect? What if it was dangerous? But then again, he felt better than he ever had. Stronger. Sharper. Crazy fast. Lightning fast! More alert. Energized. Like he could run a marathon and solve complex algorithms simultaneously. His senses seemed heightened, colors more vivid, sounds clearer. It was as if a fog had lifted from his entire being—
Focus!
Lance took another deep breath, forcing his racing thoughts to slow. He needed more information. Let’s see…okay, okay!
Determined.
He strode across Titan's Den, his eyes locked on Diego, Brad, and Mark. They were packing up, clearly preparing to leave. Lance's pace quickened.
"Hey, Diego," he called out, his voice carefully neutral. "Got a sec?"
Diego looked up, nodding. "Sure, man. What's up?"
Lance hesitated, suddenly aware of how crazy he might sound. But he had to know. "When you were breaking that deadlift record or whatever... did you, uh, see any weird messages? Like, across your vision?"
Diego's brow furrowed. Does that mean he saw them, or does he think I am crazy? Lance felt a shaking chill crawl under his skin as a thought crossed his mind. Crazy neurological stuff—
"Weird messages?" Diego interrupted, halting Lance's freak-out. Then he looked behind him at Brad and Mark, who seemed equally perplexed. If not more.
"I don't think so," Diego continued. "What do you mean?"
Lance finally exhaled. So it was just him. He forced a casual shrug. "Okay, thanks. Never mind, it's probably nothing."
Diego nodded slowly, still looking confused. "Alright, man. If you say so. See ya tomorrow."
Brad chimed in, "Hey Lance, can you lock up when you leave? I don't think anyone else will be showing up today—with the pandemic going on and all."
"Sure, no problem," Lance said.
As his gym mates filed out and their voices faded into the distance, he glanced around the space, looking for something to distract himself. Anythi—perfect!
His gaze landed on the treadmill in the corner.
Lance strode over. He hopped on, setting his phone down on the console.
[8:12 AM]
His fingers punched in the desired workout.
[Speed Training]
The machine hummed to life seamlessly beneath his feet.
[8 MPH] His usual speed.
[00:00]
The belt began to move, and Lance fell into step. ‘Thud-thud, thud-thud.’ Breathe in, breathe out. The rhythmic pounding of his feet against the treadmill belt matched the pounding of his heart.
[03:00]
His breath remained steady, his legs moving with an effortless grace that felt alien. Where was the burn? The gradual build-up of lactic acid that usually accompanied his runs?
[05:00]
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
Lance glanced down at the heart rate monitor. His eyes shot up.
[58 bpm]
What’s wrong with me? Or actually, what's disgustingly right with me? He was running at eight miles per hour, and his heart rate was only slightly above resting. A bead of sweat formed on his brow, but it wasn't from exertion.
What am I becoming? Screw starting a business, I’m going to the olympics.
His finger hovered over the speed button. A part of him wanted to stop, to get off this ride and pretend everything was normal. But a larger part, the part that had always pushed him to excel, to break boundaries, urged him on.
‘Click.’
[9 MPH]
His legs adjusted seamlessly to the increased pace. Still, his breathing remained even, his heart rate stubbornly low.
‘Click. Click.’
[11 MPH]
The world around him blurred, the gym becoming a smear of colors and shapes. Yet Lance felt more focused than ever. Each stride was perfect, each breath controlled.
[10:00]
He was sprinting now, or at least he should have been. But it felt like a leisurely jog. His heart rate had barely budged, hovering just above 60 bpm.
Fear gripped him. This wasn't normal. This wasn't human. What had that treatment done to him? He was liking it, but he knew nothing this good came without a catch.
‘Click. Click. Click. Click.’
[15 MPH]
The treadmill groaned in protest, not built for such speeds. Lance's feet were a blur, his body a well-oiled machine operating far beyond its intended specifications.
[72 bpm]
Finally, a change. But still nowhere near what it should be for someone running at Olympic sprinter speeds.
Lance's mind raced faster than his feet. The implications of what was happening to him were staggering. He was stronger, faster, more resilient than any human had a right to be. And it terrified him.
‘Click.’
[16 MPH]
The treadmill shuddered violently, the smell of burning rubber filling the air. Lance's legs moved with inhuman speed, his breath still coming in even, measured gasps.
[15:49]
[85 bpm]
[Power increased]
[Speed increased]
[Energy increased]
Lance's world exploded into a barrage of information. Messages blinked everywhere he looked, each one more impossible than the next.
[New skill unlocked: Enhanced Stamina]
[New skill unlocked: Enhanced Speed]
[Genetic optimization: 34%]
Panic surges.
His heart, which had remained stubbornly calm throughout his inhuman run, now thundered in his chest. The treadmill's belt, still spinning at a maddening speed, became a blur beneath his feet. Lance's legs, once moving with preternatural grace, suddenly felt like lead weights.
Slip. Stumble. Balance lost.
The world tilted. Lance's body launched backward, catapulted by the relentless motion of the treadmill.
Time slows. Gravity pulls. Floor rushes up. Eyes squeeze shut. Muscles tense. Seconds stretch. Eternity in freefall. He waits for the sickening crunch of bone meeting floor.
It never came.
Instead, he found himself sliding across the gym, momentum carrying him far beyond what should have been possible. His back skidded across the rubber flooring, coming to rest against the far wall with a gentle thud…
Lance's eyes snapped open. He patted himself down, searching for injuries that should have been there. Broken bones. Torn skin. Anything. Nothing.
He stood, legs shaky but unscathed. His black shirt was ripped, evidence of his wild ride across the gym floor, but his skin beneath was unmarked. Everything was…pristine.
Wrong. This was all wrong. Lance's mind went into overdrive, unable to process the impossible events unfolding around him. Unable to understand his body. Unable to understand...
The messages still lingered in his peripheral vision, then slowly faded away.
A sudden urge to run, to escape this new reality, overwhelmed him. Lance bolted for the door, his movements a blur even to his own heightened awareness. He burst out of Titan's Den, the cool morning air hitting his face like a slap. He started running.
Almost immediately, something in the very back of his mind stopped him.
A thought pierced through the fog of panic. He hadn't locked up. He couldn't betray Ethan's trust, not after the gym owner had been so kind to him. The thought, as mundane as it was, as ordinary as it seemed, as trivial as it appeared next to his new conveniently enhanced body, grounded him. At least a little.
Lance turned back. He reached for the lock, the simple act of securing a door suddenly giving him peace of mind. The click of the lock sliding into place sounded like a gunshot in the quiet street, but it brought a small measure of calm.
***
Lance's feet pounded the pavement, his mind racing even faster than his body. The world blurred around him, buildings and cars melting into streaks of color as he tore through the streets. He had no idea how fast he was going, but he knew it was at least as quick as he'd been on the treadmill, if not more.
Faster.
His lungs should have been burning, his muscles screaming for mercy. But there was nothing. No pain, no fatigue. Just an endless well of energy propelling him forward.
More ominous messages filled his vision, but he didn't even bother to read them. If he were being honest with himself, he was starting to get used to them—a frightening thought, all told. He didn't know if any provided useful information, but there was one thing that was as clear as his grandmother's voice calling him in for dinner on a summer evening: the messages were like a damn video game. Ridiculous. He'd agreed to a clinical trial, not to be a pawn in some sick experiment.
BioNova's building rose before him, its gleaming glass facade holding his answers in the morning light. Lance's stomach churned as he remembered his last visit. The desperation, the reckless act that had saved his life—and possibly changed it forever.
They probably won't want to help me, he thought, slowing his pace as he approached the building. Not after what I did.
But he needed answers. And he would get them.
Lance came to a stop in front of the building, breaths steady, strides smooth and unhurried, absolutely no sign of exertion. He glanced at his reflection in the polished glass doors. Windswept hair framed his wild eyes. His eyes were marbles of fear and determination. He looked... different. Sharper. More defined. As if his very essence had been distilled into a purer form.
Hesitation.
For a moment, he considered turning back. What if they called the police? What if they—
Wait, a second... Lance frowned, piecing it together. The messages across his vision, the changes he was experiencing—this was still part of their clinical trial, wasn't it? They'd want to know about all of this. They'd want this information.
Lance pushed through the doors, the cool air of the lobby washing over him. The receptionist looked up, her eyes widening in recognition.
"Sir, you’re not welcomed here. I'm going to have to ask you to leave—"
“Please,” Lance interrupted, his voice steadier than he felt. "I need to speak with someone about the gene therapy. It's important."
The receptionist's hand hovered over the phone, likely ready to call security.
"Sir, if you don’t leave, I’ll call the police—”
"What police? Go ahead, call them, I'll wait. In the meantime, bring that doctor... What's his name... Ravu... Reeves. Yeah, Reeves. Look," Lance said, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I’m sorry, really, but something's happening to me. I'm... changing. I need to know if this is normal, if others are going through the same thing."
The receptionist's expression softened slightly, a flicker of concern crossing her face. She glanced around, then leaned in. "One moment," she said softly, before reaching for her phone.
Lance paced the lobby, every nerve on edge. He could hear the receptionist's hushed voice, catch fragments of her conversation despite the distance. Beyond that, conversations from floors above and the hum of machinery in distant labs reached his ears. His enhanced senses were both a marvel and a torment.
It didn't feel superhuman, not in the slightest. More like everything had been dialed up a notch or two. Hearing the receptionist's call was like overhearing a stranger's conversation while walking past—except he was halfway across the lobby. He couldn't make out every word, but the gist was there. If he focused, or moved closer, he knew he could pick up more.
And with it came messages—system messages?—about his perception evolving or something like that.
Minutes crawled by like hours.
Finally, the receptionist set down the phone and turned back to Lance.
"Dr. Reeves will be down shortly," she called out, her voice carrying across the lobby as Lance approached the desk—
‘Ding’
The doctor emerged from the elevator in his pristine white lab coat, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back, and his sharp green eyes bright behind wire-rimmed glasses, his earlier sternness replaced by an eager expression that both unsettled and slightly reassured Lance, momentarily easing his restlessness. The doctor's demeanor might have been more comforting if it weren't for the two security guards flanking him.
"Mr. Lawthorn," he said, his voice clipped. "I understand you have some... concerns about your experience with our treatment."
Thank god, Lance thought while nodding and struggling to contain his mix of emotions. "Yeah, I... I don’t even know where to start—"
But then Dr. Reeves's expression hardened. "Before we proceed, I need to know: are you going to behave yourself? We're interested in understanding what's happening, and would like to help you, but we won't tolerate any aggressive behavior."
Lance swallowed hard and tilted his head, slightly caught off-guard. “Ye…s? I mean, yes, of course… And I'm sorry for the way I acted before. As you well know, I felt like I was going to die. I was desperate.
“I understand, but you must know our position. We can’t administer the genetic vaccine to someone with high blood alcohol levels. It could have been fatal. The same is true outside our trial - gene therapy supplies are limited, and we can't risk wasting doses on individuals unlikely to survive the treatment.”
"I know. I do. I just... I need help understanding what's happening to me now."
"Very well. Please follow me to my office. We'll discuss this in private.”
As he moved to follow, Dr. Reeves's eyes raked over him, assessing. He stopped. Turned to the receptionist.
"Zara, please tell Dr. Patel to meet us there. And coordinate with security to stand by, just in case."
Ouch. Though I don't blame him, Lance thought, suddenly noticing Zara's eyes on him.
"Mr. Lawthorn, follow me,” Dr. Reeves said, moving away from the lobby. “Given the unorthodox circumstances of your anti-NARS treatment, we need to understand exactly what's happening. But I want to be clear: our willingness to help doesn't excuse your previous actions."
Lance nodded while following Dr. Reeves into the elevator. The doors closed with a soft hiss, sealing them in.
"I suppose you have questions," Dr. Reeves said, breaking the silence.
Lance almost laughed. Questions? He had a goddamn encyclopedia of questions swirling in his head. But he settled for a simple, "Yes."
"Good," Dr. Reeves replied, his tone unreadable. "So do we."
The elevator continued its ascent, each floor passing feeling like an eternity. Lance's enhanced hearing picked up the subtle whir of the machinery, the soft ping of each floor they passed. He cupped his right fist with his left hand, trying to center himself.
When he opened them again, text overlaid his vision:
[Stress levels elevated. Cortisol suppression improving.]
Just like that, calm suffused him. It was as if he had taken a very, very low dose of Valium—it wasn't much, but enough to allow him to better assess the situation.
Dr. Reeves must have noticed…something because he raised an eyebrow and studied Lance with interest.
The elevator doors opened to a sleek, modern office space. Dr. Reeves stepped out, motioning for Lance to follow. They walked past rows of empty desks until they reached a glass-walled office at the end of the hall. Dr. Reeves opened the door, gesturing for Lance to enter.
"Have a seat," he said, moving behind the large desk that dominated the room.
Lance sank into what felt like the most comfortable chair he had ever sat on his entire life—and that was saying a lot now that even his sense of touch was hyper-aware. The faint scent of coffee lingering in the space, the soft hum of the air conditioning, the subtle flicker of the fluorescent lights overhead. He could easily drift off right there.
Dr. Reeves leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk. "Now, Mr. Lawthorn, why don't you tell me exactly what's been happening to you?"
Lance drew in a long breath, steeling himself. Where to even begin? The impossible strength? The messages flashing in his field of view? The fact that he'd just run across town at superhuman speeds without breaking a sweat?
"I'm... changing," he finally said, watching as Dr. Reeves pulled out a black notebook and turned on his laptop. "My body, my senses, everything. It's like I'm becoming something else... like my body is becoming better, or changing."
"And when did these changes begin?"
"After the gene therapy," Lance replied with a hint of accusation in his intonation. "What did you do to me?"
Dr. Reeves opened his mouth to respond when the office door opened. A petite woman with long black hair pulled into a messy bun stepped in, her pink-rimmed glasses slightly askew. Dr. Patel, Lance presumed.
"Ah, Dr. Patel," Dr. Reeves said, signaling for her to join them. "Thank you for coming. This is Mr. Lawthorn, the... unexpected participant we discussed. Lance, this is Dr. Ananya Patel, our lead biomedical engineer of the gene therapy project.”
Dr. Patel's eyes lit up and now Lance really felt like he was being treated like a test subject.
"Oh! The one who—" She caught herself, composing her features. "I mean, it's nice to meet you, Mr. Lawthorn. Dr. Reeves mentioned you've been experiencing some... unusual effects from the genetic vaccine?"
Lance shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his gaze darting between Dr. Reeves and Dr. Patel. "'Unusual effects' is putting it mildly," he said.
"Dr. Patel, please have a seat," Dr. Reeves said, gesturing to the empty chair in front of his desk. As she sat, he continued, "Mr. Lawthorn was just about to detail the effects he's experienced. Sir, please proceed, be as detailed as possible."
Lance exhaled slowly, trying to organize his thoughts. This was it. The moment of truth. He opened his mouth, ready to unleash the torrent of impossible experiences he'd been through.
"It's... a lot," Lance started, his voice steadier than he felt. "I'm stronger. Faster. My senses are... heightened. I can hear conversations from far away, smell things I shouldn't be able to."
Dr. Reeves nodded, his pen scratching across the notebook. "Go on."
"I ran on a treadmill at sixteen miles per hour for fifteen minutes," Lance continued, the absurdity of the statement hitting him as he said it. "My heart rate didn’t increase. And when I fell off... I should have been hurt. Badly. But I wasn't. Not a scratch."
The doctor's eyebrows rose slightly, but he remained silent, scribbling furiously.
Lance hesitated, then decided to dive in completely. "And... I'm seeing things. Messages. Like... status updates. They flash across my vision, telling me about... improvements. Genetic optimization. New skills unlocked. It's like I'm in some kind of... I don't know, a video game system or something."
At this, Dr. Reeves stopped writing. He looked up, his expression unreadable. "Interesting. Can you give me an example of these messages?"
Lance pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to recall. "There was one about strength increasing by 35%. Another about endurance going up 52%. And something about genetic optimization being at 34%."
When he opened his eyes, he found Dr. Reeves staring at him intently, his expression like that of a geologist who'd just stumbled upon a rock that shouldn't exist.
"Mr. Lawthorn," the doctor said slowly, "how long have you been experiencing these... enhancements?"
Lance frowned, thinking back. "It started... this morning, I think. At the gym. That's when I first noticed the strength increase and the messages."
Dr. Reeves typed something into his laptop, his fingers a blur. Lance shook his head in disbelief—if he really focused, he could probably decipher what the doctor had been typing just by watching his finger movements.
The doctor looked up again. "Have you experienced any negative side effects? Headaches, nausea, disorientation? Or anything similar to NARS?"
"No, nothing like that. I feel... good. Better than good, actually. But it's just... weird."
Dr. Reeves nodded, making another note. "I see. And these messages you're seeing, do they appear at specific times or randomly?"
"They seem to show up when I'm doing something physical," Lance replied. "Running, lifting weights. Or when I'm... stressed, I guess? There was one about cortisol suppression in the elevator."
Dr. Reeves leaned back in his chair with a ghost of amusement haunting the edges of his mouth.
"Mr. Lawthorn, what you're experiencing is entirely normal. In fact, it's well within the parameters we've observed in our clinical trials so far."
Lance's fingers tapped the armrest, then abruptly stilled. "Normal? In what world can this be normal?"
"Oh, absolutely! It's fascinating, really. We've been seeing similar results across the board," said Dr. Patel.
"I'm not sure how much you know about NARS, Mr. Lawthorn," Dr. Reeves continued. "Its origin, its effects on human beings-"
"I know it's not a virus or traditional radiation," Lance interrupted. "Some kind of new energy we've been exposed to, right?"
"Precisely," Dr. Reeves nodded. "Our gene therapy, like the others out there, helps the body withstand and regulate this energy. However, our approach at BioNova is... more ambitious."
"You could say we're not just playing defense," Dr. Patel added with a grin. "We're going on the offensive."
Lance jerked back. “Defense? Offense? What are we talking about, exactly?”
"Our gene therapy contains a synthetic genetic sequence that not only protects against the pathogen but potentially allows the body to utilize some of its properties for beneficial purposes. Or at least that's our hypothesis," Dr. Reeves said. "Dr. Patel, would you care to elaborate on the specifics?"
"Yes, Sir, with pleasure. Mr. Lawthorn, the 'system’—as you called it earlier—It's actually a neural interface," Dr. Patel explained, her excitement bubbling over. "It's designed to help your body and mind process the changes occurring at a cellular level."
"So these messages I'm seeing..."
"Real-time feedback from your body's adaptation to the energy," Dr. Reeves confirmed. "Translated into terms your brain can easily understand and process."
"And the physical changes? The strength, the speed? It feels… too easy."
"It’s all interconnected," Dr. Patel nodded. "Your body is learning to use the energy, leading to cellular optimization."
"I'll be honest, Mr. Lawthorn," Dr. Reeves said. "There are still many unknowns. We're not sure how far these enhancements might go or what the long-term effects could be." He glanced at Dr. Patel. "Ananya, what's the latest from the beta trials? Any new developments?"
Yes, sir. Our current data suggests potential improvements across multiple aspects of human physiology, possibly approaching peak performance in some areas,” Dr. Patel added quickly. "However, we're still analyzing the full extent and consistency of these enhancements."
“Wait a second,” Lance said. "What about my friends? They got the shot too, and they're performing better, but when I asked them, they said they hadn’t experienced any ‘system messages.’"
Dr. Reeves and Dr. Patel exchanged a glance.
"Different gene therapies, different approaches to energy regulation," Dr. Reeves explained. "Ours is... unique."
"We're aiming to provide more control," Dr. Patel said. "The neural interface is part of that."
Lance sat in silence for a moment, digesting this information. "So, let me get this straight. I've basically been turned into a superhuman guinea pig for your experimental therapy?"
Dr. Reeves winced slightly. "I wouldn't put it quite like that-"
"No, you wouldn't," Lance cut him off. "But that's what it boils down to, isn't it?"
"Mr. Lawthorn," Dr. Patel leaned forward, her voice earnest. "We understand this is a lot to take in. But please remember, you came to us. You chose to participate in our trial."
"By stealing a dose and injecting myself," Lance retorted. "Not exactly following proper protocols, was I? And I paid you twenty thousand dollars for it."
"No," Dr. Reeves admitted. "But the gene therapy still worked as intended. You're alive, Mr. Lawthorn. And not just alive - you're thriving."
Lance couldn't argue with that. He did feel incredible. But still...
"And what happens now? Do I just go on living my life as some sort of enhanced human? What if something goes wrong?"
"We'll be monitoring you closely," Dr. Reeves said. "Regular check-ups, tests, the works. You'll have our full support."
"Think of it as an adventure," Dr. Patel said, grinning. "You're at the forefront of human evolution. Isn't that exciting?"
Lance couldn't help but laugh. "You know what? It kind of is. Terrifying, but exciting."
"That's the spirit," Dr. Reeves nodded approvingly. "Now, shall we discuss the details of your ongoing participation in our study?"
‘Ding,’ went Dr. Reeves’s computer, and he glanced at his watch.
"I apologize, but I have a meeting I must attend. Dr. Patel, would you mind guiding Mr. Lawthorn through navigating the neural interface?"
"Of course! It'll be my pleasure. I'll walk him through our standard onboarding process."
Dr. Reeves nodded and stood. "Mr. Lawthorn, we'll be in touch soon to discuss further details. In the meantime, Dr. Patel will answer any questions you might have."
As the door closed behind Dr. Reeves, Dr. Patel turned to Lance with a friendly smile.
"Alright, Lance - can I call you Lance? - let's dive into the fun stuff. First, let's access your status page. Close your eyes and think 'status'."
Lance raised an eyebrow but complied. To his surprise, a translucent screen appeared in his mind's eye:
Name: Lance Lawthorn
Genetic Optimization: 35%
Energy Alignment: [UNCLASSIFIED]
Power: 3 (+0.7)
Energy: 3 (+0.9)
Speed: 3 (+1.1)
Defense: 4 (+0.5)
Mind: 4 (+0.6)
Control: 3 (+0.4)
"This is it," Lance crackled with excitement. "These are the messages I'm seeing." He started to open his eyes, turning towards Dr. Patel. "Are you seeing th-"
"Keep your eyes closed!" Dr. Patel scolded quickly.
Lance snapped his eyes shut again.
"I can't see your personal interface, silly," Dr. Patel explained as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
"What the hell? Power? Energy? Are you serious with these names?" Lance asked.
"I know, I know. We wanted terms anyone could understand. Not everyone would get 'adenosine triphosphate synthesis efficiency', you know?"
"Still, it sounds like something out of a terrible RPG. Couldn't you have come up with something a little less... childish?"
"Hey, don't knock RPGs! But yeah, we were kinda pressed for time—global health emergency and all. So we needed something universally understandable, fast."
“Sure.” Lance read out the numbers to Dr. Patel, who jotted them down on a tablet, nodding as she went.
"Impressive," she said, looking up from her notes. "You've got some solid numbers here, especially that 4 in Defense and Mind. From what we've seen so far, threes are about average for most people."
"Is that good?" Lance asked, unsure how to feel about being quantified in this way.
"It's very good," Dr. Patel assured him. "In fact, that 4 in Defense is probably why you survived the gene therapy despite the, um, less than ideal circumstances of your injection." She paused, a hint of amusement in her voice. "You must be quite healthy."
Lance felt his cheeks warm slightly. "Oh, yes," he said, avoiding her gaze. "I always eat three balanced meals a day."
Dr. Patel chuckled. "Well, whatever you're doing, keep that momentum.”
Lance released a heavy sigh. "How do you deal with all this? Seeing these stats, messages popping up..."
"Oh, I don't have this interface. I got the Synergy shot."
"Lucky you."
"Well, we were essential personnel. Had to stay healthy to develop the gene treatment. But trust me, the more I work on it, the more I wish I had your cool HUD!"
Lance leaned back and crossed his arms. "Right. And all your other patients are okay with this?"
"Haven't had any complaints yet. Most people are just happy they can lift heavier things."
"Of course they are," Lance muttered. "So what's next? Do I get to allocate skill points?"
Dr. Patel laughed. "Not quite, next we’ll go through the breakdown of your stats. It's pretty fascinating stuff. Think 'expand stats'."
Another heavy sigh, and Lance complied. The screen in his mind shifted:
Power: 3 (+0.7)
* Muscle Density: 3.5
* Force Generation: 3.8
* Energy Output: 3.7
Energy: 3 (+0.9)
* Metabolic Efficiency: 3.7
* Stamina: 4.1
* Cellular Regeneration: 3.9
Speed: 3 (+1.1)
* Reaction Time: 4.0
* Movement Velocity: 4.2
* Neural Transmission Rate: 4.1
Defense: 4 (+0.5)
* Physical Durability: 4.3
* Immune System Strength: 4.6
* Energy Resistance: 4.5
Mind: 4 (+0.6)
* Cognitive Processing Speed: 4.4
* Memory Capacity: 4.5
* Analytical Ability: 4.7
Control: 3 (+0.4)
* Power Precision: 3.2
* Mind-Body Synchronization: 3.5
* Genetic Stability: 3.4
Lance stared at the list, his mouth hanging open slightly. He blinked, shook his head, and blinked again. The numbers remained unchanged.
"You've gotta be shitting me."