A young boy played with a black dog in a meadow. The dog was simply there, just as the boy was. The grass was such a vibrant green that it seemed unreal. In this place (wherever it was) there was no wind to ripple through the blades, yet they shimmered in the sunlight. They brushed against the gnarled roots of the only tree in sight. The boy walked to the tree, where an old man sat leaning against its bark in the shade. A white robe draped the frail body of the elder. His chin rested on his chest, hiding his face; the boy couldn’t see it. He asked the old man who he was, but the figure remained as still as a stone.
The boy asked again who he was, but still, the man gave no answer, nor did he move.
As the boy turned to leave, he felt the old man lift his head. The boy froze, turned back, and saw that the man’s face was missing—as though it had been erased.
"Why do you fear?" the old man asked. "Why are you afraid of death? If you were to live forever, you would suffer forever. Why, then, do you not fear life instead?"
The boy must have been mistaken, for the dog was no longer there; it was now another man standing behind him. Unlike the old man, this one was dressed entirely in black. But the boy no longer feared death. He feared only this man behind him, who wished him harm. And yet, the boy could not bring himself to turn around.
"If the choice were yours," the old man said, "could you do it? Could you simply do it?"
The boy trusted the old man. He told him he would do anything to be protected from the man behind him. He also said he no longer feared death, for other things were far crueler.
And then, the boy felt a sharp pain in his chest.
When he looked down, he saw the old man’s hand resting on his heart. He looked up again, but both men were gone.
The boy fell into the grass, which still glowed and swayed silently in the sunlight. Birds flew overhead. He thought they were seagulls, but before he could be sure, they vanished from view. He lay there for a long time, staring at the clear blue sky. Its beauty—the clarity of that endless blue—overwhelmed him. It stole his words, his breath, and even the beat of his heart, so profound was the beauty of that blue.
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Voices speaking over one another in a chaotic tangle. Where was he? What the hell kind of dream was that?! So real it felt like... he’d lived it.
Billy Jones tried to look around, but he couldn’t move. Muffled footsteps echoed on the floor, slowly approaching him.
As much as it hurt, as dazed as he was, he kept trying to open his eyes for just a glimpse. The blinding light above his face stabbed painfully at his retinas, leaving him squinting in agony. Slowly, the outlines of a surgical lamp came into focus, and a sudden, violent shock tore through him as he realized what it meant.
Taking a deep breath to confirm his suspicion, the sterile, chemical scent of disinfectant filled his nose.
I’m in an operating room!
"Nine twenty-three. GMO 25700 regains consciousness after local anesthesia," a gruff voice dictated.
Billy needed to see the face behind the voice, needed to know who was sitting in the corner, typing information into a computer. But the anesthesia had left him too paralyzed to move. Worse, when he tried to tilt his head, it sent searing pain through his neck.
The footsteps stopped, and a shadow loomed over him, inspecting the GMO. Then the doctor pushed the surgical lamp aside, revealing a grotesque visage of malice.
"Isn’t it a beautiful morning?" the man said with a smile. "I’m Nicholas Curtis, the lead physician of the Brotherhood of the Knowing. But I assume you already remember me well. After all, you recall every single thing that’s happened over the past ten days, don’t you? That’s good, my friend. You’re well on your way to becoming a whole new person. You’re about to stand on an entirely new level of humanity. If..." He paused for emphasis. "...if your body accepts the genetic modifications. If you survive, I mean. But first, we need to remove that stomach ulcer. Afterward, you’ll undergo a standard chemotherapy regimen to ensure we completely eliminate the cancer cells. I imagine you’re dying to know what this experiment is all about, and what role you’re playing in it. Am I right? Of course I am." Curtis stroked the white bristles of his Henriquatre beard thoughtfully, his piercing gaze fixed on his subject lying on the operating table. For someone so frail-looking, his presence was unnervingly commanding.
"You experienced muscle spasms during the anesthesia, which caused micro-tears in your muscle fibers. That’s why you can’t move. It’s nothing more than severe muscle soreness—though without the satisfaction of an intense workout," he added with a grin he likely thought charming.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
In the dim corner of the room, the faint clatter of the other doctor’s typing continued. The constant tapping had blended so seamlessly with the atmosphere that Billy barely noticed it anymore.
"Add that GMO 25700 reports muscle pain," Curtis instructed.
What kind of anesthetic had they used, Billy wondered, that left his brain feeling like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper? He kept slipping into micro-sleeps, fighting desperately to stay awake, trying to follow the doctor’s words.
"Research!" Curtis suddenly proclaimed, his voice ringing through the room. "Don’t you think research is akin to divinity? Our goal is to create beings so pure in spirit that they’re worthy of living in the Garden of Eden. We are not religious fanatics; we are scientists, devoted to science. That means we’ve made it our mission to lead humanity into a better life through progress. And you, Mr. Jones, you are the genetic key to this better world. We’re giving humanity a future by liberating it from its destiny. With your help... no, through you alone... we will create a reality where there is no war, no disease, only peace and... love."
Billy remained silent as Dr. Nicholas Curtis’s voice grew deeper, more ominous. Curtis raised a finger as though the truly unsettling part was only now about to begin.
"Do you have any idea what it means to be perfect? The beings we are creating—that’s what mythology has always referred to as gods. Do you understand now why we’re conducting these experiments?"
Curtis circled the table, his steps slow and deliberate, as though calculating the perfect moment to strike with his next question.
"What do you think of our species?" Without giving Billy time to respond, he continued, "Aren’t we savages? Filthy animals! But we’re giving humanity a future by freeing it from its destiny and transforming it into something greater."
Billy began to tremble. Was it a side effect of the anesthesia? His mind was still foggy, and he saw his surroundings through a blurred haze, as if peering through frosted glass.
"Research requires sacrifice," Curtis said, his voice ringing with conviction. "Whether it’s a billion mice that no one cares about, or a few thousand Stranded society has already abandoned, we are the ones giving these lives meaning. Do you understand? What’s that? You wonder if we lose our humanity by inflicting suffering on others for our purposes? Yes! Or rather, no! We don’t possess anything that farmers or poets might call humanity to begin with. But we will grant it to the next generation, this so-called humanity everyone talks about. Compassion. Mercy. And everything else—hatred, arrogance, greed—we will erase all of that from your mind. You, Mr. Jones, still think we’re cruel? Then tell me, how are we any more vile than the big pharmaceutical companies that let millions of Africans die of malaria each year because they can’t afford the medication? Saving them—giving the medicine away—wouldn’t be profitable! How is your government any less reprehensible than we are? Your government, which spends millions to export weapons to other countries, ensuring desperate people can slaughter one another? How are the United States any less criminal than we are, the Brotherhood of the Knowing? A country that pours billions into military spending to remain a superpower while just a fraction of that money could end world hunger. Is that what you call greatness? This world is doomed to collapse. But the Garden of Eden represents our ability to create paradise on Earth. We are humanity’s salvation!"
Curtis leaned over Billy, his face close, studying him. With the tip of a pen, he traced an imaginary parting line across Billy’s now nearly bald scalp.
Curtis nodded to himself, as if affirming his own thoughts. "The baldness," he said, "is a sign of the metamorphosis you’re undergoing." He looked Billy squarely in the face. "My God, your eyes! They’re so pure. It’s incredible how innocent they look. Like an angel’s eyes."
In the background, Billy heard the faint clatter of typing again. With all his strength, he tried to speak, forcing his lips to form a single, incoherent word. Curtis leaned in, tilting his ear closer. He was so near that Billy only needed to whisper. And whispering was all he could manage.
Curtis listened, nodding intermittently as if understanding some profound truth. Then he straightened abruptly.
"Why you?" he asked, his voice taking on a theatrical edge. "Are you wondering if you’re the Chosen One? Let me put it this way: sometimes fortune finds us in the most unexpected ways."
Curtis paused, as if waiting for a response from Billy. But Billy said nothing, made no move. It was in that moment of silence that Billy noticed something— the typing had stopped. The doctor at the computer wasn’t a man—it was a woman. She now stood beside Curtis, and they both looked down at Billy.
"Under stress, the body’s response is heightened, allowing us to better observe how your new mind copes." She smiled at him, like a mother gazing at her newborn child. "We don’t know if you’ll survive. But you’re so incredibly valuable to us that we’ve decided to extract your genetic material. If you don’t survive, he will bring your child into the world. It will be perfect. And he will be its mother."
"Mr Jones,” Curtis continued, "we humans are a selfish species. Everything we do is to fight each other and impose our will. Greed. The hunger for wealth and power. We let others suffer to improve our own lives. Instead of uniting, we work against one another. This conflict is in all of us, but we can destroy it. Remake ourselves into pure beings!" He paused, sighing, then cleared his throat to finish. "Do you see? We have the ability to create humans who will live in harmony with one another."
They gently stroked his forehead. Curtis adjusted the surgical instruments on the tray. Without another word, he unclamped the saline IV, attached a syringe to the tube, and injected a drug that immediately made Billy drowsy.
Billy suddenly thought about humanity—what would become of it if he was no longer there?
"Well?" Curtis asked. "Do you agree with us? Do you see that what we’re doing is right? That it was all worth it?"
Billy nodded slowly. Or maybe it wasn’t him nodding. Maybe it was the thing inside him, the thing that was never supposed to take over. Perhaps it had already consumed him, erased him.
Moments later, his consciousness fell into an endless sleep.
"Congratulations," the doctor said. "You’re a wise man, Mr. Jones."