The Standardised Predictive Vocation Algorithm.

First adopted in 1563, the formula was the brainchild of the best minds of the age as a way to optimise the efficiency of the citizens of Yuna Prime. It took into account an individual’s socio-economic conditions, predisposition towards addictive behaviours, hereditary medical conditions, potential peak intelligence, and a whole bunch of other complicated factors to calculate one thing, and one thing alone: the place in society a certain individual should have.

Humans, these intellectuals reasoned, needed to have a purpose given to them. Fulfilment was what every living thing desired when it came down to it. This would solve that; an equation to tell you what the meaning of your life was.

Plus, the old ways were sloppy and ineffective. Letting people just… do whatever they wanted? Lope about without a clear goal, and stumble into a half-hearted career path? Fall in love with some random person you came across in a bar, marry and have three kids?

Patently ridiculous; their way was infinitely superior.

And it worked.

After the algorithm was rolled out for mainstream use, employers would no longer worry about recruiting their newest workers from job listings that might never be answered, nor did newly turned adults have to agonize over their job prospects. The algorithm would hand each of them a printout of the relevant details, and work would start on the next business day.

Even in matters of the heart the algorithm provided; you would be assigned a marriage partner from an early age based on compatibility and disposition. This would ensure that your children would maintain an average level of genetic diversity, and thus reduce the occurrence of birth defects. You could, of course, choose to refuse this partner, in which case your profile would be shuffled into another, less discerning list of individuals who had made the same decision which you were free to mingle with.

Needless to say, the latter option wasn’t very popular. The algorithm had given you your soulmate, after all; the one most suited to you. Taking a leap into the unknown waters that was blind dates was terrifying to the risk-averse.

Over the last five decades, industries across the board experienced massive and sustained growth, with huge leaps in technology and breakthroughs in science taking place every other year. Global average life expectancy skyrocketed to a mind-boggling one hundred and fifty six years, and there was near to complete eradication of crime – people were either already content with their lot in life, or were too busy carrying out their assigned tasks to commit felonies.

So everyone was happy, right?

Well, most were.

Even in this semi-utopian society, there was still the issue of monetary compensation. The abolishment of entrenched monetary systems in the world was a deal-breaker for the global elite. No way would they agree to render whatever hoards of wealth they had amassed over the years through cunning and deceit obsolete. If those brainiacs wanted full-scale global incorporation of the SPVA into every aspect of life; they would have to compromise.

Compromise, or the metaphorical plug would be pulled.

The eggheads scratched their heads. Theoretically, it would be possible to do so; but at the potential cost of diminishing the quality of life for a significant proportion of the populace. Their initial plan had been to ensure that everyone would be well taken care of, their needs met and a couple of wants provided for. To that end, getting rid of such antiquated systems of capitalism would be necessary. Adding something like this so late into development would be akin to dumping a whole bag of spanners into the works.

We can’t do that, one would argue. It runs counter to our end goal of maximal happiness for the largest number of humans.

You imbecile, another would fire back. Whatever life they would have after the algorithm reaches mainstream adoption would still be an improvement over the one they currently lead. Would you want to risk that for absolute perfection; something that might not even be possible?

So the concession was made, and inefficiencies introduced into the algorithm. A function to determine the amount of credits you would be given for your job performance.

If you were assigned to be a medical researcher, combating the evolution of deadly diseases and leading the charge on new-fangled surgical techniques – surely you had to be paid more? In the figures went; a medical researcher would be paid a monthly salary of ten thousand credits.

Conversely, if you performed an essential but less… mentally taxing role, your pay would reflect that reduction accordingly in absolute numbers.

After the necessary modifications were made, the eggheads diligently ran the numbers again with a sample of three hundred random individuals selected from different strata of society. To their relief, the resulting drop in quality of life over the population was calculated to be ultimately negligible; a 0.0006% decrease.

Barely even a blip.

A few outliers would be absolutely miserable but hey, they would have been miserable with or without the SPVA’s meddling.

Hands were shaken, congratulations were exchanged, and the SPVA was finally released to the public.

Fifty years later, a disgruntled fast-food outlet janitor sat cross-legged in his one-room apartment, eyeing the information feed on his government-issued tablet impatiently; a slightly balding middle-aged male with a bulging pot belly who went by the name Gordon Higgins.

“Come on,” he muttered, following closely along with the text that scrolled across the display. “Come to papa. That’s it. Big money, big money.”

Gordon was one of the outliers – the ones left behind by the world.

His parents were drug addicts that had perished after overdosing on Pollen, a mind-altering substance that temporarily changed brain chemistry to only release endorphins. It was a cheap and easy way for the dregs of society to forget about reality; if just for a couple of hours. But there were specific quantities that you had to take; any more and you’d risk permanent brain damage.

He was found in his crib three days later, after their landlord barged into the flat to demand the late rent he was owed, malnourished and with soiled diapers.

An orphan?

That was a point down on the SPVA.

His mandated cognitive tests didn’t reveal any latent talent that would classify him as a valuable asset to society – in fact, they showed quite the opposite; that he was what some might call a dunce.

Another point down.

His parents were drug addicts.

Yet another point down.

It was by this manner of ruthless and clinical calculus that his life’s purpose was revealed to him: given the factors taken into consideration, it was highly unlikely that there would be any significant value he could provide to the society of Yuna Prime. He had scored a record low even by the standards of the fifty year history of the SPVA: a measly 5 out of 65.

His role would forever be that of a cleaning staff. If he was lucky, there was a chance that he could be promoted to be that of a senior custodial staff member – a minor increase in compensation that came along with a disproportionate increase in workload. To add insult to injury, no life partner would be assigned to him, on the cruel basis that it would be more beneficial to remove such a worthless element from the breeding pool.

A life destined for obscurity.

But it wasn’t like there was no recourse left to these individuals. It was rare, but in some cases it was possible for the algorithm to re-calculate your vocation based on emerging information. The calculation was based on information fed into the system, so if some pencil pusher had failed to enter in some crucial details, the resulting value would be inaccurate.

A glimmering thread of hope, left dangling tantalisingly just beyond one’s reach.

You could request a recalculation of your SPVA value once every ten years; to see if you might be assigned a different life than your own. But to prevent abuse of the system by malicious individuals, you could only take this option a scant three times.

After that, your fate was sealed.

Gordon had applied twice since he hit the age of fifteen.

Both times there had been no change.

This was to be his last shot.

He watched the text scrolling across the ticker attentively, waiting for his name to show up. He could feel it; this was the moment his life would change! The algorithm had made a mistake the first two times, that’s all – he was about to be assigned a lucrative vocation, one that would shower him in riches for little to no work!

There it was!

Gordon paused the auto-scroll on the ticker and tapped on the relevant section, reading with bated breath. Gordon Higgins, age 45… result of re-calculation of SPVA is…

5 of 65.

No change.

Gordon stared at the number incredulously. How could there be no change? He deserved a better life than this!

Gordon hadn’t thought too critically about this – well, he wasn’t exactly gifted in that area – but the result had been fixed from the very beginning. After all, he hadn’t done anything to improve himself in the past three decades; even when given the opportunity to learn new skills he’d rather laze about in his cramped apartment, downing cans of alcohol and lamenting his misfortune. There was no way the SPVA could give him any better a result than the one he already had.

In a fit of rage, he lobbed the tablet into the corner of the room, denting the cheap plaster.

He fell backwards, sprawled out in the middle of empty beer cans all around him as he stared up into the ceiling, silently fuming.

Screw the system. Screw the world. He was owed this; owed a good life! Didn’t he have to endure more suffering than the average citizen? He should be pampered and given what he wanted!

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“… I should be the one at the top of everything. Then they’ll see… they’ll all see…” he murmured.

It was at this very moment that the proverbial stars aligned. A cosmic coincidence, one might call it. It was as if the higher powers had heard his lamentations and saw fit to bestow onto the bum what he had desired, answering his prayers.

The truth of the matter was less mythical and more mundane – simply a tiny error made by an unqualified AI system who just wanted to get rid of an annoying buzzing noise.

Yet that didn’t change the fact that it happened.

That a portion of power from a completely unrelated individual called Zachary Altair was merged with his very being, pulses of invisible energy fed into his soul at a ludicrous speed.

“Gggh.”

Gordon convulsed on the floor, muscles tightening up as jolts of electricity shot through his entire body. His first thought was that this was one of those heart attacks he’d heard so much about, brought on by the shock of having his future crumble in front of his eyes.

Good, he thought bitterly. At least this way they’ll have to find someone else to replace me for my shift, and I can get a reroll on this life. Serves them right for treating me like this.

Then the memories and personality traits began to stream in.

He felt unfamiliar mannerisms and cryptic ideas inundate his puny brain, his sense of self being altered to its very core. This was something Gordon didn’t understand was happening, yet vaguely felt that he had to stop. That was his self-preservation instinct kicking in, as who he was up to this point was being systematically overwritten by this new person’s thoughts and worldview.

Stop! The panicked thought came, pleading with whatever was doing this. I’m me; not whoever this asshat is! Stop this at once!

“S-st…”

The words wouldn’t come out; his lips still paralysed. He could do nothing but allow whatever this was to happen. All he could do now was hold on to his last thought, the emotion which he felt unbidden every day of his forty-five years of existence.

Rage.

A need to get back at all the others who had it better than he did.

A-allo-cation c-compl-ete.

Then it was done.

Zachary Altair’s thirty-fifth Mask, The Reclusive Scientist, was fully mapped over the personality template of one Gordon Higgins. The pulsations stopped, and his muscles unclenched. The man sat up where he was, flexing his lips. He could move them again, so he finished the phrase he had wanted to say.

“Status Page.”

N$me:

GoCDrn HLiAgIns

R4ce:

HuMan

L3vEl:

4@

H-P:

30&2/3)12

M/:

!73#/87$1

AtTibUtEs:

LVl

stR:

7

D3F:

@@

InT:

7!4

sPd:

22

L8K:

^^^

sKilLz:

LVl

MsK gE2eRtIoN

-

P SaP (*/*)

-

IsPct

6

VRa1 sYtHs1s

9

I4F3rEne mATer6

9

GE23TiciSt mATer6y

9

bio C0Tr@l

9

(ALl tHr sK1l 5lL b l0ckE Nt1l zAh@Ry aL5aIr Iz i5 C-0tRo1)

-

The new person peered at the transparent screen in curiosity.

“Huh, strange. Minor corruption in identifying information, highly unusual; but that shouldn’t pose much of a problem. Mental faculties are running at optimum, but just to be sure…”

The individual started to rummage through his mind, listing out facts that he’d absorbed in the course of his life. The Riggard Constant, the Twenty-Eight Principles of Creation, how to refill a paper towel dispenser, the fastest way to wipe down a table with the least number of swipes…

“Oh!” The newly minted person noticed the discrepancy immediately. There were bits of someone else mixed up in his thoughts. “That feels a little weird, actually. Like I’m not all myself. Well, I suppose that should be the first thing on the list to figure out, shouldn’t it? The person in control of this body?”

He pondered the question carefully, mentally tallying up a list of relevant memories and seeing which was higher. The conclusion was reached immediately; an intellectual like he was, with full absolute control over every aspect of his mind, easily inferred the answer to this trivial question.

“I’m Gordon Higgins, of course. Aged 45, stuck in a dead end job, hates the world- oh! That’s right; I’m supposed to hate the world, aren’t I?” the person mused aloud. While an influx of new ideas and a radical rearranging of mental traits had taken place, the fragmented mind cobbled together with pieces of two different humans decided to honor the will of the one that had occupied the body before.

He would wreak havoc on this perfect little slice of paradise; burn every forest, tear down every skyscraper, spread panic and destruction on a global scale.

But what to do, then?

It would be easy to synthesize a highly infectious airborne virus based on the tools currently available to Gordon. Viral Synthesis was one of those handy skills that he had in his arsenal as the Reclusive Scientist. It was a Skill that gave him the ability to tinker directly with microbes, creating never-before-seen abominations with deadly effects.

With just that alone, the resulting introduction into the atmosphere coupled with person-to-person transmission would decimate population centers in a little under two weeks. It would satisfy his goal of throwing the world into chaos, inflicting pain onto all those that sat above him on the social ladder.

On the other hand, society at large wouldn’t know it was him. They’d simply shrug and conclude that it was the failure of global health organisations to anticipate such an event from taking place. It’d be business as usual after that. He crossed off this option from the list.

How about Bio Control, then? He could kidnap the children of some famous public figures, rearrange a bunch of bodily functions, make them defecate out their mouths? It’d be a right laugh, but the new Gordon knew his limits. He was but one man; they’d catch him in the end.

No, if Gordon Higgins wanted catharsis, a satisfying retaliation against the ones that had wronged him, not only did he need them to know it was him, it had to be something that they couldn’t do anything about. A revenge that would be over-the-top; flashy and unstoppable. Something that would topple the current world order and cause widespread suffering throughout every level of society.

Ah!

He snapped his fingers.

That’s it!

The pudgy man swept the empty cans off the table, retrieving a cheap ballpoint pen from a drawer. With confident strokes and heavy lines he sketched out a rough draft of what he had in mind on the coffee table. After he was done, he titled the blueprint with large capital letters.

BIO GENERATIVE COPY MARK TWO.

It wouldn’t be all that different from what he had been intending before the end of that first life cycle; just a few tweaks to the bio-genetic frame and a different basal starting point, and it’d be exactly what he needed to cause the greatest impact to the world of Yuna Prime. At a glance, the societal value these things would provide would be immense; he wouldn’t even need to make much of a case before they would be adopted into mainstream usage! After a saturation point of facilities housing these creations was reached… well, not even every military in the world banding together would be enough to stop him.

They don’t even have Skills, he chuckled to himself. They’ll crumble like sandcastles against waves!

Oh hold on- I’m missing something, aren’t I?

The human formerly known as Gordon Higgins placed his right hand over his face, and stretched out his left, thumb on middle finger. With a flourish, he spoke two habitual words.

“Mask… Generation!”

He felt the comforting snugness of the mask cover his face, his mind instantly set at ease. Ah… he just didn’t feel right without it. He didn’t even intend to use the Masquerade Mask’s own properties. What good was altering your Status Page when nobody could even see it?

“Watch out, Yuna Prime.” New Gordon spoke out loud, smirking. “A monster of your own making is coming to destroy everything you hold dear.”