The lab lights glowed softly over a glass chamber where a girl lay unconscious, tubes running into her veins.
A doctor adjusted a monitor, speaking as if lecturing a room full of students.
"Begin CRISPR-Cas9 sequence alignment. Target loci… myostatin inhibitors, neural acceleration pathways, and regenerative gene clusters."
He paused, glancing at a junior researcher.
"In simpler terms," he continued calmly, "we are cutting into their DNA and rewriting it. Think of it like editing a book. We remove the parts that limit strength, speed, and healing… and replace them with something better."
The junior nodded slowly.
"But the problem," the doctor added, eyes returning to the screen, "is that the body doesn't like being rewritten. It fights back. And when it fights… it breaks."
On the monitor, the girl's heart rate spiked violently.
"See?" he said. "Rejection."
___
Another room. Another subject strapped into a chair, electrodes lining her head.
A different doctor spoke, voice low and steady.
"Initiate limbic dampening. Suppress amygdala activity. Increase prefrontal override."
He glanced at the observers.
"What that means," he explained, "is that we are shutting down emotion at its source. The amygdala is where fear, anger, attachment… all of it lives."
He tapped lightly on the glass.
"We don't remove emotions completely. That would kill the subject. Instead, we suppress them. Bury them so deep that they can't interfere."
A scream cut through the room as electricity surged.
"Pain is still processed," the doctor added, almost thoughtfully. "But without emotional context, it becomes… data. Not suffering."
The girl's body trembled violently.
"Of course," he continued, watching her closely, "if the brain rejects the suppression, the result is… instability."
The girl's eyes rolled back, her body convulsing uncontrollably.
"Or madness."
___
In a third chamber, a subject floated in a tank filled with a glowing fluid.
The lead scientist stood with his hands behind his back.
"Introduce adaptive cellular regeneration serum. Increase telomerase activity. Reinforce muscle fibers at a molecular level."
He looked at the others.
"We are forcing the body to rebuild itself stronger every time it is damaged. Like muscle growth—but accelerated beyond natural limits."
He gestured toward the tank.
"If you tear a normal muscle, it heals slowly. If you tear this one… it comes back stronger almost immediately."
The liquid bubbled as the subject's body twitched.
"But," he added, voice lowering slightly, "the human body was not designed for constant reconstruction. Cells degrade. Systems collapse. The balance is delicate."
The monitors began to spike erratically.
"Too much regeneration," he said, "and the body loses control of itself."
The tank suddenly shook. The fluid churned violently.
"Cells begin to grow uncontrollably… structures fail… and the subject—"
He stopped.
The tank went still.
The fluid darkened.
"…is lost."
The corridor stretched long and silent, lit by cold white lights that never flickered. The faint hum of machines echoed through the walls.
Two young scientists walked side by side, their footsteps soft against the polished floor.
One of them exhaled slowly. "This place gives me the creeps."
The other let out a quiet chuckle. "Yeah… but the pay is good."
They both laughed, the sound brief and hollow in the sterile hallway.
After a moment, the first spoke again, lowering his voice.
"I heard only a select few even reach the final stage qualified to try to receive the… power."
The second nodded. "Yeah. And even then, they're still unstable. Most of them don't make it. Even those who do eventually die out."
They passed a reinforced door. For a split second, a faint scream slipped through before the silence swallowed it again.
The first scientist glanced at it, then quickly looked away.
"How long has this been going on?"
The other hesitated, then said quietly,
"I heard… twenty three years."
The first stopped walking. "twenty-three?"
"Yeah," the second replied. "Long before we got here. Different teams, same goal."
They started walking again.
"And still no success?"
The second shrugged. "Depends on who you ask. Some say they're close now."
The first let out a slow breath. "You think we'll live to see it? A real one?"
The second gave a faint smile, but there was no humor in it.
"After twenty-three years? …who knows how long it'll take."
They kept walking.
Behind them, another scream echoed faintly through the walls.
This time, neither of them reacted.
The girl sat upright on the bed.
Small. Quiet.
Her eyes moved slowly around the room, taking everything in with a strange, careful curiosity.
Monitors beside her beeped steadily.
No spikes. No instability.
Perfect.
Behind the glass, the head scientist stared, breath caught in his throat.
"…It worked," he whispered.
Then suddenly, he turned and rushed out.
The upper levels were silent.
Steel doors. Armed guards. No room for mistakes.
He stopped at the final door.
"Permission to enter."
A pause.
Then—
"Enter."
The door slid open.
Inside, a man sat with his back turned, staring out at nothing. Still. Unmoving.
The scientist stepped in quickly, trying to control his breathing.
"…We've done it."
Silence.
"I don't want to see another one of your grotesque failures," the man said calmly.
"Even if they manage to survive a few minutes longer."
The scientist swallowed, then quickly stepped forward, holding out a tablet.
"…Not this time, sir."
A pause.
The man reached back, taking it without turning.
His eyes scanned the screen.
A small girl. Sitting. Alive.
Stable.
He stood.
"Can she speak?"
"Yes, sir," the scientist replied immediately.
"She can speak… count… recall everything she's been taught."
The man turned slightly.
"Show me."
They walked together through the facility.
Down into the lower levels.
Past reinforced doors.
Past silence.
From the observation deck, the man looked down.
The girl sat calmly on the bed.
Waiting.
Watching.
"State her condition," he said.
The scientist straightened.
"Enhanced muscle density — approximately five times that of a normal human. Neural processing speed significantly increased. Reflex response near instantaneous. Accelerated cellular regeneration. Sensory perception heightened across all measurable parameters."
The man watched her carefully.
Too calm.
Too stable.
"…Continue."
The scientist hesitated for just a second.
"…She cannot reproduce."
The man didn't react.
"The mutation has altered her cellular structure. Her body produces antibodies that attack reproductive cells. Any attempt at conception would fail immediately."
A pause.
"That is acceptable," the man said.
He kept watching the girl.
"Anything else?"
The scientist's grip tightened slightly.
"…This part is theoretical."
Silence.
"We suppressed their emotions," he continued. "But like the first law of thermodynamics… emotions does not simply disappear."
The man said nothing.
"It transfers," the scientist added quietly.
"Or builds."
The girl below tilted her head slightly, as if sensing something.
"We believe the body compensates.
Creates a… fail-safe."
The man's voice was calm.
"What kind of fail-safe?"
"…We don't know yet."
Silence filled the room.
Then—
"Anything else?"
The scientist exhaled slowly.
"Yes, sir."
He brought up another file on the tablet.
"The serum was unstable. We couldn't maintain the reaction with Earth-based elements alone."
The man finally turned slightly.
"So?"
"We used Hiakitium," the scientist said. "A rare extraterrestrial element. Likely from a meteor impact. It stabilizes the mutation at a cellular level."
A pause.
"…And?"
The scientist hesitated.
"…We've exhausted it."
Silence.
"How many viable doses?"
"…Eleven," he said. "And not all subjects can survive the process. Based on our data… we've identified the best candidates."
The man didn't even let him finish.
"Start it."
The scientist opened his mouth—
Then stopped.
"…Yes, sir."
He turned and walked out.