The first bell of the day was a death knell for procrastination.
At Pacifica Central High, the sound echoed through crowded hallways, a signal for the final surge of students to spill into classrooms before the doors sealed shut. I, Arthur Prott, was not among the rushing crowd. I was already in my seat, second row from the front, notebook open, pen held loosely in my hand. A Baseline island in a sea of low-level Metagene energy.
From my periphery, I saw Mira Chen from the back row subtly levitate her forgotten pencil case from her bag to her desk. Two rows over, David Kim's skin momentarily took on the texture of polished granite as he stifled a yawn. Small things. Everyday miracles so commonplace they were barely noticed. This was the world Ninety years after the Singularity Dawn. This was normal.
For them.
"—and so, the post-Singularity geopolitical landscape was fundamentally reshaped not by weapons, but by infrastructure," Mr. Higgins droned from the front of the history class, his voice a comfortable monotone. "The nation that could build the fastest, heal the quickest, and innovate without limits held the true power. This led to the Metagenic Non-Proliferation Accords of 53 P.S."
Post-Singularity. Our calendar's constant reminder that we lived in the shadow of an event that divided human history into 'before' and 'after.'
My attention, however, was split. Half on Mr. Higgins' lecture, half on the scene outside the window. A city maintenance worker, his Metagene clearly some form of telekinesis, was effortlessly guiding a new sapling into a pre-dug hole, the roots settling into the earth with unnatural precision. Efficient. Practical.
"Prott."
I turned from the window. Mr. Higgins was looking at me, one eyebrow raised. "Since you seem to find urban landscaping more fascinating than the fragile peace of the last century, perhaps you can tell the class the primary criticism of the Accords?"
A few snickers echoed, primarily from the cluster of Gifted students near the back. I met his gaze, my voice calm and even. "The Accords were criticized for legalizing a new form of segregation, sir. By restricting 'classified' Metagene applications to nationalized agencies, they ensured that the most powerful Gif—Inhumans would be weaponized or monetized by the state, creating a permanent upper class of government-sanctioned power and leaving everyone else with parlor tricks and manual labor."
The snickers died. Mr. Higgins blinked, momentarily thrown. He was used to me giving the correct answer, but not one so… blunt.
"A… simplified but not entirely inaccurate summary," he conceded, adjusting his glasses. "The term is 'state-sponsored meta-integration,' Prott. Not 'weaponization.'"
"Semantics dictate perception, sir," I said, my tone still neutral. "If it looks like a weapon and is regulated like a weapon, the nuance of the word 'integration' is functionally meaningless."
A paper ball, perfectly aimed, bounced off the back of my head. I didn't need to turn around. I knew the scent of the perfume that wafted from it—night-blooming jasmine and something metallic. Elara.
I didn't react. I simply reached back, picked the crumpled ball off the floor, and smoothed it out on my desk. Scrawled in elegant, looping handwriting was a single word: Tryhard.
A phantom ache, old and familiar, twinged in my chest. Elara Vance. My oldest friend. Once upon a time, we built pillow forts and dreamed of what our Metagenes might be. Then, hers manifested at twelve—Sonic Crystallization. Beautiful, versatile, powerful. Mine never did.
She got her ticket to the new world. I stayed behind in the old one. Our friendship became a casualty of that divide. Now, she was the queen of the school's Gifted elite, and I was the Baseline intellectual she occasionally enjoyed putting in his place.
The final bell rang, a merciful release. I packed my bag with methodical efficiency, taking care to place the crumpled note from Elara inside my textbook. A memento of a fractured past.
"Hey, Arthur. Wait up."
I turned to see Benji, a small, nervous-looking kid with glasses, struggling to shove a massive history text into his overloaded backpack. His Metagene was minor—he could make his fingertips glow with a faint, harmless light. He was a Baseline in all but the most technical sense, which made him a fellow outlier.
"Let me," I said, taking the book. I redistributed the weight in his bag, sliding the heavy text against his back where it would be better supported. "You'll throw your back out before you're eighteen, Benji."
"Thanks," he mumbled, adjusting his glasses. "You heading to the library?"
"Yeah. I want to cross-reference Higgins' lecture with the original Accord transcripts. His 'state-sponsored integration' line is a gloss-over. The sub-clause about mandatory service for E-Class abilities and above is pretty clear."
Benji stared at me. "You're the only person I know who actually reads the footnotes of century-old treaties for fun."
"Knowledge is the one thing they can't regulate with a Metagene," I said, shouldering my own bag.
Our path to the library took us past the main courtyard. And there, holding court by the fountain, was Elara. She was laughing, surrounded by her friends. With a flick of her wrist, she conjured a shimmering, crystalline hummingbird from the sound of the splashing water. It zipped through the air, catching the sunlight in a prism of dazzling colors before she let it shatter into a thousand harmless, tinkling fragments. Her friends applauded. She was radiant, powerful, and utterly untouchable.
For a fleeting second, our eyes met across the crowded yard. Her smile didn't falter, but it tightened at the edges. It was a look I knew well—a mix of pity, guilt, and irritation. I was a living reminder of a life she'd left behind.
I looked away first, focusing on the concrete path ahead.
"You okay?" Benji asked quietly.
"I'm fine," I said, my voice even. And I was. I had accepted my place in this world long ago. I was the observer, the analyst, the one who connected the dots while others bent reality. It was a quiet life. A simple one.
But as I walked away from the sound of laughter and shattering crystal, a strange, hollow feeling settled in my stomach. A feeling that, for all my acceptance, my world was a photograph in a museum—static, framed, and slowly gathering dust.
Little did I know, the catalyst was already in the city. And soon, my quiet, simple world would be set on fire.