Marcus woke up to the color green.
Not foresty or the minty kind, but the sickly, artificial glow of emergency lighting filtering through some kind of transparent barrier. His body felt disconnected, like his brain was sending signals down a faulty telephone line.
He tried to move and discovered that moving was apparently off the table.
The green light was coming from above him, and as his vision slowly focused, he realized he was inside some kind of cylindrical pod.
He wasn't alone.
Other pods lined the walls of whatever this place was, each one containing a motionless figure. Men, women, different ages, all of them floating in that same transparent green glow, some were clearly unconscious. Others stared out with wide, terrified eyes.
The rumors about Meridian Park.
This was where they all ended up.
"Subject 247 is awake."
The voice like someone telling the weather was clinical and Marcus tried to turn his head toward the sound but could only shift his eyes. A woman moved into his field of vision.
early thirties, completely bald, wearing a pristine white lab coat over surgical scrubs. Her smile was sad, much like his.
She consulted a tablet, swiping through what looked like his medical records. "Marcus Chen, age 28, crestless, suffering from chronic radiation sickness. No family, minimal social connections, employment history consisting primarily of hazardous material testing." She looked up from the tablet. "You're perfect."
Marcus tried to speak and discovered his vocal cords were working, even if nothing else was. "Perfect for what?"
"Progress." The woman, Dr. Vega, according to her name tag, gestured toward a surgical table in the center of the room where another figure was strapped down. "You see, the world has changed dramatically since the rifts appeared.
Crest bearers sit at the pinnacle of human evolution. They're faster, stronger, more resilient than baseline humans. They can manipulate matter, energy, even space itself."
She walked over to the surgical table, where a middle-aged man was struggling weakly against his restraints. "Unfortunately, not everyone is born with a crest. And while wealth can buy you many things, it can't buy you power. Not that kind."
Dr. Vega picked up a syringe filled with something that glowed faintly blue. "That's where we come in. Artificial crest implantation. The wealthy pay us extraordinary sums to provide what nature denied them. The process is... still being refined."
She injected the glowing liquid into the man's arm. For a moment, nothing happened. Then he began to convulse, his back arching off the table as light burst from his skin. Marcus could hear him screaming even through the gag.
The light grew brighter, more chaotic. The man's body began to change, muscles bulging and stretching in ways that didn't look natural. Then, abruptly, he went still.
Dr. Vega checked his pulse and made a note on her tablet. "Subject 243. Cellular collapse after crest integration. Time of death..." She glanced at a digital clock on the wall. "3:47 AM."
Two orderlies wheeled the body away like it was a piece of broken equipment.
"The success rate is improving," Dr. Vega continued conversationally. "We're up to nearly twelve percent now. Of course, success can be... relative. Subject 189 did survive the process, but the psychological trauma left him essentially catatonic. Subject 201 gained the ability to generate localized gravity fields but lost motor function in her extremities. Still, we were quite pleased with the results."
Marcus watched in horror as they brought in the next victim, a young woman, maybe early twenties, who was sobbing and begging in a language he didn't recognize. The process repeated. The injection, the convulsions, the light, the silence.
"The key," Dr. Vega explained as the second body was wheeled away, "is finding subjects who are already dying. Terminal patients, the homeless, people with chronic conditions that make them... expendable. If they die during the procedure, well, they were going to die anyway. If they survive, they get a second chance at life. Everyone wins."
She moved closer to Marcus's pod. "Your radiation sickness makes you an ideal candidate. Your cellular structure is already compromised, which should theoretically make it more receptive to crest integration. We've had our best results with subjects in advanced stages of systemic failure."
Marcus felt something he hadn't expected, hope. It was a sick, desperate kind of hope. Three months to live versus a twelve percent chance at becoming something more.. Those weren't great odds, but they were better than zero.
"The process will be painful," Dr. Vega continued. "But if you survive, you'll never be powerless again. You'll never be overlooked, dismissed, or discarded. You'll matter."
The green faded from the pod and two Orderlies helped him out of the pod and onto his feet, though he still needed their support to walk.
As they guided him toward the surgical table, Marcus found his voice. "Wait. What kind of crest would I get? I mean, if it works."
Dr. Vega smiled. "Oh, we don't get to choose. The artificial crest integrates with whatever latent potential already exists in your genetic structure. Could be anything.
They strapped him to the table, the metal cold against his back. Above him, surgical lights hummed to life, harsh and blinding.
"The important thing," Dr. Vega said, preparing another syringe, "is that you'll finally be special."
Marcus stared at the needle, at the swirling blue liquid inside. His whole life, he'd been nobody. Background scenery in other people's stories. Maybe this was his chance to change that. But he thought about it again.
"Wait I'm not sure—"
"Oh I'm sorry, did I make you think you had a choice now" said Vega with that sad smile tugging at her lips.
The lights went out.
Emergency power kicked in a second later, bathing everything in dim red light. In that brief moment of darkness, Marcus heard something that made his blood freeze, the sound of metal cutting through flesh.
When the lights came back up, the two orderlies who had been holding him down were falling backward, their heads sliding cleanly off their shoulders. Blood sprayed across the surgical table as their bodies hit the floor.
Marcus screamed.
Dr. Vega was screaming too, backing away from the operating table. "Security! All units to Lab 7! We have a breach!"
More figures in tactical gear poured into the room, weapons raised. But they were fighting shadows, a streak of blue light that moved faster than Marcus could track, cutting through their ranks with surgical precision, Bodies fell. Blood spattered the walls. The sound of gunfire filled the air, mixed with shouts and the hum of energy weapons.
Through the chaos, Marcus caught glimpses of the attacker. black clothing, a hood pulled low, eyes that glowed like electric flame. In their hand, a katana parrying energy blasts and cutting through armor like it was paper.
One of the guards fired directly at Marcus, whether by accident or design. The energy bolt screamed toward him, close enough that he could feel the heat.
and then it was cut in half.
The hooded figure stood between Marcus and the remaining security forces, katana raised, those impossible blue eyes fixed on Dr. Vega and the last guard standing next to her. Even in the dim emergency lighting, Marcus could see them clearly now.
tall, lean, moving with the kind of fluid grace that spoke of years of training.
The final guard was backing toward an exit, his weapon trained on the mysterious savior. Dr. Vega had retreated behind him, her face a mask of terror and rage.
"You have no idea what you're interfering with," she snarled. "These people are dying anyway. We're giving them a chance—"
The hooded figure tilted their head slightly, and when they spoke, their voice was calm, almost conversational.
"No," they said simply. "You're not."
And then with a wave of his hand the lab exploded into blue fire.