—Young student belonging to T.H.H.S. high school. Physical characteristics: blond hair, blue eyes, Caucasian. Height: one meter seventy-four centimeters. Weight: sixty-eight kilograms. Subject’s name: Andrew Fort, born in Canada. Parents… —Blah, blah, blah.
I had no idea where I was, and I already had some nerd bastard in a white lab coat spitting a pile of nonsense into a recorder.
Apparently, I was handcuffed—feet and hands—to a medical chair. Uncomfortable, if I may add. And forced to listen to this guy.
The last thing I remembered was getting stabbed in the throat while completing my objective. Even though I didn’t expect to still be alive, I welcomed it.
—Could you shut up and steal my organs in silence? I’d rather sleep while you do it, if you don’t mind.
—Even though he is a level 3 M.E.R.M.U., his body shows no traits consistent with this classification. The reasons for this phenomenon have not yet been found, but we hope future research will shed light on—
The bastard didn’t even bother looking at me; he just kept talking to that recorder.
“What does a guy have to do to sleep in peace these days?”
—His regenerative capabilities are significantly elevated. He was able to regenerate a cut in the neck of—
“Still no answer, I see.”
The bastard kept talking—not only to the recorder, but also while flipping through some documents on his desk.
Then I saw a ring on his hand, which made me smile.
—Oh, so you’re married. Congratulations! I’d love to meet her. I’m sure I could put a smile on her face.
Still no response.
—Want a recording to show your kids? So they can learn what their dad does at work.
For a moment, there was a pause. But then he resumed his lonely chatter.
“So you’ve got kids, Mr. Butcher.”
—Heh. You know? One of the ones I killed was named Jennifer. Her face of fear while she coughed her life away… haha… it was so fun. Haha.
The bastard stopped completely and turned to look at me.
“Hehe… nailed it. I got a reaction.”
I’d said that name at random—as a gamble. I trusted nothing but my instinct. And I hit the mark. —Strange—
—Poor Jenni… Oh, Jenni.
Dying so young, so alone.
Without that absent father who promised to protect you,
and with your mother lost in an endless coma.
What a tragedy… what a beautiful disaster.
I saw the bastard’s brow furrow as he lifted the recorder.
—The information study appears to require tangible samples. These will be extracted without anesthesia due to the test subject’s particularities. The experiment will begin with a heat test.
I smiled at the hidden rage of my new friend.
—Oh, so soon? But we just met…
You already want to play “Foundation”?
I thought I wouldn’t get an answer like before, but the bastard looked different as he lit a cigarette.
—You know, kid… I don’t like this job —he said, taking off his glasses—. I have to see all kinds of young people every day and run orderly tests on them, like they’re machines.
He pulled his desk chair over and sat right in front of me.
—I’ve seen kids younger than you walk through that door… and I’ve had to do things to them that I’ll regret for the rest of my life —he said, taking a couple drags. Then he continued his boring monologue—. If I could quit, I would. But the pay is good… and I’m very good at what I do.
—I know how your type works —he said, unfazed—. You look for weaknesses you can exploit just to hurt people. I’ve been through that before. You’re not the first.
He inhaled deeply, like my words mattered less than the smoke filling his lungs. Then he flicked the butt to the floor and crushed it under his shoe.
—You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this. —He paused and locked eyes with me—. You’re never going to escape this place. And if you don’t want your stay to be so miserable… you’d better behave.
For a few moments, nobody spoke. The bastard stared at me, as if waiting for some kind of answer.
As for me, I only had one thing on my mind.
—Yep. Definitely uglier up close. And your voice… oof, doesn’t help either, champ.
Seriously, how did you get a partner? Out of pity? Or was she blind, deaf, and with such a terrible sense of touch she mistook your face for sandpaper?
—Ah… at least I tried. If you want to spend the rest of your days as a lab rat… so be it.
He got up and walked back to his desk. He grabbed what looked like a blowtorch.
—Let’s begin the heat test.
He approached while turning the device on, the flame roaring like a hungry beast.
—First we’ll use a one-thousand-degree flame for fifteen seconds. We’ll measure your regeneration rate, pain tolerance, and extract some samples for future analysis.
He was the same cold bastard as before.
Except this time, he wasn’t holding the recorder.
Once activated, the thing simply floated beside him.
Now that was interesting.
I watched expectantly as the blowtorch lowered toward my defenseless hand, unable to move a single muscle.
—Is this supposed to burn? Did you set it to cold mode by mistake? Or do you want me to fake a little scream for your recording?
Don’t get me wrong: it was fascinating to watch my lovely hand go from scorched down to the bone to fully regenerated, wrapped in that mysterious golden mist. As if the fire had never been there.
Without a doubt, one of the most… memorably absurd events of my life.
The bastard said nothing. He just worked in silence, taking samples: burned skin, healthy skin… and, with particular interest, the mist.
More than fifteen seconds had passed, but he didn’t even flinch.
He didn’t stop until after a full minute.
To my delight, of course. The first few seconds were novel… after that, it became an annoying routine.
—The body of ISA 682–F presents type B regeneration. The phenomenon occurs through a golden mist of unknown origin. Pain tolerance is elevated; he was able to maintain speech during third-degree burns without showing signs of acute stress.
He paused. His fingers moved to another metallic module.
—Let’s move on to the bone extraction test.
This device was… peculiar. It looked like a strange pistol, with a translucent nozzle and a spike at the end.
My index finger was placed inside the tube with an automatic fit. Within seconds, the spike pierced it.
I felt a strange liquid run through my finger, sucking the bone out from the inside. There was no pain. Only a growing fascination with these exotic little toys.
—The golden mist is regenerating bone tissue without difficulty. Let’s move to a deeper extraction.
The moment he said that, I noticed more of that liquid advancing up my arm, rising to my elbow. And that’s when a question pricked at my curiosity.
“What happens if I do this?”
—Golden mist… stop!
I wanted to test whether I had any kind of control over that thing coming out of my body.
To my surprise, it worked.
As if it had a will of its own, the mist obeyed my order and stopped regenerating.
The bastard—completely caught off guard—shut the device off fast… but not fast enough. The machine ripped out the entire bone from my right arm.
—Golden mist… heal!
Instantly, the fog reactivated, wrapping the smoking stump like a living cloud. In less than a blink, I had my whole arm back again.
—How did you do that?!
He was genuinely shocked. His eyes looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets.
—Weren’t you the expert, “Mr. Experienced”? I have no idea what happened. I’m new around here, in case you hadn’t noticed. They call it a rookie.
The bastard stayed frozen, mouth open, still staring at me like I’d just shattered every law of known biology.
—There are no precedents for an event like this…
Well…
Maybe there are now.
We sat in silence after that. I wasn’t sure how to take advantage of the situation.
—How about a deal?
—A deal?
Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
This was getting more and more interesting. First, turns out I’m still alive. Second, some organization kidnaps me for some weird bullshit. And to top it all off, this strange power shows up.
Definitely an interesting day.
—Yeah. In exchange for you giving me information about the behavior of that golden mist and the sensations from the experiments, I’ll answer any question you ask me… as long as it’s not something confidential.
—A test.
—Excuse me?
—Answer one of my questions and I’ll consider the deal.
He looked reluctant. Not exactly thrilled with my proposal, but he didn’t have many options. He had to accept… or not. It was up to him.
He hesitated a moment before speaking.
—Fine. Ask.
—Tell me the history of the M.E.R.M.U. classification.
I didn’t give him time to think—I fired the question immediately. I was going to drain as much information as possible from this bastard, with the fewest questions.
—The classification goes from level 1 M.E.R.M.U. up to 8.
—That’s not what I asked for —I said, not letting him regain control. I had to steer the conversation.
—But you—
—I asked for the history. You have to tell me the entire history of the M.E.R.M.U. classification, or there’s no deal.
I covered his mouth and smiled smugly.
—You expect me to tell you everything? Don’t even dream it.
—You can give me a general summary. You can also break your word… although, if I’m not mistaken, I’m not the one who proposed the deal. Or am I?
He realized it instantly: it was a question too good for me. It would let me get a ton of broad information that otherwise would’ve cost me several questions.
—Fine…
—Perfect! I’m all ears. And don’t you dare lie to me—I’ll know.
With a resigned sigh, the bastard began his story.
—It’s not known precisely, but more than five thousand years ago, humans appeared who carried strange abilities. However, it wasn’t until two hundred forty years ago that our “Association” was founded.
That was the good thing about asking a question that required a long answer: I could relax while the information came to me all on its own.
After a brief pause, the bastard searched for something on the desk.
—After much back and forth, the Association designated a system to classify ability-bearers —vulgarly known as “mutants”—. They are divided into M.E.R.M.U. levels 1 through 8. Only one individual has ever been recorded surpassing that classification… but that’s not relevant.
He took on a more academic attitude. He looked like a teacher lecturing, while pulling another one of his weird toys from the desk.
This one looked like a pistol, with a TV screen attached to the muzzle.
—If you don’t mind, can we continue the conversation while we move on to organ extraction?
—But I’m still underage to donate. Shouldn’t you ask my parents?
—Technically, you’re dead in the records. So now you’re property of the State.
—Wow. Efficient with paperwork when it suits them.
Not giving a damn about my complaints, the bastard pressed the strange screen against my chest.
—Lungs, extract.
In a pretty bizarre way, the screen lit up and started opening my chest with a light show. Little metallic arms extended from the chair to assist, pulling skin and bone aside like it was a routine operation.
I dampened my regeneration to make their job easier.
—Thanks for the help.
—Don’t mention it. Just keep going with your history class, “nerd.”
A little annoyed by my comment, the bastard continued.
—The acronym M.E.R.M.U. means “Magnitudes of Energy Ranges Measured in Units.” The level division exists because, according to our studies, no matter which of the three ability branches you fall under, your energy levels will be the same. That allows for a more practical classification.
When he finished speaking, the extraction also ended. I watched the removed organ get packaged and disappear.
Letting go of my hold on the golden mist, I healed in a second, as if nothing had happened.
—“Mermu”? You couldn’t come up with a stupider name?
Ignoring my comment entirely, the bastard placed the device on another part of my torso.
—Liver, extract.
Same process.
—Now that I answered your question, it’s your turn to answer mine. Can you describe in detail what it felt like to use your ability voluntarily?
—What does it feel like? Mmm… it feels like breathing. Like I just found out I had an extra pair of lungs. At first I was talking just to test the waters, but now… it’s like I’ve always had it.
I made sure to be frank and concise. I didn’t want him to misinterpret a single word.
—Like breathing? You don’t even use a trigger…
—What’s a trigger? —I asked, catching his “super discreet” muttering.
—Is that going to be your question?
—And why not? —I replied with a shrug… or at least I tried to, but I couldn’t.
—Triggers are objects ability-bearers use to manifest their powers. They’re like crutches: if you take them away, it’ll be incredibly hard for them to recover. That’s why it’s astonishing you don’t need one. There’s no precedent for that.
He looked genuinely excited about the conversation as he moved on to another organ in my torso—this time, the stomach.
—My next question is about that mist. What do you think its range is?
—If by range you mean distance, I don’t know… but I think it’s pretty large. Now, if you’re talking about some other property, I don’t feel anything particular beyond regeneration and amplification. I’d prefer you not be so vague, “Penguin” face.
—You’re being brutally honest here.
Even though he was annoyed, the bastard had to admit I had a point.
—Pfft. Why lie? If you don’t know how to use the truth to your advantage, you’re a failure.
I always considered lying a way of belittling yourself. Like if you had to lie, it was because you couldn’t stomach the truth.
—Now… you said the energy quantities at each level are the same. I want you to explain, in as much detail as possible, the most widely accepted theory that connects the three ability classifications with energy levels.
It was a complex question—one that actually answered two things at once.
The bastard took a pause before replying.
—The most accepted theory is that, because of an alien race —don’t bother asking about that, because it’s confidential— the population of this planet ended up being irradiated with some kind of metaphysical energy that granted certain humans special abilities, at random.
The more I learned, the more interesting this world became. It almost felt like a dream… one I’d wake up from without legs. Haha.
—Since everything depends on probability, those who have the luck —or misfortune— of being “blessed” with these abilities end up in one of three branches:
- Physical abilities: everything related to the body.
- Elemental abilities: everything related to the material world.
- Conceptual abilities: everything related to abstract aspects of reality.
He took a longer pause as he began extracting the kidneys.
—Lastly, each bearer is assigned —again, at random— an energy source. Those sources are grouped by levels, and as I said before, all individuals in the same M.E.R.M.U. level possess identical amounts of energy. It’s also believed that’s the aliens’ fault.
During his long explanation, the bastard also took my blood vessels and part of my nervous system. Although the latter seemed… damaged.
—Is there any reason you’re so honest? I mean, it’s weird for psychopaths to despise the idea of lying.
—Well… maybe I’m from a special branch?
But answering your question: like I said before, I think only the weak lie. I admit it can be useful in some situations, but I’d rather die than resort to lying.
And no, it’s not because of some kind of trauma, either.
—It still strikes me as strange.
That machine was truly fascinating. The precision with which it cut and extracted organs never stopped amazing me. It had just taken my intestines, and it looked like there wasn’t much left to pull out.
—The heart will be last.
—Seriously? I thought we’d finish with the brain, Mr. Penguin.
—Unfortunately, we won’t be able to. I’ve been receiving data from some of the extracted organs, and the quality is incredible.
The higher-ups will probably plan to use you as a source to create supersoldiers.
—Taking a brief breath, the bastard continued—: Brains have been extracted before, but not everyone with regenerative abilities can recover from that.
You’re too valuable to risk on such a dangerous test.
—Great… and here I was thinking of taking a vacation.
—That’s why I’ll give you one last question before I send you to your cell.
—How considerate of you.
I didn’t have to think. Since I woke up in this room, only one question had been circling in my head.
—What’s your name?
—That’s what you want to know? Certainly… I didn’t expect that.
—The bastard looked confused as he finished extracting my heart—.
My name is Gerald Pontecorvo. Why do you want to know?
—Oh, that…— I said as robotic guards entered the room, pulled me out of the chair, and began taking me to my new home through a door that opened by itself.
Before leaving, I gave the bastard a deep look… and answered his question.
—Because when I get out of here, I’m going to make you watch me kill everyone you care about… in the cruelest way possible, before I end your miserable existence.
With that said, I left the room behind, leaving a horrified bastard as I was guided to my new temporary residence.
Two robotic guards escorted me, as expressive as a dead amoeba. They walked in perfect sync, not a single step out of rhythm. If it weren’t for the one that shoved me every time I slowed down, I could’ve mistaken them for museum statues.
The hallways were… immaculate. Shining. Every white tile gleamed in an unpleasant way. Not a stain, not a crack, not even a sad little shoeprint.
The wall panels had no visible screws or seams. Everything was so smooth and sterile it made me want to throw up.
Every ten meters there was a numbered door. Apparently, I was in section 600-F.
At last, we arrived. The door opened with a subtle sound, as if even the air had been conditioned not to be annoying. And there it was: my new “luxury suite.”
A white cell.
Not beige.
Not light gray.
White. Retina-searing white.
The cell door had the number 682-F.
In the center, a metal bed bolted into the floor—no sheets, no pillow, no personality.
Everything was symmetrical, like they were afraid a crooked angle might give me some dangerous idea.
My new clothes were a marvel of institutional design: a blinding orange jumpsuit with a texture that screamed, “made with the emotional budget of a depressed bureaucrat.”
On the back, my new name:
ISA-682-F
As warm as a welcoming nickname.
While the guards removed my cuffs, I gave the ceiling one last look, just in case some camera wanted a close-up of my charming smile.
—Are you going to leave me alone, or do you want me to tell you a bedtime story?
No answer. The door closed.
Silence.
I sat on the bed. Hard, of course.
I smiled, staring into nothing.
In my mind, all the information I’d just learned kept replaying. It would take time to understand it and form hypotheses that would benefit me in the long run.
Either way, for now it looked like I had plenty of time to think.
So I lay back and closed my eyes.
“Time to take a break.”
The white of the cell didn’t vanish when I closed my eyes.
On the contrary: it spread.
It invaded my mind like a bright mist.
I felt myself floating.
Suspended in something that wasn’t sleep… but wasn’t wakefulness either.
And then, I heard it.
—Greetings, Lord Dinamo. The preparations are complete. We await your orders.
The voice pulled me out of that endless whiteness, like a crack splitting ice.
I was no longer a prisoner lying in a sterile cell.
Now I was sitting, surrounded by black columns, in a hall where darkness obeyed my whims.
A kneeling slave waited for instructions.
“Another one so soon? Looks like things are finally starting to move.”
I couldn’t help but smile.
What I’d been waiting for all these years was close.
Too close.
“For now… patience.”
I looked at the servant as if I were seeing him for the first time.
As if, in his face, I could still see the echoes of a white cell and a number stamped on a back.
So I decided to pay attention to him.
—Well? Are they all here already?
I don’t even know why I bother bringing them. All these supposed subordinates… are nothing but a plague, at least from my perspective.
If it weren’t because Jane begged me to let them live in the first place, I never would’ve bothered keeping them around.
—Yes, my lord! We’re all waiting for you.
—I see.
I kept staring at the slave in front of me.
“So weak.”
Even after so many years, the übermensch never stopped disappointing me.
Of course, there were some who didn’t just meet my expectations—they surpassed them by far.
But the average… leaves a lot to be desired.
I created them for the sole purpose of being superior to humans in every way. And they haven’t even managed that.
It was so disappointing.
“And yet they call me ‘leader.’ How low the standards have fallen.”
I rose from the Throne where I’d been meditating. I’d created it along with this ship as a simple piece.
Of course, it doesn’t matter how I sit on it: it will be the most comfortable thing in the world. Perks of being a “God” and all that.
—Proceed.
As I walked toward the door, I ordered that pathetic slave to follow me.
He was one of the youngest to reach Rank 10. In fact, he’d achieved it recently—before the last iteration.
Yes. Iteration.
Every ten thousand years I “reset” the world, with a few minor alterations, of course. That way, more talented prospects can be born. Like in this last one, where several have emerged with incredible potential. I eagerly want to see if any of them reaches Rank 10.
Before each iteration, I spare the lives of any Rank 9 and 10 who ascended during that cycle. Like the one currently following me.
I left the throne room without saying a word.
The corridor ahead of me was long, almost ceremonial. On each side, slaves lined up in silence, heads lowered, hands clasped behind their backs, as if their existence held any symbolic value.
—We salute the Great Dinamo! —they shouted in unison, like automatons programmed to worship me.
I didn’t even look at them.
I didn’t need to.
Their loyalty was as obvious as it was irrelevant.
I kept walking, letting my footsteps echo above their held breaths. They didn’t know if today they’d die, or if they’d live one more day under my shadow. I suppose that kept them motivated. Fear was always more effective than hope.
At last I crossed the ship’s threshold, and I was greeted by the cruel emptiness of space.
And there it was.
The dome.
Colossal. Blue. Translucent like the crystal of a tear nobody asked for.
Behind it, the city hid like a sick rat beneath a glass canopy. One of humanity’s last four refuges. A testament to their cowardice… and to my patience.
“And soon… there will be three.”
I smiled.
That was my gift to the world: turning their last bastions into monuments to their extinction.
Because I didn’t come to save them.
I came to prove the universe doesn’t need redemption.
It only needs to remember who’s in charge.
I watched the dome in silence. Blue, immense, trembling as if it knew I was looking at it.
The world held its breath. I smiled.
—Let the show begin.