Click.
Ares's eyes shot open. What the hell! His mind raged. How could someone barge into my space like that? He had made it exceedingly clear to everyone how the ritual worked: you knock, you wait. He responds, You enter. Simple, no matter what was happening.
It's probably Mum, his subconscious was already concluding, until his eyes focused.
The visitor wasn't just unannounced; he was unfamiliar. Clothed in light blue scrubs, the man stood at least six feet tall, with wavy brown hair and an E-mask that pulsed with a soft blue light. And above his head, a graphic data tag.
[SQ: 44 | Threat Level: High]
Before the panic could set in, the memories came gushing back once again. His home, his family, the massacre. His hands gripped the sheets tighter as the flames of his rage churned within.
"Good morning, Ares," the male clinician greeted. "Any new complaints?"
Ares shook his head. He was already too exhausted to talk, even though he had just woken up.
The clinician continued with his assessment, pushing down on his nails and pointing an infrared thermometer at his head.
As the routine activities danced on, Ares's eye darted back to the string of data that hung above the clinician.
SQ… Somatic Quantity.
A title similar to the stats in old games; an accurate measure of one's abilities.
As an engineering initiate, he had studied its history.
First proposed over two hundred years ago, in the late 21st century. Back then, physical and quantitative tests were used to gauge the five parameters: strength, agility, intelligence, durability, and perception.
A basic human limit of 10 was established for each, based on the proposed peak achievable by a natural human.
50
That was the impossible total they believed a human could ever achieve.
Then it appeared—'Hell's Gate.' Blotting over the sky.
Animals began to mutate, growing hides that bullets could not penetrate, claws that could cut metal, and eyes that hid an advanced, bestial intelligence.
The First Calamity Happened.
A lot of lives were lost, but humanity learned. We didn't evolve like the animals did, but we had science and technology. The Agonists were developed—serums that could trigger a controlled evolution. Warriors were born. Humans broke past the impossible biological limit of SQ 50.
"And that's it for today," the clinician's voice broke Ares's train of thought.
As he stared at the empty space where the hraphic data hung over the man's head, one word left his mouth.
"Agonist."
The clinician's brows perked up. "What about it?" he asked.
"I need a muscular-type Agonist," Ares replied, excitement in his voice.
The clinician stared at him, his eyes confused. "Why would you need that?"
Ridiculous, Ares thought, though he didn't let it show. Why would anyone need an agonist?
"To advance my Somatic Qualities," Ares answered, the ridicule absent in his words.
The male clinician studied him for some time, curious. "Warrior Class?" He asked.
"Nope," Ares answered truthfully. They were the group known for their high use of Agonists. As the serums were notoriously addictive, their use and availability were strictly controlled and regulated by the Kaos Alliance, the world government. Only warrior classes were allowed to use them more liberally than regular denizens.
"Have you ever used it?" the clinician asked.
"Yeah," Ares answered.
"What grade?"
"Grade 1," he answered. "A neuronal type, used to advance my intelligence and perceptive attributes." That was why they were his highest. His eyes darted to the data overlay in his own vision, expanding the SQ tab.
Perception: 3.9 [+1.0]
Intelligence: 5.3 [+1.0]
The bonus points were a gift from whatever madness his trauma had birthed.
"When was the last time you used it?"
"About three months ago," he lied. Not really a lie, per se, he reasoned. The Ceiling Function allowed one to round up to the next higher number; that was the principle he was applying.
In reality, it was five weeks ago. The memory was still as fresh as morning mist. He had hated the ritual with everything in him.
First, the cold, sharp sting of the needle at the nape of his neck, sliding directly into his spinal cord. Then the maddening, electric pain, followed by a week of hell.
Vertigo that made the world spin, nausea that soured every breath, and involuntary spasms that made his own limbs feel like 'Judas'.
"You have to be certain," the clinician reiterated. "If it's below the recommended interval, you know there is a high chance of addiction."
Addiction, Ares mocked internally. He hated the serum with a passion, but it was the only flicker of chance he had of reaching SQ 40 in time for the Blood Culling.
That, and hopefully, the madness currently pulsing in his vision. He wasn't just ready to be addicted; he was ready to be wrecked by it.
Seeing no change in the boy's expression, the clinician nodded. "Then there is the problem of cost."
Ares tensed. He never bothered with that; his parents had always handled it. His card still had a comfortable amount of credits left.
"I have 347.5 credits. Is that enough?" he asked.
The clinician had an ugly grin on his face as he pulled out a card from his pocket. "The hospital management has issued you another credit card."
Ares took the card, his eyes widening as its chromatic surface pulsed, displaying the imbued amount.
"Five hundred credits?" Ares spoke in wonder. "But I just got five hundred yesterday."
The clinician nodded. "That's the highest amount of credit I've ever seen the Board issue for a charity patient's upkeep. With the donations flooding in for Genesis survivors from the Alliance and philanthropic foundations, they must be feeling generous."
Now his balance was 847.5. He felt much more confident.
"So, how much is it?" Ares asked, his voice thicker.
"A thousand credits. For a C-Class Grade 1 Agonist."
Ares felt the confidence escape his frame like gas from a punctured balloon.
The grin on the clinician's face widened. "However," he continued. "I'll see if I can get the Board to provide one for you. Log it as 'Treatment Supply.'"
His confidence returned, the fire in his heart blazing anew.
"Neuronal-type Agonist, right?" the clinician asked, his eyes darting across his lanky figure.
"No. Muscular type," Ares corrected.
The clinician's brows rose, his mouth twitching as if to ask a question. But he didn't.
Yet Ares understood his thoughts. He saw the surprise flicker in the man's eyes. Muscular type agonists were the most painful, the unspoken initiation ritual for warriors. What could a skinny person like him be doing with it?
His actions must look like madness, a coping mechanism. But no. He would make it real.
Realer than the breath in his lungs.