The hum of the car engine blended with the faint crackle of the radio. Morning sunlight slanted through the windshield, cutting across Dexter's glasses as he stared out the window. The city rolled past in streaks of color— buildings, trees, people, signs like a moving data feed he couldn't quite shut off.
Beside him, his mother hummed softly. Then, as the radio shifted to a bright pop song, she started to sing along off-key, but with total commitment.
🎶 "Can't stop, won't stop, moving to the beat—"
Dexter's lips twitched faintly. He didn't mind her singing; it was oddly grounding. While she tapped her fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm, he just watched the glass, tracking every reflection and detail outside the delivery drones overhead, the glint of sunlight off shop signs, the blur of people carrying their errands.
His thoughts, though, were still somewhere else. The image of orange-glowing blood lingered behind his eyes. The frequency, nanites and the gene.
He was halfway through mentally re-plotting his next experiment when his mother's voice cut in.
"Oh, right, sweetie!" she said suddenly, eyes still on the road. "After we finish grocery shopping, we're going to swing by Chinatown."
Dexter blinked, glancing up from the window. "Why?"
Her lips curved into a grin. "Grandma Meng's pork buns are back today! Only available fresh at 3 pm, so we better finish early."
Dexter gave a slow nod, settling back into his seat. "Got it."
She turned the volume up again, humming louder now.
Dexter exhaled softly through his nose, half amused. The music filled the car, mixing with the steady hum of the engine. Outside, the neighborhood began to change—city streets giving way to wider roads lined with storefronts, neon signs, and the occasional billboard advertising the latest "hero-approved" cereal or gadget.
After a few minutes, the towering red-and-white sign of Mega Lo Mart came into view, gleaming under the morning sun.
"Here we are!" his mother announced, steering smoothly into the parking lot.
Rows of cars stretched ahead, shopping carts clinking in the distance as families wheeled them across the asphalt. The automatic doors hissed open and closed in an endless rhythm, letting bursts of cool air spill out.
Dexter's mom found a spot near the entrance, parked, and turned off the engine. "Alright sweetie, let's make this quick so we can get those buns."
"Okay" Dexter said dryly, unbuckling his seatbelt.
He stepped out of the car, adjusting his glasses as the breeze hit his face. His mother locked the vehicle with a beep, then smiled at him. "Come on, sweetheart."
Together they walked toward the sliding glass doors of Mega Lo Mart, the hum of the city fading behind them. Inside, bright lights and the scent of fresh produce filled the air.
The moment Dexter and his mother stepped through the automatic doors, the familiar whoosh was drowned out by a wave of noise.
The Mega Lo Mart on a weekend was chaos incarnate.
Carts squeaked over polished floors. Kids ran between aisles with juice boxes. A man argued loudly over a discount on paper towels, and somewhere nearby, the bakery section blasted a jingle about "fresh-baked goodness since '84."
Dexter winced slightly. "This place sounds like a malfunctioning engine," he muttered.
His mother didn't hear or pretended not to. She grabbed a shopping cart from the line and started pushing it toward the produce section. "Get one too, sweetie," she called over her shoulder.
Dexter sighed and pulled another cart free from the line. The wheel squeaked once, high-pitched and annoying.
His mom stopped halfway down the main aisle and turned, pulling a folded paper from her pocket. "Here—this is your list."
Dexter raised an eyebrow. "Aren't we going the same way?"
"I split the things we need to buy." She waved her own list with a smile. "You've got your section, I've got mine. That way we can browse faster and get out before the crowd doubles."
She pressed the paper into his hand, already turning her cart down a side lane. "Meet me by the bakery when you're done, okay?"
Before he could respond, she was gone—disappearing behind a display of apples with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done this a hundred times.
Dexter unfolded the note, scanning it. His mom's neat cursive filled the page:
2 cartons of milk
1 box of pancake mix
3 packs of bacon
1 bag of sugar
2 boxes of cereal
1 jar of strawberry jam
Paper towels
Dish soap
Light bulbs
Batteries (AA)
He stared at it for a second, mentally categorizing each item by section. "Dairy, dry goods, home supplies… simple enough."
With a short exhale, Dexter placed both hands on the cart's handle and began to move.
The wheels hummed as he maneuvered through the bustling aisles, his movements precise, efficient—almost surgical. Every so often he'd mutter under his breath about the layout of the store, mentally mapping it like a circuit diagram.
He passed a kid throwing cereal boxes into his parent's cart ("That is not nutritional balance," Dexter mumbled), dodged a cluster of chatting teens by the soda display, and finally reached the dairy section.
Cold air spilled from the refrigerators, misting his glasses slightly. He wiped them off, grabbed two cartons of milk, and placed them neatly in the cart before turning to the next item on the list.
As he worked down the aisles, the background noise began to fade in his mind. Even here—in the most mundane setting possible—his brain kept analyzing patterns: the hum of the store's fluorescent lights, the rhythmic beeping of scanners at the register, even the faint vibration in the floor from the building's refrigeration system.
Everything had frequency.
And somewhere in the back of his thoughts, that accidental resonance from earlier echoed faintly—like a whisper that refused to quiet.
He shook his head, forcing the idea away. "Later," he murmured. "After this."
For now, he had a grocery list to finish.
_____
The wheels of Dexter's cart squeaked softly as he turned a corner, scanning the aisles for the next item on his list. The store buzzed with a low roar of overlapping voices, carts bumping, and the occasional intercom announcement about a sale on frozen waffles.
He was about to grab the pancake mix when a trio of voices caught his attention from the next aisle—each one distinct, overlapping in quick succession.
"I'm tellin' you, Lisa, Ultra Lord Crunch has the perfect balance of sugar and heroic energy!"
"Your so-called 'heroic energy,' brother, is composed primarily of refined carbohydrates and yellow dye number five," came a monotone reply.
"I like the marshmallow skulls," added a quieter, almost melodic voice, her tone carrying a faint hint of gloom.
Dexter blinked, turning his head slightly around the shelf.
There they were.
A boy with messy white hair wearing an orange polo and jeans stood by the cereal section, holding a bright purple box emblazoned with a caped cartoon hero. Across from him, a bespectacled girl with short brown hair and an oversized green sweater was frowning at her clipboard, clearly unimpressed. Beside her stood another girl, dressed head-to-toe in black, her long bangs almost covering her eyes.
They looked like they had stepped right out of an oddly familiar memory.
"Lisa, c'mon!" the boy pleaded, gesturing with the box. "We never get to buy this one! You always pick the fiber stuff that tastes like drywall!"
Lisa adjusted her glasses, unamused. "That 'fiber stuff,' as you so crudely describe it, is essential for digestive health, which you consistently ignore."
"I think Ultra Lord's fiber is justice," The boy countered, crossing his arms.
"That statement doesn't even make biochemical sense," Lisa sighed, exasperated.
The goth girl, blinked once and said in her calm, monotone voice, "If you get the Ultra Lord cereal, can I have the toy inside? I sense it may hold... dark potential."
The boy turned to her, baffled. "It's just a plastic ring, Lucy!"
"Exactly," she said softly. "A cursed circle."
The boy groaned, rubbing his temple. "Why is every family trip a debate?"
"Because," Lisa said without missing a beat, "you insist on engaging in one."
Dexter stood silently at the corner of the aisle, watching the exchange unfold like a perfectly synchronized comedy act. His brain registered every tone, gesture, and word until finally, the girl with glasses spoke again, checking her list.
"Lincoln, we still need milk, bread, and one unit of toothpaste," she said flatly.
When Dexter heard that name—Lincoln, a flicker of realization crossed his face.
'That's why they look familiar,' he thought, eyes narrowing slightly. 'The Loud family.'
He couldn't help but let a faint smile slip.
Pocketing his own list, Dexter turned away, quietly pushing his cart down another aisle. He still had items to collect, and interacting with cartoon logic incarnate wasn't part of today's experiment schedule.
As he disappeared around the corner, the Louds' bickering continued in the background—Lincoln defending his cereal choice, Lisa explaining food composition at a molecular level, and Lucy softly humming something that sounded suspiciously like a funeral dirge for the last box of healthy bran flakes.
But what Dexter didn't notice was Lisa glancing up from her list.
Her gaze followed his retreating figure, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity.
"Strange," she muttered. "That boy's gait and mannerisms… rather precise. Almost... mechanical."
"Lisa," Lincoln said, "are you analyzing people again?"
"Always," she replied, scribbling something quickly onto her clipboard before the scene faded back into the rhythm of weekend shopping.