"The future doesn't care if you're ready. It arrives precisely when it's scheduled, indifferent to your alarm settings." — Gareth Lancer
The sky wasn't blue anymore.
It was silver—a cold, metallic hue stretched across a rippling hexagonal field that shimmered like digital static when the wind shifted. Somewhere beyond the northern horizon, the sun fought its way through a haze of nanodust, and the city of Aeria stood on it all, breathing like a machine trying to remember it was once alive.
Steel spires hummed quietly as transit drones darted between them, their antigrav engines leaving faint contrails of blue energy that dissipated like ghosts. Every few seconds, the low chime of the city's defense grid rippled across the skyline—a reminder that the dome overhead wasn't decorative. It was a barrier between survival and extinction. Beyond it, the Wastelands stretched endlessly: a graveyard of collapsed towers and roaming husks that were once people, now called Zombots.
Eighteen years ago, humanity broke itself.
The Erebus Virus wasn't biological—it was digital, a hybrid code that rewrote both circuitry and cells with the precision of a surgeon and the indifference of entropy. Most of the world's population turned to Zombots in a week. Children watched their parents' eyes go dark and cold. Lovers held each other as their minds fragmented into static. Entire cities fell silent between sunrise and sunset.
The survivors rebuilt inside fortress cities and swore never to repeat the mistake. But the virus hadn't just destroyed—it had transformed. Newborns developed abilities, adaptations, evolutionary pushes toward something more than human. Some could manipulate energy. Others could see through walls or move objects with thought alone. They called it the Age of the Bonded.
That was history. This morning, the future was turning eighteen—and sleeping through his alarm.
Gareth Lancer lay sprawled across his bed like someone had thrown him there from a significant height and forgotten to check if he'd landed properly. One arm dangled off the edge, fingers brushing the floor in a way that would give him a dead arm when he finally woke up. His mouth hung half-open, a small trail of drool connecting his cheek to a printed schematic for something called "holo-core optimization."
His room looked like the aftermath of a war between a lab and a junkyard where the junkyard may have won, if only barely. Circuit boards littered the floor in various states of dissection; their components spread out like the guts of mechanical creatures he'd been studying. Empty ration cans formed a small pyramid near the door—an architectural achievement of procrastination that almost qualified as art. A single sock lay abandoned in the center of the room, its twin presumably having escaped with its life.
His wall clock blinked angry red numbers: 08:00
A gentle, almost apologetic voice emerged from his bedside droid—a small silver sphere with a single optical sensor that glowed faint blue like a concerned eye.
"Gareth, you are currently late for your final evaluation. Statistically, this will negatively impact your Academy application by approximately seventeen percent. Additionally, your probability of securing breakfast has decreased to—"
"Yeah, yeah." Gareth's hand emerged from under the pillow like a creature from the deep, blindly hurling the pillow at the droid. The pillow sailed past harmlessly, hitting the wall with a soft thump. "Add it to the spreadsheet of my failures. File it under 'Things That Surprise No One.'"
He sat up slowly. His dark hair sticking up in directions that defied both physics and good judgment. His eyes—sharp blue, the kind that looked like they were always calculating something three steps ahead—blinked against the morning light filtering through the window in dusty shafts. People said Gareth's mind could outthink machines, though machines at least had the good sense to remember breakfast existed.
He swung his legs off the bed, immediately stepping on a power cell that had been quietly dying on the floor. It sparked in protest, sending a small jolt through his bare foot.
"Ow. Okay." He hopped on one foot, rubbing the other. "Today's the day I stop living like an underfunded science experiment." He paused, frowning thoughtfully as he considered the probability that he was. "Actually... no. Machines don't do this." He gestured around his chaotic room in self-exasperation, taking in the beautiful disaster he called home. "This is peak human dysfunction. I'm pretty much nailing it."
He dressed in layers of black tech-fabric that adjusted to his body temperature through some miracle of modern engineering he'd once spent three hours trying to reverse-engineer, then slung on a cream-colored coat that fell to mid-thigh. The mirror reflected someone who looked irritatingly photogenic despite the chaos—lean build, barely any muscle but not so lanky that even the faintest of breeze would shake him. defined shoulders, dark hair that somehow worked when messy in that way that suggested either effort or divine intervention, and those blue eyes that seemed to see through problems like they were made of glass.
He looked like the kind of guy who'd be popular with girls, not that he had any idea how to process that information or what he was supposed to do with it if he did.
"Social skills: not found," he muttered to his reflection, conducting his daily assessment of personal failings. "But at least I've got cheekbones. That's... something? Maybe? Is that useful?"
The droid beeped helpfully, its tone suggesting it had opinions about his questions. "Statistically, physical attractiveness increases social acceptance by approximately thirty-two percent in peer groups, with variance depending on—"
"Please stop helping," Gareth said, pulling on his boots.
"Noted. Reducing assistance protocols."
"That's not—never mind."
Outside, Aeria buzzed with morning energy that felt electric enough to power a small city and probably did. The streets pulsed with electric trams humming on magnetic rails, their passage creating small pressure waves that made pedestrians' clothes ripple. Students rushed toward transit stations with the desperate energy of people who knew being late meant consequences. Vendors hawked everything from synth-coffee to recharged drone parts, their voices creating a symphony of commerce that somehow worked despite being completely chaotic.
Holographic advertisements flickered above the crowd like digital ghosts, promising abilities enhanced, systems optimized, futures secured—for the low price of your monthly credits and possibly your soul.
Gareth slipped into the crowd with practiced ease, his wrist latched toolkit clinking softly. The weight was familiar, comforting in the way that carrying your entire workshop on your wrist could be when you worked with inventions more than people.
He passed a massive holo-screen broadcasting the morning news, the anchor's face too perfect to be entirely human:
"Final round of the Arcadia Academy entrance exams begins today! Thousands of applicants from across the Continental Sector will compete for placement in the top-tier combat and research institute. Only the best of the young Bonded will succeed. Those that do not... well, there's always factory work."
The camera cut to a group of confident teens with glowing augmentations and smirks that suggested they'd already won and were just here for the victory lap. One girl floated six inches off the ground while filing her nails. A guy created small cyclones between his palms like he was practicing to become a weather god. Another student casually walked through a wall, waved at the camera from the other side, then walked back through.
Show-offs.
Gareth barely noticed. His mind was already mapping out possibilities on the exam structure—what kind of tests Arcadia would deploy, how much bias existed toward flashy physical abilities versus subtle analytical ones, and whether he could technically cheat without actually cheating if he just optimized the rules to their logical conclusion.
The problem was elegantly simple: he didn't have an ability yet. At least, not an active one that did anything impressive like shooting fire or reading minds or making people forget their own names.
Like every citizen under eighteen, he'd been monitored since birth for Erebus resonance—the dormant fragment of the virus embedded in everyone's DNA after the outbreak. On your eighteenth birthday, that resonance stabilized and triggered your unique ability profile. Some people could manipulate energy with a thought. Others could teleport or reshape their bodies like clay. Some just got slightly better reflexes and a lifetime of disappointment when people asked what their ability was at parties.
Gareth? His profile showed something... unclear. Which was a polite way of saying "we have no idea what this is and we're slightly concerned."
NAME: GARETH LANCER
AGE: 18
ABILITY: [UNKNOWN]
CALIBRATION: 5%
He'd already considered every possible explanation for why his ability remained unidentified, running through scenarios with the thoroughness of someone who treated uncertainty like a personal insult. None of them made actual sense. He couldn't even picture himself with powerful abilities like decimation or destruction. Those belonged to people who looked good yelling dramatically while things exploded behind them in slow motion.
He was more the "figure out why things explode and then prevent it from happening again" type.
By the time he reached City Core Plaza, exam transports were already lining up like a fleet preparing for war. Sleek white shuttles bearing the Arcadia insignia—a stylized 'A' encased in a holographic sphere of red that pulsed like a heartbeat—hovered silently above the street, their antigrav engines making the air shimmer with displaced energy.
A voice crackled through loudspeakers with that particular quality of artificial authority: "All examinees, please present your ID and await biometric scanning. You will be transported to the examination site outside city limits. Late arrivals will be noted in your permanent record and will be used in every evaluation for the rest of your natural life."
The crowd buzzed with excitement and barely contained nerves. Abilities flared here and there like fireworks—a girl floated her luggage telepathically while checking her makeup in a compact mirror, a guy used telekinesis to carve his way to the front of the crowd (subtle as a brick through a window and about as well-received), someone else accidentally set their jacket on fire and had to pat it out while looking embarrassed and trying to pretend it was intentional.
Gareth tightened his grip on his backpack and joined the line, settling in for the wait with the patience of someone who'd spent his life watching other people do impressive things while he took notes.
Behind him, someone muttered loud enough to be heard, clearly wanting to be heard: "No ability activation glow? Dude, is he even Bonded? Or did he just wander in here by accident?"
Gareth glanced back at the speaker—a tall guy with an unfortunate haircut and an even more unfortunate attitude, the kind of person who peaked in secondary school and would spend the rest of his life confused about why. "I am Bonded," Gareth said calmly, keeping his expression neutral. "My ability is making really good coffee. It's niche, but fulfilling. I can make you a cup if you'd like. It might improve your disposition considering someone needs to wake you up to see that abomination on your head."
The guy blinked, clearly not expecting that response. A few people nearby laughed—actual genuine laughs that suggested they appreciated someone deflating Mr. Unfortunate Haircut's ego. Gareth turned forward again, satisfied with his small victory over social interaction.
See? I can do the people thing when I try. Sort of. Sometimes.
When his turn came, he stepped into the scanner booth—a cylinder of frosted glass that made him feel like a specimen being examined. A faint hum filled the air as blue light washed over him from multiple angles, mapping every inch of his body with uncomfortable thoroughness. A holographic readout materialized in front of him, text scrolling across empty space like accusations:
BIO-MATCH: GARETH LANCER
AGE: 18
EREBUS RESONANCE: ACTIVATION (99.00%)
SPECIAL CLASSIFICATION: Pending...
The machine froze, which machines weren't supposed to do. Then the text flickered erratically like it was having a seizure.
...Pending... Pending... Pending...
Error 403: Data not found.
Reverting to manual review.
Please stand by while we find a solution.
The attendant—a woman with a cybernetic eye that whirred as it focused and the expression of someone who'd seen too many glitches to be surprised by anything—frowned at her console. Her fingers danced across holographic controls, trying different commands like a pianist searching for the right chord. "That's... unusual. I've never seen that response before."
Gareth rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the familiar weight of being an anomaly.
"Step through. Someone will review it manually." She made a note on her pad, probably flagging him for additional scrutiny or possibly a vivisection. Hard to tell.
"What a life" he muttered, gathering his things.
By the time the shuttle lifted off, the city looked like a nest of light beneath him—silver spires and glowing streets spreading outward like circuit pathways drawn by someone who understood both beauty and function. Gareth watched it fade through the viewport, his expression unreadable even to himself.
He was excited—in theory. Arcadia wasn't just a school. It was the Academy. The place where humanity's defenders were forged in fire and desperation. The place where people like him could matter, assuming he didn't catastrophically fail in the next few hours or explode during testing or discover his ability was something useless like making flowers smell slightly different.
He leaned back as the shuttle's autopilot engaged, the city disappearing into morning haze that looked almost apocalyptic if you squinted.
"Next stop," the overhead voice announced with mechanical cheer, "Arcadia Examination Facility. Please prepare for potential life-altering experiences and probable disappointment."
Gareth smiled faintly, a blank expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Well," he said to no one in particular, "this should be interesting. Or fatal. Possibly both."
At least it won't be boring.
Miles away, inside a dark monitoring room that smelled like recycled air and paranoia, several government analysts watched his live feed on wall-mounted displays that cast their faces in sickly blue light. One of them frowned at the readings, numbers scrolling past too fast for normal human comprehension.
SUBJECT ID: LANCER, GARETH
CLASSIFICATION: ERROR
CORE RESONANCE PATTERN: UNTRACEABLE
THREAT ASSESSMENT: UNKNOWN
RECOMMENDATION: OBSERVE CLOSELY
A woman in a pristine lab coat leaned closer to the screen, her reflection ghosting over Gareth's image like she was trying to merge with it. Her fingers drummed against the console in a nervous rhythm. "Run it again."
"It won't change," another analyst replied, fingers dancing across a holographic keyboard, trying every diagnostic they had. "The pattern's not just unreadable—it's off-grid. He's not registering on any known Erebus lineage. It's like he's... outside the system somehow."
The woman's eyes narrowed behind thin-framed glasses that caught the screen's glow. "Then what the hell is he?"
The monitor flickered again, showing a brief pulse of light deep in Gareth's chest—almost like something was synchronizing within him, aligning with patterns that shouldn't exist, that violated everything they knew about how the virus worked.
Then it vanished, leaving only questions.
The analysts exchanged glances that said everything and nothing. The kind of looks people share when they've discovered something that might change everything or might get them all killed or might be both simultaneously.
Whatever Gareth Lancer was, it wasn't in any of their databases.
And that, more than anything else—more than the Zombots or the ruined world or the desperate fight for survival—terrified them in ways they couldn't articulate.
Because the unknown had ended the world once before.
And they couldn't let it happen again.