The sky on October 5, 2024, bore no resemblance to the clear blue heavens of the previous year. Instead, a light, shimmering, iridescent haze hung over the planet—a translucent Veil that was the byproduct of the fallout from the E.K.D. "crash" almost one year prior.
The sun, filtered through this atmospheric film, cast long, prismatic shadows across the cracked pavement of Washington D.C.
Inside the subterranean emergency broadcast studio, deep beneath the bedrock of the capital, the air was heavy. It was a thick, cloying mixture of ozone, industrial floor wax, and the faint, coppery tang of adrenaline.
Arthur, a senior advisor who had served three administrations, watched the man standing at the center of the room.
President Grant was no longer the politician the world had elected in the spring.
His posture was unnaturally straight, as if his spine had been replaced by a column of pressurized carbon. His skin possessed a marble-like sheen, and his eyes glowed with a restless.
When he spoke, even in a whisper, the microphones on the podium hummed in sympathetic vibration.
"Start the broadcast," Grant said. His voice didn't just travel through the air; it felt like a physical pressure, sounding like two massive stones grinding together—deep, resonant, and final.
The technician, whose hands shook as he manipulated the soundboard, nodded. The red light flickered to life. Across a fractured globe—on flickering smartphones in darkened apartments, on massive billboards in city squares, and on battery-powered tablets in the muddy ruins of Kansas City—the image of the President appeared.
"Hello," Grant began. His tone was eerily calm, yet it carried a weight that seemed to press down on every listener. "I know these months have been a descent into chaos. You have lived in fear, watching your neighbors transform, watching the very animals in your yards turn into creatures of nightmare. Today, the silence ends. Today, we finally have answers."
He took a breath that seemed to pull all the oxygen from the studio, his chest expanding to a degree that strained the seams of his tailored suit.
"The E.K.D.—Extraterrestrial Kamikaze Day—was not an accident on their part. It was not a collision, nor a failure of navigation. It was an intentional delivery. Since that day, a mysterious, high-density energy has been slowly saturating our world, seeping into the soil, the water, and our very marrow. Our scientists have termed it Esoteric Energy. X-Energy, for short." President Grant leaned forward, his eyes pinning the camera.
"X-Energy is an evolutionary accelerant. It doesn't just change us; it pushes us. It is a biological catalyst that enhances the physical form, sharpens the senses to an impossible degree, and rewrites the fundamental limits of the human body. You have seen the videos—the runners who outpace cars, the lifters who move multi-ton debris with their bare hands, the geniuses who solve centuries-old equations in seconds. That all comes from X-Energy."
"But evolution is not always a linear climb," Grant continued, his voice dropping into a somber register. "In many cases, the body prioritizes survival over reason. We have seen the 'Regressives'—men and women who gain the strength of titans but lose the spark of humanity. We have seen physical mutations: thick pelts of fur, warped skeletal structures, predatory appendages that defy anatomy. Even worse, X-Energy pulses randomly across the globe, causing mass, spontaneous evolution in concentrated areas. These individuals, and the animals affected, become driven by a single instinct: to grow, to consume, and to survive. Our guess is if you absorb to much X Energy in a short span, you will get a bad evolution"
The President leaned into the camera, and for a moment, the iridescence of the sky seemed reflected in his very skin. "Sadly, there is more bad news. The world as we know it—the world of wires, signals, and stability—is failing."
He looked down at a report on his podium.
"Within the last week, we have lost three major power stations to swarms of 'Evolved' squirrels and birds. Their new physiology allows them to gnaw through reinforced steel like paper. Worse, they have learned to absorb and discharge electricity, turning our own power grid into their feeding ground. Simultaneously, our internet and satellite signals are failing because the high-frequency sonar of Evolved bats is interfering with our wireless frequencies. At this rate, the world will eventually go dark."
"To ensure the survival of our species, I am today activating the full extent of my emergency powers. I am invoking the National Emergencies Act and declaring Martial Law across the entire United States. We are also beginning an immediate mass recruitment drive for all Stable Evolved individuals."
Grant's voice boomed, rattling the light fixtures in the studio. "The National Guard and the United States Military are deploying to every major population center. We are establishing 'Safe Zones' where the unevolved and the stably evolved can live under federal protection. We are also implementing CONPLAN 8888."
In the back of the studio, Arthur flinched. He knew that document. Originally drafted as a tongue-in-cheek training guide for a hypothetical zombie apocalypse, it had been repurposed into a literal manual for the domestic purge of non-human and regressive threats.
"This plan involves the containment and, where necessary, the neutralization of aggressive evolved threats—both animal and human," Grant said without a hint of hesitation.
"Our military is authorized to use lethal force against any creature or individual exhibiting predatory aggression. To the 'Evolved' who have maintained their sanity: your country needs you. To those who haven't: you are a threat to the survival of the human race."
The broadcast ended with a sharp snap of static. The red light went out, leaving the studio in a dim, bioluminescent gloom. President Grant stood up and walked toward the back of the studio, flanked by Secret Service memb. of the first "Elite" squads.
Arthur followed him into the hallway, his footsteps echoing on the cold concrete.
"Sir, CONPLAN 8888? People are going to see this as a state-sanctioned hunt. You're authorizing the military to kill citizens who simply... changed."
Grant didn't stop. His stride was long and effortless, covering the hallway at a speed that forced Arthur into a light jog. "I'm authorizing them to protect the future, Arthur. If we don't prune the garden, the weeds will choke everything. But that isn't the only reason."
He stopped abruptly and turned to Arthur. His eyes were now two piercing needles of light
"We discovered the mechanism for progression, Arthur. There is no 'free lunch' in this universe. To progress in evolution—to reach the next stage of power—one must absorb the X-Energy already concentrated in other life forms. It is a kinetic feedback loop. The aliens didn't just give us a gift; they gave us a hunger. If we don't become the strongest, we will be the ones being harvested. Other animals in the wild are already hunting; they are getting stronger every hour."
Arthur's face went pale. "But."
"No buts I'm talking about survival," Grant countered, starting to move again toward the elevator that would take them to the Presidential Emergency Operations Center (PEOC). "The aliens obviously have plans for us, and I don't intend to greet them as a weakling. We need the Elites. We need the 'Evolvers' to cull the 'Regressives' before the Regressives consume our civilization."
"And the evolved elites?" Arthur asked, his voice trembling. "The ones you're recruiting?"
Grant looked at his hands. He clapped them together, and the sound was like two diamonds striking one another. "They are the new military. Why use a tank that requires fuel we no longer have, when you can use a man who can run sixty miles an hour and see a heartbeat through a brick wall? We aren't just managing a crisis, Arthur. We are evolving into the soldiers our 'visitors' expect us to be."
As the elevator doors closed, the iridescence of the sky outside seemed to pulse, reflecting the new statistics of a changing world.
Grant looked at the numbers on a tablet as the elevator descended. "The numbers are shifting," he muttered. "Soon, 99% won't matter. Only the strength of the 0.5% will keep the species from becoming a footnote."
Arthur watched the floor numbers tick down, wondering if the man standing next to him was still the President, or something else entirely.