Thompson's fearMature

know what is at stake here! You won’t admit to that, will you!? Ignorance is bliss, isn’t it, Jack?” I ask.

He simply stares at me.”Stop being so paranoid.”


July 18th, 2030


“Congress passed the human genetic reconstruction bill last night,” said one of the researchers as we all sat in the break room eating lunch at one of the six tables. There’s about seventy researchers and other scientists now all working in the same building. I’m sitting here listening into conversations while enjoying today’s special of roast beef sandwiches with broccoli and cheddar soup.

“I saw that. Didn’t think C-Span would cover the event. There’s still a great number of people against it,” says another.

“If you guys could become volunteers what would you want changed on your bodies?”

“I never thought about it. A cosmetic aspect?”

“Cosmetic, for function, speed, strength, anything,” he explains.

“I’d grow massive wings out of my back. Fly the hell out of here.”

“Really? I’d want to breathe underwater.”

“What about like super human strength? Like the hulk?”

“Wow, you think that would be possible?”

“Definitely.  At least, someday. So many things that were born in the minds of fiction writers have come true. It’s like they plant the seeds and people like us play with the ideas as kids and once and a while you have one researcher with a eureka moment.”

“So true.”

“I agree.” I say.

“Hey, Dr. Thompson, was it like that for you?” One of the men sitting at the table ask.

“I’d say so. I started all of this a few decades ago. It was during the beginning of the gene hacking movement. I didn’t know what I was getting into,” I say and I go on and explain the whole story about my father and how everything has become the way it is now.

“Sounds like you got the shaft,” one of the young men says.

“You ever think about fighting all of this?”

“Everyday,” I reply. “Just do me a favor.”

“What’s that?” It seems as if I have everyone’s attention at the table. They all lost interest in their lunch.

“Keep quiet. I didn’t ever have this conversation with you all,” I say to them as I stand up and take up my tray. I glance over as I walk by them and none of them say a word. They just look at each other with a blank expression.


November 19th, 2030


“We’re five men short from having enough volunteers for the first set. One hundred men and women from around the globe. That’s all we were shooting for out of billions of people and we’re still short,” Reinhardt tells me.

“Yeah, hard to believe,” I roll my eyes. It’s not like just anyone would sign up for such a thing. He explains to the new recruits that they’re going under experimental improvisions. All of 

The End

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