"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 above Aeria wasn't blue anymore. It was a cold, metallic silver, 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 permanent haze of nanodust. The city stood beneath it all, a machine breathing, trying to remember it was once alive.
Steel spires hummed as transit drones darted between them, 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 the only barrier between survival and extinction. Beyond it, the Wastelands stretched endlessly: a graveyard of collapsed towers and the roaming husks that were once people, now called Zombots.
Eighteen years ago, humanity broke itself.
The Erebus Virus—digital, not biological—had rewritten both circuitry and cells with the precision of a surgeon and the indifference of entropy. Most of the world's population turned in a week. The survivors rebuilt inside fortress cities like Aeria, swearing 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. 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 as if he'd been thrown there from a significant height. One arm dangled off the edge, fingers brushing a floor littered with dissected circuit boards. Empty ration cans formed a small pyramid near the door, a monument to procrastination. A single sock lay abandoned in the center of the room, its twin having long since transcended to a higher plane of existence.
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. "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, waving a dismissive gesture. "Add it to the spreadsheet of my failures. File it under 'Things That Surprise No One.'"
He sat up slowly, dark hair defying physics and good judgment. His eyes—a sharp, calculating blue—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 and immediately stepped on a dying power cell. 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. "Actually... no. 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, 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, defined shoulders, dark hair that somehow worked when messy. He looked like the kind of guy who'd be popular with girls, not that he had any idea what to do with that information.
"Social skills: not found," he muttered to his reflection. "But at least I've got cheekbones. That's... something?"
The droid beeped helpfully. "Statistically, physical attractiveness increases social acceptance by approximately thirty-two percent in peer groups—"
"Please stop helping," Gareth said, pulling on his boots.
Outside, Aeria buzzed with morning energy electric enough to power a small city, and probably did. The streets pulsed with electric trams humming on magnetic rails. 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 chaotic symphony of commerce.
Holographic advertisements flickered above the crowd like digital ghosts, promising abilities enhanced, systems optimized, futures secured.
Gareth slipped into the crowd with practiced ease, his wrist-latched toolkit clinking softly. The weight was familiar, comforting.
He passed a massive holoscreen broadcasting the morning news. The anchor's face was 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."
The camera cut to a group of confident teens with glowing augmentations. One girl floated six inches off the ground while filing her nails. A guy created small cyclones between his palms. Another student casually walked through a wall.
Show-offs.
Gareth barely noticed. His mind was already mapping out the exam structure—what kind of tests Arcadia would deploy, the bias toward flashy physical abilities versus subtle analytical ones.
The problem was elegantly simple: he didn't have an ability yet. At least, not an active one that did anything impressive.
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.
Gareth? His profile showed something... unclear. Which was a polite way of saying "we have no idea what this is."
NAME: GARETH LANCER
AGE:18
ABILITY:[UNKNOWN]
CALIBRATION:5%
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 hovered silently, their antigrav engines making the air shimmer.
A voice crackled through loudspeakers with artificial authority: "All examinees, please present your ID and await biometric scanning. Late arrivals will be noted in your permanent record."
The crowd buzzed with excitement and nerves. Abilities flared here and there—a girl floated her luggage telepathically, a guy used telekinesis to carve his way to the front, someone else accidentally set their jacket on fire.
Gareth tightened his grip on his backpack and joined the line.
Behind him, someone muttered loud enough to be heard: "No ability activation glow? Dude, is he even Bonded?"
Gareth glanced back at the speaker—a tall guy with an unfortunate haircut. "I am Bonded," Gareth said calmly. "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."
The guy blinked, clearly not expecting that response. A few people nearby laughed. Gareth turned forward again, satisfied with his small victory over social interaction.
See? I can do the people thing when I try. Sort of.
When his turn came, he stepped into the scanner booth—a cylinder of frosted glass. A faint hum filled the air as blue light washed over him. A holographic readout materialized:
BIO-MATCH: GARETH LANCER
AGE:18
EREBUS RESONANCE:ACTIVATION (99.00%)
SPECIAL CLASSIFICATION:Pending...
The machine froze. The text flickered erratically.
...Pending... Pending... Pending...
Error 403: Data not found.
Reverting to manual review.
The attendant—a woman with a cybernetic eye that whirred as it focused—frowned at her console. "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.
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. Gareth watched it fade through the viewport, his expression unreadable.
He was excited—in theory. Arcadia wasn't just a school. It was the Academy. The place where humanity's defenders were forged. The place where people like him could matter, assuming he didn't catastrophically fail in the next few hours.
He leaned back as the shuttle's autopilot engaged.
"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. "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. One of them frowned at the readings.
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. "Run it again."
"It won't change," another analyst replied. "The pattern's not just unreadable—it's off-grid. He's not registering on any known Erebus lineage."
The woman's eyes narrowed behind thin-framed glasses. "Then what the hell is he?"
The monitor flickered, showing a brief pulse of light deep in Gareth's chest—something synchronizing within him, aligning with patterns that shouldn't exist.
Then it vanished, leaving only questions.
Whatever Gareth Lancer was, it wasn't in any of their databases.
And that, more than anything else, terrified them.
Because the unknown had ended the world once before.
And they couldn't let it happen again.