Yesterday, something strange happened.
Arulia Conors lived by patterns. She hunted them, solved them, stitched them together when they didn’t exist. Maybe that’s why genetic sequencing felt like second nature—clean, obedient, predictable.
Most mornings were copy-pasted.
At 6:00 a.m. she woke from the same nightmare, showered, dressed, locked her prosthetic in place, and muttered about the ache of it against skin. Then came the daily detour: slip past her loving, barefoot, incense-drifting, Hippie parents downstairs. She still lived with them—what twenty-something could afford their own place in New York?—so she made nice when she had to, wolfed down a quick breakfast, and dropped into the subway’s metal throat.
Campus was a blur of lectures that rarely challenged her. The hard part was the people—so many messy, human variables. Some asked about her arm with wide, intrusive eyes. Others ladled out pity she hadn’t ordered. The dullest could be casually cruel.
Her lab partner this semester was another unknown. Polite enough, but off. Absences that arrived without warning and left a question mark in their place. At least the empty chair meant she could work alone, uninterrupted.
By three she was done with classes, grabbing a salad or a sandwich on autopilot before walking to her internship at Oscorp. That was the slice of the day that usually felt right. Useful. Difficult in the good way.
Yesterday was different.
She was finally ready to test her limb-regeneration serum on a mouse—a careful splice, mammalian DNA braided with altered reptile genes known for their regrowth. Someday, maybe, she’d try it on herself. But not without proof. Not without a plan.
A stray variable smashed through the equation.
Screaming in the hall. Alarms. She didn’t even have time to set down the syringe before the wall detonated inward. Shockwave. Glass. White noise roaring in her skull. Through the haze she clocked the silhouette—Vulture. Of course. Of course one of the city’s headline villains would be here. She looked down: the needle was buried in her own skin.
Shit.
The world cut to black.
When it returned, she was on a subway car—ripped clothes, strangers shrieking. Her hands were not her hands: scaled, claw-tipped, trembling with unfamiliar strength. A flash of herself in the window: eyes burning a feral green. The sound in her throat was not human.
Blackness swallowed her again.
She woke in her bed, soaked in sweat, sleeves shredded to ribbons. Smooth skin. Normal fingers. No scales. Not part of the schedule.
She pulled on a black hoodie and steadied her breath. Stress. Trauma. Be logical. She must have stumbled home after the attack. Memory gaps made sense. The Vulture incident had shredded her clothes. That was all.
She met her own green eyes in the mirror and spoke as if she could will the day back into place. “Just a stress dream,” she said. “Tomorrow, everything will be back on track.”
Arulia Conors lived by patterns. She hunted them, solved them, stitched them together when they didn’t exist. Maybe that’s why genetic sequencing felt like second nature—clean, obedient, predictable.
Most mornings were copy-pasted.
At 6:00 a.m. she woke from the same nightmare, showered, dressed, locked her prosthetic in place, and muttered about the ache of it against skin. Then came the daily detour: slip past her loving, barefoot, incense-drifting, Hippie parents downstairs. She still lived with them—what twenty-something could afford their own place in New York?—so she made nice when she had to, wolfed down a quick breakfast, and dropped into the subway’s metal throat.
Campus was a blur of lectures that rarely challenged her. The hard part was the people—so many messy, human variables. Some asked about her arm with wide, intrusive eyes. Others ladled out pity she hadn’t ordered. The dullest could be casually cruel.
Her lab partner this semester was another unknown. Polite enough, but off. Absences that arrived without warning and left a question mark in their place. At least the empty chair meant she could work alone, uninterrupted.
By three she was done with classes, grabbing a salad or a sandwich on autopilot before walking to her internship at Oscorp. That was the slice of the day that usually felt right. Useful. Difficult in the good way.
Yesterday was different.
She was finally ready to test her limb-regeneration serum on a mouse—a careful splice, mammalian DNA braided with altered reptile genes known for their regrowth. Someday, maybe, she’d try it on herself. But not without proof. Not without a plan.
A stray variable smashed through the equation.
Screaming in the hall. Alarms. She didn’t even have time to set down the syringe before the wall detonated inward. Shockwave. Glass. White noise roaring in her skull. Through the haze she clocked the silhouette—Vulture. Of course. Of course one of the city’s headline villains would be here. She looked down: the needle was buried in her own skin.
Shit.
The world cut to black.
When it returned, she was on a subway car—ripped clothes, strangers shrieking. Her hands were not her hands: scaled, claw-tipped, trembling with unfamiliar strength. A flash of herself in the window: eyes burning a feral green. The sound in her throat was not human.
Blackness swallowed her again.
She woke in her bed, soaked in sweat, sleeves shredded to ribbons. Smooth skin. Normal fingers. No scales. Not part of the schedule.
She pulled on a black hoodie and steadied her breath. Stress. Trauma. Be logical. She must have stumbled home after the attack. Memory gaps made sense. The Vulture incident had shredded her clothes. That was all.
She met her own green eyes in the mirror and spoke as if she could will the day back into place. “Just a stress dream,” she said. “Tomorrow, everything will be back on track.”