He brought his bike to a gradual stop, the engine purring as he swung his leg over to get a better look at the remnants of the city. From his vantage point on the old overpass he could see the dregs of society wading through the slurry that was gradually submersing what used to be London around a hundred or so years ago, before the Dog Days.
It was estimated that out of the global population only 36% would be affected by the contagion, the chosen method of reducing the overcrowding without having to spend resources on health, education or any other long term family aiding programs. Unexpectedly, but unsurprisingly, the contagion wasn't just effective, it was too effective, ending the lives of over five billion humans worldwide before developing a mutation somewhere around Kansas.
As far as mutations go these weren't as bad as they could have been. Even he hadn't managed to escape the contagion, though his family fled civilisation generations ago, back when the mutations became unbearably visible and everyone feared they'd lost their humanity. The identity crisis brought on by this had split humanity into factions of varying self acceptance and self loathing with some groups going so far as to try and enhance their mutations, further distancing themselves from people who were soon becoming less kin and more distant cousin.
Those who looked at the mutations through rational eyes saw them as an opportunity to study the adaptability of the human body and how readily DNA accepted these new commands and lines of genetic code, numbing pain while gradually (or rapidly, depending on the sub strain of the contagion) morphing the body into something more suited to a specific environment.
His mutation made his lungs almost twice the size of the non-mutant (now dubbed original) human body. He had no trouble breathing while his bike hurtled along at over 100mph, though the rest of him had yet to adapt alongside his lungs leaving him unable to move properly when on his own two feet. It made him a vulnerable target if he stood still, luckily in modern London standing still was for the dead or soon-to-be-dead. Frequent headaches and the constant struggle of not-enough-or-too-much air aside, he got off lightly in the grand scheme of the accidental genetic lottery.
Others were less fortunate, he could see them in the half drowned streets below, writhing in agony as their bodies continued to change far faster than they could produce enough adrenaline to counteract the pain. Sometimes a passerby would take mercy and kill them, usually holding them under and letting them go quietly (unless they had gills or other external air filters, then slitting the throat was kindest).
He knew he wasn't any different from them but he still refused to go any closer to the lower levels, some part of him worrying that he might catch their strain and adapt beyond his body's own capabilities. It was the worst way to go, you know. To be killed by your body trying its best to help you survive.
It was estimated that out of the global population only 36% would be affected by the contagion, the chosen method of reducing the overcrowding without having to spend resources on health, education or any other long term family aiding programs. Unexpectedly, but unsurprisingly, the contagion wasn't just effective, it was too effective, ending the lives of over five billion humans worldwide before developing a mutation somewhere around Kansas.
As far as mutations go these weren't as bad as they could have been. Even he hadn't managed to escape the contagion, though his family fled civilisation generations ago, back when the mutations became unbearably visible and everyone feared they'd lost their humanity. The identity crisis brought on by this had split humanity into factions of varying self acceptance and self loathing with some groups going so far as to try and enhance their mutations, further distancing themselves from people who were soon becoming less kin and more distant cousin.
Those who looked at the mutations through rational eyes saw them as an opportunity to study the adaptability of the human body and how readily DNA accepted these new commands and lines of genetic code, numbing pain while gradually (or rapidly, depending on the sub strain of the contagion) morphing the body into something more suited to a specific environment.
His mutation made his lungs almost twice the size of the non-mutant (now dubbed original) human body. He had no trouble breathing while his bike hurtled along at over 100mph, though the rest of him had yet to adapt alongside his lungs leaving him unable to move properly when on his own two feet. It made him a vulnerable target if he stood still, luckily in modern London standing still was for the dead or soon-to-be-dead. Frequent headaches and the constant struggle of not-enough-or-too-much air aside, he got off lightly in the grand scheme of the accidental genetic lottery.
Others were less fortunate, he could see them in the half drowned streets below, writhing in agony as their bodies continued to change far faster than they could produce enough adrenaline to counteract the pain. Sometimes a passerby would take mercy and kill them, usually holding them under and letting them go quietly (unless they had gills or other external air filters, then slitting the throat was kindest).
He knew he wasn't any different from them but he still refused to go any closer to the lower levels, some part of him worrying that he might catch their strain and adapt beyond his body's own capabilities. It was the worst way to go, you know. To be killed by your body trying its best to help you survive.
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