Wasteland Run: My Son Steals Abilities

Emily Varen

Five years after the disaster.

Fourteen levels below the surface, deep beneath lower Manhattan.

The elevator doors opened. I felt the air change.

Not the thick stench of Brooklyn's E-Waste Trench anymore—machine oil, scorched metal, chemical fumes all mixed together. This was filtered air. Clean. Sterile. Almost no smell at all.

It made me uncomfortable. Like something had been stripped away.

I'd wiped some of the oil stains off my face in the elevator. Only some.

The interview area was huge. Metal dome ceiling overhead, rows of fluorescent lights blazing white. Bright as a surgery room. No shadows anywhere.

I kept my head down and gripped the application form. The name at the top read "Rachel Grey."

I'd memorized every line on that form. Rachel Grey, twenty-four years old, MIT Data Engineering student before the disaster, baseline neural compatibility screening passed, no severe radiation exposure, no nanite mutations, single, unmarried.

The truth? I'd just turned eighteen. I'd never even seen MIT. That compatibility certificate cost me three cans of nutrient paste and half a box of anticoagulant serum. Traded to a one-eyed forger in the deepest part of the E-Waste Trench.

I folded the form and shoved it in my pocket. Looked around.

About twenty women in line. All in their early twenties. All cleaner than me.

I glanced down at myself. Tactical vest, work pants with holes, boots wrapped in insulating tape. And the oil stains. The ones that wouldn't come off no matter how hard I scrubbed. They'd worked themselves into my skin.

The woman next to me wore a bright orange radiation jacket. Her hair was neat. Her application form sat in a plastic folder with perfect corners.

She looked at me. Shifted half a step away.

I didn't care.

What I cared about was the security setup at the entrance. Basic metal detectors. Biometric scanners. No deep neural readout devices.

Good.

I squeezed the form tighter.

My turn came.

I walked up to the desk. Two staff members in white uniforms, holding tablets. They looked tired.

"Rachel Grey. Data proofreader." I kept my voice low and raspy. I'd practiced that. Made me sound five years older.

The staff member scanned his tablet. Looked up. His eyes stopped on the oil stains on my face for a second.

"What was your job before?"

"Data engineering student." I paused. "Worked two years in the E-Waste Trench after. Maintained EMP barriers."

That part was true.

"Neural compatibility?"

"Baseline screening passed." I pulled out the certificate. "Here."

He scanned the code. The tablet beeped.

"Resonance abilities?"

"None."

"Radiation exposure level?"

"Mild. Brooklyn district range."

"Marital status?"

"Single. Unmarried."

He tapped the screen a few times. Handed back my certificate. "Waiting area. We'll call you."

I took it. Nodded. Walked away.

Five steps later, I realized my palms were soaked.

The waiting area was a row of metal benches against the wall. Above them, a Genesis Corp slogan in big silver letters: "Rebuild Order, Continue Civilization."

I sat in the corner. Wedged my backpack between my knees. Started listening.

Shut your mouth, open your ears. Five years in the wasteland taught me that.

Two women sat near me. Talking quietly. But the acoustics down here carried sound well.

"...do you know what they research here?"

"Resonance abilities. I heard they caught someone—a resonator who saved half of New York State. Root-level access. They're keeping him here."

"Root access?"

"The kind that can overwrite other resonators' abilities. He held the Queens defense line alone for three days. Then Genesis 'invited' him in."

Silence.

"Anyway, they're studying his genes now. Trying to find a way to make everyone awaken resonance abilities. Dr. Victor's running it. They call him 'humanity's hope.'"

I didn't move. Kept my eyes on the wall. My ears focused on them.

So this lab was studying a captive top-tier resonator's genes.

Then why recruit data proofreaders?

I filed that question away. Kept listening.

"Don't you think the requirements are weird?"

"How so?"

"Only women. Under thirty. Single. Healthy. Neural compatibility passed." She paused. "Why would data proofreaders need that?"

My finger tapped my knee once.

It was weird.

"Maybe base regulations? Security?"

"Maybe."

They stopped talking.

I looked down at my hands. There was a scar across my knuckles from last winter. I'd cut myself on rusty iron while setting an EMP trap.

Room and board included. Stable nutrient paste supply. Anticoagulant serum. Fourteen levels underground. Rust-Walkers couldn't get in.

I hadn't eaten in thirty-six hours.

Those three packs of paste went to the forger as final payment.

I straightened my back. Closed my eyes. Forced my heartbeat to slow.

Get in first. Figure out the rest later.

I watched for two hours.

The women called up for "next round evaluation" followed a pattern. Pretty faces. Younger. Better dressed.

The woman in the orange jacket went in the first batch.

Then the woman in her thirties got called. Six years of real data engineering, she'd told the desk. She'd listed it out—filter array calibration, severance protocol logs, two years running maintenance charts for a water plant. I'd been listening.

They kept her four minutes. I counted.

She came out with the same polite line. "We'll keep your file. We'll contact you if needed."

Not one question about her work. No test. No terminal, no data set, no sample problem, nothing.

I kept watching the next three get called up. Same thing every time. The staff barely glanced at the tablets in their hands. They looked at faces. Hair. Hands. One of them asked a woman to push up her sleeve. They checked her forearm, front and back, the way you'd read skin.

Nobody asked anybody what they could actually do.

I memorized every detail.

They weren't hiring data proofreaders.

Or data proofreader was just the cover.

Someone sat down next to me. A woman around twenty. Hair tied back. Wrinkled application form in her hands. She was smoothing out the creases.

She looked up. Our eyes met.

She looked away first. Pressed the form to her chest.

I stayed quiet.

My stomach growled.

I ignored it.

Like a genetic screening.

The thought sent a chill down my spine.

I pushed it away.

Two hours later, a staff member came out.

Five names.

"Rachel Grey."

I stood. Walked over. Took my place with the other four.

We were all young. All reasonably attractive. Standing together like the result of deliberate selection.

The staff member handed us folders. "Sign the Employment Agreement. Then we'll take you to the dorms. Time is tight. Rust-Walker activity is expanding this direction. We need to finish onboarding quickly."

I opened the folder.

I scanned through. Standard stuff mostly.

Then I saw page seven.

"All research staff must unconditionally cooperate with experimental work arrangements, including but not limited to participating in experimental projects, providing biological samples, and accepting necessary medical procedures."

I read it again.

"Biological samples." "Necessary medical procedures."

I looked up. The other four were flipping pages. The woman in orange was already looking for the signature line.

The staff member stood there. Calm. Holding a pen.

I turned to the signature page. Picked up the pen. Wrote: Rachel Grey.

Out of options.

Fourteen levels down. Rust-Walkers couldn't reach. Nutrient paste. Serum. A roof. Lights.

Even if this was a trap, it had living people. Living people were easier to handle than Rust-Walkers.

I closed the folder. Handed it back.

The dorms were on sublevel sixteen. Deeper.

The elevator opened. The air smelled like disinfectant. Sharp. But tolerable.

The room was a bare rectangle. Metal walls. Concrete floor. Four bunk beds pushed together. Thin mattresses. A single overhead light. Cold white. No dimmer. On or off.

Five of us stood there. No one spoke.

I put my backpack on the lower bunk nearest the door. Sat down. Tested the mattress with my hand.

A staff member came in. Distributed uniforms.

I unfolded mine.

White lab assistant uniform. Short. Hemline above the knees. Thin synthetic fabric. Came with white low-heeled shoes. Non-slip soles. Two-centimeter heels.

I stared at it.

I couldn't remember the last time I wore a skirt. Five years in the E-Waste Trench meant work pants, insulated boots, three layers of removable clothing. For crawling through scrap metal. For running when trouble came.

A skirt.

Climate controlled down here. Theoretically warm. But I felt cold just looking at it.

I folded the uniform. Placed it at the head of my bed.

The staff member left. The room went quiet. Just the hum of ventilation.

I leaned against the wall. Closed my eyes. Calculated.

Thirty-eight hours since I last ate.

They said nutrient paste tonight.

Just wait a little longer.

My stomach growled again.

I pulled my backpack into my lap. Buried my face in it. Breathed in. Machine oil. Metal. Familiar. My smell. Brooklyn's smell.

The door opened.

A woman walked in. Early forties. White protective suit. Hair pulled back with metal clips. High cheekbones. Lines at her eyes. Mouth turned down. Everything about her was precise. Cold. Hard.

She stood in the doorway. Her gaze swept over us one by one. Stopped on me for a second. On the oil stains I hadn't cleaned off. Then moved on.

"Restroom is third door on the left." Her voice was flat. Commanding. "Go clean yourselves up. Use your personal items if you brought any."

She paused.

"I'm Leia. Your work liaison."

"When you're presentable, follow me."

"We're going to the laboratory."