The letter wasn't delivered by any ordinary means. It didn't come by drone, email, or any of the usual routes people communicated these days. Instead, it appeared—out of thin air—on the edge of my desk, bound in a sleek, metallic envelope with the unmistakable insignia of the Academy of Chromodynamics. No address. No name. Just a clear, simple statement printed on the front:
Summons: Immediate Compliance Required.
A summons. Not an invitation. Definitely not a request.
My fingers hovered over the envelope, hesitant, though I already knew what it would say. We all knew. If you were born after 2999, if you had the XG-42 gene, if you were one of them—a Gen—there was only one place for you.
With a sharp sigh, I ripped it open and scanned the contents. Standard legal jargon: You are hereby required to report to the Academy of Chromodynamics… failure to comply will result in your designation as a Rogue Gen… penalties include immediate apprehension and containment…
Translation? "Come quietly, or we'll hunt you down."
For those who don't understand, let me explain.
It all started less than a hundred years ago, when scientists discovered a new gene strain in the human genome. They called it XG-42, a seemingly dormant gene until a virus—Viral Pathogen N-48—activated it in the population, primarily affecting children born after the year 2999. That's when people like me started showing up.
People with abilities.
Of course, the rest of the world didn't see us as people. We were Gens—mutants, anomalies, freaks. And if the government didn't get their hands on you early enough, you risked being labeled a Rogue Gen, which is essentially a death sentence. The United Earth Federation doesn't tolerate uncontrolled variables in its perfect society.
So, they built the Academy of Chromodynamics.
Sounds prestigious, doesn't it? The name alone makes it sound like some elite institution, like they're doing us a favor by taking us in. But that's not what the Academy is. Not really.
Sure, they train you, refine your abilities, teach you how to control the things that make you different. But they're not doing it out of the goodness of their hearts. They treat us like weapons. Sharpened, polished, ready to be used.
Some people don't mind. Some Gens like being powerful, part of the system, part of the machine. But me? I can't stand it. I'm not a weapon. I'm a person. Yet here I am, standing at the edge of a choice that isn't really a choice at all.
I have to go. If I don't, they'll classify me as a Rogue. I'll be marked, hunted down, and either imprisoned or worse—dissected to see what makes me tick.
Not that I'm afraid. No, that's not it.
What does scare me is what happens if I do comply. They'll expect me to become another soldier in their war against Rogue Gens, to use my powers in whatever way they see fit. Powers they don't even fully understand.
Take color, for instance.
If you ask anyone what my ability is, they'll laugh. They think all I can do is change the color of things, like it's some kind of party trick. They don't understand that color isn't just what your eyes see. It's perception. It's energy. It's power.
Red isn't just red—it's danger, blood, fury. I can turn someone's clothes red and fill them with unrelenting rage, make them see nothing but enemies around them. I can turn the sky a pale green and watch as fear creeps into the hearts of anyone standing beneath it, the subconscious association with sickness and poison filling their minds.
Most people don't know this about me, and I prefer it that way. Let them underestimate me. Let them think I'm harmless.
Because someday, when the Academy pushes too far, I'm going to push back.
But that's not today. Today, I have to play the part.
I fold the summons, slip it into my jacket, and take a deep breath. They'll expect me at the Academy by morning, ready to be molded, trained, and turned into another tool for their arsenal. I have no choice but to comply.
At least for now.