Aurora - Genesis

The Agency had been quietly kidnapping the city’s misfits, addicts, and people without paper trails to use as guinea pigs for a new experimental compound. It was common knowledge in the homeless community, but some still slipped through the cracks. The perceived failures went into the sewer. Those that didn’t stay dead clawed their way back out- greatly changed.     They woke in a grave of black plastic and stagnant water. When the body bags split, the survivors crawled through filth and echoing tunnels toward the surface, past an encampment of those who’d chosen to live off-grid. If they survived that gauntlet, they learned the same whispered name: the Seer, and the sanctuary she kept in her nightclub.  

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  The contrast hit like vertigo. The sewers were all rust and rot - The Circle was leather, perfume, and chrome. No one had met them at the bottom of the pit, but now they were guests of honor. Cleaned, clothed, and seated in a private lounge with free drinks, they waited for their appointment with destiny.     “You both got to keep your hair,” said a young man in a hoodie, rubbing the back of his neck. His skin gleamed faintly under the low light, smooth and gray like wet clay. “I woke up choking on mine. Guess I can skip the barber now.”     “Is this a joke to you?” The man across from him didn’t smile, his face half-wrapped in bandages, collar drawn high. “Your power doesn’t kill people.” His eyes kept darting toward the speakers, wincing at every ringtone and fragment of static.     “Let’s all take a breath,” said the woman between them. Her tone was calm, professional - until her body rippled like a disturbed reflection. Within seconds she was the spitting image of Dr. Phil in a women’s pantsuit, voice identical to the celebrity’s. “He’s using humor to manage trauma, and you’re reacting from a place of—”     The gray-skinned man doubled over laughing. “That is fucking -incredible-.” Around the lounge, other survivors chuckled. Even the tense one had to look away to stifle a grin.     “Oh, for the love of—” She sputtered in the TV host’s voice, hands on her hips. “I can’t control these damn changes! She’d better actually help us like they said.” With a groan she looked impatiently to the closed double doors.     “You think she’s got a cure?” the larger man beside her asked. He had the kind of sadness that sat heavy on the shoulders, like he’d carried too much for too long and the weight was finally suffocating him.     The gray man flicked a finger toward another table, where a creature that might once have been human twitched under a trench coat. “You think he chose to be a rat-man? Or Christ - could it be a rat-GIRL?” He squinted and leaned forward to get a better look.     The shapeshifter folded her hands beneath her chin, taking advantage of the form she now found herself in. “Would you still be attracted to them if they turned out female - given your current... situation?”     He looked down at his mottled skin, managed a grin. “Guess beggars can’t be choosers. Hey any chance you can work Salma Hayek into your lineup next?”     A new voice broke the laughter; low, resonant, authoritative. “The Seer is ready for you.”     The man who spoke looked carved from stone, his tailored suit straining at the seams. The three survivors traded glances, their brief normalcy dissolving.     Then they followed without another word. Walking toward their fate and whatever answers waited behind the double doors.

Pendulum’s lightshow hit the street like a bomb. Color spilled across the walls - ribbons of impossible shapes pulsing through the night. For a moment the clones hesitated, their mirrored faces catching the glow. Then nothing. They didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. Civilians nearby just stood slack-jawed, drooling in trance as the pattern washed over them.     He realized too late the trick had backfired. A boot slammed into the back of his neck, pressing him into the macadam. “Stay down, the grownups are talking,” growled one of the copies. From the safety of a van nearby, the original Mr. White watched, unreadable behind the brim of his hat.     Epoch moved first - no warning, no hesitation. He’d learned he could kill these things without hearing their voices. That made them safe targets. He tore through two before the air itself shifted. A blur carved across the alley, slamming him in a dozen places at once. He hit the pavement hard, clones piling on before he could even catch a breath.     Tycho froze. Two minutes ago they’d been a team. Now Pendulum and Epoch were pinned and the street was filling with geriatric duplicates. She forced her body to hold shape; gender, skin tone, hair, all flickering as she fought for control over her panic. It was too soon. They had been warned it was too soon.     Despite their meeting with the psychic, despite their fancy new nicknames, and the crash course training, she had to admit that they had lost. She managed to fade into the background crowd, trying to slip away, but rounded the corner - straight into a waiting ambush.     The men there weren’t clones. Federal, armored, professional. One stepped forward, voice calm and clipped. “You can’t run, Miss Winters. Even if you could, we’d just track you down again.” He tapped a piece of tech on his temple, making his point. “You don’t have to end up like them. You’re all going to the same place. Come willingly, let’s just talk.”     “What—why are you—?” She stammered, fighting the tremors in her face as her shape began to slip. “What did we even do to you?”     “It’s not what you did.” He smiled faintly. “It’s what you can do. You should never have ended up in the trash. I mean to make amends for that mistake.”     Behind him, clones dragged Pendulum and Epoch into an armored transport. Pendulum’s light flickered weakly through the windows, painting their faces like candlelight.     “I’m… good,” Tycho said, stepping back, voice thin. “We’re good. Just let us go.”     The Director sighed, almost paternal. “I have too large an investment in this, I’m afraid. I don’t want you or your friends, Miss Winters. I want the blonde - the woman who calls herself the Seer. Cooperate, and I promise you’ll be home by sundown, well-paid for your help stopping a known domestic terrorist.”     The clones were closing in again, their synchronized footsteps echoing like one heartbeat. She saw the futility - three lives gone if she didn’t play along. Her shoulders dropped. “Fine,” she muttered, eyes dulling. “Let’s go have a talk.”