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Scene Four: Generation Z
The city slept beneath a lattice of security lights and silent drones. From the top of Sector 4Z's residential tower, Brian stood at the ledge of his floor's terrace, the wind brushing through his dark, tousled hair. But this wasn't his usual lab coat and slacks. Tonight, he wore something different.
Black cargo pants, a long coat, soft-tread gloves.
An outfit meant for stealth, not style.
He looked like someone about to commit a robbery.
In a way, he was.
He stepped off the 17th floor.
A controlled fall. His fingers brushed the metal balcony rails every few floors, knees flexed just enough to absorb, redirect, not snap. He landed on the third floor's rooftop garden. The impact would've shattered a normal human's tibia and cracked a vertebra, but not his.
Brian rolled his shoulders. His breath was steady.
moZbie physiology – Log 42
Accelerated tissue regeneration observed post-momentum shock. Ligament microtears sealed within seconds. Muscle strain, negligible.
A moZbie can damage itself without long-term consequences. It is not stronger than the human self. Still, through conscious trauma, it can exceed the biological limits of the human self.
He grinned faintly.
He dropped the rest of the way via fire escape, boots barely making a sound, and landed in the alley behind a food distribution kiosk.
Brian slid on a dark gray civilian mask, adjusted it, and slipped into the shadows between cameras, weaving along blind angles. But not all eyes could be avoided — San Francisco's Streets were covered in surveillance netting, part of the post-Outbreak regulation order.
Cameras saw him eventually.
That was the point.
Brian started walking like a normal citizen. A few blocks away, he stopped at a corner and whistled once.
A battered orange and white taxi rolled to a stop.
The driver was a middle-aged man with a graying beard. He gave Brian a nod as he pulled up.
"Late hour for a ride," the driver said. "You headed far?"
"Downtown East," Brian said, slipping into the back. "Just need to unwind."
The driver chuckled. "Aren't we all."
They drove in silence for a few blocks. Then Brian leaned forward.
"You know where I can get the good stuff?"
The driver's shoulders stiffened just slightly. "Sorry?"
"You heard me."
"I drive clean," the man replied.
Brian slid a folded five-hundred cred note onto the console. "So do I."
The driver glanced at the note. Then Brian looked in the mirror. The mask didn't hide the intensity.
With a quiet sigh, the driver took the turn without a word.
Ten minutes later, they pulled into a side street, where neon pulse lights shimmered between crumbling towers and glitzy storefronts. The kind of place the city didn't admit still existed.
He parked in front of a black building with glowing red signage:
CLUB GEN-Z
"You sure you want this, kid?" the driver asked, voice suddenly heavy. "You go in there, you're not coming out cleaner. Just more hollow than you walked in."
Brian raised an eyebrow. "Do I really seem young to you?"
The driver stared. "Kid… don't go there."
Brian opened the door. "Thanks for the ride."
He stepped into the alley behind the club.
Out of sight, he peeled off the dark coat and his mask, rolled it into a tight bundle, and tucked it beneath a dumpster.
His fingers pressed into the flesh of his jawline, digging past skin and muscle until they reached the bone beneath.
With a low grunt, Brian forced the change.
The bone shifted with a sickening crunch — his jaw shortened, nasal ridge flattened, cheekbones pulled tighter, and eyelids narrowed as cartilage and bone restructured under sheer will and regenerative strain.
moZbie Physiology — Log 38
Shapeshifting. A forced craniofacial reconstruction. Malunion risk present. Improper reshaping may result in permanent deformation.
Facial reconstruction requires precise sequence memory. The reverse process is strongly advised within 8 hours.
The new face stared back at him in the reflection of a dented metal panel — younger, more angular, unfamiliar even to himself.
But the retroorbital ache was already starting.
If he didn't reverse it in time, the changes could heal crooked, leaving him trapped in someone else's face. It would take another precise shapeshifting to return to normal.
For now, it would do.
He straightened his jacket, stepped out of the alley, and became someone else.
Now, in tight jeans, a designer jacket, and glossy sneakers, he didn't look like the doctor from the city core. He looked like a rich, arrogant teenager with too much free time and no curfew.
Out front, a line stretched past the block. Half the people wore exaggerated makeup, mimicking Hollowed with silver contacts, pale skin powder, and fake blood dripping down their necks. It was ironic.
In a world ravaged by infection, people still found ways to party.
It was how they coped. Whether it be themed clubs, VR carnage simulators, or the hollow masquerades. The fear was turned into fashion. The tragedy became a fetish.
Because that's what humanity did.
It dressed its wounds in neon.
Brian walked past the line. Some people called out. Others glared.
He stopped beside a pair — a couple mid-argument, the girl stunning in a velvet-red dress and moonlit hair. Her boyfriend barked something about patience and not letting people cut.
Brian ignored him and looked at her.
"You want in?" he asked.
She hesitated, blinking.
The boyfriend stepped in. "What the hell, man? Back off."
Brian turned slowly. "Did I ask you?"
The guy shoved him poorly.
A massive security guard appeared almost instantly. "Gentlemen. Problem?"
Brian didn't even glance at him. "Just asking a question."
The girl stepped forward, uncertain. "I… yeah. Sure."
The boyfriend's voice cracked. "You serious?!"
She didn't answer.
"Get back in line, jackass," the guard growled at the guy, who cursed as he stormed off, flipping Brian the finger.
The guard returned to his post.
Cutting in line a few moments later, he reached the front of the cue.
The guard looked at Brian, half-amused, half-exhausted. "You again."
Brian slowly pulled a roll of bills from his jacket. "Inflation's a bitch, right?"
The guard took the cash and stepped aside with a shrug. "Enjoy the apocalypse."
Brian stepped in with the girl, who was clueless about how quickly things had passed.
The bass was already vibrating the pavement.
Scene Five: The Pulse
"Blue Monday" pumped through the club, a rhythmic throb in sync with the crowd's pulse. Fog crawled low across the dance floor as laser beams swept the ceiling. The bass wrapped around the bodies in motion, a trance masquerading nostalgia.
Brian moved easily in the crowd, tailored into the rhythm but untethered by it.
The girl with the red velvet dress and light in her eyes danced before him, her movements becoming loose and unselfconscious.
"You're good," she shouted over the music, breathless. "You don't move like you're trying to be seen."
"Maybe I'm trying not to be," Brian replied, his voice low, smooth.
She laughed, hair catching in the flash of blue strobe. "So modest. Or mysterious. What's your name, not-so-shy stranger?"
He hesitated, just half a beat.
"Jace."
She tilted her head. "That real?"
"What's yours?"
"Emily."
"Is yours?" he asked back.
She grinned. "Touché."
As if summoned by fate, "Stayin' Alive" kicked in with that iconic rhythm. The crowd roared with half-ironic cheer. Neon-green lights pulsed like a heartbeat. Emily leaned closer.
"So, Jace," she said, "you're not from downtown, are you?"
"No."
"You sound like you were born somewhere colder."
"I get that a lot."
She laughed again, this time softer. "Let me guess. Failed musician? Government agent slumming it?"
"I'm… between things."
"Well, that's vague."
"I am a vague guy."
They danced in perfect sync for a few minutes — no grinding or showmanship, just pure energy and movement. Two silhouettes played pretend under ultraviolet light.
"Seriously," she said between beats, "why'd you come here? Club Gen-Z's not exactly where people like to unwind."
He turned slightly, watching the crowd in motion.
Laughter. Makeup. People dressed as Hollowed, as if it were Halloween, not history.
"Curiosity," he said. "And the company."
She narrowed her eyes, reading him.
"You know, you talk like someone who never wants to be found."
"Or remembered."
Her smile flickered.
"You've lost someone, haven't you?" she asked, suddenly quiet.
His expression didn't change, but his gaze slipped past her for a second — toward the bar, toward the doors. Like he was keeping a second clock running in his mind.
"I've lost enough," he said.
Emily reached for his hand, this time more slowly. "Then tonight, let's not talk about it."
He let her take it. His extraordinary skin met the warm.
The next song faded into a smoother synth, ambient, pulsing beneath the surface. Emily and Brian moved more slowly now, their steps relaxed, their bodies closer without touching. Her eyes still flickered with curiosity, but there was an edge of hesitation, a question left unsaid.
Brian leaned toward her ear, voice barely louder than a whisper.
"You want some of the good stuff?"
She paused, blinked, then gave a nervous little laugh. "Like what?"
"I'm not talking about vodka and regrets," he smirked. "I mean the real thing."
Emily tilted her head. "I've… never gotten my hands on anything yet."
Brian gave her a half-smile. "Then tonight's your lucky day."
They left the floor and pushed toward the bar, slipping between bodies, into the smoke-thick air where old lights flickered and the counter was stained from years of wear and tear.
The bartender was rail-thin, with a cybernetic eye that buzzed faintly when he turned. His neck tattoo pulsed faintly with UV ink — a broken heart wrapped in chains.
Brian stepped up, casual but deliberate.
"Can we both get something?" he asked.
The bartender nodded, pouring two electric blue shots into thick glass bulbs. "House fusion. Tastes like battery acid and childhood trauma."
Emily giggled nervously. Brian clinked his glass to hers and downed it without flinching.
"Something stronger," Brian said, placing more money — not bills this time, but a sleek black cred-card.
The bartender raised an eyebrow and pulled a different bottle from beneath the counter. This one had no label, just a clear liquid in a frost-glass decanter. He poured it carefully into smaller vials and handed them off.
Emily held hers up, uncertain. "What is it?"
The bartender grinned, one tooth gold. "Doesn't matter. It doesn't care what you are, as long as you bleed."
She glanced at Brian, who simply nodded once. They then proceeded to drink.
Brian barely sipped. His body didn't need it. Correctly speaking, he couldn't process it the same. But appearances were everything.
And then Brian leaned in again, lowering his voice, and said it flat.
"That still won't do. How about something… more exciting?"
He slid a platinum cred-card forward. He made no bravado now. The bartender froze mid-motion.
A beat passed.
The bartender leaned forward slowly, scanning Brian's face, and glanced at Emily.
"You're not cops, are you?"
Brian looked back without blinking. "Do I look like one?"
After a long pause, the bartender snorted and wiped the counter. "Hell, you look like you eat cops."
Brian smiled. "Only when I'm hungry."
The bartender nodded toward the hallway behind the bar.
Flickering lights, a half-broken "UNISEX" sign crooked on the door.
"Mixed washroom. Stall three," the bartender said in a low voice. "Wait there. You'll find your way."
Brian nodded. Emily hesitated again, but followed.
The music faded behind them, muffled beneath tile and old pipes. The door to the bathroom creaked open, and the walls yellowed under pale flickering lights. The sound of distant bass throbbed through the floor.
Emily turned to Brian, her voice quieter now. "Are you sure about this?"
He gave her a look — calm, unreadable. "You trust me?"
"I don't know you," she said.
"That's what makes this easier."
They walked in, and the door closed behind them.