The mutagen itself was biological matter. Not only that, but it appeared to be alive in some way; although, it was not as complex as a cell belonging to a macro-organism. It was alive enough to take matter and reproduce– the curious part came from its mode of reproduction. That was where its mutagenic properties came from. It took molecules and altered them to fit its needs. It was like a parasite, except it synthesized its host. It didn’t need living things, just anything, and it took that matter to animate the inanimate; many things that were once regular objects now pulsed with blood. It defied all preconceived notions that humans had about life and evolution.

In that way it was more than a mutagen. It was sorcery.

But it had rules of its own. It often used the same structures for the same things; for example, I noticed that it preferred to transmute things that contain biological matter, such as paper. On the contrary, it does not like plastic, and when it came in contact with any sort of plastic material, it recoiled.

Perhaps it is a folly of my still-human conscious, but I’ve grown fond of this... Entity. After 300 years of living you come to reconcile with your enemies, I suppose.

I remember who I was before May 23rd, 2026. I was young and in my 4th year of college studying biotechnology. My name was Zahra– was, because no one calls me that anymore. I look far too inhuman for the respect of being referred to with a human name by most; although, some may say I received the better end of the mutation deal.

I was somewhere with my family celebrating my graduation from Georgia Tech. We were on a vacation in Paris, France, the details of which I remember very clearly. We were lost. Embarrassingly so. My mother scrambled to redirect us to the proper location– a restaurant in the southern side of the city– while I battled with both my father and two younger sisters, Samira and Attallah. I was thoroughly irritated and wanted so badly to go home, and so did my sisters; nonetheless, I forced myself to put my sympathies aside and scolded them. Samira’s whines and tantrums pained me especially. She was only 10 and in a foreign place with a dysfunctional family. I wanted to cry with her.

Nevertheless, we proceeded on our nightmare vacation begrudgingly.

On our unplanned uber ride to the southern part of Paris, I saw a hideous sight on the road, and instinctively I covered Samira’s eyes. A man writhed on the ground in intense pain, his eyes red and full of tears, and it looked as though he was screaming, but I would realize later that he was not; rather, his jaw and facial muscles were locked, forcing an intense, violent expression. Unbeknownst to me, it was an early symptom of the biomutagen.

We ate in silence.

That night, I would be the first to experience symptoms. Nausea corrupted my senses and the world spun around me wildly. I found it difficult to stand. My mother, panicked, sat me down, placed an ice pack on my head and said several prayers. At some point, I went to sleep.

I awoke in the middle of the night to my screaming. Except no sound came out.

The first thing the mutagen does to a biological entity is record the cells and DNA within it, sending the DNA to other biomutagen organisms in a way similar to that of a hivemind. Next, having studied the cells, it seeks to destroy it so that it can alter the DNA more intensely. To reconstruct something you must first deconstruct it.
I was burning. The mutagen had begun to deconstruct me. My cells ceased division; my skin blistered and seared with pain and I found it difficult to stay put. I thrashed about as my father forced me into an ambulance.

The last moments of my consciousness are hazy. I remember the sting of a syringe injecting into me several vital nutrients, but the biomutagen worked faster; it destroyed many of my enzymes and cell function, so I could not utilize the nutrients. I remember the screams of my younger sisters as I was driven away, and I remember the wail of the siren atop the vehicle I was in.

I haven’t seen my family since.


I was one of the first to undergo metamorphosis. When I awoke I had no eyes, and yet, I could see far better than I ever could before. Out of my face and head came long, flowing, nudibranch-like receptors; my senses were heightened and I could perceive even the smallest bacteria. My first thought after awaking was oddly hopeful: I wondered if I could find my family using my heightened senses.
But, during my metamorphosis, the world had plunged into apocalypse. In the 5 years I slept, America had declared war on Russia, believing the biomutagen to be a bioweapon, and other powers followed suit. So, although I was horribly mutated beyond my comprehension, I became a nurse, helping those who were still undergoing their metamorphosis or had just awoken. With my senses, I was especially useful, as I could inspect injury and DNA closer than a human. I wondered if I was still human. It was through this war that I found my passion: helping others become comfortable with their altered self.


Earlier stages of the biomutagen worked to study the DNA of all Earth organisms; from bovines to cnidarians to even the smallest microorganisms. It experimented with the DNA it acquired, altering it, toying with it. Later it became proficient enough to alter anything, twisting matter into a double helix. All it needed was the knowledge of living cells.

However, it frivolously gave life to anything it could find, and often made mistakes. Large objects morphed into flesh, and the biomutagen sometimes synthesized a heart too small for it, or a liver too big for it, or a bone sticking out here or there, and many, many other gruesome mistakes. I have seen hundreds of mistakes. Possibly thousands. My job is to reconnoiter and retrieve new organisms and bring them back to the Heart, a research facility that studies the biomutagen and the mutations created by it. Seeing gruesome, erroneous displays of flesh is in the job description, unfortunately.

Today is Monday, or, in other words, Recon Day. After I wake, and after much deliberation on whether or not to return back to sleep, I adorn my recon gear– a black, industrial full body suit with a protective mask that connects to an oxygen tank on my back. I double check to make sure the tube is connected securely– toxic pollutants and radioactive material roamed the air, and mutants like me were still susceptible to disease.

I opened the door to my chamber to my colleagues, Dr. Fauntleroy and Miriam, standing outside.

“Took you long enough,” said Miriam, irritated. She was a mutant like me, but we looked completely different. Our origins differed, too. It was, at first, the nervous system of a person who died in the war, but was morphed by the biomutagen into a separate being. Her skin was stringy, and every time I looked at her I was reminded of a small yarn doll my little sister had when she was young. If you looked closely you could see blue lines of blood pulsing through her body.

Somehow, Miriam looked more human-like than me.

“Good morning to you too,” I replied. “And to you, Fauntleroy.”

“Mornin’.” He nodded curtly. He was always simple and to-the-point.

Fauntleroy’s mutant qualities were invisible, but they were there. He had light brown skin and curly hair that was pulled back into a bun; he looked incredibly normal. You could go an entire lifetime knowing him and not notice the fact that, when he talked, his mouth did not open.

“Well, shall we?” Fauntleroy looked to the both of us.



The area we were assigned to investigate was once a bustling city, then a volatile area filled with grotesque mutations. Now it is a wasteland. All of the cities have since moved underground.

Our locomotion of choice was to ride in an an off-road vehicle with open windows. I sat in the passenger seat, holding onto a bar above me as Fauntleroy drove.

“This place is ugly,” Miriam said from the backseat. Her arms were crossed, her wiry face in something that resembled a grimace. “And it smells like shit.”

I did not humor her. “All life is beautiful, Miri. Even if it looks or smells ‘like shit’.”

“Whatever.”

My sensory tentacles flattened against my body in disdain. I decided to change the subject. “MashAllah, Miri, you can smell now!” I said. “You’re changing before our very eyes. How do you feel?”

She shrugged. “The same, I guess.”

“Do you feel different?”

“Not really. I kind of miss when I couldn’t smell anything. Everything feels like it’s everywhere. It’s annoying."

“I understand,” I said. “Gaining a new sense is an awkward process. But, one day, you’ll wonder how you ever managed without it.”

Miriam stayed silent. Perhaps thats why she was so apathetic today– she might be irritated by her new sensations. I made a mental note not to be too difficult on her today.



In my several centuries of living, New York had never looked so dismal.

The roads were cracked, riddled with flowers that grew outwards in unnatural fractals. Fauntleroy had to slow to 15 miles per hour in order to dodge blades of concrete that jutted out of the ground like stalagmites. An unnameable feeling settled at the bottom of my stomach at the sight, something like wistfulness, but I couldn’t place a finger nor a sensory organ onto it.

Before May 23rd, 2026, that fateful day, I hadn’t visited many places much. For my family, a vacation was a privilege, but, even so, I found it difficult to be around them for an extended period of time. Somehow, something always seemed to go wrong. Despite this, whenever we had the time or the money to, we would pack our bags and embark on a little adventure together.

New York was one of these many places. And, even now, with the both of us being horribly mutated, I could still look at the corner of 42nd & 3rd street and imagine myself on that day walking down and stopping at a fragrance store or a restaurant with Samira and Attallah at my side, our parents bickering just outside.

That was the nature of my family’s dynamic. We could never have fun for long.

“They said it looked like a ‘land fish’,” Fauntleroy said, startling me slightly. “Said it was docile. Don’t know why they want us to get it.” “Well, you know A and A doesn’t like things like that.”

Miriam scoffed. “They’re always making us do their fucking dirty work.”

“This work is not dirty.” I gritted. I immediately pushed down my sudden flare of irritation. “Just a little less favorable to others. That doesn’t mean it’s not important.”

“You always say that! Mr. Fauntleroy, what do you think?”

“This work is necessary,” he said plainly. “I wouldn’t have dedicated a portion of my life to it if I didn’t believe it to be true.”

Miriam harrumphed. Finding her silly, I chuckled a little bit.