Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
Everyone assumed it would be like the 2020 pandemic. More a pain in the ass than dangerous…unless you were already sick or old. Nine years later in 2029, it started off in the same way: vague news reports about some virus killing primates, then reports from all over the world about the spread to humans. Hospital admissions increased steadily. Scientists all over the world repeatedly gave dire warnings, but were ignored until it was too late. Just like the last time, skepticism and conspiracy theories cost time and lives.
No one could have foreseen the scope and devastation of HNV-29. By 2031, at the end of almost two years of global chaos, everyone everywhere had contracted it. The infection rate was 100 per cent. The Global Health Organization (GHO) said two billion had died from the hemorrhagic fever. A fever that turned victims’ brains into milkshakes.
Billions more who survived were left blind, deaf, and/or cognitively broken. And a billion simply survived unscathed with no idea what made them so special. Stories emerged about some of these people feeling so completely consumed by survivors’ guilt that they found ways not to survive.
Then there were the others.
About 20 per cent of the population did more than survive. The virus made them more than they were. Scientists believed the virus spontaneously mutated DNA in this group, somehow augmenting it. Some woke up from the fever with enhanced vision, fluency in another language, hearing so sharp they could listen to a conversation three blocks away. The mutations were utterly random. Most were interesting party tricks: knowing how to play a musical instrument despite never having previous musical talent or training, calculating pi indefinitely.
A sub-group of these survivors, however, developed abilities that defied all credibility. No one knew how many there were because so many hid or denied what was different about them. There were rumours of people who could shape shift, people who could see 15 seconds into the future, could ‘borrow’ a skill temporarily by observing it once.
Once news got out about this population, a science podcaster dubbed them “Meta-humans,” which was quickly shortened to Metas. The name stuck. Fear of Metas spread faster than the virus. Bluster and political posturing aside, the loudest fights weren’t always between pro- and anti-Meta groups. Often, they were internal. Allies disagreed on strategy. Opponents disagreed on methods. Everyone pointed fingers with accusations of going too far or not far enough. But every time a news story broke about a Meta using their abilities to commit a crime, it eroded the public’s fragile goodwill.
Metas were in every community. They held jobs. Paid taxes. They recycled, mowed their lawns, donated to charities, and left their clean laundry unfolded. They were tellers and teachers. Accountants and clerics. They were people, most of whom wanted nothing more than to move on from the horror of the pandemic and live their lives. For a few years, life drifted back to a delicate new normal in which that dream was possible.
But in 2048, someone in Seattle started making it their goal to ensure Metas were eliminated. Metas were turning up dead. Nine at last count…all with the same “signature,” indicating it was one killer. The murder spree gained national attention. In response to pressure from media, global human rights groups, and the most powerful national Meta civil rights organization, the FBI established a special joint task force to find the killer or killers responsible.
When Maya Bishop, an agent from the Seattle FBI field office, got the invitation to co-lead the joint task force — which meant a promotion to Special Agent — her exact words were, “No fucking way.” Maya’s distrust of Metas was legend in the Bureau. Everyone knew her history and could hardly blame her given what she’d been through. She made no bones about her prejudice despite the fact that some people she’d worked with for years had become Meta as a result of the virus. She’d been reprimanded twice for inappropriate comments to Meta colleagues. Her reputation as a superb agent bought her tolerance, but she had made more withdrawals from the goodwill account than deposits.
As it turned out, the joint task force “invitation” was not that at all. It was an order. And that’s how Maya Bishop found herself packing up her desk on the sunny side of the 19th floor and moving with a handful of other agents to the abandoned basement of the field office building. That’s how Maya found herself staring at file photos of ‘dead Metas.’
She took a long slurp of her coffee and scowled at the row of nine victim photos.
“This wasn’t my idea. I’m only here because I have to be,” she muttered at the lifeless, grey faces. “I’ll find who did this, but it changes nothing.”