The lab is empty
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 7
by
copier
· original author:
The mechanical engineering lab she’d signed up for was empty—Professor Kwon had canceled the afternoon session last-minute for “equipment calibration.” Carolyne pushed the door open anyway, curious, bored, always looking for an edge. The room smelled of solder and ozone. Workbenches were littered with circuit boards, half-assembled drones, and a sleek metal case labeled “NANO-DELIVERY PROTOTYPE – DO NOT OPEN.”
She flicked her hair back, sauntered over. The case was unlocked, lid cracked just enough to reveal rows of autoinjector pens, each tipped with a hair-thin needle. A Post-it stuck to the lid read: “Test batch 47-B. Nanobot suspension. Intravenous only. DO NOT HANDLE.”
Carolyne rolled her eyes. “Pendejos can’t even lock their toys.”
She picked up one of the pens, turning it over in her fingers. It was heavier than it looked, cool against her palm. She pressed the tip experimentally against her forearm, mimicking an injection—just playing. The spring mechanism clicked softly. A tiny sting, barely noticeable.
She frowned, looked down. A single bead of blood welled up, no bigger than a pinprick. She wiped it away with her thumb, muttering, “Qué mierda.”
Nothing hurt. Nothing felt different. She tossed the pen back into the case, shrugged, and turned to leave.
Behind her, under her skin, trillions of microscopic machines began to wake up, silent, patient, rewriting her from the inside out
Carolyne tossed the autoinjector pen back into the open case with a careless flick of her wrist. The tiny bead of blood on her forearm had already dried into nothing more than a faint pink dot. She sucked her teeth, muttering, “Pendejos y sus juguetes caros,” and let the heavy lab door swing shut behind her with a pneumatic hiss.
The corridor felt colder now, the fluorescent lights harsher against her skin. She adjusted the strap of her crossbody bag and started toward the exit, heels clicking in that same sharp, queenly rhythm. Halfway down the hall, it hit her—like a fist to the stomach, sudden and brutal.
Hunger.
Not the lazy “I could eat” hunger she sometimes felt after skipping breakfast. This was ravenous, animal, a hollow ache that clawed up from her core and made her vision swim for a second. Her mouth flooded with saliva; her stomach growled so loudly she actually pressed a hand to it, startled.
“¿Qué carajo?” she whispered. She’d had a protein shake and half a bagel at noon. It wasn’t possible to be *this* empty.
The sensation didn’t fade. It sharpened. Her legs felt leaden, like they might buckle if she didn’t feed the thing inside her *right now*. She quickened her pace, curls bouncing, pushing through the glass doors into the January dusk. The campus smelled of wet concrete and distant bonfires from some off-campus house. She barely noticed. Her mind was a single-track loop: *food food food food*.
The nearest option was El Sabor Boricua, the little Puerto Rican–Cuban spot two blocks off campus that students called “the spot” because no one could pronounce the full name. Neon sign buzzing pink and green. She shoved the door open harder than necessary; the bell jangled like an alarm.
Inside it was warm, loud, fragrant—garlic, sofrito, frying plantains. Her mouth watered so violently she almost gagged. The hostess, a tired woman with a name tag reading “Luz,” started to say something about waiting for a table, but Carolyne was already sliding into the nearest booth, dropping her bag beside her like it weighed nothing.
“Menu,” she snapped, voice rougher than she meant. Luz blinked, then slid one over.
Carolyne didn’t read it. She just pointed. “Mofongo con chicharrones. Pernil. Arroz con gandules. Tostones. And maduros. Extra maduros. And a large mango batido. Now.”
Luz raised both eyebrows. “You… sharing with someone?”
“No. Just me.”
The food came fast—family-style platters because the kitchen knew college kids ordered like they were starving. Carolyne tore into it without waiting for silverware. Fingers first, ripping pork, scooping rice, cramming plantain. She ate like someone possessed, barely chewing, sauce smearing her lips and chin. The hunger didn’t ease; it *directed* her. Each bite felt like throwing logs on a furnace that refused to stay lit.
She finished the mofongo. Then the pernil. Then both sides of rice and beans. She ordered seconds—didn’t even realize she’d raised her hand until the words were out of her mouth. Luz brought more without comment, eyes wide. Carolyne kept going. Three times her usual portion. Maybe more. Her stomach should have protested, should have bloated, but it didn’t. It accepted everything, greedy and bottomless.
By the time she pushed the last empty plate away, sweat beaded on her upper lip and her chest heaved like she’d run sprints. The restaurant had gone quieter; people were staring. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, confused, almost embarrassed—which was a new and unwelcome feeling.
She paid with her card (tip generous enough to make Luz’s eyebrows climb again), grabbed her bag, and stumbled outside. The cold air slapped her face, but the hunger had finally dulled to a low simmer. In its place came something heavier: exhaustion. Bone-deep, like someone had drained the battery in her spine.
She barely remembered the walk back to the dorm. The elevator ride. The hallway. She fumbled her keycard, got inside, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed face-down across her bed still fully dressed. Photos of her victories stared down from the wall—volleyball trophies, club selfies, her abuela’s framed portrait. She didn’t see them. Sleep took her in seconds, heavy and dreamless.
When she woke, it was full dark outside. The clock on her phone read 8:47 p.m. She’d been out for just over an hour.
Carolyne groaned, rolled onto her back, and stretched.
Something felt… different.
Not wrong. Just *more*.
She sat up slowly. Her cropped tank felt tighter across her chest and shoulders, the fabric stretched in a way it hadn’t been that morning. She glanced down. Her arms—always toned from years of spiking and serving—looked subtly fuller, the definition sharper under her skin. Not bulky. Elegant. Powerful. The curve of her bicep had a new, clean line when she flexed experimentally. Her abs, already flat, now showed the faint shadow of a six-pack, like someone had traced the edges with a very fine pencil.
She swung her legs off the bed and stood. Her jeans sat differently on her hips—snugger at the thighs, looser at the waist. She turned toward the full-length mirror taped to the back of the closet door.
Her reflection stared back and took her breath away for a second.
The roundness of her cheeks had tightened just enough to sharpen her jawline. Her lips looked fuller, darker, like she’d been biting them. Her eyes—still that starless black—seemed brighter, more piercing, as if someone had dialed up the contrast. Her curls had more shine, more bounce, framing her face like they’d been professionally blown out. And her body… Dios mío. The silver hoop in her navel now sat in the center of a stomach that looked carved rather than merely toned. Her breasts sat higher, rounder. Her ass—already her favorite feature—had lifted and rounded in a way that made the denim hug it like a second skin. She turned sideways, arched her back slightly. The silhouette was obscene in the best way: athletic, voluptuous, lethal.
She looked… upgraded.
Carolyne blinked. Ran her hands down her sides. The muscle under her palms felt denser, springier. She curled her fingers into a fist and squeezed; the power in her grip startled her. She could have crushed a phone.
“What the hell,” she murmured, accent thick with confusion.
But the confusion didn’t last. A slow, predatory smile curled her lips.
She didn’t know why she looked better—felt stronger, sharper—but she liked it. A lot.
She flexed again, watching the play of muscle under skin, and laughed low in her throat.
“Bueno,” she said to her reflection. “Let’s see what else you can do, reina.”
She didn’t notice the faint, almost imperceptible shimmer under her skin—like heat rising off asphalt—as the nanobots hummed contentedly, already cataloging the fresh influx of calories and plotting the next round of optimizations.
Is she surprised from her transportation?
She flicked her hair back, sauntered over. The case was unlocked, lid cracked just enough to reveal rows of autoinjector pens, each tipped with a hair-thin needle. A Post-it stuck to the lid read: “Test batch 47-B. Nanobot suspension. Intravenous only. DO NOT HANDLE.”
Carolyne rolled her eyes. “Pendejos can’t even lock their toys.”
She picked up one of the pens, turning it over in her fingers. It was heavier than it looked, cool against her palm. She pressed the tip experimentally against her forearm, mimicking an injection—just playing. The spring mechanism clicked softly. A tiny sting, barely noticeable.
She frowned, looked down. A single bead of blood welled up, no bigger than a pinprick. She wiped it away with her thumb, muttering, “Qué mierda.”
Nothing hurt. Nothing felt different. She tossed the pen back into the case, shrugged, and turned to leave.
Behind her, under her skin, trillions of microscopic machines began to wake up, silent, patient, rewriting her from the inside out
Carolyne tossed the autoinjector pen back into the open case with a careless flick of her wrist. The tiny bead of blood on her forearm had already dried into nothing more than a faint pink dot. She sucked her teeth, muttering, “Pendejos y sus juguetes caros,” and let the heavy lab door swing shut behind her with a pneumatic hiss.
The corridor felt colder now, the fluorescent lights harsher against her skin. She adjusted the strap of her crossbody bag and started toward the exit, heels clicking in that same sharp, queenly rhythm. Halfway down the hall, it hit her—like a fist to the stomach, sudden and brutal.
Hunger.
Not the lazy “I could eat” hunger she sometimes felt after skipping breakfast. This was ravenous, animal, a hollow ache that clawed up from her core and made her vision swim for a second. Her mouth flooded with saliva; her stomach growled so loudly she actually pressed a hand to it, startled.
“¿Qué carajo?” she whispered. She’d had a protein shake and half a bagel at noon. It wasn’t possible to be *this* empty.
The sensation didn’t fade. It sharpened. Her legs felt leaden, like they might buckle if she didn’t feed the thing inside her *right now*. She quickened her pace, curls bouncing, pushing through the glass doors into the January dusk. The campus smelled of wet concrete and distant bonfires from some off-campus house. She barely noticed. Her mind was a single-track loop: *food food food food*.
The nearest option was El Sabor Boricua, the little Puerto Rican–Cuban spot two blocks off campus that students called “the spot” because no one could pronounce the full name. Neon sign buzzing pink and green. She shoved the door open harder than necessary; the bell jangled like an alarm.
Inside it was warm, loud, fragrant—garlic, sofrito, frying plantains. Her mouth watered so violently she almost gagged. The hostess, a tired woman with a name tag reading “Luz,” started to say something about waiting for a table, but Carolyne was already sliding into the nearest booth, dropping her bag beside her like it weighed nothing.
“Menu,” she snapped, voice rougher than she meant. Luz blinked, then slid one over.
Carolyne didn’t read it. She just pointed. “Mofongo con chicharrones. Pernil. Arroz con gandules. Tostones. And maduros. Extra maduros. And a large mango batido. Now.”
Luz raised both eyebrows. “You… sharing with someone?”
“No. Just me.”
The food came fast—family-style platters because the kitchen knew college kids ordered like they were starving. Carolyne tore into it without waiting for silverware. Fingers first, ripping pork, scooping rice, cramming plantain. She ate like someone possessed, barely chewing, sauce smearing her lips and chin. The hunger didn’t ease; it *directed* her. Each bite felt like throwing logs on a furnace that refused to stay lit.
She finished the mofongo. Then the pernil. Then both sides of rice and beans. She ordered seconds—didn’t even realize she’d raised her hand until the words were out of her mouth. Luz brought more without comment, eyes wide. Carolyne kept going. Three times her usual portion. Maybe more. Her stomach should have protested, should have bloated, but it didn’t. It accepted everything, greedy and bottomless.
By the time she pushed the last empty plate away, sweat beaded on her upper lip and her chest heaved like she’d run sprints. The restaurant had gone quieter; people were staring. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, confused, almost embarrassed—which was a new and unwelcome feeling.
She paid with her card (tip generous enough to make Luz’s eyebrows climb again), grabbed her bag, and stumbled outside. The cold air slapped her face, but the hunger had finally dulled to a low simmer. In its place came something heavier: exhaustion. Bone-deep, like someone had drained the battery in her spine.
She barely remembered the walk back to the dorm. The elevator ride. The hallway. She fumbled her keycard, got inside, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed face-down across her bed still fully dressed. Photos of her victories stared down from the wall—volleyball trophies, club selfies, her abuela’s framed portrait. She didn’t see them. Sleep took her in seconds, heavy and dreamless.
When she woke, it was full dark outside. The clock on her phone read 8:47 p.m. She’d been out for just over an hour.
Carolyne groaned, rolled onto her back, and stretched.
Something felt… different.
Not wrong. Just *more*.
She sat up slowly. Her cropped tank felt tighter across her chest and shoulders, the fabric stretched in a way it hadn’t been that morning. She glanced down. Her arms—always toned from years of spiking and serving—looked subtly fuller, the definition sharper under her skin. Not bulky. Elegant. Powerful. The curve of her bicep had a new, clean line when she flexed experimentally. Her abs, already flat, now showed the faint shadow of a six-pack, like someone had traced the edges with a very fine pencil.
She swung her legs off the bed and stood. Her jeans sat differently on her hips—snugger at the thighs, looser at the waist. She turned toward the full-length mirror taped to the back of the closet door.
Her reflection stared back and took her breath away for a second.
The roundness of her cheeks had tightened just enough to sharpen her jawline. Her lips looked fuller, darker, like she’d been biting them. Her eyes—still that starless black—seemed brighter, more piercing, as if someone had dialed up the contrast. Her curls had more shine, more bounce, framing her face like they’d been professionally blown out. And her body… Dios mío. The silver hoop in her navel now sat in the center of a stomach that looked carved rather than merely toned. Her breasts sat higher, rounder. Her ass—already her favorite feature—had lifted and rounded in a way that made the denim hug it like a second skin. She turned sideways, arched her back slightly. The silhouette was obscene in the best way: athletic, voluptuous, lethal.
She looked… upgraded.
Carolyne blinked. Ran her hands down her sides. The muscle under her palms felt denser, springier. She curled her fingers into a fist and squeezed; the power in her grip startled her. She could have crushed a phone.
“What the hell,” she murmured, accent thick with confusion.
But the confusion didn’t last. A slow, predatory smile curled her lips.
She didn’t know why she looked better—felt stronger, sharper—but she liked it. A lot.
She flexed again, watching the play of muscle under skin, and laughed low in her throat.
“Bueno,” she said to her reflection. “Let’s see what else you can do, reina.”
She didn’t notice the faint, almost imperceptible shimmer under her skin—like heat rising off asphalt—as the nanobots hummed contentedly, already cataloging the fresh influx of calories and plotting the next round of optimizations.
Is she surprised from her transportation?
15 views
·
June 13
Log in to comment