The Fruit of Unpredictable Divinity

Defying Gravity

The alleyway walls blurred as Farhan’s feet skittered against the damp brick. He wasn't running so much as he was bouncing, his body light as a dandelion seed caught in a gale. Each desperate stride propelled him three feet off the ground, his arms flailing like a panicked bird learning to fly in a hurricane.

"No, no, no! Get down! Get down, you idiot!" Farhan hissed, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated terror. He tried to stomp his foot to gain traction, but his boot barely kissed the concrete before he bobbed upward again, rising toward the fire escape of his own apartment building.

[SYSTEM: PHASE TWO MUTATION: CLOUD FRUIT ACTIVE. MASS REDUCTION AT 45%. EXTERNAL ANCHORING REQUIRED.]

"Anchor? You want an anchor? I’m floating into the goddamn stratosphere, and you’re talking about an anchor!" Farhan yelled, his fingers finally snagging the rusty iron railing of the building’s rear fire escape. He hauled himself inward, his grip feeling dangerously slippery as his skin crackled with that weird, airy, golden luminescence.

He scrambled onto the metal grate, his heart slamming against his ribs. He felt like a balloon tethered by a single, fraying string. If he let go, he’d drift off into the night sky like a stray bit of trash.

"Okay, look. Think. You need weight," he muttered to himself, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. "You’re a photographer. You have gear. You have… you have stuff. Just get to the room."

He crawled up the fire escape, his movements jerky and disjointed. Every time he shifted his weight, his toes lost contact with the metal. He reached the third-floor window, his window, and shoved the sash up. The apartment was still smoldering, the air thick with the smell of scorched drywall and ruined memories.

"Right. Weight. Where’s the heavy stuff?"

He tumbled into his bedroom, his body swaying like a buoy in high tide. He grabbed his heavy leather equipment bag, shoving his tripod and his spare lens cases inside. He buckled the strap and slung it across his chest, hoping the ten pounds of gear would act like a lead keel.

"That’s it? That’s all the heavy stuff I own?" he groaned, stumbling toward the closet. He grabbed a box of old hardbound books, years of photography journals and textbooks, and jammed them into his backpack. "Come on, stay down. Stay down, you stupid, floaty body."

He stood in the center of his charred room, his boots dangling a full inch above the scorched floorboards. The bag helped, but he still felt buoyant, like a cork held under the surface of a deep, dark lake.

"Still floating? Are you kidding me?" he wheezed, his eyes darting to the ceiling. "This is insane. I’m going to end up in the next state by morning."

He scrambled to the corner, grabbing the heavy, solid-oak nightstand. It was a sturdy, ugly thing his grandmother had given him. He shoved it toward the door, his movements fueled by a desperate, frenetic energy.

"Think, Farhan. If you can’t walk, crawl. If you can’t crawl, tie yourself to the furniture."

He didn't just want to be grounded; he wanted to be heavy. He needed to be heavy. He grabbed a length of sturdy extension cord from the floor and tied it around his waist, then lashed the other end to the heavy radiator that had survived the localized fire.

"There. That’s better. That’s... that’s actually somewhat stable," he panted, his hands trembling as he checked the knot. "Don't move. Don't think about floating. Just... just stay right here."

He slumped against the wall, the radiator’s iron cold against his shoulder. The contrast between his burning, golden skin and the freezing metal sent a shiver down his spine.

"What am I supposed to do now?" he whispered, his eyes wide and fixed on the window. "I can't stay here. The smoke. The fire department is probably five minutes away. If they find me, I’m a science project. If I leave, I’m a flying freak."

He pulled his knees to his chest, the weight of the backpack pressing into his back, and the radiator tether holding him to the reality of the floor.

"You did this, right?" he muttered, looking up into the air as if the system were a physical presence. "You, the fruit, the laughing god in the sky, you made me this, right? Well, thanks a lot. Really. My life was already a mess, but at least I wasn't a human helium tank."

[SYSTEM: MUTATION EVOLUTION PROGRESSING. STABILIZATION AT 12%. WOULD YOU LIKE TO ACCESS THE SYSTEM INTERFACE SETTINGS?]

"Settings? You have settings?" Farhan let out a hysterical, jagged laugh. "Yeah, let's see the settings. Is there a 'Turn Off The Goddamn Superpowers' switch? Maybe a 'Make Me A Normal Guy Again' toggle? No? What about a 'Stop Trying To Get Me Killed' option?"

A pale, translucent screen materialized in the air, glowing with a soft, bioluminescent hum that barely illuminated the charred room.

[INTERFACE:

1. STATUS: MUTATION PHASE TWO (CLOUD FRUIT)

2. ENERGY OUTPUT: 450 JOULES

3. MASS DENSITY: 12% OF BASELINE

4. WARNING: EXTERNAL THREAT DETECTED IN PROXIMITY.]

"External threat?" Farhan’s blood turned to ice. "What threat? You mean that lady? That Mariana person?"

[SYSTEM: TARGET IDENTIFIED. SECTOR 4, STREET LEVEL. DISTANCE: 30 METERS.]

Farhan didn't look. He couldn't. He stared at his trembling, golden-veined hands. The glow was pulsating now, a steady, rhythmic thrumming that seemed to echo the heartbeat of the building itself.

"She’s still out there," he whispered, his heart hammering against his ribs. "She’s waiting for me to come down, isn't she?"

He forced himself to his feet, ignoring the sensation of his boots barely kissing the linoleum. He clambered onto the fire escape, pulling himself upward toward the roof. If he had to move, he wouldn't go through the streets. He’d go over them.

He reached the rooftop, the cold night air biting at his sweat-slicked skin. The city stretched out before him, a labyrinth of glowing lights, dark canyons, and millions of people who had no idea that a man was currently drifting above their heads like a golden ghost.

He collapsed on the tar-paper roof, his heavy bag dragging him down into the grit. He looked down into the alley.

Far below, shrouded by the deep shadows of a dumpster, a figure stood motionless. It wasn't Mariana. This figure was tall, draped in a heavy, dark coat that seemed to absorb the ambient light of the streetlamps. It wasn't moving. It wasn't looking for a way in. It was just standing there, looking up.

Looking right at him.

Farhan’s breath hitched. He tried to duck, to hide behind the air conditioning unit, but his body felt light again, the tether of his bag failing to keep him firmly on the gravel. He bobbed, his head rising above the ledge, the golden light of his skin casting a faint halo against the night sky.

"Who is that?" Farhan whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant roar of traffic.

The figure shifted, and for a fleeting second, Farhan saw a flash of pale, silver eyes reflecting the city’s artificial glare. A cold sensation, deeper and sharper than any he had ever felt, prickled the back of his neck.

"Oh, no," Farhan breathed, his knuckles white as he gripped the ledge. "There’s more than just one of them."

He backed away from the edge, his boots lifting an inch, then two, then three. The weight of his gear was no longer enough. The mutation was accelerating. He was going to float again, and this time, he wouldn't have a roof to stop him.

"Stay down," he pleaded with his own body, the wind whistling through the gap between his feet and the roof. "Just stay on the ground!"

But the sky above him seemed to pull, an invisible current dragging him toward the clouds. He was caught between a predator waiting in the alley and the infinite, terrifying expanse of the sky.

"This is not," Farhan gasped, his voice trembling as he began to hover, "how I thought this Tuesday would go."