Precursors to Genetic Mutation

The first day after All-Things Analysis went online.

Lynn spent a significant amount of time adapting to the information overload brought on by this new ability.

He stood at the entrance of his clinic and glanced out at the street.

Within three seconds, his brain was flooded with massive amounts of data.

Three LED beads on the convenience store sign across the street were about to burn out, and the roots of the London plane tree on the sidewalk were damaging the underground drainage pipes.

Twenty meters away, a middle-aged man's left knee joint made an abnormal sound while walking down the stairs; the probability was a degenerative meniscus tear.

It was too much.

He spent an entire morning learning to add a filter to All-Things Analysis, using the cognitive control of Super Intelligence to actively suppress the pop-up of non-essential information.

He would only perform deep analysis when he actively focused on a target, maintaining a low-power mode the rest of the time.

The training was effective.

By the afternoon, he was already able to maintain the standby state of All-Things Analysis while conducting normal consultations.

A noteworthy incident occurred on the second day.

A black man in his forties, a porter, came in during the morning.

He said he had been feeling feverish lately, and small red spots would occasionally appear on his skin, only to disappear a few hours later.

He had undergone a complete blood count and allergen test at a regular hospital, but nothing was found.

When the results from the automatic scan of All-Things Diagnosis and All-Things Analysis appeared, Lynn's fingers paused on the desktop.

On the long arm of this man's third chromosome, a segment of non-coding DNA showed an abnormal methylation pattern.

This gene was normally silent, but now it showed slight "signs of activation."

It was not a natural mutation.

The methylation pattern bore clear traces of artificial intervention, highly consistent with the gene-editing characteristics of a retrovirus.

"Where have you been lately?" Lynn asked.

"Just working as usual. I live in the Harlem District and work at the Brooklyn docks. I take the subway back and forth every day."

"The subway? Which line do you take?"

"Usually the 1 or the A line. Sometimes I transfer at the 125th Street station."

125th Street.

The heart of the Harlem District.

Lynn wrote him a prescription for anti-allergy medication; the symptoms were indeed a mild reaction of the immune system, which could be alleviated with ordinary drugs.

But he did not mention the abnormality at the genetic level; he was not yet sure what it meant.

Another similar patient came in the afternoon.

A white girl in her early twenties who lived on 116th Street in the Harlem District; her symptoms were intermittent muscle spasms and skin fever.

All-Things Analysis gave almost the same conclusion: abnormal activation of the non-coding region of the third chromosome, with traces of an artificial retrovirus.

Two people, different genders, different races, different occupations; the only intersection was the Harlem District.

Someone had spread something in that area.

Lynn locked the two diagnostic records in his drawer.

He planned to take some time to investigate the source before making further plans, but he hadn't even had the chance to start.

At 7:30 PM on the third day.

The clinic was already closed.

While Lynn was organizing the medicine inventory on the second floor, the encrypted communicator at the front desk rang.

He went downstairs and picked it up.

"Lynn." Fury's voice came from the other end, half a beat more urgent than usual.

"I'm here."

"Something happened in the Harlem District of New York. In the past forty-eight hours, at least twenty civilians have experienced uncontrollable physical mutations."

"Some have grown scales, some have had their muscles swell until their clothes ripped, and a few have turned into non-human forms."

Lynn's fingers tapped lightly on the communicator.

"Is the direction of the mutation random?"

"Random. No two people have mutated in the same way. And they lose their sanity after mutating, attacking anyone they see. The police can no longer control it; three SWAT teams were sent in, and two were beaten back."

"What is your preliminary assessment?"

"An unknown mutation serum. Preliminary analysis by the intelligence department points to the genetic modification technology route of Hydra."

"But it's cruder and more unstable. Judging from the clues we've intercepted, it looks like a branch of Hydra is conducting field tests."

"Tests? Testing on civilians?"

"Hydra has done worse things than this." Fury paused.

"The situation on the front line is tricky. The Avengers have arrived, but those mutants are essentially modified civilians. We can't just kill them."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Get to the scene. Analyze the serum composition and find a way to reverse it. I can arrange for a helicopter to reach your roof within twenty minutes."

Lynn thought for two seconds.

"I have one condition."

"Speak."

"If any of the heroes on the scene are injured, I require priority treatment."

Fury was silent on the other end for a second.

"Agreed."

Lynn hung up the communicator and returned to the first floor.

He opened the medicine storage cabinet and took out the portable medical kit.

The kit contained standard first-aid supplies, the basic ingredients for several broad-spectrum antidotes, and that modified Stark Portable Biochemical Analyzer.

Nineteen minutes later, a S.H.I.E.L.D. Black Hawk Helicopter landed on the roof of the clinic.

When Lynn walked up carrying the medical kit, the pilot glanced at him.

A white lab coat, gold-rimmed glasses, and a delicate face.

He didn't look like someone heading to a battlefield.

"Let's go." Lynn sat in the cabin and fastened his seatbelt.

The helicopter lifted off.

Hell's Kitchen shrank below, and the lights of Manhattan spread out in the night.

The helicopter turned northeast, flying toward the Harlem District.

Lynn looked in that direction through the porthole.

Even from over ten kilometers away, his Super Senses had already captured the chaotic sound waves coming from there.

Explosions, gunfire, the sound of metal clashing, and a large number of howls at abnormal frequencies.

Not human howls.

When the helicopter flew over the Harlem District, Lynn saw the situation below from the porthole.

It wasn't pretty.

Six blocks between 125th Street and 130th Street were cordoned off by armored vehicles.

Behind the barricades were S.H.I.E.L.D. tactical units and the NYPD SWAT, a force of at least two hundred people.

On the streets on the other side of the barricades, overturned cars and broken glass were scattered, and over a dozen mutants of various sizes wandered through the ruins.

The nearest mutant had probably been a middle-aged man.

Now, his height exceeded two and a half meters, his arms were as thick as utility poles, and his skin was covered with a layer of blue-gray hard scales.

He was lifting an SUV over his head with his bare hands and smashing it toward the barricade.

Looking further in—one mutant's upper body had completely transformed into a structure similar to an insect carapace, with six jointed limbs extending from his ribs, crawling at a high speed.

There was also a female mutant emitting heat from her entire body; the asphalt road was melting everywhere she passed.

There were a few familiar figures on the front line.

Captain America's shield reflected the light under the streetlamps; he was using his shield to block a mutant's charge while pushing the wounded behind him into the safety line.