I woke up on my creaky bed back on Earth with sunlight stabbing through the curtains like a personal attack.
'Wait! Technically sun can attack me through UV rays and all.'
My phone said it was past noon, which meant I'd slept for nearly eight hours straight after hopping back, and honestly, I could've slept eight more.
Every muscle in my body ached. The gene primer was doing its thing, apparently, because my arms felt like someone had replaced my bones with hot iron rods and my legs weren't much better.
I'm freaking Iron Man.
Zero had warned me about this. Didn't make it suck any less, though.
Still, I dragged myself up, made some instant coffee, and sat down at my laptop.
Apocalypse or not, I still had a novel to finish. Deadlines didn't care about interdimensional travel. My editor certainly wouldn't accept "sorry, I was busy killing zombies in an alternate timeline" as an excuse for late chapters.
It would same as a kid saying a dog ate his homework. Actually, no, since that was entirely possible.
In any case, I cracked my knuckles and started typing.
And then something strange happened.
The words came faster that I was used to, much cleaner as well. Sentences that would normally take me three or four attempts to get right were landing on the first try.
The ideas connected more naturally, the pacing felt tighter, and I found myself visualizing scenes with a clarity that I hadn't had before. Like someone had defragged my brain overnight.
I wrote three thousand words in an hour and a half. That was almost double my usual speed.
'The gene primer. That thing is Super Serum!'
Surprisingly, the changes weren't just physical. The enhanced cognition, the sharper processing, all of it was subtle but for someone whose entire livelihood depended on thinking clearly, the difference was of heaven and earth.
I flexed my hands and noticed they felt steadier too. Not stronger in any fantasy way, but the little tremor I used to get from typing too long was gone.
I stood up and did a few stretches. My body still ached from the primer, but underneath the soreness, there was something new. Like my muscles had been loosely packed sand before and now they were beginning to compact into something firmer.
'New Name. Sandbag.'
I checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Same face, same build. Nothing outrageous was visible yet. But I could feel the differences within me.
But it did make me wonder.
'If this is day one, what happens after a week? A month?'
The possibilities made me grin like an idiot. But I shelved the excitement for now. I had practical things to handle first.
My bank balance was depressing. The supply run yesterday had eaten most of my savings, and what was left wouldn't last long even by my modest standards of living.
But I needed to restock before heading back. The bank heist was coming up, and I couldn't exactly rob a zombie-infested vault in worn-out sneakers that were falling apart at the soles.
I quickly made a list on my phone.
More canned food, rice, bottled water, energy bars, energy drinks. And a good pair of sneakers. I really needed them.
The shopping took about an hour. I found a decent pair of running shoes on sale at the sports store near the station. Black, lightweight, good tread.
The cashier gave me a weird look when I squeezed and bent them like I was testing body armor, but I didn't care. These shoes might save my life in a zombie-infested underground vault. Comfort was secondary to not slipping on century-old tiles while the undead chased me.
'Would there be still water too? I ain't falling in that one.'
I packed everything into two large bags and started walking home.
That's when I heard it.
A woman's voice, sharp and strained, coming from the alley between the convenience store and the old bookshop. It felt familiar, which was surprising considering how few people I was acquainted with.
"Get your hands off me right now."
"Aw, come on, don't be like that. We just wanna talk, pretty lady. We can even buy you a drink or two."
Two men in their middle-age probably, paunchy, reeking of cheap beer even from where I stood. One had his hand on the woman's arm while the other blocked her path, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed like some kind of alley bouncer.
Average assaulters. Even their appearance wasn't unique.
The woman was tall, with long auburn hair pulled back in a loose bun and thin-rimmed glasses sitting on sharp features. She wore a fitted blazer over a white blouse, clutching a stack of folders against her chest, and her face was twisted in pure disgust.
I recognized her immediately.
Professor Yuna Sakamoto. She taught Advanced Macroeconomics at my university. I'd sat through her lectures for an entire semester, watching her demolish students' arguments with the precision of a surgeon.
Real brilliant woman and even more so, terrifying during exams. Also, unfairly beautiful, which every male student in her class was painfully aware of but too intimidated to ever mention.
And now two drunk idiots were grabbing her arm in an alley.
I set my bags down and walked in.
"Hey. She said let go."
The one holding her arm turned. He was taller than me by a good few inches with at least thirty pounds on me, most of it gut. His buddy straightened up too, sizing me up with the lazy confidence of someone who had never been punched in his life.
"Mind your business, kid. We're just having a conversation."
"Doesn't look like a conversation to me. Looks like two uncles who missed their anger management class harassing a woman who clearly wants nothing to do with them," I said, cracking my knuckles. "Let go of her, you upside down bowling pins."
Gut-man's face went red. "The fuck did you just say?"
Then, the man was upon me.