"Morning, Mom."
She reached sluggishly toward the coffee table, feeling around for her horn-rimmed glasses. Once she settled them on her nose, she blinked a few times until her gaze focused on me and finally let out a long breath.
"Tom... how long was I out this time?"
"Twenty-eight hours." I glanced at my phone. "The procedure took longer than expected. How're you feeling?"
"Hungry." She pressed a hand against her stomach through the robe. "I haven't felt this kind of appetite in at least ten years."
The tension that had been locked in my shoulders for the past day finally began to melt away. I smiled before I even realized it.
"I'm glad to hear that. Your body's demanding resources for regeneration."
"Just please don't give me one of your protein shakes," she said, throwing up her hands in mock desperation. "I want real food. Juicy, actual human food."
"It's already waiting in the kitchen. You think you can make it there, or should I bring you a tray?"
"I can make it!" she shot back with exaggerated enthusiasm.
Mom practically sprang off the couch. No familiar groan. No pause for her aging knees to cooperate. She stopped on the rug and stomped one foot, then the other.
"Wow... I'd forgotten what it feels like when your body doesn't weigh a ton. That constant ache in my lower back... it's gone. Just gone."
"That means the new cells are up and running. They're already producing energy. Come on, let's get to the kitchen. The new employees need quality fuel."
We headed into the kitchen. I took charge, pulling out the heavy chair for her like a proper gentleman before serving up a meal that would not have looked out of place in a good downtown restaurant. I peeled back the foil covering a porcelain baking dish and let a cloud of rich, savory steam fill the room.
"French-style baked pork with roasted potatoes and a cheese crust," I announced in the voice of a Michelin-star chef. "Just as requested, ma'am. Juicy and delicious."
Mom stared at the steaming slice of meat, completely captivated. Carefully, as if she might scare it away, she picked up her knife and fork.
"Wow... Tom, I was expecting something simple and homemade, and you've put together a full-blown holiday dinner in the middle of the day."
"Because today really is a holiday, Mom. It's the first day of your renewal."
Technically, the process had finished yesterday, and the dish had been sitting in the refrigerator waiting for her to wake up, but there was no point burdening her with unnecessary details. Right now, she needed pure positivity.
"This is amazing." She swallowed the first bite and closed her eyes in pleasure. A second later, though, her eyebrows rose in disapproval. "Still, Tom, you really shouldn't have spent money on delivery from some fancy restaurant. We could've saved that money. I would've been perfectly happy with something simple..."
"What do you mean, 'from a restaurant'?" I raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. "I spent hours standing over that stove. I made everything myself from scratch."
"You did?" Mom froze with her fork halfway to her mouth, shifting a skeptical look from the juicy cut of meat to me and back again. "Tom, come on. The most complicated thing you'd ever cooked before this was pasta."
"People change when they're under pressure. I watched a bunch of cooking videos in one night and copied what they did." I picked up a heavy glass pitcher and a clean tumbler from the counter. "You keep eating. And this is for you instead of tea. Special juice."
Mom returned to her plate, cutting the meat into neat portions with the practiced movements of someone who had spent a lifetime in kitchens. Old habits never really disappeared. She was already evaluating texture and doneness.
"As a professional, let me give you a little advice," she said without looking up. "A cut of meat this good deserves a glass of dry Bordeaux. It brings out the flavor."
"We're not in a restaurant," I replied. "Wine is ethanol. A toxin. Why would we poison a body that just went through a complete overhaul? This juice contains a concentrated blend of vitamins and amino acids needed to stabilize the cellular matrix. So drink what you're given."
I set the glass on the polished tabletop. A quick tap against the side sent it spinning. The tumbler rotated smoothly as it glided across the table toward her. At the same time, I tipped the pitcher and poured a thin, flawless stream of juice into the moving glass. It filled exactly to the brim at the precise moment it came to a gentle stop a couple of inches from her plate with the faintest crystal chime. Not a single drop spilled.
"Whoa!" Mom stopped chewing altogether and stared at the glass. "What kind of trick was that? Where'd you learn to do that?"
"A bartender broke it down in a video online," I admitted as I sat across from her. "Actually, why don't you give it a try?"
"I can't do that." She waved a doubtful hand. "Tom, I'm a cook, not a circus performer. My job is serving food, not spinning glassware."
"I know. That's exactly why I'm asking. Think of it as a coordination test."
"Fine." She reluctantly got to her feet and adjusted the belt of her robe. "But if I break anything, you're the one cleaning up the kitchen and buying replacements."
She reached cautiously for the empty glass and pitcher. The instant her fingers touched the glass, her posture changed. Her shoulders straightened. One elbow shifted outward. Her center of gravity moved slightly back, perfectly mirroring the stance I'd taken a minute earlier. A flick of the wrist sent the glass spinning along a smooth arc while a steady stream of juice flowed obediently from the pitcher. It was a perfect copy of my trick.
"How... how is that even possible?" Mom stared at her hands as though they belonged to someone else. "Tom, what was that? For a second I saw a glowing line of text right in front of my eyes. It said the Trainer was correcting my motor functions. Then my body just... did it."
"That means the system is functioning normally." I settled back in my chair and laced my fingers together while I considered the implications. "You can now reproduce any movement pattern I know."
The picture was becoming clearer. I functioned as the central server, the database with the hard drive, while Mom was the remote terminal. As long as she remained within range, my mental abilities could upload the necessary data directly into her nervous system, correcting her actions in real time. But the network had a hard limit: forty meters. The moment I stepped beyond that distance, the terminal went offline and lost support.
The conclusion was simple. If I wanted her to be capable of defending herself when I was not around, I would need to move those skills from live transmission into permanent storage. In other words, drill them into her own muscle memory through relentless practice until her body learned the mechanics for itself.
Too bad the connection only worked one way. It would have been incredibly convenient to send Mom off to extreme driving lessons or advanced flight training and then automatically download those skills into my own head afterward.
"Tom... could I have a little more?" Her apologetic, almost childlike voice interrupted my thoughts. She was holding out a completely empty plate.
"Not could. You need to." I stood and cut her another generous slice, adding a healthy serving of potatoes. "Your body needs an enormous amount of raw material right now. Eat as much as you want."
"My God, I can't even remember the last time I ate anything bigger for breakfast than a piece of toast and a boiled egg." She dug into the second helping with obvious enthusiasm. "So tell me, what exactly do I need all this energy for? The way you're talking, you'd think you're planning to lock me in a gym."
"The gym comes later, and in moderation." I rested my elbows on the table and watched her closely, noting the healthy color returning to her cheeks. "Let me break down what's happening inside your body. The procedure completely removed the damaged and diseased cells. A healthy foundation has already been built in their place, which is why you feel lighter and why the pain is gone. But there are still plenty of old, worn-out cells hanging around, barely doing their jobs. Right now, your body is clearing them out at an accelerated rate. They're breaking themselves down while new, younger tissue is being built in their place. Any major construction project needs raw materials. Your appetite is basically a supply request from the job site."
"This is some kind of new procedure, isn't it?" She looked up at me. "Shouldn't I be back in bed sleeping?"
"Not this time. There are too many cells in the body, and rebuilding them on this scale takes an enormous amount of energy. The process is completely autonomous. Your body will handle the rest on its own, but the full reconstruction will take around two hundred hours. Almost nine days. So I'm asking you very seriously," I said, leaning forward and fixing her with my sternest look, like an auditor dealing with a difficult client. "Eat. Every time you feel even a little hungry. Even if it's the middle of the night. Without a steady supply of calories, your body will start consuming its own reserves."
"Okay, okay. I'll eat as much as you tell me to. I'll even drink your protein shakes if I have to," she promised obediently, though her expression suggested the idea of midnight trips to the refrigerator amused her more than anything. "You've really planned all this out. When did you even manage to use that... what did you call it? That special command on me?"
"The moment you opened your eyes," I admitted. There was no point dodging the question. "We're short on time. This isn't a hospital where patients spend months recovering in bed after a major procedure while doctors keep them hooked up to IVs. We move a lot faster."
"Must be nice being Awakened." Mom smiled faintly and slid her empty plate toward me with a soft clatter. "So let me get this straight. My official responsibility for the next week is eating everything in sight?"
"That'd be too easy." I smiled as I picked up the plate. "We've poured the foundation, and it's setting now. But if we're already doing a full renovation, we might as well replace all the old wiring while we're at it."
I crossed to a nearby cabinet and picked up the thick folder containing the results of her most recent hospital workup.
"While you were unconscious, I went through all these reports. Every doctor says the same thing: your arteries are clogged with plaque, and they're strongly recommending surgery. Forget that. Instead of a scalpel, I've already released a specialized stream of cleanup cells into your bloodstream. They're breaking down and removing all that junk right now, one microscopic layer at a time. In a week, your blood vessels will be as flexible as they were when you were twenty."
Mom froze, her hand instinctively rising to her chest. "Honey... do you realize how much money you just saved me? Surgery at a good clinic would've cost a fortune."
"The money's secondary. What matters is that I eliminated the risk entirely," I said flatly, remembering the statistics on medical errors. "According to your tests, you're prediabetic. Your cellular receptors have almost stopped processing sugar efficiently, which is why your blood glucose has been fluctuating and slowly damaging tissue. I've already issued a command for a complete reset of those receptors. Soon they'll be absorbing glucose normally again and turning it into energy instead of poison."
"It sounds like a miracle..." She sat quietly for a moment, processing everything I'd said, then nodded toward the stove. "Hey, cut me another piece."
"A fourth serving?" I looked at her empty plate skeptically, but I couldn't bring myself to refuse. Picking up the spatula, I cut off another portion. "Actually, that makes sense. Three major processes running simultaneously. Your body's burning calories like a furnace. All right, though, this is the last one. Your system needs time to adapt. We'll start the next phase in about a week."
I waited while she finished her fourth helping, then carefully washed the dishes. Fortunately, the marathon meal had finally filled her up. Watching Mom, I noticed her eyelids growing heavier and her movements becoming sluggish. A huge amount of blood had shifted to her digestive system, and the ongoing tissue reconstruction was demanding its own share of energy. I suspected the next seven days of her life would consist almost entirely of alternating cycles of eating and sleeping.
The apartment's silence was abruptly shattered by the sharp buzz of the doorbell.
Mom flinched and turned a sleepy look toward the hallway. "Tom, are you expecting somebody?"
"Yeah." I checked the time. Exactly three in the afternoon. "It's my boss from the Corps. Mom, do me a favor. Just relax, and please don't bombard her with questions. She's got a... particular personality."
Without waiting for questions or objections, I turned and headed for the front door. Selina was not technically my commanding officer, but for Mom's purposes, the label worked perfectly. Less curiosity. Fewer unnecessary conversations.
When the bell rang a second time, I unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Selina stood on the threshold. But instead of the immaculate white lab coat I was used to seeing Professor Langstrom wear, she had on a fitted tank top, short shorts, and her usual high heels. Was this an attempt to be seductive, or was this simply how she dressed outside the lab?
"Selina." I blocked the doorway with my shoulder, deciding to establish boundaries immediately. "My mother's home."
"I know, Tom," she replied with effortless arrogance. "I can read. That means I know your address and who's living here. Are you planning to keep a lady standing on the doorstep all day?"
"Please, come in." I stepped aside with practiced courtesy, then immediately added in a cooler, more businesslike tone, "I hope you'll get straight to the point and explain why you're here without a long introduction."
We walked down the short hallway into the kitchen. The two women instantly froze, studying one another through sharp, appraising looks. A silent duel.
"Mom, this is my research supervisor, Selina," I said politely, observing the basics of etiquette. "Selina, this is my mother, Maggie."
"Nice to meet you," Selina said with a brief nod.
"You too." Mom rose from the table at an unhurried pace. "I'll leave you two to it."
The moment the bedroom door closed behind her, the atmosphere in the kitchen changed. We were alone.
"So this is how you live." Selina strolled along the wall, casually surveying the modest interior. "Honestly, this is pretty much exactly what I expected."
"Selina, let's get to the point." I sat down and rubbed the bridge of my nose. "Did you come here to discuss something important, or are we going to waste time on social niceties? If it's the second option, I should probably put on a kettle and find some cookies."
"You killed any chance of social niceties back at the door, Tom." Selina sighed, sounding disappointed, though the familiar obsessive gleam immediately lit up her eyes. "Fine. Forget it. Let's talk business."
With a practiced motion, she pulled a smartphone from the pocket of her shorts, turned the screen toward me, and swiped through a gallery of images. High-resolution photographs flashed across the display: complex laboratory equipment, tubing, filtration systems, and the refinement process of a thick essence that looked far too familiar.
"I did it, Tom." A triumphant smile spread across her lips. "A complete overhaul of the formula. I created an improved version of Omega Plus. So, what do you say? Ready to get stronger?"