hat's not a good idea, Ben. For one, we don't have great data on the actual effects of enhanced Luck..."
"Look, can you do it or not? I need this."
The gene tech sighed in the quiet office and swiveled his chair back to the computer. He was looking at a fairly standard representation of a human genome, red highlights in the mass of blue to indicate genes with likely altered function from human baseline and green to indicate potential areas for change.
"Let's see, we have some modifiable options at rs2981205, rs730882133, rs423454-"
"Yeah, man, I get it, lots of fancy words. Bottom line it for me?" Ben shifted impatiently in his chair; flipping his phone from hand to hand.
"Based on population-level studies and retrospective analysis of lottery winners, survivors of freak accidents, etc, there's about 20 genes we could modify in you to try to make you luckier. I'm obligated to point out that we don't know for sure that these genes actually cause better luck, and frankly the latest research is casting some doubts on the validity-"
"Yeah, yeah, I signed the waiver already, do what you got to do; I have a lot riding on this."
"Um, you already made the bet? And you want to get lucky now?"
"Not exactly, I don't really want to explain."
"Whatever, they're your genes. Sign this form here, some more standard stuff. Given the specific genes we need to modify, you are looking at 85% chance for significant loss in strength, 90% chance for loss in fine and gross motor skills, 100% for loss in intelligence, 60% chance for loss in overall body aesthetic and symmetry, and 50% chance for loss in short and long term memory."
Ben, took the tablet, skimming over most of the form. When he had scrolled to the bottom, he pressed his finger on the fingerprint scanner, acknowledging his agreement. He let his shoulders relax afterwards, like a weight had been lifted off.
"Ok then" he said to himself in a quieter voice; "that's settled."
"Not quite, Ben. Given the severity of potential deficits you are required to provide a sperm sample on the chance that you would prefer to have unaltered children in the future. Furthermore, while we strongly suggest implantable birth control for all men and women that undergo elective alteration, per the 2024 SAFEGene act, prior to sexual intercourse with any potentially fertile partners, you both must be screened for possible gene incompatibility."
"Yeah, everyone knows the rules."
"OK, here's your sample cup; I'll give you some time to provide the sample and I'll get the CRISPR transfer virus ready."
Ben rolled up his sleeve, exposing a slightly faded tattoo; a simple heart motif with the name "Jess" on it.
"Just a slight poke, then you'll be all set. This is your last chance to change your mind..."
"Get it over with."
"OK"
The tech injected Ben's left deltoid with the modified viral delivery system. Over the next 48 hours, the virus, a modified version of the flu, would infect the vast majority of his cells and re-write all of his DNA.
"It's done. Now, you'll probably have some soreness, fatigue, and a fever for the next couple days, similar to flu symptoms. This virus isn't contagious, but to be safe, you need to avoid the very young and the elderly. Take tylenol if the fever or pain get bad. If you have difficulty breathing, pass out, or anything like that, get to a hospital immediately."
"Got it. Thanks, doc."
"Good luck."
Two months later, Ben's life, as far as any outsider was concerned, was pretty much unchanged. He'd had to quit his job as a barista; it was a bit too fast paced for him with his new weakness and difficultly remembering simple tasks. He'd found a perfect job, working at one of the few private libraries remaining in Baltimore. He'd only get one or two customers a day and they were usually older; if anything, Ben found himself getting along better with them than people his own age; the elderly clients seemed to talk and move at the pace he was accustomed to these days.
He settled in well to his new life; he was more lonely than he had been, but that suited him well. He had a new companion, in the form of a stray he named Tipsy, that had wandered up to his feet when he was getting back to his apartment one night. She only had three paws and occasionally fell over, but they were fast friends.
All in all, his life was stable, boring; an easy sort of anguish. And every day, as he left the library, sometimes with Tipsy peeking out of his backpack along with a few children's books; the short ones with the easier words, he would take the 57 bus and transfer to the 23 to get to the long term care facility. There he would take the elevator to the fourth floor, his legs a bit too weak for the stairs, and sit next to Jess, who was perpetually silent except for the occasional hiss and beep of the ventilator, and read to her. Often, he would fall asleep in the chair next to her, dreaming that perhaps tomorrow would be his lucky day, and he would get to talk to her again.