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Astaria’s government still had some serious juice. All they had to do was drop a patriotic hint–throw on those protective suits for a couple days to rep the homeland, and boom, folks were all over it.
Even the haters, the ones rolling their eyes like it was some corny PR stunt, couldn’t resist when they saw their buddies suiting up.
It was total herd mentality, like jumping on a trending hashtag just to stay in the loop.
Pretty soon, Astaria’s streets were straight–up iconic. People were strutting around in those glossy protective suits like they were walking a red carpet in a dystopian flick.
The be was electric, and social media was popping off. Everyone and their dog was posting suit selfies, hyping their fits like it was the drop of the
century.
But overseas? Oh, they were clowning hard.
[God, Astarians are on some next–level nonsense. What is this, mandatory flag–waving?] one X post roasted.
[For real? They swallowing that Ms. GM’s report? Thinking a virus is about to crash–land on their heads?]
Sure, a few locals started raising eyebrows, muttering doubts, but it didn’t kill the buzz.
Astarians were out here, rocking their suits like it was nobody’s business. Part was the patriotic flex, part was just keeping up with the crowd.
Those suits were clutch. They had this dope built–in thermostat deal. Too cold? Crank the heat.
Sweating like crazy? Dial it down. They could stroll out in any weather and stay comfy.
Then, right on cue, just like Geneva predicted, a biblical–level storm rolled in. Rain hammered down for a straight 24 hours, flooding the streets.
While the whole country was out here partying, the brainiacs at the research institute were pulling all–nighters, dissecting the rainwater.
Their worst fears were legit: the rain was laced with some nasty virus. Thank God for Geneva’s suits–they were like virus kryptonite, frying the bugs on contact. But if one got hit? Sorry, pal, no suit was pulling them out of that mess.
When the clouds finally parted, hospitals got slammed. Eye clinics were drowning in patients with freaky red eyes, like some horror movie plague had touched down.
Following orders from the higher–ups, the hospitals snapped into action, isolating the sick like it was a military op.
By day three, things went full–on bonkers. Some of the quarantined started sporting creepy white eyes, their bodies twitching like they were in a trance, totally checked out.
And who were these poor saps? The ones who’d dissed the suits, acting all tough and wandering out in the rain like they were bulletproof. Major L.
That’s when it hit home. Geneva’s geeky reports? Pure gold. Those suits? A damn lifesaver. And the government? They’d been playing chess while everyone else was playing checkers. Without those suits, Astaria would’ve been a ghost town, with bodies dropping left and right.
When the government dropped the lockdown hammer, nobody even flinched–everyone just towed the line.
The whole country turned into a ghost town, except for the hospitals, which were a madhouse. It worked like a charm, though; the infection numbers froze solid.
Now, the big kahuna was finding a cure, pronto.
Geneva wasn’t about to twiddle her thumbs when they put together a hotshot medical team to whip up a drug. She strutted in and demanded a seat at
the table.
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The head doc, a crusty old brainiac with a PhD, ga
her the side–eye. “What’s this, Geneva? You moonlighting as a doc now?”
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She shot him a cocky grin. “Picked up a few tricks from some books, Doc.” Truth was, Geneva was a total biomedical geek, but she kept that on the down-
low.
The doctor shrugged and let her in, not banking on her saving the day. Still, she was the one who’d first sniffed out this creepy rain, so maybe she’d have something to bring to the party.
This virus was a slippery son of a gun, ready to switch up its game any second. The team was in a balls–to–the–wall race against it, burning the midnight
on with zero chill.
People were dropping like flies, and the lab was a pressure cooker–half the researchers had already hit the deck, wiped out from exhaustion.
One assistant caught Geneva wobbling like a drunk sailor and grabbed her arm. “Hi, Miss Motley, you’re toast. Hit the bunk, for real.”
Geneva shook her head, eyes glued to her work like it was her lifeline. “I’m this close. I can taste it…” She was riding a gut feeling that she was about to crack it wide open.
The assistant opened her mouth to nag, but Geneva threw up a hand. “Boom. Nailed it.”
The assistant opened her mouth to nag, but Geneva threw up a hand. “Boom. Nailed it.”
Her bloodshot eyes peeked over her hazmat suit, locking onto his. “Maybe a home run, maybe not. Your research gave me the spark. This bug goes for the eyes, then chews up the brain. Zombie, veggie, whatever–it’s game over, brain–dead city. I geeked out on eye and brain anatomy, cooked up this drug. Could take the virus out, but we gotta test it.”
“Hell yeah, that’s my girl!” the doc whooped, slapping her shoulder. “We’ll run the tests. You go crash, kid.”
Her body, running on fumes after days of no sleep, wasn’t playing along. The second the doc stopped talking, Geneva’s legs gave out, and she face- planted into darkness.
When she blinked awake, her hospital bed was swarmed with people, their faces lit up. “Miss Motley, you freaking did it! Your drug’s a game–changer–it’s wiping out the virus!
“They’re shooting it into patients right now. You’re a damn hero, you know that?”
Geneva let out a shaky breath, a wave of relief crashing over her. “It ain’t just me, guys. Everyone brought their A–game.”
Real talk: her drug was just a glow–up of the doc’s flop. Every single one of those lab rats deserved a medal, not just her.
Two weeks later, Astaria was clawing its way back to normal. Hazmat suits had slammed the brakes on the virus’s spread, and the drug was patching up the infected like magic.
But nobody was popping bottles yet–paranoia kept everyone on edge, scared the virus might pull a sneak attack.
Meanwhile, the rest of the world started getting doused with the same cursed rain.
Astaria’s nightmare was a neon warning sign, but did anyone listen? Nope–parties raged on, and beach vacays didn’t skip a beat.
So, while Astaría got its act together, the virus went full Godzilla on the globe, spreading faster than gossip. No suits, no prep–it was a million times uglier than Astaria’s mess.
The world flipped into straight–up chaos mode.
Stan and Tabitha were sweating bullets, too. The day after the virus crashed Astaria’s party, Stan’s spidey sense went haywire. He rounded up his parents, Tabitha, and Barclay, and they hightailed it out of the country.
Talk about timing–Astaria slammed the gates shut the next day. They were toasting their great escape, family all in one piece,
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But Astaria pulled off a comeback for the ages. Overseas? Total trainwreck. No suits, no nothing–folks who got wet turned into walking biohazards, infecting everyone else.
Soon, Stan’s crew was surrounded by a sea of infected.
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Astaria sent over suits and drugs, but it was like tossing a paper towel at a tsunami. The gear went to local docs and citizens, leaving Stan and his family out in the cold, foreigners in a country that didn’t give two shits.
Stan was done. “Screw this noise,” he growled, zipping up their bags. “We’re headed home, and we’re going now.”
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