Why? I think this is a very simple question. And yet it is still unanswered.

— AL

In the heart of King’s Cross University, nestled between ivy-clad buildings, was a quaint coffee shop, reminiscent of old-world charm. Its wooden facade, embellished with intricate carvings, was a stark contrast to the modernity that surrounded it. Inside, the soft glow of hanging Edison bulbs cast warm light onto the aged wooden tables, each narrating its own tale of countless coffee stains and etched dreams. Early morning sunlight filtered through lace curtains, dappling the floor in golden hues. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans danced in the air, mingling with the faint scent of old books that patrons brought in.

At this hour, the coffee shop was a haven of serenity, the ambient noise limited to the gentle hum of the coffee machine and the whisper of turning pages. It was in this tranquil setting that James, with his deep-set northern British accent, spoke. “Consider the potential implications,” he mused, lifting his ceramic mug for another sip of his steaming drink. Across from him, Al observed with amusement as James tried to juggle speaking and sipping, a bit of froth settling on his upper lip. “Can you envision it?” James probed, his voice momentarily muffled by a sudden cough.

Al watched James, his eyebrows raised in intrigue. Despite the slight hiccup in his speech earlier, James was a man on fire, driven by the passion of his discovery.

“Imagine,” he urged again, leaning forward, his eyes gleaming with fervor, “every nutrient, every molecule, directed with precision. Think of it, Al! We wouldn’t just be eating or taking medicine. We’d be programming our bodies, tailoring our very physiology to our needs and desires.”

James’ hands animatedly sketched imaginary diagrams in the air, his enthusiasm palpable. “The implications are staggering—boosting cognitive functions, enhancing physical capabilities, or even slowing down aging. The sky’s the limit!”

Al leaned back, processing the enormity of what his friend was proposing. The future of medicine and biology, it seemed, was on the cusp of a revolution.

And? Al thought. James stared at him wide-eyed, like a toddler in a candy store. Was Al supposed to respond? Biology wasn’t his area, but judging by James’ expression, he was expected to make some sort of connection based on what was said. But if the subject matter had nothing to do with zeros and ones, Al would be at a loss. James was still staring at him expectantly. So, to not dampen the man’s zeal for his work, Al asked the question every scientist wants to be asked when explaining their work. “And, how does your work contribute toward this goal?”

James’ eyes sparkled with excitement. He launched into a passionate explanation about mitochondrial activations, enhanced ATP production, night vision, and even curing brain tumors with mere thoughts. Al struggled to follow along. As James’ excitement grew, he attracted the attention of others in the coffee shop. A barista, hair pulled back into a tight bun, paused in her methodical preparation of a cappuccino to cast a curious glance toward the animated James. Two students, idly chatting, probably skipping class, chuckled at James’ unbridled enthusiasm, their heads slightly tilting in his direction. An older gentleman, with silver hair and a newspaper folded beside him, shot them a disapproving look over his reading glasses, a stark contrast to the amusement in the eyes of a young woman nearby, who sat doodling in her sketchbook.

Yet, amidst the hum of activity, all Al could truly focus on was James’ infectious passion. He found himself momentarily envious, wishing for the simplicity of a mind like James’. A mind without turmoil, where joy wasn’t shadowed by the weight of one’s past.

“Look,” James said, popping out a napkin and scribbling shapes that he expected Al to recognize, “I’ve isolated nearly a hundred brain functions that deal specifically with resource distribution throughout the body.” James took another sip of his coffee, this time ensuring he swallowed before continuing. “With further work we could consciously target proteins to specific areas, triggering immediate muscle growth. We could also alter the CFF of our eyes, essentially changing our perception of time. And imagine being able to direct cells to a specific region to regenerate faster, healing wounds in seconds.”

Al raised an eyebrow. “This,” he said, pointing at the napkin scribbles, “sounds truly incredible, James.” After glancing at his watch, he added, “However, even for me, this seems a bit too science fiction-esque. Don’t you think so?”

James shrugged. “It’s a few years off, but not impossible,” he said. Al checked his watch again, the action prompting James to hurry on. “This can become a reality within our lifetime. I know you have a class now, but I wanted to run this by you because I think AI could accelerate the process.”

Al smiled; now he was speaking his language. James’ enthusiasm intensified, taking Al’s smile for approval. “We could achieve remarkable feats, Al. Just imagine a population where everyone is perfectly healthy, wounds, broken bones, and even burns healing instantly. If we can harness the—”

James stopped talking, his mouth hanging open, eyes apologetic. They had tried to avoid mentioning anything related to flames and burns around him for the past five years. It was a small gesture he appreciated, though inconsequential. Nothing would erase the constant pain seared into his mind’s eye from what he saw that day, and not mentioning burns did little to help. Al couldn’t blame the man for being excited, but it triggered a rather unpleasant memory.

“It’s fine, James,” Al reassured him.

It’s been five years since he had examined the charred remains of his wife’s body, an image etched into his very being. What he wouldn’t give to have had such fast healing technology back then. But she was gone, and that was that. For some reason, the supposed Creator of the world deemed it necessary. Worst still, no one had been charged for her death. Al had been a suspect initially, but the police cleared him after his old mentor, now the Vice-Chancellor, Professor Kyson, spoke with the chief. Still, there had been no justice, no closure, and no peace. Al would have to settle for the fourth option: revenge. Five years of searching, hacking, stalking, and bribing had yielded nothing. Even with Kyson’s influence in the force, he was no closer to the truth.

James stared at him, eyes filled with pity.

“I said it’s fine,” Al repeated.

“Mighty beast,” Al cursed to himself.

James nodded. “Is it really?” He asked in a calm voice.

Oh boy, here it comes—those wide, pitiful eyes and that calm, reassuring tone. The one thing religious people might actually be good at: throwing pity parties. James was not a small guy; he had enough muscle on him to be mistaken for an MMA fighter. Yet, even he excelled at executing pity parties.

Al sighed and nodded to his friend. “I said I’m fine, James.” Al even allowed a smile to tug at the side of his lips to try and dissuade the other man from continuing down the pity path. James gave him a quizzical look.

Al saw in his friend’s eyes that he wasn’t fooled. He sighed, knowing he wouldn’t stick around for the inevitable sermon. And sure enough, James began speaking in that insufferable church voice. “Al,” he said as though speaking to a child, or worse, an undergrad, “you haven’t been to church in five years and yet you claim everything is fine. People are worried and rightly so. We…”

James continued, but Al tuned out. He was now an expert at switching off, effectively blocking out the condescending and presumptuous church voice that many religious people used. Still, he felt an inexplicable and overwhelming desire to rip off his ears. What he found incredibly interesting was the shameless audacity of these super-religious types who assumed they understood exactly what he was going through, when in fact they had never experienced anything of the like. And despite knowing nothing about the problem, they would offer solutions that only involved prayer, church attendance, or Bible reading. The thought alone was enough to make Al feel his breakfast forcing its way back up.

Al rubbed his temples in a circular motion and took a long, deep breath. They were only trying to help, and though they failed miserably in administering that help, he could understand. He was like that once, a hopeful bundle of bubbly joy, ready to conquer the world with the word of the Lord. And then his world collapsed.

“You know,” James continued in a less churchy voice, “Wilfred is in the choir now.”

“Wilfred? Singing?” Al smiled, “That I would pay to see.”

“So, you are coming this Sunday?”

“No,” Al said flatly.

James straightened his shoulders and shook his head. “This has gone on too long Al, when will you come to your senses?”

“Do you remember what you said to me in the chapel a few years back?”

James leaned back, arms crossed, and nodded reluctantly.

“When I see the good your God had in mind when he allowed this to happen,” Al stabbed at his head with an index finger, “I’ll believe again.”

James let out a long, despondent sigh. Al had given his best years to God, his entire youth to the church, and Jesus failed him.

“It wasn’t your fault,” James said in a rough voice. The other customers in the cafe turned to look at them again.

“I know,” Al said, packing his stuff to leave. Al thrust his index finger toward the ceiling in a stabbing gesture, “It was His, for giving me a defective brain!”