“Answer all the questions on page ninety-eight, exercise four-B.” Mr. Hall found his way back to his desk and read out what we were supposed to do. Most lessons were like this; the first half, we’d get taught what we’re doing and then the latter half were purely questions to cement that knowledge into our brains.

Normally, I’d enjoy this--I choose to study maths because it was fun. In essence, it was basically a puzzle; we have knowledge of how everything works and all we have to do is apply it correctly and in the correct order. Normally, that was an easy and simple thing to do but even so, the process itself was enjoyable.

Our class was small, with only seven students here currently, and each was diligently working away at the questions on the page in the textbooks in front of them. All of them except me.

It was already the third lesson of the day and while I would normally be invigorated--having had physics before now--all I felt was unadulterated and pure annoyance at this.

As I looked at the questions in front of me, I couldn’t help myself but think: What’s the point? It’s learning, preparing you for the future, everything else. Sure, that may have been true in the past, but I originally only chose to study what I did because they were fun and easy.

Now, it’s not so much. I look down at the blank page in front of me and without really giving any thought to it, I know what to do. By that, I mean I look at the question, look to the page, and my hands work mechanically, writing out the formulas, the steps involved, and, finally, the answer.

No thought goes into it, no excitement or enjoyment derived from the process of working it out for yourself. All I see is a transposed image of the correct working out and answer and I just replicate it, tracing over it. It becomes laborious rather than fun.

The time ticks away steadily, each second agonisingly long. I can alternate between writing and looking around--trying to find anything to sate my intense boredom--for my thoughts aren’t focused on maths; they don’t need to be.

Before I even know it, my page is filled with intricately and neatly scribbled notes, working out, and answers, all of which I can guarantee are correct. Barely half the lesson has gone by and I’ve already finished.

I’m sure my boredom and arguable disdain for what I’m doing is evident--palpable, even--but I can’t help myself. I look around the classroom, my pencil bouncing off my book as I tap it softly, and see everyone else working hard--having to think. It’s envious.

One boy stares up and catches my eye, catching my indifferent face and lax posture, before going back to the questions with renewed vigour, like he suddenly had an epiphany on the answer.

Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. I raised my hand and called out for the teacher. He walked over and looked over my page after I told him I was finished. He asked if I had checked it was all correct and then sent me on my way after confirmation, because there was no more reason for me to be in the lesson any more.

Finally, I was free. But the rest of the day would be the same, more maths and more boredom. For the first time ever, I couldn’t bring myself to find enjoyment in that, or look forwards to the prospect of it.

Back in the common area, where there were tables, computers, and other students who did not have any lessons going on at the moment, a thought struck me: Why am I here?

Truthfully, it was to learn. But why learn if there was no enjoyment in doing that? Why bother. I felt enervated, all motivation gone. The knowledge that the end of the day wasn’t even close and there was more I had to be subjected to sapped the energy out of my body.

If only I didn’t have to go to school.

And then it hit me. I can just leave. I was old enough know--we were given cards that allowed us to open the doors, to open the gates, and we could leave when we wanted, provided we still went to all our lessons. I could just leave and skip lessons.

The more I thought, the more the idea appealed to me. Skipping lessons--sure there was a thrill in that but I didn’t much care when I thought of what I could be doing instead.

There was a whole other world introduced to me just a few days ago; there was so much to explore, to learn, everything. There, my Specialisation enhanced the experience rather than detract from it.

And so, I simply left.

Where did I go? To an abandoned warehouse, of course.

Easier said than done, however. Having only gone there once, and from an entirely different starting point, I didn’t exactly know where it was. However, after the experience at school, I began to realise different ways to utilise my Specialisation.

Really, it seemed to be paradoxical in nature; If I want to do something, I see how I do it in the future and then copy that. In essence, there’s no beginning to my actions. The answers I saw in the future I could only do in the future because I saw them in the future’s future. It’s awkward to describe.

What it meant practically, however, in that moment was I just had to activate my Specialisation for a short moment, look at the pavement all around me, and then follow what steps I was going to take. Doing so, I followed myself to find the way to the warehouse. I couldn’t maintain that state for a minute, perhaps even shorter, would cause a splitting headache to pound at my brain.

When I got to the door, only then did I fall out of a sort of trance I was in from my Specialisation. Again, it was like I was mechanical, merely following what I saw rather than lucidly thinking about my actions or thoughts. I had only then just thought about what I was doing--intruding upon the home of a stranger who I really shouldn’t know how to get to where she lives.

But I steeled myself, drew in a deep breath, and tried the door. It was unlocked. That either meant she was in or she just never locked the door--I didn’t know know what was correct.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Came a familiar voice the instant I had stepped into the building. Raising my gaze, I saw Luna, wearing the same clothes as I had last seen her in but drenched in sweat, leaning against the sofa and staring straight at the door, at me.

“Well-” I was understandably startled, not having any time to take it all in, “I thought it’d be a nice surprise.”

“Yep. Well, you came at a great time,” She stood up straight.

“Why is that?” I remained glued to my spot. Even though I had been here before, I didn’t fully understand the relationship between us and thought best not to provoke someone who could quite clearly beat me up.

“I was exploring S1’s spec, you see. Thought you might be interested.” I was interested but tried to not let it show on my face.

“Have you figured out how she was enhanced touch?” This question jumped right into my mind before any others. It had been bugging me ever since I heard it.

“Ah, that… Well, no, not really.” Luna replied, her face looking slightly sullen.

“Have you had her hold things?” I inquired.

“Fucking hell, why didn’t I think of that?” She threw her arms up in the air dramatically.

“Hey; I’m just establishing the situation here,” I replied, my arms up defensively.

“Some things are implied, Charlotte.” Heavy emphasis on my name, for some reason.

“Okay, okay...” I began to think.

If you isolate each sense, why do they do? From sight alone, you can see what an object looks like--you can identify it. Enhanced sight would presumably mean you can see farther, at a higher resolution, or see more detail--maybe all of them at once. It could even change the structure of the eye, allowing you to perceive more colours or reduced colours in exchange for night-vision, like a cat.

Smell lets you know what an object smells like. I suppose enhanced smell would mean you can identify types of smells? Where smells came from? Distinguish between similar smells? It’s confusing because we don’t rely on our noses that much.

Hearing is perhaps simpler; you could pick up inaudible pitches, like dogs, or it could be like a volume control. Perhaps it enables you to better distinguish between different sounds? Hearing tells you what an object sounds like.

Taste tells you what an object tastes like. Enhanced taste could identify more tastes, distinguish between tastes better, or enhances the taste. They’re all pretty similar, really.

Maybe the enhancements are like how people without one sense have enhanced senses--blind people often have better hearing, for instance.

So, how would touch work? Would she be able to tell physical properties from a substance merely through touch, like the friction coefficient of glass or the Young Modulus of a steel rod?

“Do you know how S--ugh--S1’s senses are enhanced?” It seems I was too engrossed in my rumination for Luna was staring at me quizzically by the time I finally asked a question.

“Yeah. She can see farther and can pick up more details in things, she fucking hates certain smells, and she could hear your heartbeat from behind the door. You know, you don’t have to be so nervous when meeting a young woman like myself.”

“You haven’t explored taste?”

“I don’t exactly have any fine cuisine to shove in her gob, Charlotte.” I see; she uses my name when she thinks I’m asking a stupid question.

“You could try having her eat dirt?” I struggled to keep my face impassive from such a ridiculous idea.

“No, that’s stupid-”

“It’s not that stupid,” I interrupted her. “If you have her eat dirt from a farmland and have her eat dirt near the sea, she may be able to identify which is saline soil from the taste alone. That gives her the ability to identify the chemical composition of something loosely from the taste.” I quickly tried to make my silly suggestion sensible.

“That’s… Actually a reasonable suggestion,” She relented, after thinking about it. “But I still won’t make her eat dirt. I don’t particularly care about her enhanced taste.”

“Fine, fine. Well, where is she?” I was feeling more confident now that she could see the value in my suggestion.

“She’s outside. Just head to the door on the far wall,” Luna began to open the fridge, presumably for a nice, cold, refreshing drink. I, meanwhile, made my way to the door.

“Hello,” A sonorous and pleasant voice rang out. S1 was standing there, dressed in a t-shirt that looked a little too small and a little too tight, as well as some shorts. With her snow-white hair and pale, porcelain skin, she looked alien and stood out against the lush, green grass and weeds sprouting up through the cracks in the stone floor.

“Hello, S1. Do you like the name S1?”

“Yes. I think it’s a fitting name.” I sighed internally.

“So, I’m just going to run a few tests. I hope you don’t mind.”

“If it will help master, I will oblige,” The way she was showing such loyalty to Luna made me feel oddly queasy, and a little bit unhappy. Never-the-less, I am a professional and so ignored those feelings.

I picked up two similar-looking stones from the ground and gave them to her. Both were smooth but rather small.

“Can you tell which of the two stones is smoother?” I asked.

She held both, one in either hand, awkwardly, like she was confused as to how they ended up there. She glanced at one, and then the other, and then back to the other one, resting her gaze for a few seconds at most.

“No.” She finally responded, looking up at me.

Wondering what to do next, I took out my phone and took out the battery from it--I read a lot on my phone and so had developed a habit to always carry two batteries on me, swapping them out when needed.

“Can you tell me what this battery is made up from?”

“Do you want me to identify it by my knowledge or through touch?” She asked, dropping the stones to the ground as she held the battery.

“Tell me if you can feel what it’s made from?”

“Aluminium, carbon, and a lithium-oxide primarily. Would you care for further detail?” She replied after closing her eyes and touching the battery all over. Watching her do this, I wondered why her nails were cut short.

“No, that’s enough,” I replied, taking the lithium-ion battery back and putting my phone all back together.

Now that I had ascertained how she had enhanced touch, I didn’t really know what to do next. Luna was inside and out of sight and this woman was so unusual in behaviour I couldn’t really feel comfortable in her presence. She kept looking at me, as well, but not saying anything.

“Let’s go inside?” I looked for some reprieve.

“Yes.”