[ WP ] You wake up in a universe where everyone is ALWAYS super strong except you . You 're saught after as a hero for delicate missions where precision and minimal structural damage is ideal .

*Before anyone says anything, I preferred the idea of a world in which my protagonist was born into it. It made it more fun. A prompt is a prompt, not a binding contract. * 
 
 -- - 
 
 We are n't that common, but that's not because we're rare. Perhaps one in 2,000 people you'll meet in the street will be like me, but that's only because about 18 out of 19 of us die before the age of five. Germline augmentation might have been a boon for removing genetic disorders from the world, but the emergent behaviours were as alarming as they were fascinating. Genetic traits tend towards averaging over time, and no amount of modification to human biology will change that, and the `` average'' turned out to be a human with an average height of 334cm, the strength of a demigod, and the dexterity of a drunk nun in a cement mixer. 
 
 I felt her footsteps before I heard her voice. `` You alright in there, Julia?'' came the soft, lilting tones of Sydney, my carer. When you're less than half the average height and only 15 % the average strength and durability of most humans, recessively-gened `` baseliners'' like myself are officially classified as disabled. Despite the fact that prior to the last 800 years of human history, the majority of people were just like me and were exactly as competent as these lumbering, oversized, under- well, we get a lot of patronising shit even from those who love us. 
 
 `` I'm fine Sydney, really, I can get out of a bath without help you know.'' I know, I know, I should n't be so exasperated but... but it gets tedious. My job gives me respect, gives me renown in the community, gives me something to get up to every morning. I earn enough to pay Sydney and to afford the modifications on clothes, food, furniture, fucking godsforsaken fucking toothpaste- I'm getting overexcited again are n't I? 
 
 `` Alright, but you let me know if-'' 
 
 `` -I need to use the pull-chain, got it!'' 
 
 I probably should n't cut her off. It upsets her, and despite my nature I do n't like upsetting people much. It breeds conflict, and when you're fragile enough to be killed with an idle backhand being a sarcastic little shit's not really a trait that correlates with survival. But... not today. Today, she will not question my ability, because today I earn my keep. 
 
 After hopping out of the bath - and I do mean hopping, that thing's lip would put mountains in its rain-shadow, but it's great for soaking - it's onwards to the medications. Pathogens evolved rapidly with the increase in human durability, and so a head cold to Sydney might be a spot of fatal pneumonia to me. Bioprogramming regimens were the answer, where the body is infiltrated with trillions of tiny biomechanical living creatures that essentially replace my own, `` inferior'' immune system and make it bigger, stronger, scarier. It's also much, much stupider, and so it needs daily reprogramming to make sure it's up-to-date with the latest sniffles-turned-smallpox that might try to melt my anus into blancmange or whatever the fuck those jumped-up overpowered- 
 
 -- - 
 
 `` Hi! Your housemate needed a fine-tuner?'' 
 
 The Pan-Am smile's back, and my voice ( already childish compared to the deep boom of those around me ) drips with sweetness that's composed of 100 % artificial additives. He blinks slowly, and the reduction in speed between his own thoughts and voice and mine becomes painfully apparent as I wait for his response. It's not that we're smarter than the augmented humans, it's just that we're _faster_. For the same reason that a spider is proportionally faster than a human for its size, we're proportionally speedier with thoughts and words. Were it not for longevity drugs this would mean we would die faster too, but science will out and now the only certainty is taxes. 
 
 `` Yeah, the robot's on the blink.'' 
 
 Synth. It's a synth. They're not slaves, they're people. Never a good sign when you hear a human calling their roommate a `` robot'', a word literally `` forced labour'' in Ancient Czech. 
 
 `` He's started twitching and I think his motor functions are off-alignment. Some kinda deformity or summin'' 
 
 I twitch minutely in a sort of hysterical sympathy, and can almost feel the words coming. I know what he's going to say, and I'm going to have to smile and take it. 
 
 `` Thought I'd get a runt in to fix him, see if it's hardware'' 
 
 And there it is. 
 
 Deep breaths, Julia. Deep breaths. 
 
 ``... thank you for your concern, sir. I'll see to your friend shortly. Sydney, could you help me with my tools?'' 
 
 -- - 
 
 Yaxer was possibly my favourite patient. No impoliteness, no laughs about how he hoped the job was n't too `` big'' for me. No comments about how `` humans like you are always so inspiring''. He even apologised in hushed tones for his roommate. 
 
 `` He just does n't seem to get it. I've tried explaining why we do n't use that term, for you or me, but he seems to think that it's OK to use it if he'knows what it means'...'' 
 
 I smiled a warm smile, the first all day, and told him he should n't be using his motor processors right now. His issue seemed to be a chronic one, some kind of hardware issue that was probably laid down at conception ( as the manufacturing process is called, it's rather less clinical this way ) and it was n't clear if I would ever be able to fix it for good. Repeated checkups and finetunings might be necessary for the rest of his life - rather like myself. 
 
 Afterwards, post-rundown and after checking he really was good to go, he made Sydney and I some tea. Sydney packed up my tools, which were individually light but far too heavy for me to realistically carry together, and I sipped it carefully. The aroma was delicate, probably too delicate for Sydney to appreciate, and I smiled at him. 
 
 `` Lavender and peppermint, with a hint of heather honey. Ever since I got the smell implant installed, it's been my favourite part of the day to sit down in my library and brew a pot.'' I nodded enthusiastically, earning a chiding mutter of `` do n't hurt yourself...!'' from Sydney that I took a vicious pleasure in ignoring completely. Yaxer turned to me, and looked down into my eyes with a suddenly calculating look. I blushed, not used to not being the fastest thinker in the room, and looked down at my cup of half-drunk tea. 
 
 `` What about you, Julia? What attracted you to this job? There are dozens of choices for dexters like you, you did n't have to pick a job where you're constantly presented with prejudice and misinformation. What's _your_ favourite part of the day?'' 
 
 I took another sip. 
 
 -- - 
 
 As I walked out of my new patient's home, telling him not to overstress his processors and to log his diagnostics twice-daily for the next month, Sydney looked down at me with a slier look than I think I've ever seen on her face. It was slightly unnerving really, like watching a goat do integrations. 
 
 `` You never did answer him, you know. Why this job?'' 
 
 She'd been with me for twelve years. It ca n't be fun, being a glorified weightlifter for a legally-disabled dexter, but she'd never once been impatient, never once broken my trust. I took a deep breath. 
 
 `` Every day I'm surrounded by things I ca n't lift, things I ca n't eat, things I ca n't breathe. You're all so... tough, and I'm just here. Being small.'' She began to open her mouth, but I continued quickly onwards. 
 
 `` But when I open up a synth and start unplugging, replugging, examining, analysing... there's detail. There's scale I can work with. There's fineness. It's not just that it's something I can do that you, or anyone else, ca n't do... It's that, if I get it wrong... I'm strong enough that I might accidentally crush something''.
