The lab sat three floors beneath Arlington, buried so deep under concrete and bureaucracy that daylight felt like a rumor. The place always smelled like wet stone, burnt circuits, and secrets nobody planned on revisiting. Rain hammered the ground above us like it wanted in.
Back then, I was Dr. Jeff Skelton—forty-seven, unshaven, overworked, and stitched together by caffeine and bad decisions. My life revolved around Project Re:Life, a government-funded attempt to “extend human capability” by repairing dying cells. Translation: rich old men paying to outlive their ethics.
My obsession was Formula-88, a glowing green serum built from gene edits, engineered proteins, and particles our scanners refused to identify. Under a blacklight, it shimmered like a radioactive sports drink. In theory, it could repair the body from within.
In practice… well.
At 2:47 a.m., exhausted and held together by cold takeout and sludge-grade coffee, I pipetted a drop of Formula-88 into a petri dish. The liquid swirled hypnotically. Half-asleep, I grabbed my mug. A single drop slid off the pipette.
I didn’t see it land.
I took a sip.
It hit instantly: a burning shock that felt like swallowing hot sauce mixed with battery acid. My vision exploded into green static. The heart monitor spiked, then flatlined. Alarms wailed. The walls pulsed like something alive.
Then everything went silent. Then everything went green.
The Change
When I came to, the alarm lights had died. The hum of machinery felt distant, like listening through water. I tried to stand.
My arms felt wrong—light, loose, unfamiliar.
I looked down.
My hands were bones. Clean, white, glowing faintly from within, joints clicking like precision hinges. I touched my face—cheekbone, jaw, teeth. No skin. No pulse. No breath.
A cracked mirror confirmed it: a glowing skull with hollow eyes burning green.
I should’ve passed out. Instead, my mind sharpened. The buzz of the lights turned into patterns. The hum of machines became equations. Problems I’d chased for years suddenly made sense.
Formula-88 hadn’t killed me. It had rewired me.
I called the current in my bones Skel Energy—a self-sustaining power source keeping me moving without food or air. All I needed was the occasional boost.
The Escape
Panic returned in waves.
I jabbed myself with needles. Hit myself with defibrillator pads. Called the emergency line and tried to fake a normal voice.
Nothing worked.
By morning, the cleanup crew stormed the lab—hazmat suits, hard boots, industrial sterilizers.
“Subject expired,” one said. “No recovery,” another added. They scrubbed the room, sealed the doors, and wrote me off as dead.
I wasn’t.
I crawled into the vents, silent as dust, and left the life of Dr. Jeff Skelton behind.
SkelEnergy Drink
I holed up in an abandoned warehouse by the river—rusted beams, broken windows, piles of forgotten tools. With nothing but time and a glowing skeleton staring back at me, I refined the serum.
Stabilized it. Carbonated it. Canned it.
SkelEnergy Drink—bright green fizz, deadly-looking, but potent in all the right ways.
For the living: a one-way ticket to bone-mode.
For the dead: a second chance.
I tested small:
A dead plant? Grew back greener than ever. A rusted wrench? Snapped to brand new. A half-dead pigeon missing feathers? One drop and he was back in the air.
I named him Clunk.
Then I tested it on myself. The glow steadied. The edges sharpened.
The serum wasn’t just survival anymore. It was potential.
The Resurrection Project
If I could revive a plant and a pigeon… why not people?
Not historical icons. Not leaders or legends. Not the powerful.
Just the forgotten. The overlooked. The ones the world chewed up and left behind.
Night after night, I wandered through graveyards, abandoned lots, old churches. A can here, a pour there—watching green fizz soak into the soil. Watching the impossible happen.
Each site got a calling card:
A bit of green glow in the dirt. A skull symbol drawn quick. An empty can left behind like a breadcrumb.
Anyone who found them and dared to take a sip joined the SkelCrew.
Underground. Unfiltered. Uncontrolled.
Word spread through obscure corners of the net—glowing graves, bones walking, people shedding skin like old coats.
Life didn’t end. It changed shape. And I wasn’t going to let anyone stay buried—literally or metaphorically.
Because if the world buries you?
I’ll dig you back out.
Life doesn’t end easy. Not on my watch.