Chapter 1: The Disillusionment of Biopunk

The children were falling ill, one after another. It was clear that something had to change, and Detective Branston was on the case. He extinguished his cigarette and donned his fedora.

“Oh, what a disaster this book is,” Amanda grumbled, frustrated after only a few pages. She hated abandoning a story, but the disappointment was palpable. It was her brother Ben who had suggested she delve into the realm of Biopunk.

“Why does every genre end in '-punk'?” she had inquired, her mouth full of cereal. She knew Ben despised it when she spoke while eating, yet she couldn't help herself. Returning home for the summer meant reverting to their old sibling dynamics, and she didn't want to disappoint him. “Don’t people realize that a punk is essentially a misfit?”

“Yeah, so?”

“If every book is labeled as ‘punk’ this or ‘punk’ that, then they’re not really punks anymore, right?” It reminded her of the hipsters with their ironic mustaches. Amanda had no tolerance for that nonsense.

Ben shrugged, which she took as a win, even though he was probably just too lethargic to engage in a proper debate.

Despite her reservations, she couldn't resist the allure of an entirely new genre, so she ventured to Seymour’s Secondhand Books and purchased the only Biopunk novel available. She had heard the saying, "Don't judge a book by its cover," but that was nonsense. Even though the book was in terrible shape, the cover—once luxurious and black with raised lettering spelling out BLOOD PAGES—still intrigued her.

However, the reality was a major letdown. The irony of being well-read was that it set her expectations sky-high. She longed for the days of discovering literary treasures.

“Why doesn’t anyone write like Bradbury anymore?” she shouted, hurling the book against the wall. It shattered into two pieces with a gratifying crack, splitting perfectly down the spine.

Amanda scooped up one half and tossed it out the window. Though she wasn’t typically an angry person, being back home stirred up her emotions. It was a strange mix of independence and familial roles, not to mention the tension surrounding James, her ex. They hadn't formally broken up; it felt more like a sinking ship—less spectacular than the Titanic but just as doomed. Seeing James whistling down the street only worsened her mood. He was supposed to be suffering.

So, if she wanted to throw half a damn book out the window, she absolutely would.

She picked up the remaining half, the first half, still adorned with its once-beautiful black cover. As she flipped it over, she noticed dark, rusty-brown spots on the exposed page. Dropping the book, she realized it was blood.

She screamed.

Ben trundled upstairs, bursting into her room. “What in the world—”

He halted mid-sentence, his gaze following hers to the book.

“Jesus, Mandy! I thought something happened to you.”

“To me? You need a defibrillator just to climb a few stairs!” she teased.

Ben shot her a glare. It was a sensitive topic for him, having gained what Amanda jokingly called the “freshman 15” for both of them.

“They don’t even use defibrillators anymore, genius,” he replied. “We use epinephrine.”

We? Amanda thought, bracing herself for the “I’m a pre-med student now, and I’m suddenly the village healer” lecture.

“And how exactly were you going to save me? You can’t even breathe properly right now.”

“Oh, hey, I got something for you,” he said, rummaging through his sweats pocket. “Here it is.” He raised his middle finger in a playful gesture.

Rolling her eyes, they both chuckled. Would they ever outgrow this banter?

“What were you doing up here?” he asked.

“Just ranting about this lame book I got,” she replied.

“Blood Pages, right?” he asked, now connecting the dots.

Oh no. Blood. Pages. This couldn't be a coincidence.

“Yeah, but look, Ben,” she said, pointing at the book.

“Ew, what’s that? Salsa? Mom's gonna go nuts if she finds food up here.”

Ben would make an excellent doctor one day, though a specialty in pathology might be a stretch.

“No, you dolt, it’s dried blood.”

He stared at her, clearly struggling to piece it all together.

“The book’s title is Blood Pages, and there’s… Oh, never mind.”

“Oh. Dude, that’s incredibly meta.”

“Yeah, I know. Super strange,” Amanda agreed, inspecting the page more closely. She began to read aloud with an exaggerated tone.

“As the coroner zipped the black bag, Detective Branston rubbed his temples. These deaths were accumulating, and in his city. He smoothed his mustache and took a swig from his coffee, wishing he had spiked it. But this was no time to break his four years of sobriety. This appeared to be another Bloody Page case. Kids kept buying these used books, even after the warnings. They didn’t know what was good for them. Halfway through, they’d start bleeding from their eyes. The nanobots acted like viruses, infecting the minds of their victims. Then it was all downhill, reminiscent of a zombie flick. Except this was non-fiction. Someone was dusting the pages with these nanobots. He needed to catch the perpetrator before it was too late. His city needed him. Branston was on the case. He extinguished his cigarette in his coffee and got to work.”

Ben scrunched his nose.

“Right? He hit every detective trope possible. So cheesy.”

“No. Well, yes, but I was looking at you, your eye,” Ben stammered.

Amanda touched her face and felt the familiar warmth of blood on her fingertips.

Then they’d start bleeding from their eyes, it had said.

No, that was absurd. This couldn’t be happening, could it? That would be more than just incredibly meta; it would be…

The world faded, and Amanda collapsed.

Stay tuned for Part II!

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Chapter 2: The Descent into Madness

In this video, we explore the intersection of ecopunk, biopunk, and cyberpunk through the lens of Paolo Bacigalupi's "The Windup Girl." Delve into the themes and characters that define these genres.

This video discusses the biopunk genre, exploring its characteristics and why it often leans towards the grotesque. Discover what makes biopunk a unique subgenre in the world of speculative fiction.