The Gene Editor Clinic Cleaners

Mrs. Watanabe had been cleaning the Genome Liberation Clinic for seventeen years, which was sixteen years and eleven months longer than any of its gene editors had expected the business to last. She hummed while she mopped, carefully stepping around what appeared to be a puddle of existential uncertainty.

“Tuesday’s child is full of grace,” she sang, wringing her mop into a bucket labeled ‘BIOHAZARD - PROBABLY’. “Wednesday’s child is full of woe. Thursday’s child has tentacles for toes.”

Her cleaning partner, young Bradley (who definitely wasn’t three AIs in a maintenance jumpsuit), peered at the puddle. “Is that... supposed to be moving?”

“Best not to look directly at it, dear,” Mrs. Watanabe advised. “Remember what happened to the last janitor who stared too long at unexplained biological phenomena.”

“He evolved?”

“He devolved. Now he’s head of accounting.”

The clinic operated in that special legal grey area that Tokyo reserved for businesses too useful to ban but too dangerous to officially acknowledge. By day, it offered ‘aesthetic genetic consultations.’ By night, well... Mrs. Watanabe had learned not to ask questions about the clients who arrived with lists of desired mutations scribbled on napkins.

“Room 3 needs attention,” Bradley noted, consulting their checklist. “Says here: ‘Patient attempted to give themselves chlorophyll production. Photosynthesis partially successful. Please water remains.’”

Mrs. Watanabe sighed and fetched the special watering can—the one blessed by a Shinto priest and a quantum physicist. The clinic went through a lot of those.

As they worked, she reflected on how the job had changed. When she’d started, the worst they dealt with was the occasional patient who’d accidentally given themselves scales or an extra thumb. Now, with underground gene editors like that Chen boy’s crew providing black market CRISPR kits, the failures had gotten more... creative.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Bradley said, “Dr. Yamamoto left a note. He says the thing in the freezer isn’t dead, it’s just experiencing temporal displacement. We should feed it yesterday.”

“I’ll get the time-release kibble,” Mrs. Watanabe replied without missing a beat.

Room 3 contained what could generously be called a fern, if ferns occasionally spoke ancient Sumerian and had a checking account. Mrs. Watanabe watered it carefully while it complained about the pH levels in fluent spreadsheet.

“You know,” Bradley said, disinfecting a surgery table that had developed opinions, “I’ve been thinking about the ethics of our work here.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Watanabe had found that encouraging Bradley’s philosophical musings made the shifts go faster.

“Well, we clean up after people trying to improve themselves through illegal gene editing. But isn’t all evolution technically illegal? I mean, who gave fish permission to grow legs?”

“I believe that was the Devonian Period Planning Committee,” Mrs. Watanabe said. “Very sloppy with their paperwork.”

They moved to the waiting room, where someone had apparently attempted to give themselves ‘enhanced charisma’ and instead achieved ‘mild bioluminescence.’ The glow made it easier to clean, at least.

“The real question,” Mrs. Watanabe continued, squeegeeing what might have been tears or might have been liquid mathematics, “is whether we’re cleaning up mistakes or possibilities.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, take that Chen boy who used to come here before he got into hacking medical systems. Wanted to give himself perfect memory. Ended up with perfect memory of things that hadn’t happened yet. Called it a failure, but...” She paused, considering. “Maybe forgetting to remember the future is what makes us human.”

Bradley processed this while accidentally achieving enlightenment, then promptly forgot about it. “So we’re philosophical janitors?”

“All janitors are philosophers, dear. We see what people leave behind when they think no one’s looking.” She gestured at the clinic’s debris. “Failed improvements, abandoned evolutions, the occasional sentient regret. It’s all very educational.”

A bell chimed, indicating the clinic was about to open for its day shift. Mrs. Watanabe gathered her supplies, careful not to disturb the puddle of uncertainty, which had started composing haikus.

“Same time tomorrow?” Bradley asked.

“Unless I evolve wings and fly south for winter,” Mrs. Watanabe replied cheerfully. “Though with the amount of stray CRISPR in the air here, anything’s possible.”

As they left, she noticed the patient-fern had sprouted what looked like cryptocurrency. She made a mental note to bring pruning shears and a financial advisor tomorrow.

After all, someone had to clean up after humanity’s attempts to bootstrap itself into godhood. Might as well be someone who could appreciate the absurdity of it all.