|The Metahuman. Adult. (standard:fantasy, 2752 words)|
|Author: Oscar A Rat||Added: Jun 22 2020||Views/Reads: 159/97||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Grendelle lived to torture, so far decimating an entire planet. Enter Michael the thief and his metahuman companion.|
Michael was so confused he was speaking and thinkling -- was it thunking? -- gibberish or gigularish. “Pull me out from inside or maybe inside to where I ain't and you is, you think maybe, honey?” He and his companion, a metahuman named Janet, wouldn't be in that situation if they weren't there. They were standing in, or out, inside or/and outside a Gray Hole, a place humans were not meant to be. A Gray Hole was or is or will be a hole, or bump, or some damn thing, in or out of normal space. Or, maybe the Gray Hole was normal space and our universe in or outside of it? It was a matter of perspective, or lack of perception, right? Janet managed to, with effort, touch hands with her companion. The contact established a connection of sorts, binding them into the same physical plane and helping to reboot his mind. "Things," the only way to describe them with their unearthly colors and shapes, whirled around in further confusion, eventually coalescing into a semblance of reality. The two, human and metahuman, found themselves lying on a grass-filled plain. It was a sunny day at their new location, with images formed by two yellow suns casting contorted shadows across windblown purple grass, interspersed by large treelike shapes. In the distance, a dozen spires reached for the stars, huge edifices looking like man-made skyscrapers. “Damn, Janet. Your powers never cease to amaze me. I was certain the police had us back there on Megadore IV.” He removed a protective vest, seeing it still smoked slightly but had managed to stop police stun-rays. Michael hurriedly threw the ruined clothing to the ground, where it abruptly burst into flames. “Jeez, that was close. One more hit and I would have fried.” Janet stood watching, unconcerned. Except for a command or question, the metahuman paid little attention to her master's antics. Her race lived only to serve, never to rule. Almost invulnerable and virtually emotionless, they had survived for millions of years because of being useful and compliant in the service of others -- the perfect servants. As with a good tool, nobody would think of killing or blaming them when ill-used. Metahumans reproduced the same as other animals. Dominate races took every opportunity to help them breed in an effort to gain more value for themselves, the masters. A very small part of the galactic population, metahumans were used -- not understood. Averaging only several to a star system, they were rare enough to be sought after and numerous enough to be a known race though few knew much else about them. Not where they came from, nor their purpose in the master scheme of the cosmos -- if any. Michael had acquired his, named Janet, by theft. It made no difference to her who she served, only that she did have a master. “Let's check those buildings out, baby.” Michael took time to kick soil over his smoldering jacket. The ground was loose, soft, and spongy -- something like hard moss. He had been born in the backwoods of Northern Altair VI and didn't like to leave a campfire burning when finished with it. After stomping on the jacket until it stopped smoking, he began walking over the soft purple surface, toward the towers. Janet followed quietly. *** Grendelle put down a novel, a romance of the common type -- the common type on De-Sade II. An exemplary example of a humanoid female, long golden tresses framing a fine-featured face atop a perfect figure, she strode to the nearest window. She was only halfway up in her current torture complex. Two and a half more of them were still empty, yet she possessed nothing to fill them with. The few remaining residents of her planet were hiding -- far away and deeply underground -- having learned from former mistakes in trying to overthrow her. Click here to read the rest of this story (260 more lines)
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