My new story.

4212. A number, not a name. But in this place, these two things are one and the same. They try to de-humanise us as much as possible, stop bonds forming between our feeble, part-human bodies. Bonds that can snap just as easily as they are formed. But where there is humanity, morphs or otherwise, there will be bonds. And there will be an urge to rebel, to fight against the oppression. This is a story of survival against the odds, a story of the power of the human spirit to keep on living, no matter how bad things get. This is my story.

Name suggestions welcome.

My day got off to a great start. The florescent light that wakes me failed to turn on, making me two allocations late to chores. I sprinted to the insect lab, but all that accomplished was a demerit for running in the corridor.

Maybe I should take a time out from the story here to explain a few things. I live in an Earth that was taken over long ago. Then the human race simply gave up. That’s how the stories go anyway. People were fighting one day, submitting the next. Most only lived long enough for cells to be taken from them. Others were allowed to live, to serve Them. This is where the stories come from, the last remnants of the once-mighty human race. They then began to experiment with the cells, mixing them with animal cells to create a race of super-soldiers to conquer the rest of the universe. This is the world in which I live.

My supervisor at the insect lab, 2034 (part dog) issued me with another demerit, my second for today. Oh well, my rations would be even more meagre than usual. Let’s hope that I don’t do anything else wrong, or there will be no food at all tonight. I shivered as I cleaned away a test tube with a half-human, half-butterfly body in it. Another experiment that won’t see the light of day.

Finally, the three allocations were up, and it was time for lunch. I made my way through the pristine white corridors into the lunch room. I saw the 4000 table where I usually sat with my friends, as yet uninhabited, but that would soon change. The line was so long that at least one 4000 would be near the front.

Finally, the three allocations were up, and it was time for lunch. I made my way through the pristine white corridors into the lunch room. I saw the 4000 table where I usually sat with my friends, as yet uninhabited, but that would soon change. The line was so long that at least one 4000 would be near the front.

Eventually, I reached the front of the line and received my ration for the meal. Usually meals are at least vaguely recognisable as food, but my demerits had taken their toll on mealtimes. This meal didn’t look even the slightest bit appealing (some grey mush and some green mush that may have once been vegetables) but once you’ve gone five allocations and a sleep-cycle without food, you will eat anything. I took my un-appetising grey-green mush over to the 4000 table. There was one less body at the table than yesterday. 4720 (part wolf) was gone. Nobody asked where he was. Death is just part of the routine here, you get used to it. The experiments aren’t built to last, they are built to be the best soldiers that they possibly can be, and if that means they only live for twelve years, then so be it. I sat myself down next to 4275, nicknamed Bird Boy. No prizes for guessing what he’s a morph of. One by one the rest of the 4000s came to the table. 4752 (Tigress) and 4649 (Leo, part chameleon) came and sat down

There aren’t many 4000s anymore. We were a bad batch, and we die all over the place. The rumours say that the people whose cells we come from were a freedom fighter cell, and that they were terminated merely heartbeats after their cells were taken.

I eyed Bird Boy’s meal hungrily. Every meal this place nutrition is assessed weighed and the so that each one of us gets enough food to survive, but not enough to ever really feel full. So those with a higher metabolism, like the avian morphs, seem to get a lot more food than the rest of us. But they all feel just as hungry as we are.

“Hi,” I said as I sat down.

“How were the first five allocations of your day?” asked Bird Boy.

“Two demerits and cleaning duty. So, absolutely fantastic.”

I began to eat my mush. It was just as bad as it looked.

“So you’ve got combat training after lunch?”

“Unfortunately.”

A supervisor came over to our table and we all immediately stopped talking. No need to risk another demerit.

I finished my mush and exited the room. To combat training. Combat training is Their way of testing us, looking at how our reflexes will adapt to being in a combat environment. I am not very good at it.

The siren rang and the red light flashed. Combat training was on. Imagine the most outnumbered and useless army there is. That’s me. Even against just one other morph, I’m outnumbered. So, there wasn’t a chance that I could win. I think that everyone is out to get me. That could be just me, but how fair is it if someone camouflages until you get close and then zaps you? Everyone seems to have a combat-assisting ability, but not me. I have nothing. I need a weapon to be of any use in battle, and They won’t give me any. I don’t think that there will be any more morphs like me. If your goal is universal domination, I’m not your morph. I’m more likely to sit in a corner than be a lethal killing machine. That’s Tigress’ job, not mine.

MORE MORE MORE!!!!!!!!!

WOW! Mind = Blown. BTW, I saw you about to get on le bus but you changed your mind ;'(