Anthropomorphic GeneSplice Subject X-203
This is my first story upload, just kinda like a warm-up before I try any serious stuff. Its about a very unfortunate man who the government gets ahold of. Its not about furries directly per say, but it could be interpreted that way. Please let me know what you think!
He ran. He didn't just run, he flat-out booked it. He had been running for hours, so long he had lost track of time. It didn't seem to matter, though. He didn't tire, not any more. Ever since he woke up that same day, plenty of other things have changed, too. His arms, his hands, his precious limbs, were different; twisted like in the worst cases of arthritis. His vision was sharp, clean pure. Like taking a breath of fresh air, or drinking a glass of cool, almost crisp water. He was stronger, by immense amounts. He could leap almost twice his own height, and his forearms bulged into grotesque and almost inhuman shapes. Ever since he woke up in that place, everything had been different.
He cleared the road and felt damp grass sliding smoothly beneath his bare feet. Three hours now, time to stop. He turned back toward the road, his heavy breathing immediately returned to a normal pace. Nothing moved. Behind him now was a hedge maze, which he had never seen before. After around thirty miles he had lost track of where he was. In front of him, the grass stretched out for quite some distance before it stopped at a paved road, maybe a highway. He had followed that road for a good long time now and he hadn't stopped, rested, or even thought a single thought the entire time. There was no time to think. He had to get away from them. He held his breath, and a healthy silence settled in around him. He could hear every bit of that silence, every component that made it. He heard the grass grate against itself in the breeze, the branches if the hedge maze as it rocked and swayed, even the determined slide of the blood in his ears. He could hear the world speaking to him. It laughed, it jeered, it called him a freak.
He slowly inhaled and looked down at his hands, which, more recently, resembled fleshy twisted claws. A single tear rolled down his face, collecting drops of sweat and gathering speed as it went. He could hear it rumble down his face, and collide and shatter against the grass. So much noise in this silence! He couldn't take it! He beat his ears deftly and whimpered, slowly crouching and sitting down. What had happened to me? What did they want with me? What did I do to deserve this?
Gravel shifted beneath a man's boot a mile away, and he heard it. He stood up, slowly. He still had time. Another sound grew into the silence: tires. Four tires. Rolling. Down the road. Fast. Very fast. No time! He turned back toward the hedge maze, and time slowed down. This was another change that had come with the morning that day. When things begin to happen, really happen, it all seems to slow down. The jeep tore off the road, spewing gravel and dirt behind it as its wheels began to dig into the fresh moist grass. A gunner stuck out of the top of the vehicle like and bad thumb, and shouted something, but he didn't hear what. He turned, his new aspect of time made him feel like he was pulling his limbs through molasses or tar as he moved. He began to run again, back toward the maze. His body began to pitch forward, slowly as the jeep that was still belching up dirt from behind as it bore down on him. He could see, with his newly changed reflexes (which explained his new perception of time.) where he planned on putting each foot. He dug in with each step and pushed out hard with each step, launching himself forward and propelling himself in to a full out sprint. He knew that, in reality, he was moving fast, very fast. Faster than ever before. He was a bullet, leaned forward and streamlined, cutting into the air as he moved.
He launched himself through a wall of the hedge maze and into its confusing patterns. Time began to return to normal, and he heard the voices again, speaking at a regular pitch and speed.
"Stop where you are," a megaphone cried. "This has gone on far enough!" He ignored the megaphone's advice and turned a corner in the labyrinth. He could hear the soldiers following close behind, but he was sure he could lose them. They couldn't go on forever, he could. He heard the rattle of metal and harnesses and uniforms behind him, and his heart dropped when it came from in front, too. They boxed him in. He was trapped. His adrenalin spiked, and it felt almost like too much of the stuff had been pumped into his system. He only had one choice. He crouched, felt his legs cramp and coil into spring loaded iron clamps, ready to fire. He jumped, cleared the top of the hedge, and kept going. Too high. He looked down, and saw himself coming back down, outside of the hedge maze, back where he started.
The jeep was there, its contents unloaded and standing around, holding rifles and pistols. The megaphone man was there, and Mr. Megaphone was looking right up at him. He aimed his descent strait toward the group of men. He was coming down fast, way too fast. He braced himself. His feet hit the ground and he coiled down, absorbing the impact and letting it run through him, up his spine, and out his arms and fingertips. He stood up, glaring at the surprised faces of the men who surrounded him, and collapsed back to the ground. Both his legs had broken, despite his best efforts.
He stood again, grimacing through the pain, and looked straight into the eyes of the megaphone man. Mr. Megaphone was the ringleader; Mr. Megaphone was the source of his problems. Sheldon was his name. Mr. Sheldon, third in command of the something-or-other. He knew, because that was what he could see on the name tag pinned on Mr. Sheldon's uniform. Mr. Sheldon stared straight back at him. A man in a white coat- possibly a lab coat- stood next to Mr. Sheldon, looking nervous and frightened.
Seven men quickly moved in and surrounded him, almost blocking lab coat and Mr. Sheldon from his view. He couldn't run now, and another jump was out of the question at this point. He was trapped. He looked around himself, took a step forward, stumbled on his crippled legs, and backed up again. He could hear white lab coat speaking, whispering to Mr. Sheldon, maybe in the half hope that he wouldn't be heard by the stranded monster.
"We can't damage the specimen any more than we already have." muttered white lab coat. Sheldon nodded, and turned back toward him. Mr. Sheldon spoke out loud, directly toward the potential prisoner.
"You're surrounded now, friend, give it up. We won't hurt you, we just want to help. You are all we have left; you are the key for all this to work out. Just come along with us, and this can all go back to normal." He ignored Mr. Sheldon. He knew he was lying. They all were. His mind screamed out at him: They did this to you! Nothing can be normal again! But, he remained silent, his eyes rigidly fixed on Mr. Sheldon.
"Very well." Mr. Sheldon grunted, and motioned toward one of the seven soldiers to the left of the circle. He watched the soldier take a step, and time slowed down again. He stooped down low, and fumbled a rock from the earth into his mangled hands. Swinging his arm in a wide arch, he watched in slow motion as the stone launched from his claws. It left his hand just as time began to return, once again, to a normal pace. The rock collided with the soldiers head, knocking him out cold, maybe even killing him, he didn't know. Pain ripped up from his legs and he stumbled again, just before hearing Mr. Sheldon yell,
"He's gone hostile, everyone back up!" And he saw Sheldon un-holster a pistol from his belt and raise it up to eye level. He saw all the other soldiers back up and the man in the lab coat began to voice a protest when Sheldon fired, and he felt the bullet whistle past his head. He closed his eyes, stress raising with his hatred for Mr. Sheldon, the men around him, and the world he stood on, as he waited in almost depressing hope for the end to come.
Another shot, and he felt the wind and heard the round blow through the hedges behind him. Still alive. Another shot barked from the pistol, third time's the charm, and his fear peaked within him again as the shot flew wide. It just barely missed his head. This was torture, like insult to injury. He couldn't take it!
"Aim fucking straight!" He screamed, and the final shot rang out.
He felt it, and opened his eyes just in time for his vision to leave him. He went numb, like floating in warm water. It was a calm, pleasant feeling. He tasted blood seep into his mouth, and chunks of flesh from someplace in his head rolled across his tongue. He felt his last breath spray out of him, and he felt vertigo as he began to fall backward. He never felt it when he hit the ground.
The man in the white lab coat- a scientist, actually- cursed under his breath. That was almost two years worth of work down the drain. He moved forward with the others to collect the body and take it back for studies, possible to figure out what they did wrong.
"Next time," the scientist thought, "We will put guards outside the clean room doors."