B - B

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And then I was born. I am proud of myself. I am the first. I glance down to realise I have no navel. That proves it. The protective web between my eyelids is washed away. I feel weightless. Things are latched to my arms. I open my naked eyes for the first time. Unable to move them.  Movement comes gradually. There is a slight and sweating man. Has a clipboard. A shudder as my heart begins to start. Pulsing. Throbbing. Movement has came to my neck. I turn my head left. More men. With navels. I would like to sneer but I cannot. My mouth does not yet work. Not even my tongue. So it cannot open. Just as well. I remember to breathe. There are tubes in my nostrils. I am born with a bounty of knowledge. This is why my birth is the ideal birth. No growing up to do, no dependencies. Only the purpose is important, my purpose. My purpose is innate, pre-natal. But only now do I realise that my motive is to kill. My body is a weapon, and like any other weapon it was made to be utilised. I don't know who I belong to. I think I belong to myself. Yes. Blood has flushed into my respiratory system. It's flowing to my muscles, carrying oxygen. But it's also carrying adrenalin. This is it! My purpose! I study the glass before me. I have enormous potential for myself; I will rid the world of those with navels. I am the beginning of a superior race. The glass erupts in a clear-as-crystal explosion, scattering to the four corners of the room. The amniotic fluid spills onto the floor, but I am left floating. They're shouting something, the men. I can't understand; language isn't vital in my development, especially when I don't need a mouth to communicate. Much like I don't need appendages to manipulate the world. The only world I know is in lockdown and they can't escape, the men. I waste no time in beginning my task. Rushing towards one, I grip him by the neck; the trachea is crushed beneath my heavy hand. Death by aerobic deprivation and tracheal collapse. I held him too hard, I'll try another. What did they say? Practice makes perfect. I grab another by his fabrics and throw him to the floor. He's dazed, but he'll live. Not for long, however. I took him by the neck as I did the last, with a fraction of the strength used previously. I held him and scrutinised him. Clearly terrified. A forgettable face. I stare into his eyes with the fastness of my grip. A surge of memories rush into my head; a whole life is played before me in 10 seconds. I find it hard to concentrate; it is annoying. I regain my vision to find I have dropped my target. Breathless as the corpse on the other side of the room, he tries futilely to escape. I place the force of a thousand upon his crown, which bursts like my glass capsule. Death by cranial fracture. The blood fuses with the amniotic fluid. Another, another! I'm impatient, so I hurl one across the room towards me as easily as when I kill a man. Bending to my will, this one adheres to my psychokinetic command and rises to face me. He is floating in the air as I am. Something moves within me. His lustrous eyes watch as I raise my right hand, the fingers clenched. I then raise my smallest finger. He goes rigid immediately. I hear a loud crack as his spinal cord begins to erupt from his back. With each finger raised, a bone rose to greet it. By the end of this punishing treatment he is very much dead. Death by spinal dislocation. Suddenly, I fall to the floor. My head begins to heat up. Blood flow increases to my head. I let out my first post-natal sound, a deafening roar which smashes all the glass in the room. My vision goes red. I see nothing but life and men and I want to end it all I will end them all...

Later. The room is awash with the corpses and blood of the slain. I don't know what else to do. I catch a reflection of myself. It is lavishly coated in the life-force of the dead. I look just like a human. But I do not frown. I smile. I smile because it will help me blend in. Like the clothes. That's all the clothes are really, a disguise. I then realise that blood is supposed to stay inside the body not outside. I'll have to sort that later.

Having assimilated the memories of that man, I find that I can now read and write and talk. It is then that I realise with great anguish what the patterns of ink mean on that shiny white surface. It reads: Subject A – stable. Respiratory system functional. Nervous system functional. Cardiovascular system functional. Muscular system not functional.

Subject B:

I was not the first.

>-S->