C13
was tattooed on his chest in small neat letters, just under his collarbone. It
was the closest thing he had to a name. He’d just chosen a real name, and
wasn’t sure what to think of it. He looked at the driver’s license in his
hand. Cy Hunter. The age and birthday
were a wild guess, placing him at twenty two, but the doctors weren’t sure. He
was six foot seven, three hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and reinforced
bone. He had no body hair to speak of, and his skin was thick like hide and tan
in color. He shoved the license into his jeans pocket.
It was a stupid idea. He couldn’t
blend in. Even if his mouth wasn’t disfigured, his eyes weren’t human. He sat
on the bed in the small hospital room that had been his home for the last
eleven months during his recovery. His unparalleled regenerative abilities
saved his legs when doctors couldn’t have. The doctors had been able to fix his
mouth. They removed all of the sharp teeth that were growing in the wrong
places, and surgically shortened his lower jaw so it lined up with the rest of
his skull. They filed the sharp teeth down to manageable size, and removed
enough so that what remained was as human as they could manage. He looked at
the mirror on the wall and smiled grimly.
He had a mix of human and crocodile
teeth due to the genetics mixed to create him in the lab. He had four human
molars that he could use to chew if he was careful. The rest of his teeth
roughly alternated human and fang. The result was still a nightmare, even if
the fangs no longer cut into his lips.
Due to his skin being more like
hide, he scarred badly. The scars from the surgery on his jaw were obvious
despite the doctors careful stitching. There were two scars on his cheek where
the fangs used to protrude, though his lips had healed and were actually normal
in shape. But he had limited control of them, and the result was that he
slurred words and sometimes spit when he talked.
He watched himself in the mirror
with his crocodile eyes. Black pupils surrounded entirely in golden green. He
had too many scars. His pain was written on his skin for everyone to see. He
pulled on his t-shirt and the black fingerless glove he wore on his right hand
to hide the burn scars. The glove covered him from hand to elbow, and kept
little children from having nightmares. He picked up the mask and buckled it in
place. Some kind soul had given him a bunch of comic books when he was learning
to read. His mask looked like the one Shredder wore in the Ninja Turtles. It
covered his mouth and nose. The frame was metal with a black mesh over his
mouth that allowed him to speak easily. He buckled the leather strap around his
head and looked in the mirror again. Still a freak, but no longer a nightmare.
He was the first genetics experiment
that had been found alive. What scared him was that he wasn’t the only one, and
that there were likely others out there suffering. He wanted to help find the
people responsible for creating him and hunt them down. He wanted to find any
other genetic freaks like himself and free them. But he was a creature of
action, and not very good at puzzles or conspiracies. The path leading to his
creators was one of tedium and disappointment. There were paper trails leading
to dummy companies, and more dead-end clues leading from those. He wanted to be
useful now, and knew that he would have to find something else to do with his
life than seek revenge.
He
wanted to help people, to protect them. He knew they would never really accept
him, but that was ok. He didn’t need acceptance as long as he had purpose. He
was faster and stronger and bigger than humans. He could be useful to them. If
he served them well enough, maybe they would tolerate his differences.
The government had provided tutors
during his long recovery, and he had his GED. He hadn’t had much else to do
while his legs healed from the multiple fractures. He was enrolled at a police
academy in the city where Melissa lived. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to go
back to the city where he had been housed in an underground facility. It couldn’t
have anything to do with Melissa. He had only met her once, and he was busy
bleeding to death at the time.
Cy scratched his cheek along the
edge of the mask. Dressed as he was, with the mask, only his eyes set him
apart. He put on sunglasses. He still looked weird, but he could pass for
human. He sighed and picked up the stuffed dog that he shamelessly slept with.
Sally gave it to him the second time she snuck down to his cell. It was beaten
and torn, stained despite vigorous washing. It had button eyes and appeared to
be smiling. He often cried himself to sleep with the toy in his arms. It was
his most precious possession.
He had never seen Melissa again,
though she kept her promise to get the dog to him. There was a letter with the
dog, but at the time, he hadn’t been able to read it. It wasn’t until months
later that he learned enough to pull the letter out and find out the contents.
The letter was sitting on the bed beside him. He opened it and read it for the
hundredth time.
Hey
big guy. I’m sorry I couldn’t see you in person, but they moved you to a secret
location and wouldn’t let me near you. I hope this letter and the dog get to
you. I hope that you get a name, and a life worth living. I don’t know if you
even remember me. I’m not sure why I’m writing this. I just wanted you to know
that there was someone out there who cared about you. It’s not much, but it’s
all I have. Who knows what the future brings, but if you ever can, come and see
me. If you ever need a friend, I’ll be there. –Melissa Porter.
Her address and phone number were
written below her name. He never called her. He wanted to, but he had no idea
what to say. For some reason, he felt he could trust her. She had seen him at
his worst and still seen a man. He stood up and shoved the letter and the
stuffed dog into his bag. It was time to go start his new life.
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