Average Human

Average Human

Average Human was a quest thread on /tg/ that grew to one of the best stories /tg had seen in a while. The interesting setting, combined with exceptional writefaggotry, created one of the more interesting ideas to come out of the chan in awhile. It's still ongoing, so the story will be pasted here as the threads are completed and archived.

The story itself

Below is OP's writefaggotry for the quest thread, in its' entirety, minus any responses he gave to posters, or action requests.

Thread One

You were minding your own business. You'd just picked up a newspaper and can of Dr. Pepper from a news stand, and were walking down the street, checking out the headlines when you heard it. Others heard it too, naturally. It's kind of hard to miss the sound of a large explosion.

The ground shook, and windows shattered. Clouds of dust shot out of a nearby alleyway, forced clear from the epicenter on the next street over. You were lifted off the ground by the sheer force of the blast. Hot and gritty, the air tossed you across the street like a doll.

When you woke, the streets were in chaos. Sirens blared all around. People were running. Someone was kneeling over you, saying something. Your ears were ringing still. ". . . rihgsdhth . . ." It's all muffled nonsense. He grabs your collar with one hand. His other is holding a bandana over his mouth. The air is still thick with the acrid dust, and now, the familiar sight and smell of smoke.

"You alright?" You hear him say, the pounding in your ears subsiding.

"I," you mutter, trying to pick yourself up. The stranger helps you get to your feet. You're unsteady still, but manage to stand. "I don't know."

"We gotta get out of here," he says and begins to run. You do the same.

A few blocks away and the air is more clear, but the taste never left your mouth. It's metallic and wrong. You lean against a brick wall and cough and spit. It works to a degree, but the taste remains. "Thanks," you sputter out. The man you picked you off the ground is leaning over, his hands on his knees. He says between breaths, "No problem, no problem." He reaches out his hand. "I'm Robby."

"Francois," you say. The two of you shake hands, before Robby nods back the way you came. "God damn, look at that."

You turn around and see a pillar of thick smoke rising through the buildings behind you. Lucky you were on 5th, and not 6th today. Damn lucky. "Fuckin', terrorists, man?"

"You think?" Robby asks.

"I don't know. 9/11 all over again." You of course weren't in NYC then, but still. A firetruck blasts its horn and blows by you, narrowly missing a parked car as it rounds a corner.

"Hey man, I gotta go. Gotta check on my daughter. Good luck." Robby waves to you distractedly and runs off down the street.

You think about sitting down for a minute to catch your breath, but the air is still pretty bad here. You turn and start walking home. Pizza can wait for another day.

On your walk home you see everyone on the street staring off at the smoke. A few people ask if you're okay. You assure them that you are and keep on. You're still aching and half deaf, but you ain't in showbiz anymore, and doctors are expensive.

You get back home and hour later and fall into bed. It's only 11 in the morning, but you're tired as hell.

You wake up several times during the day, only for a few minutes at a time. A glass of water, a piece of bread, and then back to sleep. You feel drained. It's to be expected, you assume. Surviving something like that, it can't be easy.

The phone rings and wakes you up. You can see daylight out of your window. You pick up the phone and hear the sound of your boss, Mr. Santoni, actually an Irishman who calls himself Santoni in order to sell pizza, but who the fuck cares.

"Well two days in a row kid, guess we know what that means."

"Ugh," you say. "Give me a break, man. I almost died yesterday. You know, that terrorist attack, or whatever it was."

"That warehouse thing? The explosion?"

"I guess." You say and explain what happened.

"Well uh, well shit. You okay, son? Take a few days off. Rest up."

You hang up and walk to your bathroom to check yourself in your mirror. Your eyes are a little bit saggy, and your throat's sore, but you feel alright.

You strip off your dirt stained and torn clothes from yesterday, tossing them to the floor. In the shower, you sit under the streams of hot water, stretching and relaxing in the heat. You feel a few bruises along the left side of your body. You're definitely a bit battered, and there's a noticeable sting as the water hits a shallow scratch on your cheek. Must have been from when you hit the ground.

Wrapped in a towel, you put a can a soup and sit down on your computer. Hitting the local news site, the headline reads the newest information on the baseball playoffs. But off to the side, one of the other top stories show an aerial photograph of a burning warehouse. The link reads, "Casualties in NYC Explosion confirmed at 7".

You open the story and begin to read, gathering your soup midway through and eating as you finish. According to the article, a storage warehouse for a local conglomerate exploded (obviously) in Manhattan, killing 5 workers inside and 2 pedestrians on the street. The cause of the explosion was currently unknown, but a gas leak was suspected. Gas lines in the neighborhood had been shut off until the building was sealed, and according to the city, there was no health danger for people on the streets anymore.

Well at least it wasn't another terrorist, you think to yourself.

You finish up your soup and lean back on your couch. You aren't feeling too bad after all, and you do need money. Picking up your phone you call Santoni and tell him you'll be back in tomorrow. He tells you he's glad you're doing okay, but not to push yourself. Scheduling yourself to come in at noon, you sit back down and look to your laptop. With a raised eyebrow, you lean in closer, and with nothing else to do, spend the better part of an hour enjoying life as well as a person can when by themselves.

As the sun begins to get closer to the horizon, you dress in some acceptable clothes, you head down the several flights of stairs and out onto the street, down to the local bar a few blocks away. It used to be a biker bar in the '60s, but those times were long gone, though it still kept up with that aesthetic. You stand at the bar, a smile on your face, and get the attention of Jenny, one of the bartenders. She's an older woman, in her late 30s or early 40s maybe, and doesn't usually work this early. "Hey there, Jen."

"Well look who it is. What do you want?"

"A lot." You smile, taking a seat and beginning a slow journey into inebriation. Three hours and several short conversations with those to your side later, the sun has finally set and you're a little bit drunk.

You drop a few dollars into the tip jar and wish Jen a good night before stumbling off your stool and heading back out. Walking through the door too quickly, you accidentally rush into a man trying to come inside. The door bashes him in the face, sending him back as he stumbles. "What the fuck!?" He yells, clutching his face and staring at you. "Son of a bitch." He pulls his hands away. His nose is crooked and blood is beginning to seep from his nostrils. He looks up from his palms, to your eyes. "Dead meat, motherfucker." His fist begins towards you.

You jump into your best Jackie Chan pose, complete with "Ayyyooooooaaaa," sound effect.

It doesn't do much to stop the fist, which impacts with your face quite well, sending you stumbling back into the wall of the bar's exterior. "Yeah, how fucking kung fu of you, asshole."

He moves closer, readying to strike again.

"Hey man, come on. It was an accident." You try to explain. He punches at you again. You try to move out of the way, but you're half drunk and he's mad. His fist catches you in the stomach. You grimace and raise your own fist, punching out at him.

You strike against his face, knocking him back. Wait, no. Knocking him down? You look down at him, right beneath your feet, crumpled on the ground in the fetal position. His eyes are rolling to the top of his head, and his body's convulsing.

You look down at him, surprised. You didn't hit him that hard. "Hey," you say, squatting down in front of him. "Hey Buddy. You okay?" Nothing. "Hey." You slap him lightly across his cheek. As your fingers slap against him, his face shakes and shudders again. He chokes on air and his body begins to convulse once more.

You fall back onto your ass.

You get up, backing away against the wall of the bar. Shit man, he's pretty fucked up. You look around. There are a few people on the street, but no one's looking at you. Lucky. You reach into your pocket, ready to pull out your cell phone and call an ambulance when you think better. You jog across the street and find a pay phone near a gas station. You dial 911. "There's uh, some guy on the street. I think he's hurt."

"Okay, what's your name, sir?" You hang up and back away, hiding in an alleyway. The man doesn't move. A few minutes later you hear a siren and an ambulance arrives. The EMTs look the man over, getting him onto his back and checking his eyes. With their aid, he seems to begin to stir. At least he's alive. The EMTs get him on a board, and lift him into the ambulance. Soon they're gone.

God damn. You must have hit that guy hard. Wait a minute. That explosion. The dust. You look to your first, and then a dumpster in the alley. You have super streng-

You punch the metal dumpster, but all that happens is the immediate sensation of pain in your hand. Guess you don't have super strength after all.

You. You. You're hungry. You definitely need something to eat right about now. Or fuck it, to drink. You start to head back toward the bar, but stop. Not going back there tonight. You turn around and walk a few blocks to a small Chinese restaurant.

You're careful not to directly touch anyone, and a few egg rolls and some fried shrimp later, you're walking back to your apartment, a box of leftovers in your hand. When you're close, you see some flowering bushes outside a building's stoop. You don't know what they are, but they're colorful, and alive. You think back to the man you somehow incapacitated, and then to your hand, and then the bush. You take a quick peak. No one is paying attention to you. You reach out, laying your hand on one of the flowers. Your fingers peel away, and you look close. Nothing. The flower is as fine as it was before. Hrmm.

You walk into your apartment building, and up the flights of stairs. You step onto your floor and see that damn orange cat that belongs to your neighbors. Damn thing always shits in the hallway and meows all through the night. The cat sits, watching you.

"Here, kitty kitty." You whisper, reaching into your box of Chinese and pulling out a shrimp. You squat down, motioning for the cat to come to you. A few shakes of the shrimp, and the cat comes. You toss the shrimp a few inches in front of you, and the orange shit machine starts to eat. "There we go, good kitty." You reach out slowly, trying not to scare the cat. "Good kitty." You lay your palm on the cat, petting it lightly. Nothing happens. You keep petting it, and think back to what happened. You were drunk, uncoordinated, scared. The man came at you, and.

The cat mumbles a cry, and its legs fall out from under it. You pull your hand back. The cat is obviously still breathing, but it's breaths are shallow, and otherwise it's not moving.

You look around the hallway. There's no one here with you. Good. You reach out again, petting the paralyzed feline. You pet it lightly, smiling to yourself, and thinking, no, wishing that it would get well. Imagining it standing back up and mewing. Thinking of a sunny day and memories of your parents. Memories of playing with your band back when you were younger.

Nothing happens. The cat continues to weakly breath, but it at least hasn't gotten any worse.

You hold your hand firmly against the cat. You grit your teeth and look right at it. You think of pain. Misery. Sorrow. You think of your father dying slowly of cancer. You feel the anger you felt. The pain. You think about killing this little orange fucker.

The cat's chest stops moving. Your vision's gone a bit fuzzy for a second, but you rub them and look again. Yeah, the cat's stopped breathing. You nudge it with your fingers. Pushing it onto it's back. Nothing. You pull it's eyelid up. It's eye doesn't respond. Shit. This cat is dead.

You stand up and back away. Shit. Fuck. You move past it, over to your apartment. You open the door and step inside, stopping to take one more look at the cat. It's still there. It's still dead.

You enter your apartment and lock the door behind you.

You touch your face, feeling your stubble. You think of good memories again. And again, nothing happens.

Steeling your resolve. You grab your face. Wait, no. You think better, moving down to grab your opposite arm. You sit down on the couch, your grip on your arm strong. You set your head against a cushion and think of pain, of being scared, of wanting to stop the man from earlier from hitting you again. You clench your eyes. Nothing. You open one and peak around the room. You're still sitting up straight. You're still grabbing your arm just as tight as before. You try again, trying to give yourself a seizure, or knock yourself unconscious, or whatever it was you did.

Nothing.

Good, we won't accidently kill ourself then. Finish eating, then pick up the cat and go to the neighbours. Tell them we're sorry about that he/she died (but of course don't admit to doing it). That way, they won't suspect us of any foul play ("if he killed her, he would hide her, not bring her to our doorstep and be a sensitive guy about it").

This is, of course, just an experiment. Do beings that touch stuff that we killed also get seizures? Or at least an uncomfortable feeling (that may be hard to test, I'd feel uncomfortable with my cat dead too)? I'm feeling like Death Note here.

You set the leftover Chinese on your counter. You are hungry now, but that's what you get when you eat Chinese. You take out a fork and are about to get at it when you think back to the cat. You shouldn't just leave it there. With a sigh, you set the food down and head out into the hallway.

The cat is still there, and you reach down, picking it's lifeless body into your arms, and kicking the shrimp you'd given it down the hall. Poor thing. You feel a little bad about doing what you did. It was annoying, but hell, you didn't really think it'd die. This is all, what is this? Why the fuck are you able to do this all of a sudden?

The thoughts escape you when you knock on the apartment door. A few seconds later it opens, and the cat's owner is there. She's a young girl, in her early twenties and just out of art school, probably. She's got curly little brown hair, and thick glasses. She looks to you questioningly, and then down to her cat in your arms. "Nooo," she moans, covering her mouth with her hands. She looks back to you, "What happened? What'd you do?"

"Uh, nothing. I just came home and found him lying in the hallway like this." She reaches out and you hand the cat to her. "He wasn't breathing."

She holds it tightly against her breasts, pressing her cheek down against it's head. A few tears form and roll away. You reach out, touching her shoulder lightly. She looks up at you. You think of seducing her. Of her melting into your arms, thanking you profusely for bringing her your cat, of her inviting you in. "Are you okay?" you ask. She looks to you and shrugs. "Do you," you pat her shoulder, imagining her dropping the cat and jumping you like a rabid koala, "need anything?"

She looks down at the cat and pets it's fur. "No," she says, shaking her head. "No."

"Do you wanna take it to the vet?"

She looks up at you, her face indecipherable. "He's dead!"

"Yeah, but you know, for closure? To see how he died?"

She looks at you.

She looks down at her cat, petting it a few times more. You're about to leave when she silently nods, disappearing into her apartment for a minute before returning with her coat, her cat in a small carrier. "Thanks," she says, locking her door and heading towards the stairs. You close your door and follow after her, catching up.

"I'm Francois, by the way," you introduce yourself.

"Amy," she says, not particularly talkative.

You walk beside her down the darkened street. It's pretty late out, but Amy says she hasn't got very much money, so she goes to a cheap 24 hour vet a mile or so away. One the way, you try to comfort her again, imagining once more her warming up to you, but your attempts are in vain.

When you get to the vet, the two of you wait in a small room with other owners. A large man has a snake coiled around his neck that he's petting lovingly. A woman has a large parrot on her arm. A little kid as a bowl with a goldfish. It's just like any cliched veterinarians office you'd see in a show or movie.

After waiting, you're called into the back, and Amy pulls her cat, Jinxy, out of the crate. The vet, a skinny man with greasy hair and a thick mustache, takes one look at the cat and then Amy. "Cat's dead," he says.

Amy begins to cry. You speak up, "Uh, yeah. We know. I uh, found it in our hallway. We were wondering if you could tell how it died."

The man looks at the two of you. "You wan' me to do a autopsy on a cat? Well alright. You still gotta pay though."

The man takes the cat out onto a small table and begins to inspect it. Amy begins to cry harder, and you tell her she should wait outside, and you'll tell her when it's done. She nods and walks back into the waiting room. The Vet looks into the cat's eyes and mouth, inspecting it's body wherever it can. "I don't see any signs of trauma." Reaching into a box for a scalpel, he looks at you. "You sure about this. I mean, it's a cat."

"Just do it." You say. He does.

After a half hour, he shrugs at you, pulling off his pair of gloves and tossing them into the bin. "I dunno whadda say to ya. Cat died man. Organs look fine. Nothing in the throat. Some food in the stomach, but nothing poisonous. It was just an old cat, ya know?"

"Nothing else?"

"I dunno. Unless a cat can have a heart attack or stroke or somethin', I can't tell ya nothin' else."

You think about this for a minute, and nod your head. "Alright, thanks," you say, heading back out into the waiting room.

The Vet calls after you. "You gotta pick up this cat, man." Amy is sitting in a chair, having fallen asleep.

You turn back to the Vet, "Could you, uh, sew it back up. She's taking it pretty hard," you point your thumb back towards your neighbor.

"You sure? I gotta crate fulla dead gerbils back here I could toss it in."

"Come on man, what the fuck is that?"

"Alright, alright. I'll sew it up for ya'. Mr. Fancy here, sheesh." He disappears into the room.

You walk over to Amy, waking her in the chair. She looks up at you, surprised. "Oh, uh,"

"Francois," you tell her.

"Francois. Is it done?"

"Yeah. Doc said it was just old age. You know, regular stuff."

"He was only three." She frowns.

"Maybe he was sick, you know? Cancer or something?" She says nothing, looking down into her hands, crossed on top of her lap. You sit down in the seat next to her, "He's just getting him ready for us to take. Shouldn't be long."

"Thanks," she says softly. In a few minutes, the Vet comes with Jinxy in his crate. Amy thanks him, writing a check at the counter, and walking out of the office. You follow.

You dig in alongside her, pulling away mounds of dirt. Soon she picks up a stick and starts to dig with it. After a bit of work, there's a small hole there. You want to dig deeper, but Amy says it's fine. She reaches into the crate, pulling her cat out, and nuzzling against it one last time before setting it into the hole and covering the body with dirt.

When she's done she sits there, staring at it. You stand up, looking around. "Come on, Amy. We should go."

"Yeah," she says passively. She picks up the empty crate and the two of you walk back to the pathway, following it back the way you came.

Coming around a bend in the pathway, you see a shadow against a tree, just out of a lampost's light.

As you get closer, the shadow begins to move, and a figure emerges from the darkness. A man dressed in dark clothes, a knit hat on his head and over his ears, a baseball cap on top of it, and sunglasses over his eyes. "Ey' boy, ey. You and yer gurlfrend shudn't be out this late, ya naw?"

"Leave us alone," you say, stopping in front of Amy.

The man moves closer to you, his hands in his pockets. "You gotta be careful, ya naw. Bad folk out at night." He smiles. His feet make heavy thuds against the stone. Ten feet away from you. "Dangerous folk." You can see his teeth clearly now, white. Bright white. But crooked as hell. He keeps his hands in his pockets. "Give me your money, muthafucka, or you and her are dead. I'll cut your fuckin' cracka heads off. Don't be fuckin' stupid!"

You raise your hands just in front of your chest. "Okay man, okay. Be cool." You reach into your jeans, pulling out your wallet and the few dollars it holds.

"Hand it ovah," the man demands.

You hold it out in one hand, taking a few short steps towards him. The man smiles his crooked smile, walking up and reaching out with his left hand. It's empty. He's close now. You want to hurt him. Badly.

You reach out with your own left hand. It too is empty. But for you, it doesn't matter. At least you hope not. You grab him around the neck, pressing tightly. The man resists for a moment. You want him to go down. You can't see his eyes, but his teeth chatter for a moment, then his legs give out from under him. He falls to the ground.

You let out a faux martial arts yelp as you make like you're karate chopping this busta's neck bone. You're holding him by the neck, his body limp. You let go and he falls to the ground. You keel down close to him. Real close. He's still breathing. You look at Amy. Her mouth's agape and she's quite obviously, and reasonably shocked at what she just saw. But she says nothing. "Amy, you gotta run. Find a phone."

She nods blankly, and starts slowly down the pathway, her eyes not leaving you and the mugger. Not until she's out of the lamp's light does she turn away and begin to run in earnest.

You look down at the mugger. Reaching into his jacket, you find a folding knife. Motherfucker. You put it in your pocket, along with your own wallet, and then decide to check what else he has. After a quick search, you find a small baggy with several crack rocks, and thirty five dollars. Amy is long gone by now.

You slip the bills into your wallet, and open the baggy pouring the rocks into the man's mouth and stuffing the empty bag back into his pocket.

Getting up, you take off down the path, trying to catch up with Amy. It doesn't take long. She's shorter than you and wearing some dinky little shoes. When she sees you she waves her arms back and forth. She's shaking, obviously scared. "I couldn't find a phone!"

You do have a cell phone. She doesn't.

You shake your head. "Fuck it. Let's get out of here." You grab her hand and she squeezes back. The two of you run down the pathway, heading closer to the streets. Before long you're there, but you keep running until you're both out of breath, stopping at a bus stop to breath.

"Are, are you okay?" She asks.

"Yeah," you say, breathing deeply.

"That guy, I thought he was going to kill you." You just shrug and look away. "Did you kill him?"

You shake your head. "No, he was breathing. I just knocked him out or something. I don't know." You reach out for her hand again and she follows. Neither of you speak during the walk home. And when you get to the building, you walk her to her apartment. "Goodnight," you say. She smiles awkwardly, and shuts her door. You walk back to your apartment and sit down on your couch. You check your clock and see it's 3 in the morning. You've still got work at 12.

Shit. This has been a fucked up couple of days.

Thread Two

You find yourself drained after the day's events, and sleep comes easily. It seems as if only a moment has passed before the sound of a passing siren wakes you. With a stretch, you can see through the window that it's already day. Your clock reads just past 10. You don't have to be at work until noon. You scratch your head, turning on the TV and with a surprise, finding the news. Hrmm, where's Drew Carey?

The anchor is looking a bit disheveled as he reads from the teleprompter. The scrolling news bar on the bottom reads off like a quarantine, warning people to stay out of specific neighborhoods with only vague warnings as to why. You shake your head, waking yourself as you turn up the volume.

". . . fire fighters are still working to put out the flames. There's no word from the fire marshal on what caused the fires, but at this point, it seems as if the entirety of several city block will be a complete loss." The anchor looks off screen for a moment before a hand of an unseen man hands him a piece of paper. The anchor reads silently for a moment, then looks back at the camera. "We have more reports coming in right now. According to eyewitnesses, a man dressed in a business suit on the subway complained of chest pains before . . ." he looks off screen once again, his eyes wide, asking some unseen man, "Seriously?" before looking back and continuing. "The man complained of chest pains to the people around him, before, and I'm quoting from the witness statements here, the man began groaning, until he," he chokes on the words for a second. "dissolved, leaving a puddle of water where he stood." He shakes his head slowly. "This is just another in a long line of unusual, and, quite honestly, impossible reports coming in today." The anchor, who you recall is usually quite reserved and professional, drops the paper on the desk and looks past the camera. "Come on Jeff, really. What the hell is thi-" The signal cuts away to the station's logo and silence.

Well, that's pretty odd, to say the least. You get off the couch, leaving it to be whatever it is, and get ready for the day. You can feel the tensions of yesterday melting away under the streams of hot water, and it feels quite nice. Once you're dry, you dress quickly, feeling a lump in your pocket and finding the folding knife you took off of the mugger. Forgot it was there. Could be useful.

You stuff yourself with your cheap (a necessity when you're this poor) breakfast, and head out. It's not even 11 yet. You should be able to get to work a bit early, hopefully.

Once you step out onto the street, you realize the seriousness of the situation. You could hear a few sirens as you were getting ready, but out here it's entirely different. Two cop cars breeze down the street in front of you, turning around a corner a few hundred feet ahead. You can hear the sound of others in the distance, deeper into the city. Other cars too, seem to be going a bit faster than normal, where the road isn't gridlocked that is.

You shake your head at it all, and hurry down towards the subway. The nearest station is a few blocks away, and you get there quickly, but when you do, you see a mass of people outside the stairs, looking down, talking to each other excitedly, their voices chattering. They all say variations of the same thing, "Oh my god," or "Can you believe it," "What the fuck is it?" "Holy shit!" or "Someone call the fucking cops!" You ask someone what's going on, and they look at you with a puzzled face. "I have no fucking clue, man." From down the stairs, you hear a loud scream, followed by a small rumbling noise and a loud, anguished moan.

You slide your way through the crowd, getting closer to the entrance. A few people are on their phones, but you ignore what they're saying, trying to get a look at what's going on. You get pretty close to the stairs, but when you look down, you can't see shit except for the same dim lighting that there always is, and the base of the stairs.

You ask the person next to you just what the fuck is actually going on. He's an older Jewish man with a big nose and some thick glasses, a knit cap over his curly white hairs. He looks scared. "I can't believe it, it's like a movie, you know."

"What?" You ask.

He shakes his head, he looks like he's a few inches from a heart attack. "It's the damndest thing," he says. "I was waiting for the train, and this guy down the platform falls down, right on the ground, and starts screaming. Then," he shakes his head. "I can't believe, but he started, I don't know, changing." You're about to ask him 'into what?' when there's another shriek from down in the subway, and the crowd goes silent. In a moment, a young woman appears at the bottom of the stairs and starts trying to run up. She looks terrified.

"Someone's coming!" One of the crowd says.

And then you see it. Coming out of the shadows, you see the figure of . . . something. It looks like, you're not sure what, other than big, black, and hairy. It stoops down on the base of the stairs, sitting on all fours, pressing its face down into the ground and loudly sniffing, before looking up at the crowd. It's eyes shine in the light, reflecting a pale yellow.

The crowd screams in unison, the people at the front, around you, turning and yelling, pushing against the people behind them. The woman looks over her shoulder, back at the beast, and trips over the steps, falling a quarter of the way from the top.

The creature begins up after her.

You look in shocked horror as the beast draws nearer to the girl, as she feebly tries to stand and run the rest of the way up the stairs. "Shit," you say. "Eat this, you hairy dick!" You yell, tossing your phone at the monster like a plastic fastball. Surprisingly, you manage to hit it. And somewhat predictably, it seems to have no effect other than momentarily surprising it before falling away and clattering down the stairs. The creature continues towards the woman, having almost caught up to her.

You head down the stairs, taking two or three at a time, getting closer to the woman. It's fast, and before you know it, you're next to her, and almost in front of the werewolf. You hold out your hands, ready to pounce, or at least press against it, your thoughts focusing on it going to sleep, or having a seizure, or whatever it is you can do.

The creature reaches you, and you attack.

You try to reach out and touch someone, but god damn, that werewolf is big, and it's strong, and it's coming pretty fast. The beast slams into you, your hands barely sliding across it. It seems to feel some sort of shock, but whatever it was, it wasn't enough.

The werewolf barrels past you like nothing, knocking you back against the wall of the stairwell and leaping onto the back of the woman. She screams out as its powerful jaws and claws begin to tear into her back, only several feet away from you.

Your breath was knocked out of you, bringing back memories of how you felt getting blasted by the explosion days earlier. You struggle to pick yourself up more quickly this time, staggering to your feet on the uneven steps, grabbing the handrail.

You hear the sounds of ripping and tearing as the woman is torn apart from behind, spurts of red flying up, shooting from her back and out of the monster's jaws. Then there's a sickening crunch. You feel sick, light headed. But you know what, fuck it. This can not stand. You leap onto the back of the monster, grabbing onto it's thick hair and imagining you were some kind of god damned cowboy in the wild west. It responds in kind, trying to shake you loose. It likely would with ease, if you hadn't pumped its spine full of whatthefuck ever, causing it's entire body to convulse and shake, a mournful howl escaping it's jagged mouth. You can't see them, but its eyes roll to the back of its head, which in turn falls flatly to the staggered ground, unconscious.

You catch your breath and look up at the woman. She's not moving, already unconscious. The yellow floral dress she was wearing is torn to ribbons in the back, stained read, strips of skin mixed with the fabric, sprawled out like some foul flower of flesh and cotton. She's in a bad way.

You stare dumbfounded for a moment, your stomach uneasy at the grisly sight. And then you realize, if you hadn't already, that if she doesn't get help, she's going to die. You look down the stairs, seeing your phone at the bottom. Hurrying down, you scoop it up. It looks okay, just the battery got knocked a bit loose. You're about to push it back into place when you look over the platform.

It's worse than the girl on the stairwell. Half a dozen people at least, torn to pieces. Quite literally. There's a bloodied arm, torn free, hanging off a trashcan. The rest of the body is several feet away. It's less a body, than chunks of meat and broken bones in a pool of blood. The rest are no better. People who tried desperately to run, their blood smeared across their torn and broken faces.

You cover your mouth and keep yourself from gagging, turning away and pulling yourself up the stairs with the railing. Near the top you see a pair of naked legs, a man's legs. The 'werewolf'. It seems going unconscious reverted him back to his normal state. Fleshy pink skin, covered in blood from his face down.

You move past, trying not to look at the wounded woman. On the street surface, you see a few people gathered away from the stairs, looking at you as you emerge. The old Jewish man is in the back. You shake your head. "God damn." You say. "God damn. Someone call 911." You stumble away from the stairs, over onto the sidewalk.

You mutter to yourself and think of calling his home number, except you realize that you don't know his home number. Only thing to do is get over there and see what's up.

You leave the subway, and the slaughter within, behind you, and move down the sidewalk, ignoring the calls and shrieks of people entering into the subway to investigate.

You aren't sure if the subway is running further down the line, or if there are other scenes just like this elsewhere. Walking shouldn't take too long, and shit, you could use the air.

It does do you some good, and after a half hour of walking, with no interruptions save a few people running in different directions, or emergency vehicles heard or seen, you make it to Santoni's. You're feeling better, too. Getting some blood pumping through your veins seems to have helped.

The pizza shop doesn't look bad. There's no damage. Windows are fine. Lights are on. Sign says 'Open'. You walk inside, the electric chime announcing your arrival. You can smell burnt pizza coming from the back, but otherwise, there's nothing amiss. No one in the booths. No one behind the counter. You walk into the back. There's no one.

What the fuck is going on? Where is everyone? Feeling confused, you walk back out to the front and are about to leave, locking the door behind you when you see something, or rather someone who wasn't there before. You're sure of it. The booth was empty a moment ago, but now there's someone there: a young kid, a teenager, taking a big bite out of a slice of pepperoni. He doesn't seem to have noticed you.

"Hey!" You call out to him. His head pops up in surprise, like a ground hog or gopher, or something. He looks over at you, his eyes big like silver dollars. He looks poor, maybe homeless. Old ratty hooded sweatshirt, thick bob of hair in a bowl cut. Dirt smudged across his face, except for around his mouth, which he's wiping with a napkin.

"Shit," he says, ducking down into the booth and out of sight.

You clench a fist, getting ready to beat the fuck out of this little kid if you have to, and walk steadily towards the booth. "Hey. Hey kid." You mentally prepare yourself for shocking his ass if he pops up, and you draw nearer to the booth. "You're not in trouble or anything. Don't worry. Just tell me where everyone is." You pop around the side of the booth and see it's empty. You get on your knees and look under the table. Likewise, it's empty. Huh?

You grab the table and pull yourself up. Where the hell did he go? Turning around, you're surprised to say the least. The restaurant is alive with sound, and full of people, busy for lunch as always. There are a dozen or so people eating at the tables. Dianne is working the counter, and you can see Santoni himself working back at the ovens. "Large Pep, extra cheese, coming out!" He yells out of the back. He sees you and smiles, " 'Ey, Franky. Good to see you made it. Hurry up and get dressed. We got orders."

You look around the restaurant, confusion brewing. What the god damn dingleberry dang just happened? "Uh, right . . ." you say, walking slowly behind the counter. You stand around for a moment, looking at the faces of the people, looking for the kid from a moment ago, but he's not here.

You pull out your phone and check the time. Just before 12:30. With your phone in hand, you notice a spot of blood from earlier on your fingers.

"Hey uh, Mr. S. Why didn't you answer when I called?"

Santoni slides a fresh pizza out of the oven and sets it on the counter. He looks at you, his lips curled, "Wha'? When'd you call?"

"Uh, a half hour, forty minutes ago?"

He shakes his head. "Well damn, Franky. I don't even come in until eleven."

"What?" You ask.

Santoni looks at you questioningly, cutting the pizza. "You okay, kid?"

"Uh," you look at the wallclock in the back. It reads 11:30. "Mr. Santoni, I think I came back to early. I uh, I might need another day or two." You check your phone again. It still says half past noon.

"Yeah, yeah." He says slowly. "Go ahead. Get some more rest. You sure you're okay, kid?"

"Yeah," you say, walking towards the door and waving back to him. "Yeah, I will be." You leave the pizza parlor and look around. What just happened? Did everyone? Did you? That kid, what the fuck did he do? You pull out your phone once more, checking the time. 12:32. You put it away, and walk down the sidewalk, back towards your home.

A man in a suit, carrying a briefcase and talking on a phone is coming the opposite way. You wave to him and ask him the time. "Uh," he looks at his watch. "Eleven thirty-two." He moves on by you without a second look.

It was easily past 11 when you left your apartment. And it took way more than a half hour at the subway and then here. Wha-

Wait. The subway. If it's 11:30, then it hasn't happened yet. They're not dead. Shit! You break out into a run, rushing down the street and avoiding people on the sidewalk and passing cars. You feel your stomach burning and your hands shake, and try as you might, you can't run fast enough long enough, and you have to stop to slow down each few minutes. You check the time. 11:40. You should be able to get there in time. You just have to keep moving forward, faster than when you came.

A light jog now, faster than everyone else. You'll be there soon, you'll be there in time, you know it. You have to. The streets are familiar to you. You pass them every day. And you're getting closer.

Eleven forty-five, and the subway entrance is in sight. You stop at the entrance at the top of the stairs and look around. Everything seems normal. No blood. No bodies. No wrenching screams. Good. Good, you made it. You stand for a minute, catching your breath, letting the blood return to your head. People move past you, walking down the stairs. You see the woman in the yellow floral dress. The one you couldn't save. She's beautiful now, alive and vibrant, and she moves by you without a pause. You follow.

The platform is like any other. Like it is every day you take it. People mill about waiting for the train. The girl in the dress moves past them towards the women's bathroom. Guess that's why she was last. You breath deeply, looking around for the man from earlier. For the werewolf. You see the old Jewish man standing by a bench, a newspaper folded in his hands. But no sign of the werewolf.

You move towards a backwall, moving your eyes around the soon-to-be abattoir. No, not anymore. You're going to stop it. And then you see him, walking down the stairwell. He looks normal enough without blood covering his face, only a well maintained goatee. White, a few years older than you, dressed in a suit with a briefcase. He moves without concern down the stairs, moving towards the center of the crowd and standing still.

You watch him, and you wait.

You lock onto him, watching him silently, clenching and releasing your fist. This whole thing is new to you, but you feel like you're getting the hang of it more and more now. Just touch and put him down. That easy. That easy. No one dies.

You move from the wall, careful not to bump into anyone as you come closer to him from behind. He's rocking on his feet, passing the time and checking his watch. You slink up next to him while he's distracted. "Hey," you get his attention.

He looks at you, curious. You get your first good look at him, real up close. He looks absolutely normal. Just an average guy.

"Hey uh... do I know you? You seem familiar... hey, were you there when that warehouse exploded a few days ago?"

His confusion expands upon itself. He shakes his head slightly, "Uh, I think you've got me confused with someone else, buddy." He turns away from you, pretending to look at his watch again.

You stand in silence, watching him. It feels like an eternity. Each second draws on like an hour. You swallow hard, feeling the tension rising. Soon. It should be happening soon.

There's the sound of a train off in the far distance down the tunnel. You look down into the darkness by instinct, and then you hear it. A groaning cough. You turn back to the stranger, the beast. He's looking uncomfortable now. His skin's growing redder, sweat's seeping through his skin. He grabs his tie and loosens it. You lick your lips ever so slightly. "You okay, man?" He looks at you, his eyes are dilating. He coughs, then groans. His groans turn to pained moans, and he grabs his stomach, his briefcase falling to the ground. He follows soon after, falling to his knees.

The people around the two of you move away, giving him room. He's bellowing now. His voice cracking and waving. It's not a scream. It's a howl, guttural and animalistic. But still quite human. He falls to his side, curled into the fetal position like a child or wounded animal. This is it, you tell yourself. This is it. He's going to change. He's going to kill so many people. You don't have time to worry if you're on your way here right now. You don't care about paradoxes or the universe crashing in on itself. Right now, all that matters is that this man is moments away from losing his humanity. From tearing away the life from a half dozen innocent men and women here. And most importantly, you can stop it.

Someone yells for a doctor. But you're already there, leaning down over him. "Hey man, are you alright." He's shaking now. You get in close. Face to face. He opens his eyes, just a slit each. The iris' contract and then expand. The retina changes into a dull yellow. No. Not anymore. You reach out, palming his face. "Go to sleep," you whisper.

The beast's eyes contract again, pinpricks of darkness, and then his lids close, the shaking stops, and he lays silently, motionless. Someone leans down over you, beside you. A crowd forms. "Hey, is he okay?"

"Yeah. I think so." You reply.

You wrap your arm around his shoulder, "Hey, help me out here." Without thinking about it, a few people lean down and help you get him to his feet. He's still quite unconscious, as he's practically dead on his feet, though still breathing. "Hey, get his briefcase." You say. Someone does, holding onto it in front of you. "Help me get him up and outside," you say.

"I got 'im," someone says. It's the old Jewish man from earlier. He gets on the other side, taking the briefcase from the bystander, and helping you to walk the unconscious man out through the crowd towards the stairs.

"Do you think you should do that!?" Someone from the crowd yells. You turn around for a second about to reply when you see the door to the bathroom open, and the woman in the floral dress step out. You smile to yourself and turn back to the stairs.

You and the old Jew carry him up the stairs slowly. He's not that heavy of a man, but it's all dead weight, and the old timer is grunting through it as you draw towards the top. When you hit sunlight and the flat surface of the street, you motion with your head towards a bench down the way. "Let's get him over there." You both carry him towards the bench, setting him down as he slumps in place.

The old man sits next to him, wiping his forehead. "Whew. That was some work."

You rest your hands on your hips. "Yeah. Thanks for the help. He's uh, an acquaintance. I don't know if he took his meds today," you lie.

The old man waves to you, nodding. "Pills, pills. Don't get me started on pills. I've got to take one in the morning to thin my blood. Except of course, it makes it so I can't piss. So I've gotta take another to make me piss, but then I gotta piss all the time. And then there's my prostate. Oye. Don't get me started on my prostate." He talks on for a while, and you nod, putting in a word here and there. His name is Saul and he used to work for a newspaper in Greenwich village until he retired, and now he does whatever the fuck he wants, including hookers young enough to be his granddaughter, he's not ashamed to say, laughing as he does.

He stays seated next to the unconscious man, insisting on making sure that he's alright. For your part, you stand with your back towards the street, and if your earlier 'you' is there, where 'you' wont' see your face. It's nearly ten minutes before he begins to stir. Saul nudges him, "Hey, sonny, you okay?"

The man mumbles, his eyes glazed as he looks around. "Thanks Saul. I think I've got it from here. Saul smiles, getting up off the bench and wishing you good luck, and telling the dazed man to remember to take his pills, before heading down into the subway. You watch him go, and then sit down on the bench. The man is slowly coming back to consciousness.

You grab the man's shoulder, preparing yourself to put him under for the third time (by your count) today. "Hey, buddy." He looks over at you, his eyes heavy and half-closed. "You okay, man?"

"Whuh," his voice is slow and mumbled.

You look into his eyes, glassy as they are. "Do you know what happened back there?" You swallow hard, remembering the scene that was, and could have been. "What almost happened?"

He looks at you, confused. "Who. Who are yooooou? Wha happened?"

"Francois. I'm Francois," you introduce yourself, giving him a moment to compose himself. "You passed out in the subway."

He looks at you, and then rests his face in his palms. He sits like that for a minute, then rubs his eyes. "Urgh, I feel like I was hit by a train."

"You pass out like this before," you ask him. "Maybe in the last few days?"

He runs his hand over his face and through his hair, leaning back into the bench. "What? No, no. Never." He looks over to you. "I passed out?"

"Yeah. I carried you up here."

He nods his head. "Thanks. Francois?"

"Yeah."

"I'm John. John Wolfowitz." He reaches out to shake. You take his hand and think to yourself, 'Seriously? Wolfowitz. Come the fuck on, that is not possible. Some guy is writing this and jerking himself off over the 'hilariousness' of this guys' name.' But the thought soon passes and you watch the man closely as he regains his bearings.

"Hey, what time is it?" He asks you.

You look at your phone. "Uh, one-thirty, about."

"One thirty!?" He says, standing up from the bench. "Shit, I'm late."

"Oh wait, wait. No, it's only twelve-thirty. Twelve-thirty." You say, getting up with him.

He looks noticeably relieved. "Still, I'm running behind. I've got to go. Thanks for everything."

You start after him, grabbing him by the shoulder. "Hold up a minute, John. There are some things we should discuss."

He turns back, "What is it? I've gotta go."

"Are you sure you didn't get into any accidents in the last few days? You may have suffered concussion of some sorts. Just passing out is not normal."

"No, I haven't. Look, I'm fine, okay. I was probably dehydrated."

"What about that warehouse that exploded the other day. Were you near it at all? Did you walk by it later or something? Anything?"

He looks at you, shaking his head, and then he stops. "Wait. How did you know about that?"

"What happened, John?"

"Nothing," he holds out his hands, exasperated. "I just walked down the street to get lunch and saw this warehouse on fire. Watched the firetrucks putting it out for a while and kept on going. But I didn't pass out or anything. Wait, do you think it was like 9/11, with all the dust. Shit, do you think I'm gonna get cancer like all those first responder guys?"

"Listen, John. I was there, too. I don't mean just walking by it. I was there when it exploded. I got the shit knocked out of me. It was the most scared I've been in my life, until earlier today."

"What happened earlier today?" He asks.

"It doesn't matter," you say. "Not anymore. But John, something's not right. You're going to work, I'm guessing? Well, I think you might want to call out; if you had been standing closer to the tracks when you passed out... I think you and I should talk over what's been happening to us before either of us gets in any more trouble."

He smiles and laughs. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm serious, John. Something's different. Things have happened since that explosion . . . some damn weird things. I don't know where you work, but really man, take an hour off at least. I live a couple blocks away. Just come over for a minute, and let's talk."

"Uh, listen Francois, I don't know who you think you are, I mean, thanks for helping me, but this is getting a bit too weird. So I'm gonna get my briefcase, and get to work."

"John, you were going to kill people." You speak in a hushed yell. Your voice quiet, but harsh. "You were going to change, and you were going to kill a lot of people, and I stopped you."

"Okay, this isn't funny, I'm leav-" You grab his face and shock him. You try to not do it as hard as before, 'just a taste', as it were. John stumbles back, his arms raised. "What the fuck!" He yells, his hands going to his face, his eyes. He rubs them vigorously. "What'd you do!? I can't see. What the fuck did you do to me?"

You grab him, covering his mouth with your hand. "I told you. Things are different now. We can . . . do things, that we couldn't before." You take him with you, back to the bench, and sit him down. He sits quietly, his hands on his face, whimpering, asking quietly, 'what did you do, what did you do?' over and over again.

"Don't worry," you say. "You should be fine."

"Should!?" He reaches out blindly, grabbing for you. You grab his arms, pulling them to his side.

"Calm down, John. Just breathe, and wait." It takes some coaxing, and he still whimpers, but he remains as calm as possible, given the fact that a stranger just blinded him.

But you were right. A few minutes pass, and he looks around, blinking. "I . .. I can see, a little bit. It's blurry. Like, waxy." He rubs his eyes. "Yeah, I can see. I can see!" He blinks hard a few times, looking at the sky and the street, and then back to you. His smile disappears, and he looks at you, fear on his face. "What the hell are you?"

You shrug. "I'm just a guy. Just like you."

Original Threads

http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/16610191/

http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/16724340/