Introduction

This is just the introduction, these characters are major, but there is more than one division of this society!

 

10 men sit around a tall, perfectly rectangular black marble table. Staring at each other. These men are the leaders. Dressed in total black, trim suits, each one identical to the last. All sit in towering, black leather chairs, cocooning themselves in the comforting sides that hug against them. The meeting was meant to have started an hour ago. One member, however was late, as expected. The man sitting at the end of the table, his chair gilded at the sides in pure 24 carat gold, moves towards the recorder, about to start the meeting when a group of men rush into the room. They get straight to work. Ignoring the objections for the 10 men in black, they set up a wall mounted projector, bring in 5 vials of differing murky colours, and a pedestal of a metal of some sort. It must be heavy, as it takes 3 of the heavily muscled men to work it into place, their grunts the only sound in the entire room as they strain to get it in the correct position. Another man walks in. Easily recognisable as the 11^th member, he walks with a slight limp, wears a long pure white lab coat, with a shock of grey hair sticking in tufts on his quickly balding head.

Despite his sloppy, unkempt appearance he carries with him an air of utmost authority. He is number 2 of the most powerful men in the world. All of 1 to 11 are sitting in this room, little do any of them know what their power truly means. Stepping up onto the large block of metal, Number 2 begins to speak. “Gentleman, I truly apologise for my uncannily recurrent lateness’s to these weekly meetings. However,” he smiles, waving his hand gently down to calm the increasing temper of his fellow leaders. “I have been hard at work, I must admit it has been of utmost secrecy, if you had wished to know what I was doing I would have said but… That didn’t happen.” He jumps down from the pedestal with a sudden burst of vigour, and jogs towards the vials of swampy liquids. Picking up the first of 5, he continues. “This is my legacy. And, if you would have it, so too will it be yours!” He drinks the liquid. Nothing happens, and the leaders begin to mutter to themselves, disputing the idea of appointing this man as one of the 11.

As the disputed calls of contempt towards Number 2 begin to rise, louder and louder, becoming more and more passionate with every repetition of disdain for this old, obviously crazed abomination of a man, something changes. Everyone stops. The air feels thick with some potent, unknown energy. “If only you would let me finish.” Number 2 continues. “Perhaps a real demonstration would aid in your acceptance. Number 11, come here please.” He waves his hand smoothly through the air, and Number 11, his face suddenly a ghostly shade of white, gets up and glides smoothly over to Number 2. “Am I correct in my beliefs that you are in command of nothing, a ‘Jack of all Trades’ yes? You hold no power over what happens in our beloved country, unlike the other men in this room. You are nothing but an advisor to us?” With each mocking claim, Number 11 nods, whimpering softly.

“I know I do not hold true power, but I am of good use, sir.” He moans, desperate to avoid his fate.

“You certainly do, my friend. You hold the honour of the first to die.” With that, Number 2 taps the poor, hysterical man on the shoulder. Enough to seal his fate, Number 11 turns, gasping for breath that doesn’t seem to come when he inhales. His eyes begin to flare up, he faces the other leaders and a blinding white light envelopes his eyes, he begins to cry blood, the crimson fluid running down thickly from his eyes, soaking into his black shirt and dripping onto the floor. His face creases into a grimace of pain, his eyes will not shut, the unbearable thought of this pain lasting any longer making death seem like a welcome escape. With his final wish granted, he slumps down over the table.

Number 1 stands, his face contorted in rage, “ Why? What is the purpose of this exercise, what do you want to prove to us, that you can kill? We have seen your most barbaric actions before, but nothing as sickening as the merciless slaughter of one of our own!” He screams, his piercing white eyes fixated on Number 2.

“My dear leader, you talk as if my demonstration is over, far from it.” With that, the scientist lifts the limp corpse of Number 11 effortlessly over his shoulder and sits him up against the metal pedestal. He glides gracefully over and picks up the vials of liquid, pouring them slowly into Number 11’s mouth. “You’re wondering what this is, aren’t you?” he questions, tapping the thick metal block. “You should be, I know I was. This is what I like to call an ‘activation stone’. Highly radioactive, I can assure you. With the correct chemical compounds in the body, this stone and cause a premature mutation. In other words, if I put the right stuff in your body, I can make you invincible.” He jumps back as the body begins to reanimate, the skin stretches to its maximum tautness, then splits open. Muscles building up in every inch of the dead mans body. His suit splits open, his legs grow longer, leaner. The process continues for about 2 minutes, just the constant growth of a corpse. The process is sickening, proving far too much for some of the 11, who have to leave the room, heading out onto the balcony for air.

By the end of it, the undead man stands at 9 feet, weighing in excess of 40 stone, pure muscle. “This, my friends, is our genetic future.”

Author's Note

Review it with everything you've got. Anything, seriously, right down to spelling errors, leave no stone unturned with this one thanks. I'm a bit of a novice, this is my first piece put up, so I want to get some really strong foundations. Both good and bad things though! Much appreciated!