The Germ of My Creation

Just a bit of writing I did this morning. It’s a first draft, but I like the ideas. I have the rest of the story in mind, so maybe I’ll get somewhere with it, you never know. Read it if you want to.

The germ of my creation was simple. Scientists fooled with the idea of-

CRASH!

“Goddammit, Milo. Do you have to make so much noise? I’m trying to read!”

“Meooww,” There was another crash as Milo leapt onto a stack of boxes which immediately fell over and landed him in a crumpled heap inside of one of them. “Mrewww..”

-with the idea of creating super-soldiers to fight in the war effort, but they needed something more. I was that something more.

Twenty years ago, in the free state of Aurania, th-

“Mooww? Prrrrr… prrrrrrrr…” The cat rubbed itself against the night guard’s leg insistently. “Mmmeow.”

“Jesus! Leave me alone!” The guy’s name tag said ‘My name is: GUARD (LOL)’. GUARD pushed the cat away with his foot and it stumbled off mewing sadly.

-e science department of the Auran military base were experimenting with the effect of chemical compounds on the brain tissue of human subjects. It was unethical, but then, no-one else knew about it. So, the chances of their being found out were slim. The subjects were kept in huge vats of a liquid substance which prevented the need for them to be pumped air and food by filling the liquid with nutrients and oxygen and making it breathable. It was a long kept secret how they prevented the subjects drowning in the liqu-

“RROOWWW!” Milo leapt at GUARD’s face in a sudden feat of prowess. GUARD was so shocked by this he fell backwards off his chair and hit his skull on the corner of a table, which left a large crack in it (his skull, not the table), from which he leaked various fluids for the next 10 minutes until his eventual death. Milo, who, after some inspection, vaguely understood that GUARD would not be getting up and telling him off again, padded over to the book which the night guard had dropped in his surprise, flicked it back to the page which he was reading from and took the next three hours out to read the end. It turned out that the psychic soldiers were created from alien tissue which had been transplanted into the human body’s because.. well, they had spare alien tissue lying around and they were a bit bored, basically.

* * *

It was all a bit too easy. The guard seemed to have hit his head on the table behind him and bled to death. His cat was busy reading some generic sci-fi book, and the alarms still hadn’t been fixed from the last time he was in here.

Law didn’t have a name tag, because he was a thief, and thieves don’t have name tags. But his name was Lawrence Armaus Mitchell. His friends called him ‘The Lamb’. Well, not really his friends. He didn’t have many friends. But ‘The Lamb’ was the name he spray-painted on the doors of places he had stolen from, to provoke fear and dread into his victims and general passers-by.  So, he called himself ‘The Lamb’.

He re-sprayed his nickname on the door as he left with the rest of the royal jewels. For effect, he wrote underneath; ‘No-one can keep him out’. He wanted to think of a clever wordplay on his name, commenting on how ironic it was compared to the purity of the Lamb of God metaphors. But he was a thief, not a poet, so he stuck with the obvious.

About 3 blocks from the Museum, there was a warehouse where Law kept all his goodies before they were sold on or added to his collection of shiny things. It wasn’t an abandoned warehouse. In fact, it was used quite often, but Law was very sneaky, and didn’t need a place to have no people in all the time for him to hide things in it.

He whistled softly to himself as he unlocked the safe which he had found in one of the back rooms of the warehouse a couple of years back. He had changed the code to his birthday backwards, because he never seemed to get any presents on his birthday, so he assumed nobody knew when it was.

It had just turned midnight. There was a full moon, and he heard some idiot werewolf howling in the distance. It was too light all of a sudden. The moon had appeared from behind the clouds and was casting a dull light on the city’s dull colours. Nobody knew him without his hat and coat. He took them off, kissed his hat on the brim and placed it and his carefully folded trench-coat on top of the fancy boxes full of expensive rocks. Law sighed softly and tilted his head, gazing at his hat mournfully. He didn’t like to leave them here. It was like leaving his own children, but if he was caught, they’d take them away from him anyway. He locked up the safe especially carefully and pushed a huge box of Rubix cubes in front of it. Failsafe. But not a fail safe, hopefully.

 

On his way home, the werewolf he had heard howling earlier tried its luck on him. He gazed at it in a heap on the floor, smiling slightly at the futility of it attempt, brushed himself off and walked the rest of the 2 blocks home.

Mr and Mrs Featherstone, after what seemed to be a night of drunken debauchery, walked past as he reached his front gate.

“Lawrence, darling!” Mrs Featherstone exclaimed. Mr Featherstone staggered slightly as she threw her arms up with enthusiasm.

“Good morning, Mrs Featherstone,” Law bowed deeply, fumbled for his hat for a second before realising he wasn’t wearing it and threw a loose salute instead. “Mr Featherstone.” He turned to the husband and repeated the action, minus the fumble.

“Morning already? My, Phillip, we have been out far too long!” She laughed uproariously and Mr Featherstone, having taken a while to realise what was happening, fell over as he tried to execute the same bow that Law had.

“Lawrence, sweetheart, could you assist? He’s become rather a lump in his old age. Oh, ha-ha-ha.” Mrs Featherstone bent down herself, falling to her knees and giggling madly.

Eventually, Law managed to get them both to their front door at number 55. Mr Featherstone had passed out and was muttering to himself inaudibly, so his wife left him laying in the porch and went to bed.

“’Lawrence, darling!’” Law mimicked Mrs Featherstone’s posh accent as he stepped up to his front door, laughing to himself, feeling around in his pocket for his house key and finding.. nothing.

“…Dammit!” He realised his key was in the inside pocket of his jacket, which was currently locked in a safe 7 blocks away. He was beginning to feel like a bit of an idiot having to break into his own house for the third time in a week. Why do I even have keys? It’s not like I need them.. He thought to himself, as he climbed over the fence to his back garden and reached for his head, to pick the lock of the kitchen door with a paperclip he kept.. in a hole.. in the lining.. of his…

“ARGH!”

* * *

The next morning, Law’s eyes flickered open and he stared at his ceiling for a while. He’d finally managed to let himself in, by removing the lock of his kitchen door with a screwdriver and a pair of pliers from his shed, which he’d unlocked by kicking it.

His bad mood had disintegrated. The Sun was streaming in through the window, bright and warm, and he felt good about the situation. Today he would pose as a worker from the warehouse near the Museum, claim he found the gems hidden in a safe out back and get a huge reward for their return, which would be advertised in this morning’s newspaper, on the 4^th or 5^th page in large font. The front page, of course, would be the usual story, ‘THE LAMB FOILS POLICE AGAIN’, or ‘THE LAMB A BLACK SHEEP’. Although, today might be a bit different. That guard would have been found dead this morning. The press would have been contacted immediately, of course. A new, shiny headline thought up.. ‘THE LAMB: A THIEF AND A MURDERER?’

Of course, it hadn’t been him that had killed the poor guy, just a horrible accident, but ‘The Lamb’ would get the blame. Probably not the best for his reputation.

An hour or so later, and the real newspaper confirmed his suspicions. The headlines still questioned if The Lamb had been the cause of the man’s death, even though the forensic departments said the guard’s death appeared to be an accident, and the police were unwilling to believe that a thief who had been active for 5 years now and never harmed, hell, never even been seen by anyone unless he wanted them to would suddenly feel the need to start killing people.

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