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.

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.

STORY

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.