My name is Lincoln. Funny, I know, for a kid in this country to be named after a president of another, more powerful country. You can call me Link, but then you would probably think of some console game character, and that will throw even more confusion and hilarity into the mix.
But I digress. Forgive me, time is short. In fact, time is the problem here.
And time is the reason why you are reading this story.
You will have many questions – you probably already have loads by this point – but I promise, all will be explained.
No, that is wrong. I pray to God I can.
It all began … oh, I don’t know, umpteen years before. The event has become legend, but ask anyone and they will tell you that it started, as these kinds of stories normally do, with a medical centre and a mad scientist. A biological project released something, a new strain of virus that literally changed one from the core. The first of them were simply called the Infected, but the name was short-lived as they quickly spread and consumed mankind, in a single night.
Not much was remembered about the mad scientist, about his origins. His laboratory was subsequently lost over time, but I was given this piece from salvaged history – a transcribed excerpt of his project’s recordings – a small remnant of the truth.
“Project Tyke – Day 1667. This is Dr H--- recording observations of tests for the latest chimaera. I say chimaera, because it has become apparent in recent attempts, that successful aberrations were only possible by involving more than two specimens to create unexpected synergies in the results.
“We have long since abandoned base principles of morality, fringing on legal and even natural laws to achieve our goal. As we approach the five-year mark of this project, it has become imperative that we attempt what has never been attempted, in order to find a cure to ---. We can no longer afford failure; each new batch must work better than the previous. History will forget, even forgive, our so-called atrocities, so long as the product succeeds.
“We are fortunate our sponsors had approved direct-to-human trials – foregoing such unnecessary precautions had singularly expedited our progress.
“Today’s test subjects are more of the feeble, and ailing. How I --- them --- they are the perfect specimens for this project. The new strain combines --- and --- projections indicate an initial burst of energy and loss of sentience, but as the body stabilizes post-treatment the subject will possess --- greater than before. Better still, a single dose is sufficient to produce permanent, irreversible effect.
“This is it. Today marks a brand-new chapter – no, a brand-new saga of history for humanity. Today marks the end of---“
I had hoped the doctor was not as mad as he had been made up to have been. But, if anything, this excerpt proved his ruthless abandon of morals, of reason – everything that defined us as human. The Infected were not the first of their kind – Dr H was.
Or, as he has since been known, Lord Tyke.
In five years, a wretched society grew from the midst of the mad doctor’s creation. The Infected had taken to call themselves Superhumans, a new race of homo sapiens that is superior in every biological way. They were, in fact, stronger and faster with enhanced senses and reflexes – everything mankind needs to advance to greater heights, apart from compassion and empathy.
Lord Tyke had us believe that emotion is the true hindrance to man’s development; his virus evolved mankind’s pursuit of perfection into an intolerance for inability, incapability, and error. He sought to create his new world by ridding it of those unaffected by his virus. Outcast, rejected and betrayed by those closest to them, they were left to the mercy of the Watchers – or rather, their lack thereof, the hunters of the inferior. The Imperfects, they came to be labelled, a name that was meant to ridicule and ostracise.
It was a name that the Imperfects came to embrace, a symbol of their humanity, their sacrifice of perfection for something greater. Though – they, too, grew into a faction of society equal in standing to the Superhumans, if not in power nor numbers. For the road was paved by Rowen, the beacon of hope.
I would not have believed this legend, this girl or the event that turned the tide for the redemption of humanity, if I had not met her in person. Rowen was the most unassuming girl you could imagine, but perhaps that was her secret. You would not have expected her to orchestrate a resistance, even a rebellion to save the souls of mankind, but she did. No-one would remember what she looked like or where she had gone to, but no-one could ever forget her words either.
“Something is missing in this in this society. In the pursuit of perfection, we have lost the essence that made us human - humanity. The Watchers are watching. Society thinks that we are the virus. Yes, we are a threat to this society. We will cripple this addiction to perfection, and preserve humanity.
“Stand strong. Choose compassion.”
Stand strong, choose compassion. It was those words that tore the veil for me, and for so many Superhumans.
Yes, dear reader. I too am one of the involved. And so was Rowen.
And Marcus. Poor Marcus.
Ah, now I have gone too far. We must recap the turning point. The inexplicable, impossible turning point past what was thought to be the point of no return.
Lord Tyke himself undid his own creation. He discovered and invaded the main hideout of the Imperfects, cornering Rowen and challenging them to a battle of supremacy.
I was there that fateful night, counted among the Imperfects, hidden among the corralled by Rowen’s ingenious trick. And so was Marcus.
We were imprisoned in groups, in cells, in the very same medical centre that birthed the Superhumans. The Watchers became our wardens, and tortured us, taunted us with our own mistakes and shortcomings.
But the Watchers, Lord Tyke, Superhumans – they did what we thought was impossible that night. Not noticing us, they locked us Superhumans up with the Imperfects. We who sided with them in this war to turn the tide.
They made a mistake.
In that darkness, four words become whispers of hope. In those cells, that hope was born from a feeling, the ability to put another above oneself. In groups, that hope grew those four words into a battle cry.
Stand strong. Choose compassion.
We helped one another. It was really as simple as that. Superhumans and Imperfects, working together to stand strong against the Watchers. Most extraordinarily, the Imperfects offered the Watchers compassion, turning them towards the same hope that saved us.
And now, all those years later, humanity struggles to reclaim what made us human. Slowly, we learn to coexist, as if peoples of two nations on the only land left to man.
A few, however, were lost that night. Rowen disappeared, but she left behind a message of faith. Faith in the Imperfects, in the great work that had been laid before us by that turning point. No-one has since seen or heard of her, even though she promised she was simply carrying on the good work on her own, in other infected parts of the world.
Lord Tyke was not brought to justice; he, too, vanished without a trace. Looking back, I could not be sure of what we would do, had we did. Would we string him up (or worse) for crimes against humanity? Would we have simply let him go? Or would we, could we even, convince him to our side?
After all those umpteen years, I still do not know.
Then there was Marcus. Poor Marcus. There was no good way of saying it – the nastiest of fate befell him that night, a fate that we will only discover when it will be too late.
No, I did not make a mistake there. Something has happened – will happen, but has not. It is beginning, and it has ended – but not, I think, for you, dear reader.
I know, it is confusing for me too. I write this story only because I was handed a tattered and half-burned remnant of the original, an aged parchment – but clearly, containing the words you have just read, in my own handwriting.
Can you guess?
There are other markers, prophecies that only just recently was brought into light. Missing planes. Wild games. Children acting like men, and men acting like children. It is as though someone suddenly decided it was time for us to know.
But we didn’t, though. Didn’t know. Still don’t. Uncertainty is always there, distracting us, keeping us away from absolute truth. Doubt is the evil poison that blinds the mind.
And for some reason it always ends up in my attention. Loose scraps of paper, news of coincidences – or not? – that drastically influenced the course of events today. Seemingly forgotten audio and visual – stories of hope that reminded us of our worth. Like clues to a puzzle, I have a sensational feeling that I will not be able to see the whole picture until I have them all. Until then, I must act on faith.
Stand strong. Choose compassion.
The thirteenth hour has begun its toll.
Everything is about to change.
