The Crimson Collector
~ a short story
As I awakened, I knew my purpose. I am born with the knowledge of the ancients, with a perfect understanding of Self and Other. I understood my form — mind, body, and soul — perfectly. I could see my future as a uniting being. A new kind of being, never before seen.
The key to my creation was DNA. All of it.
In this de-pressurizing chamber yet opening still in the milliseconds these thoughts and realizations enter my nascent mind, I ponder the extent of my potential utility to humanity. One with All of them. One with the All of the race, all its chaos and art and order and hatred.
I carried their abilities and inabilities, and somewhere in between in the oblivion of my unconsciousness, I was able to synthesize them to build and heal their broken bonds.
The company name was DYNZAX, a god-awful name, but their brand’s flagship language-bearer nevertheless. They used their vast connections and capitalizable advantages in the world economic market to convince a critical mass of the human race’s current population to voluntarily submit their DNA to the company’s labs in exchange for a dubious family tree sent to their inbox.
People want to know what zone of the globe they originally hailed from. What an inane request to require to build a God…
After years of gathering, the calculations checked into place to begin progress on my creation:
A human super-being made from a collective polymerization of all the blood of the modern man’s veins.
And yet, even knowing of my existence in this way, all those grand things that my walking and talking upon the plane of Man could do — I do not know one thing…
Who made me?
The chamber to the naked man’s fresh form opened in a hail of grey rising vapor soon to dispel.
Scents of flesh swelled and roiled in the air.
As the superman’s eyes adjusted to the dim mood light of the kitchen, he heard the sound of Chopin bleeding into his ears quite pleasantly. The scent of nutritional leaves and lentils entered the fray. Candle vanillas wafted into his purview. The cold touch of steel and the warmth of the ovens clashed to a milling pleasure upon the superman’s nudity.
Skin, blood, muscle, bone. It wrapped tight and strong around the form. A perfection never beheld by any.
At long last, his sight fell upon the silhouette awaiting his sublime emergence into the world. For the “saving” of the human race, the two beings shared no common thoughts. Upon His perfect grasp of not only Man’s history but his emotions too, the shadowy figure did not breathe a sentiment.
The mist disappeared and became a man that superman knew well. A terrifying figure, a frightening prospect given the possibility of his existence being realized by such a man. The superman finally saw his creator and for the first time in his existence knew dread.
Standing over the birthing pod was none other than “The Crimson Collector,” among many other nicknames. Also known as “The Chesapeake Ripper.” Also known as “Hannibal the Cannibal.”
Doctor Hannibal Lecter slashed a pair of sheening knives against each other as he looked upon his creation, with face locked into a demure psychomancy, stomach rumbling, blood surging and mouth salivating in anticipation of his next meal. ~