The world was always shit. I'm talking about that nihilistic young guns like to spout from the hip to make themselves sound cool, aloof, and mysteriously dark. No, the world is shit because that's just how it has to be. There's always some rabbit running, frantic and hyper aware from bush to bush looking for scraps of roots in cold winters only to be noiselessly stalked by an owl in the night. Just like there is always some asshole, working a job for assholes, serving assholes, just to pay off bigger assholes who were lucky enough not to be born the first asshole.
It's a shit show for everyone but the one on top. The king, or queen (I don't want to appear to sexist as shit don't care what you got between your legs) atop the throne looking down on the little rabbits leaving tracks in the snow. Yeah, they sit safe and happy in their nest and wait for the next fool unlucky enough to poke their unlucky to be born that way head out of cover and dart into the open.
At least that's how it's supposed to be. How it was. At least until a few decades ago when I was born. Now, you're probably thinking I'm some kind of narcissist who fancies himself a king (or queen) slayer. No. There was nothing really that significant about my birth in particular but on that day, on that day something really significant happened. There have always been Meta Humans. Those whose bodies, minds, and fucking auras sometimes were more potent than the average person. They possessed abilities that, in some cases, could be matched not by man or machine. They were gods, goddammit. So war broke out. Not for land or for money or for oil, those were all benefits to be sure, but for distraction. Keep the eyes focused on the hand showing nothing is up the sleeve while other pulls something from a secret pocket.
Most of the old timers, the first organized Metas, formed this nice little club (no girls allowed at that time unfortunately) and they fancied themselves the protectors of a way of life. Who's way of life I hear you ask? Why the one they prescribed for you. That one. The white picket fence, the home in the suburbs, the car in the garage and the chicken in the pot kind of life. Now, that simplifies things but I do have to give them credit that they at least tried to have some kind of ideals and top of the list there was to stop the wanton murder of good, normal folks.
So hence the wars. Two bigguns too. Two whammies of wars that boiled up the entire world it seemed leaving no shore free of spent shells and bodies. It started in the East, with the Ottomans looking to stretch their legs in someone else's house. Once the troops marched 'cross the border, the bombs started flying and the Metas came running. That war, the first world war killed three of the original eight. Three strong men, stronger than the fucking columns of the Earth it seemed were obliterated over those years. Worn down and weary they finally gave up the ghost in their own way.
During the short peace time that followed, the remaining five got bees in their bonnets about their comrade's deaths, and the death they dealt. They thought themselves the owls during that time but when some wings got clipped, questions got raised. How did they know? How did they do it? Who did it? They began poking their heads in holes better left dark and unknown. Started rounding up folks, dangerous folks, folks with secrets to have quiet little chats in the mountains. Chats that were more questions and fingernails being ripped out than normal chats between chums. Chats that were often the last dialogues more than a few people had.
It was dark work, messy work but work they said needed done. Funny thing about work like that is that it's not without its lasting marks. Try torturing a man one day. Try cutting his fingers off, hitting him in the face so much that his face more resembles what an child with clay might think a man looks like. Try listening to their screams, their pleads, their blubbering for hours and try and remain distant to that. Now, there will be those among you who can. Sociopaths is what they are called.
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