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If diversity is strength, the human race has a liability. On the day the first plow touched the first field, our genome was already more homogenous than any other large land mammal besides the cheetah. Our efforts since then have been singularly counterproductive, as tribe after village after nation has been put to the sword for being too tall or short, too light or dark, too ... different.
The result echoes in absence throughout our surroundings. Could you imagine a humanity as diverse even as the animals we keep for pets, statures ranging as greatly as the Dachshund's does from the Dane, skin tones as wild and various as the Calico, Tabby, and Siamese? It strains the mind. Even in monochrome, we spend countless time and munitions disputing what mono that chrome should be.
Was it was wisdom on the part of the Third Millenium's governments that they strew the world with radiation and corruptive bioagents? Perhaps they knew, through their great science, the cornucopia of vital traits that would ensue from seeding the genome with the gift of mutation. Surely some would die. Some would live yet suffer, and some would be unable to breed with anything besides their own sisters. But some would flourish, and so doing bring to the human race a wellspring of rejuvenation. Is not biodiversity an ideal worth any amount of sacrifice?
What we know for certain is the fruits of that revolution of thought, and the peace and brotherhood it has brought to peoples whose emnity stretches to the beginning of time. For how can humans of ancient stock look upon the genome's new sons and daughters and not realize the triviality of the differences they once held so compelling? The shade of skin, the shape of nose, all those things seemed for the first time in history truly inconsequential. A myriad voices joined in unity to sing out:
"That thar mo-fo gots three freakin' arms! Kill that sumbitch!"
And so life, and humanity, goes on.
Painted by Vynnie. Models from Shadowrun, Warzone, and various other sources.
From afar, the mutant horde is just a horde. Armed with guns, or knives, or power tools, or lead pipes, or a thighbone, they're just another set of hungry mouths eyeing your winter food cache. |
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A small cluster of genes controls human size, so these guys were inevitable. Although it must be an even smaller cluster that controls whether your face looks like it's been fed through a hydraulic press ... . |
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Despite the hodgepodge state of their gear, the mutants have elevated specialized support units to a high art. Crackface and his pants have their own special way of stabilizing a recoilless rifle, while few creatures anywhere can match the curtain of lead Handy is able to lay down. Cyclops is a natural at tracking targets through a monocular sniping scope. And Four-Eyes can check his fuel feed for leaks even while he's flaming foxholes. Crackface painted by Marcus. |
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Just like in the Amazon jungles, the lovely ladies of the Expanded Genome do battle beside their men. Tennessee Tina, on the left, has been known to floor opponents with nothing more than a toothy smile. Donna Matrix leans heavily on her boyfriend when she's lobbing RPGs ... and he better not fall down, or she'll let him have it with those spiked heels. They say a covert recon team once spotted Valerie in a trading village and decided to put a tail on her ... they say she's traveled all over and come back with quite a tail ... they say she's got enough tail to go around ... but they say it very quietly once they see her fire that belt-fed autoshotgun with one hand. And last but not least, Threena has been disqualified from wet T-shirt competitions in a surprising array of venues. Threena painted by Marcus. |
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Nobody's sure if the The Good Ole' Boys are really mutants, or just the result of having too many great aunts double as grandmothers. But they're solid in a fight and brew up a fine hooch, so who really cares? |
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Buzzsaw the Clown really likes kids ... really, really, really ... . |
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