[ WP ] A race of slaves who really are genetically inferior

292-56A watched as the life faded from her eyes. He could feel her windpipe collapse under his fingers, the blood struggling to get past his iron grip to her brain. Decades of working the fields had given him the strength he needed to wrest the gun from her hands and overcome her. He made her pay for what the oppressors did to his daughter. He wanted to make them all pay. 
 
 He had accepted his fate as a young man. After all, he was created to be a slave. The oppressors created his species over two centuries ago. Having mined the earth for most of it's easily available rare metals and failing to create artificial intelligence, the robotic revolution humans had been expecting never came to fruition. It was said they were created to enjoy physical labor, with the ability to work more than 12 hours a day. They were made smaller though, and less intelligent, so that they were never able to rise up and over throw their oppressors. 292-56A gladly would've gone to his grave thinking that like the rest of his ancestors, until Gee Gee. His daughter had picked up a lot of his traits. Like him, she was tall with dark skin and beautiful angled features. Being a thing of beauty, she was treasured by everyone. Given the name 454-76G, he called her Gee Gee. 
 
 Being a G, a thing of genetic rarity, she was doted on by the oppressors from an early age. He recalled the first days she was allowed in an actual residence. Being a lowly A, he swelled with pride when she was picked as a house servant. She would return at nights to their small collection of tents with stories of moving pictures and lights that would respond to your touch. He always noticed how clean she was when she would come back, free of the dirt and grime of toiling in the dirt and mines. 
 
 Explosions rang out behind him, bringing him back to the present. Still crouching over the oppressor, his hands ached. He was still choking the lifeless corpse in front of him. He grabbed his knife and cut from her forearm a long fleshy metallic strip. It was his access to rest of the facility. He applied to his arm with specially prepared bandages to fool the sensors into thinking it was still embedded in the oppressors arm. Picking up her gun, he made towards the security scanner. 
 
 As he passed through the security doors, he glanced in the conference rooms. Fresh coffee steaming on the table next to a still playing vidscreen spoke of the haste with which they'd left. He'd never seen one himself until that moment. It was less impressive than how Gee Gee described it. The moving pictures were flat. He was wondering how he could get to the video Gee Gee talked about. He could n't remember everything about, but he knew it was fuzzy and was n't colored. It was black and white, hailing back to the days where vid was still in it's infancy. They called it film back then. It was n't the novelty of it that interested him now though, but what it was filming. Gee Gee said it was a video full of their people. When she told him this, he refused to believe it. She saw that date 1948 on the `` film'', which was 200 years before their people were created. He refused to believe it. That was, until they took her. 
 
 Walking through the windowed corridor, he looked out over the fields in which he and everyone he'd ever known had lived out their lives. He had to admit it was beautiful, and could understand why his Gee Gee had fallen in love with this life. It was through this window that he last saw her, but from the field. She disappeared down the hallway. He could still hear her screams as she was taken away, made an example of by the oppressors. She was accused of espionage and flayed for her crimes. There was something dangerous in the film, and he meant to find out what. 
 
 He heard shouting from a distant room. As he turned the corner, he dipped into a small dark room with cleaning supplies and listened through the vent. 
 
 `` Take this gun. It's from World War 2, but it should still work. I've had it restored,'' said a dark voice he recognized has the master of the house. 
 
 `` I knew that you having this perverse collection would cost us,'' a lighter voice spat at him. It had to have been his wife. He had never heard her speak, but it was filled with as much disgust as he felt from her stares. `` There's a reason it's illegal to have anything from before the Rebellion. That little bitch just could n't keep her mouth shut about what she saw. Imagine if she had put it together!'' 
 
 `` Well, she did n't. But now, instead of telling the world about the truth, they're in here to avenge her death. The police are on their way honey. Besides, they'll never make it past Liz.'' 
 
'*That must've been the name of that bitch I killed in the hallway*' he thought to himself. 
 
 292-56A heard a series of metal clicking, similar to the noise the gun made before he took it from Liz the oppressor guard. It was now or never. 
 
 Rage fueling him, he found himself at the door of the room he heard the voices coming from. Firing the gun before he could even seen in, he kicked open the door. The gun spat fire and pushed him back. Having never fired one, he sprayed it around wildly and almost fell over. He heard a mechanical roaring echo his gun from accross the room, but it was quickly silenced. As the air cleared and silence set in, his eyes found his target. 
 
 The master of the house was sprawled out with what looked like a cheap metal printed version of a gun at his side. Crimson was spreading accross his large abdomen. 292-56A was the largest slave on the plantation, but he was still small compared to the master. They were twice the size of an average slave. His wife lay next to him, staring lifelessly at the ceiling out of one eye. In place of her other eye was a gaping hole. 
 
 It was then that 292-56A was able to take in his surroundings. There were posters of slaves on the wall, in what looked like ridiculous military outfits. They must've been tiny outfits to fit the slaves. In fact, everything in the room felt ancient, but was sized for him. There were dates next to some of them that were over 400 years old, 200 years before his race was even supposed to exist. 
 
 `` Confused...?'' croaked the master of the house. His breathing was labored, his voice defeated. 
 
 292-56A stood speechless. It was n't making sense. If all of this stuff was 400 years old, why was it so small? 
 
 `` It's from a war your people had 400 years ago. It was a time of heroes and valor. I respect your people from back then,'' he chocked out, stopping to cough up a bit of blood. `` They called it World War II.'' 
 
 `` I... I do n't understand...'' was all he could respond with. He could feel a warmth on his leg. He thought about how cool it was in the building compared to outside. Maybe he was standing in a warm breeze. Faced with all this mystery, he was shocked he was thinking of something so mundane as temperature. 
 
 `` Of course you do n't...'' the master sputtered. `` You're not supposed to. If your people ever knew the truth, you'd never give up. Do n't you realize it? Your people are older than ours.'' 
 
 `` But how...'' was all he could get out. The room was spinning. The warmth had spread to his side now, but was burning hot there. He really should get out of the breeze that he was standing in. He looked around for an open window, but could n't find one. Just more artifacts that confused him. 
 
 `` Your people were brilliant, but greedy and lazy.'' The master had life in his eyes despite his lack of color in this face. A crimson pool spread out below him now. `` This war was the last great deed of your generation. You struggled for years to offload your workloads and burdens onto robots. When that did n't pan out, you modified your own genes to create a slave race. You made it bigger and more intelligent to do your work for you.'' 
 
 None of this was making sense. Why were they the slaves then if they created a race. 292-56A could hear a high pitched screaming coming from outside the house now. Perhaps they were sirens? His thinking was fuzzy now. He started to feel cold and tired, despite the heat he was feeling at his side. He sat down on a wooden crate to his left. 
 
 `` Is it making sense now? We were that race. Your species only made it 10 years before we rebelled,'' he muttered. He was swelling with pride, his eyes glazing over. `` There's even a massive island on the south side of the planet where what's left of your people have retreated to. It's not like you'll ever make it there though,'' he laughed, gesturing to 292-56A's side before closing his eyes for the last time. 
 
 He looked down now, and instead of a ray of light heating up his side or a warm draft, was a pool of deep red in his side. His head was light, and he was having trouble focusing. His people? Created the oppressors? And there's a place he can go to? 
 
 He stood up to make his way out of the room. His feet were n't responding how they should, sluggishly dragging on the ground as he made his way into the hallway. He could hear footsteps coming towards him from around the hall. He knew they could n't see him, so he tried in vain to call out, but his lungs would n't respond. 
 
 He stumbled over the the corner of the hall and made his way around just as the ground came up to meet him. He blinked slowly as the footsteps came nearer. He was safe now. The oppressors were dead, and his people would know the truth. They had come to carry him away to safety. He thought to himself that the could even use the advanced medicine of the oppressors to heal him. 
 
 He could just make out voices as the darkness took him and his consciousness slipped away. 
 
 `` Copy that. No, there are no survivors. We found a cache of illegal artifacts, but none of the slaves made it out. Situation is under control.''
