Miniature

Chapter Twenty-One

[A/N: Dedicated to Avianna - @luna9542 - for winning the contest. Congratulations again! Oh yes - and the line "Well that's a nice story" is from a Disney movie set in Scotland. First correct guess gets a dedication!]

When I recover consciousness, immediately I am hit with a pang of hunger, quickly followed by the ache of thirst. Upon further inspection, I appear to be on the floor, so I push myself up and am immediately swamped in clothing. My jeans and T-shirt, which were a little loose to begin with, are now several sizes too large.

Then it comes crashing back - my capture, the injection, the serum. I'm a Miniature now. But something feels off. If I was a real Miniature, I wouldn't be able to see anything. Justin and Carter were always totally swamped by my clothing. But I'm not. Not just yet.

I manage to sit up, and find a small pair of sewing scissors beside me on the floor. I carefully cut the legs of my jeans until my feet poke out. Then I cut the sleeves to am appropriate length and stand, even though the clothes are still much too big.

I'm obviously in a different room, because one whole wall is made of a reflective glass-like material. A mirror wall.

There's a measuring tape on a table - it's a fairly low table, yet it comes to my waist. I pick up the tape measure, unroll it, and prop it up so that it's visible in the mirror. Then I position myself beside it and look at the numbers.

I used to be 4"7'. Now I am approximately 2"7'.

A violent spasm courses through my body and I visibly decrease in size. Now I'm only 2"0'. At this rate, soon I'll be as tiny as a Miniature.

After a few more hours, I am approximately 4 1/4' tall and wrapped in a shred of fabric. And then I stop shrinking. If my memory serves me right, Justin is 5' and Carter is 4 1/2. This makes me the shortest, whereas once I was the tallest. Joy...

Carter's mom comes bursting in, grabbing me roughly by the middle and swinging me up. I feel dizzy and nauseous, and barely refrain from splattering the contents of my stomach on her hand.

She squeezes me between her index finger and thumb, holding me fast in a pincer grasp. Struggling hurts worse, so I try not to move.

"You're wonderful for testing, you know that dearie? You can't protest because I have the ability to squash you like a tiny little bug," she laughs.

She takes me to a lab, and I can't believe what I'm seeing. It's full of chemicals and other, nastier, fouler things. There are beakers simmering over Bunsen burners, liquids dripping through pipettes into nasty solutions, and fluids pouring through strainers, leaving a good deal of solid content behind.

"This," she says, "is the lab where Miniatures were born. Every Miniature from the original batch of 245 was born here - and this is, of course, where my sons and that brat Justin were made into the fine creatures that they are today!"

"That's abuse! Why the heck would you do that to people? ESPECIALLY to your own sons!"

"Simple: money."

"So you planned to sell them, then? Then why would you be so upset that they were sold in the first place?" I ask, puzzled now. "The sale of Miniatures is probably the fastest-growing, best-paying industry in the country. It's even more prosperous than tobacco is now."

"Because the race was not originally built for pleasure!" she hisses. "They were built to serve a much greater purpose."

"And what," I ask, swallowing my fear, "would that purpose be?"

"To serve as test subjects to create chemicals that would alter the human structure, enabling us to build a better race. A race of heroes, with powers beyond your wildest imagination. They would make sure the components of the chemicals were safe for human use, so that we could build a race of gods."