Humanity's Rejects
A/N: Okay, Writerdragon here! Solar and I are taking turns writing.
Disclaimer: SolarTrigger and I do not own Monsters vs. Aliens, just our respected OCs, peeps.
Not one of us
I
The Stigma, as people called, was a pandemic. Doctors had not a clue how to treat it or cure it. Scientists had no idea what it was. It has been three days since the first discovery of it in Mumbai, India. Three-hundred people had it. It was then noticed in Nanjing, China. Nine-hundred people had it, too. More and more cases of it popped up from all around the world, until it reached the United States of America. One-hundred people were said to have it. It looked like decaying skin; black with red dots speckled in its blackness. Symptoms were horrid: the victim would cough up blood, there would be stinging in the area of The Stigma, dizziness, light-headedness, vomiting, and fainting was to follow.
Some religious folk claimed it to be the end of the world. But the government said that they would find out a cure soon enough. Their actions proved to be in vain—the president had contracted The Stigma on his hand and foot; no one was safe. No one could understand this. Why them? Animals were being effected and dropping like house flies in winter. Their bodies were burned, so people would not eat the contaminated meat and get The Stigma too.
Carl was worried. He sat on the couch and turned on the television. First the alien threat and now this . . . disease. And to add, people were beginning to fear their monster heroes. It all began as a rumor; that the monsters wanted to take over the planet. People were being yelled at, jeered at, Dr. Cockroach claimed that some man spat on him. Now there were even groups.
The PANH: People Against all Non-Humans. A group led by an unknown boss. It had one goal: lock up the monsters from society.
And there were the MATS: Monsters Are The Same. This group was to counter-act the PANH. It was started none other than General W. R. Monger himself. He claimed that he "knew the monsters better than anyone" and that they would never do such a thing. There were more members of the other group than his.
The heavy-set man clicked through the channels of his television. He stopped when he reached a news station. There was a pretty white woman projected onto the screen. Her hair fell down in thick wavy locks of mud-brown and she wore a white business suit. This was Derek's station and he would normally come on right about now . . .
"I'm Fiona Flanning, filling in for Derek Dietl," she chided. "Reports of the pandemic disease has been researched today at Oxford—"
"Oh, Carl, stop watching such depressing things!" cried his wife from the kitchen.
"They're talking about The Stigma!" Carl called.
Wendy, suddenly interested, ran from the kitchen, stopping at least a foot from the couch Carl was sitting on. Her hand hovered over her heaving breast as she watched the television set from her spot
"Scientist say that The Stigma is a killer, and is currently untreatable and you have only two years left to live," the woman stated, a frown upon her features. "Now we talk to scientist William Floodwater about the issue."
The screen flashed to a British man with rich coal-coloured hair and bright blue eyes. He sported a lab coat and a suit and tie were under it. An interviewer asked: "What have you found?"
"Well," he began, "what we found is startling. It is a disease unlike any other. It gets into your bloodstream and effect anywhere it can get. It's like jungle rot, but worse. Once it's in your bloodstream, you can't get rid of it. It is a death sentence."
"Well, what can we do to stop it from spreading?" asked the interviewer.
"Apply heat on it," the scientist stated, "it hates it and water as well. And avoid cutting the surface of the skin where The Stigma is growing so you won't infect others in your family. It will ooze black puss. Don't let anyone touch it as you apply water or heat to it. Once it's done, burn whatever you used to clean it up with."
"Ew. Gross," murmured the reporter off-screen. "Anyways, what are the symptoms?"
"Coughing up blood, stinging in the area of where ever The Stigma is, dizziness, light-headedness, throwing up and fainting spells."
"Thank you for your time."
"Of course."
Wendy gasped, placing a hand to her mouth. "A killer?"
"Two years to live . . .?" Carl whispered in shock.
Wendy rushed to his side, placing her hand to his shoulders. "Oh, God," she breathed. "Oh my God! How could this have happened!?"
Carl hushed his wife, pulling her into a warm embrace. "Don't worry, everything will be fine," he cooed.
"I other news, the PANH group has created a strike against a coffee café that allows the monsters to dine there," the woman rang out.
The married couple pulled away from each other, looking at the television set yet again. There was a mob of protesters that belonged to the PANH group outside of a café. They held up signs and chatted out: "Monsters are the enemy!" A reporter approached a Latino.
"Sir, why did you join this group?" asked the reporter.
"Monsters aren't one of us!" he cried into the microphone.
"The anti-monster move is spreading rapidly around the nation and world," the female reporter announced. "The MATS group fears that the monsters will eventually lose their freedom. In o—"
Carl turned off the television. "Oh, boy," he whispered. "Things are heating up."
Wendy lowered her head. "Our daughter was freed and now people want to lock her up again!" she cried in pain. "We'll never see her again if this continues!"
Carl's heart pained; and he hugged his wife. He suddenly felt the need to cough. The man pulled back, and started to cough deeply in his hand. Wendy watched, unsure of what was happening. He turned slightly, his cough becoming worse and more violent sounding. Carl stopped and cleared his throat. The man tasted something in his mouth.
He recognized it as the taste of blood.
Carl looked at his hand. Huge spots of blood speckled his palm. Wendy gasped.
"Honey, are you okay?"
He did not answer as blood collected in his mouth. He got up, going to the kitchen to spit it out. Ruby-red flowed down the sink and from his mouth. He spat out what was left as he washed out the sink and his hand. Wendy joined him. She noticed something odd on the back of his neck.
"What's that?" she inquired.
Her husband turned to her. "What is what?" he asked.
Wendy grabbed the collar of her shirt and what she saw made her tear up. She struggled to hide the tears, but Carl noticed. He turned his head to his wife.
"What is it?"
There, the size of her thumb, was a blotchiness of black accompanied with red dots. Wendy knew what it was the moment she laid her eyes upon it . . .
"You have The Stigma."
The saviors of the world didn't feel like they belonged in the world anymore. Not too long ago, they were loved and praised; now they were glaring at the monsters as they walked the street or ate in a restaurant. Dr. Cockroach tried to ignore the piercing hateful stares that bored into his head. His antennas were low as he tried to get to his favorite café since he was free. A man forcefully slammed into the scientist, Dr. Cockroach spinning on one foot.
"Hey!" the bug-man cried.
The man glared at him and continued to walk. Dr. Cockroach huffed and went on walking to the café. Right when he entered, everyone—literally—turned to him. The bug-headed scientist felt like he was hated. He glanced around but continued to walk to the front of the café. There was one woman who didn't glare at him. "Hey, Doc," she whispered, cleaning a mug.
"Morning, Rose," he greeted. "What's with people now?"
The woman began to make his usual order. "Well, things have been hay-wire," she explained. "You know, there's an anti-monster group out."
Dr. Cockroach turned to her, his eyes widened. "Truly?" he whispered.
"Yes," she answered.
The bug-man let out a growl. "We didn't do anything," he stated.
"I know; you saved us," Rose pointed out. "People shouldn't hate you."
The bug-man nodded. "Yes, I know," he whispered.
Rosa filled the cup with his mocha. She pushed the mug to him. "But I'm on your side," she said.
The mad scientist smiled. "Thank you, Rose," he said, taking a seat at the bar, holding the mug and rolling it between his hands.
Rose leaned in. "So, how's Susan?" she whispered, smiling. "Did you tell her that you like her?"
The doctor's face burned. "Not yet," he whispered. "I've been meaning to tell her."
He took a sip of his mocha. Rose smiled, pulling a lock of hair out of her face. "You have to tell her at some point," she pointed out.
"I know," he murmured. "I'm just afraid that she'll reject me."
"Oh, c'mon, you're a nice guy," she said, patting his shoulder. "Just tell her."
Dr. Cockroach blew on his coffee, smiling. "I'll see what I can do," he said, after taking a sip.
A man that was the owner came out into the café. He was a tall, German man with blue eyes and blonde hair. He was wearing a nice suit and shoes. He looked right at the bug-man. "I'm going to ask you to leave," he stated in a firm, accented voice.
Dr. Cockroach looked confused. "What?" he asked.
The German-accented man pointed at the door. "Get out," he ordered. "You're not welcomed here."
Rose looked at her boss, and then flashed a look of concern to her monster friend. Dr. Cockroach's antennas lowered and he nodded. "Okay, Rose, can I have this to go?" he asked.
The woman nodded, taking his mug and went to the other part of the café kitchen. Dr. Cockroach looked at the owner. "What did I ever do? I helped save the world."
The man just looked at him. "You are monster," he simply said.
"That's discrimination," the mad scientist growled.
The man never answered. Rose passed over a take-home coffee cup. "Thank you, Rose," Dr. Cockroach whispered, taking the cup. "Bye."
"Bye, Doc," Rose said.
Dr. Cockroach left the café, taking a sip from his cup. People glared at the bug-man and he finally had enough. "What did I ever do!?" he cried.
No one answered. He grunted and walked on. Dr. Cockroach wanted to go home. He went to the edge of the city, finding Monger's plane. The general looked over at him. "You don't look happy," he noted.
"Well, what do you think?" grumbled Dr. Cockroach, taking a seat on the plane. "Everyone hates us."
Monger's brows furrowed. "I know," he whispered, but his voice was still stern. "But there are others that support you."
The mad scientist looked up. "Well, I know, but there's an anti-monster group out there," he said, taking a sip of his coffee.
Monger looked at him. "I know," he stated. "Hmm, I wonder who started it."
Dr. Cockroach looked up, not answering and taking a sip of the last of his mocha. Not too far away, Link was on the street, looking hard at a redhead woman wearing a light green dress. The fish-ape smirked and walked over to her. "Hey," he slyly greeted.
The woman glared at the fish-ape and her step quickened. Link followed. "Hey, now, don't be like that," he said.
"Leave me alone," she snapped.
Link wasn't used to that. Ever since he became savior of the world, all women ran to him. Now, they were shunning him. The fish-ape stopped and watched the woman walked on. "Fine," he groaned.
Link looked around for another woman. He found another one. She was a blonde with straight jeans and a frilly blouse. The fish-ape jay-walked the street and went up to her. "Hey, beautiful," he greeted.
The blonde's hand came across, slapping him in the face. He jumped back, rubbing at his sore cheek.
"What the hell?" he snapped, as she walked on.
He grunted. The fish-ape wasn't having a good day. He went to the edge of town, noticing Monger's plane and a depressed-looking mad scientist sitting down, his chin resting on his hand. He was eating the cup that held his mocha. Link walked into the plane, taking a seat next to Dr. Cockroach. "What's up with people nowadays?" he asked, crossing his arms.
B.O.B oozed in, very sad looking. Dr. Cockroach's antenna twitched. "B.O.B, what is wrong?" he asked.
"People don't like me," he whimpered.
Monger looked at the monsters that he knew for fifty years. The general had wed at one point, but eventually divorced his wife. She had never understood his other "marriage" to his country, and complained that he didn't pay enough attention to her. For now, Monger decided that being "married" to his country was enough. And being "married" to said country, he vowed that one day (if by some work of God) the monsters were freed; he would not allow them to be discriminated against. The stern general came to know these monsters as a sort of family. And he was pro-monster. Monger rubbed his hands together. "Well, where's Ginormica?" he asked.
"She should be back," Link dismissed.
Monger nodded. There were then lumbering footsteps. A pair of long legs graced the male monster's view as the legs had a body. "Okay, let's go," she whispered.
Dr. Cockroach looked up. "Are you okay, my dear?" he asked.
Susan entered the plane, taking a seat on the floor of the plane. The doors of the plane were closing. "I'm fine," she whispered.
Link looked up. "Naw, we get the vibe that somethin' wrong," he noted.
The plane took off and Susan felt the jolt. "Well, when I went to visit my cousins, people were yelling at me for no reason," she explained.
Monger sadly listened. He went to the front of the plane with the pilot and sat down in an empty seat. He had a bad feeling about the fate of the monsters.
A man, commonly referred as The Nerd, walked around a group of people. He was the one that started PANH—most of the War Room folk knew that; all, but the president. You see, the president was pro-monster. Even though the leader of the country was pro-monster, most of the United States was not. The Nerd cleared his throat.
"Mr. President," he stated.
Hathaway was holding up a golf club, and in a powerful pose. In front of him was a painter, who had a canvas in front of him. "What is it, Nerd?" the president asked.
The Nerd twisted his lips, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. "Sir this is important," he stated blandly.
"How important?"
"Very."
Hathaway sighed and came from out of his pose. He rested the golf club to his shoulder. "Can you finish this later?" the president inquired.
"Of course, Sir," the painter stated.
The president nodded. "Good."
Even though the president had The Stigma, he still wanted to live life to the fullest. Hathaway turned to the other smaller man, smiling widely. "What is it?" he asked.
The Nerd pushed up his glasses. "Well, we, as the War Room would like to speak to General Monger, if you'd please," he stated, holding out his hands, pressing them together to that only his fingertips touched.
"Why so?"
"It's about the monsters. We just want to talk to him."
The president arched an eyebrow to the man across from him. He suddenly had an itch where The Stigma was growing on his hand. He tried his best not to scratch. "Fine," grumbled the president. "Yo, Wilson!"
A skinny man glanced up from his controls.
"Get Monger on the line," Hathaway ordered, holding out his golf club like a pointer.
"Which line do you want?"
"Line one."
Just as Wilson was about to press the button for line one, Hathaway stopped him:
"Wait! Try line two!"
Wilson was about to comply, but:
"Wait. Go with line one."
Wilson quickly pressed the first button before the president changed his mind yet again. After a few moments, Monger's stoic face appeared on the main screen. He looked only slightly surprised that the president paged him.
"Yes, Mr. President," he stated.
Hathaway took his seat, placing his hands in his lap. "Yes, hey, general," he greeted. "We need to talk to you in the War Room."
Monger raised an eyebrow. "What about?" he inquired.
"About your monsters and Area . . ." Hathaway paused. He swerved around in his chair and looked at the others surrounding the table. "What's the place called?"
"Area Fifty—"
The man who tried to answer received a dart to the back of his neck. He gagged and fell out of his chair and onto the floor, out like a burnt light. The general sigh as the president turned to him. "Well, um, about your monsters, then," he stated.
"Yes . . .?"
The Nerd gently called the president's name. "Mr. President," he whispered.
"What? Why are we whispering?" Hathaway asked.
"Get him to come here in person."
"Oh? Okay." Hathaway turned back to the confused general. "Um, we want you to come to the War Room," Hathaway explained to the general.
Monger arched his brow. "Yes, Sir." His screen went black. The general had a bad feeling again.
