Origins of Gravotus, Part I





Born August 1st, 1980, in Apartheid-South Africa to transplanted German ex-patriots, Stefan Gravöt was an only child, raised in a wealthy household in the whites-only zone of Cape Town.

From an early age, he was taught that he should never mix with non-whites, and he was superior to "all those animals out in the streets". His parents never failed to tell him he would play an important role in the fight to keep the races separate and preserve white purity. They believed this because their son had tested "superior" right after his birth. The exam showed certain anomalies coded into his genetic structure that predisposed him to great size and strength and near invulnerability to physical harm. There were other, unidentified markers as well.

However, it wasn't until a five-year old Stefan was playing in the recently turned garden, that the full extent of his abilities manifested. The very earth itself flowed around his hands, and his feet seemed to merge directly with the ground. Herodus, his father, was very pleased indeed. He praised his son for his new-found talents, and declared Stefan would be a great soldier in the struggle ahead.

For all his parents' attempts to invoke zeal or even anger in their child, however, Stefan was a placid, sedate boy for the most part. He rarely lost his temper or threw tantrums. In fact, the only times he seemed to become unhappy was when he was not near earth or stone in some form. His mother and father quickly learned to use this as a lever to motivate their son.

They were also careful to keep Stefan separated from other children, not wanting anything to endanger their control over their future benefactor. Instead they surrounded him with tutors, maids, and "councilors" [in reality propagandists for the old Reich].

As he got older, he became a self-contained young man- controlled, proper and respectful. He always followed his parent's orders and those of his instructors at home. He was not allowed to leave the grounds unescorted, there was always a tutor or maid or protector nearby.

However, on his thirteenth birthday, everything changed. In their eagerness to demonstrate the fine prospect they were grooming for party leadership for the future of the Reich, they brought young Stefan with them to a private retreat for the Apartheid Ruling elite. Many of those attending were either former Reichers or sympathizers.

All desired for the status quo to remain against ever more strident protests for equality by the rest of the non-white population. There was even some rumors the agitators wanted to free Nelson Mandela, the Freedom Criminal, from prison which would be a total disaster.

Somehow the word had leaked out that the gathering was taking place, and protesters started to swarm the grounds of the country club designated as the meeting place. Unfortunately for Stefan, his parents were late to arrive (they lived in a more remote area) and by then, the scene was one of chaos.

Angry protesters shouting slogans spotted the approaching limousine, and charged towards it. Their driver tried to outrun the mob, but he wasn't able to get inside the iron-wrought gates of the club grounds before their vehicle was cut off from the entrance. Soon many hands were rocking the car, battering the windows and trying to get into the vehicle. A cry of victory went up as the car was upended and rolled onto its side. Stefan heard his mother scream, and something feral awoke inside him. He roared, the sound deafening inside the car, drowning out his mother's screams. His hands suddenly became great mauls of stone, and he smashed through the heavy frame of the car. His skin took on a grayish cast, and seemed to harden in place. He leapt from the great rent he had created and roared at the crowd on top of the car. The mob was hitting him with clubs and stones but they just bounced off his granite skin. He swung wide and felt his fists connect with something yielding, and there was a distinct crack, and then a scream. The mob cleared a space around him as he continued to swing wildly in great looping strokes. They gave back before him, and he gave chase, his brain clouded with rage and the sound of his mother's hysterical cries.

Out into the ghettos beyond the manicured lane of the club he raced after the fleeing figures. At some point, exhaustion set in, and he realized he could not take another step, and his whole body ached with weariness. He sat down against a corrugated metal wall- it felt warm against his skin and he felt himself becoming drowsy. Faintly before consciousness fled, he thought he heard voices, but soon there was nothing but welcome darkness.

Part II coming soon...

Feedback welcome (corrections, comments, etc.)

Gravotus- Stone/Stone Mutant Tanker on Virtue



Before anyone gets on you about the whole "non-white" thing in the story I'm gonna say, very well written and I'm curious to read the rest =)



Yeah, I know. I expect to get some flack for that, par for the course. I almost put a disclaimer in, views expressed in this story are not those of the author, etc., so hopefully everyone will read this with a grain of salt- starting a controversy is not what I intended.

Thanks for the positive feedback, appreciate it.




Well written. I find myslef eager to find out what happens next. Frankly, if anyone has a problem with this story it's because they didn't come up with it. Keep up the good work!



Thank you!

Part II is out, Part III should be out in a day or two... Wish we could link these together somehow...oh well.