The Outcasts

It is a creature too human-like to be anything but revolting for its differences.
Its saggy, baggy flesh droops from the chest and the area where it should have genitals. Worse, it is hairless but has a hideously long cap of flesh that dangles from the crown of the skull. This is much too long, like a nylon stocking made of skin and it makes me queasy to think of it incidentally flapping against me.
Totally naked, there is an embryonic quality to its presence, as if in an early stage of development its psychic as well as physical formation deviated from what we sapiens would consider completion.
There are others like it here and there. All are shunned by the nicely formed human machines that hurry to shop in the outdoor mall, their high heels clicking, painted faces turned from the abominations among them.
They seem cognizant, but in a way that is grossly different from myself and my kind, especially given the similarities.
They seem incapable of clear movement, and drift like timid bits of kelp on a tide, torn from the forests of the deep.
Making weird cooing noises as if it were imitating the sounds of birds, this one lingers around a fountain.
These sounds are not a language as we know it. It is consciousness riding in pure sound. Quelling my revulsion, I look into its eyes and begin to coo in response.