kspozcum

Chapter 8- New Year, New Me Clearview University- North Campus. 05:44 MST. 20-Dec-20XX. REDACTED location. The SUV hummed steadily as it cut through the snow, tires whispering over packed ice. On the side was the emblem for BLACKWELL, Bio-Level Authority for Containment, Knowledge & Epidemiological Lockdown. It had been formed shortly after the Helixion Event claimed their entire team, Black Sigma, just 3 months prior. The windows were darkened, the interior lit only by the dull glow of the instrument panel bleeding in from the front. In the passenger seat, Tobias Vahn leaned back with one boot braced against the floor, a bag of hastily eaten fast food resting loosely between his knees, looking far too relaxed for a man headed into quarantine. Elias Kade sat beside him, rigid, arms folded, eyes fixed on the blurred white landscape sliding past the glass. He hadn’t spoken since they’d left the checkpoint. “So,” Tobias said finally, breaking the silence like he always did, casual and careless. “What’re your Christmas plans?” Elias’s head turned slowly. The look he gave him could have frozen the engine block. “Playing dumb now, are we? Didn’t your brother already tell you how thrilled I was opening the care package your mother sent?” Elias asked flatly. Tobias grinned. “Trevor? Oh yeah. He mentioned it all right.” He nudged Elias’s side lightly with his elbow. “Said Mom sent the onesies already. Red nose. Felt antlers. Just for the newest member of the family.” Elias looked away again. “Don’t you dare call me Rudolph.” That only made Tobias laugh. “Don’t even try to deny enjoying the tradition. I bet Trev already asked you to guide his sleigh.” Elias didn’t respond. He shifted in his seat, jaw tightening, and after a beat deliberately changed the subject. “Just… give me the rundown, Tex.” Tobias straightened a little, the humor draining just enough to let something professional surface. “All right… Reaper.” He tapped the tablet mounted to the seat in front of them, pulling up the case file. “Frat house. Phi Alpha Gamma.” Elias nodded, activating the turn signal and slowing down at their exit. Tobias snorted. “Jesus… what a name.” Elias looked over at him and let out a bored sigh looking at him. “What’s so funny now?” “Phi Alpha Gamma… FAG House? Really? Whatever… keep forgetting you never were part of the Greek system…” Elias rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to the road. “Anyways… Seven residents,” Tobias continued. “All male. All enrolled. All failed to show for finals. Campus security did a welfare check after a few professors escalated.” The SUV passed under a streetlight. For a moment, Elias’s face was starkly illuminated—focused, alert. “Security found signs of a struggle,” Tobias said. “Furniture displaced. Decorations destroyed. No bodies. No sign of forced entry however.” “Local PD?” Elias asked. “Called in. Then immediately sent away once preliminary forensics came back.” Tobias scrolled. “Multiple biological residues found on site. Samples confirmed as bodily fluids. All samples tested positive for HIV-3, complete with the markers for human mutagen variants.” Elias closed his eyes briefly. Opened them again. “Quarantine?” “Full lockdown,” Tobias said. “BLACKWELL took jurisdiction. Media blackout in place. Anyone who came in contact tested, no positives in anyone.” The SUV slowed as they approached the perimeter. Flashing hazard lights reflected off the snowbanks ahead. Tobias glanced at Elias. “We were too late,” he added quietly. “Again.” Elias didn’t answer. He reached for his respirator, already slipping back into mission mode. The SUV rolled to a controlled stop just short of the cordon. Red and amber lights pulsed against the snow, painting the night in slow, warning colors. Beyond them, the frat house sat dark and ordinary, its porch light burned out, windows black. It looked abandoned in the way only places that shouldn’t be empty ever do. Tobias flicked the tablet fully toward Elias. “A’right,” he said, business now. “Names, faces, and what we know.” Elias leaned in, eyes tracking as Tobias scrolled. Each profile slid past with the same sterile formatting—photo, age, role in the house, medical notes. Normal kids. Normal histories. Nothing that justified a BLACKWELL response on its own. “Campus security went in first,” Tobias continued. “They thought it was booze, finals stress, maybe a prank gone wrong. Found overturned furniture, broken ornaments, the tree down. No blood. No bodies.” Elias’s gaze sharpened. “But I’m sure plenty of biologicals.” “Damn… looks like everywhere,” Tobias said. “Floors. Furniture. Basement stairs. Maintenance room.” He paused. “That’s when PD backed off and called us.” He tapped a file and brought up lab results. “Semen. Urine. Saliva.” Elias didn’t react outwardly, but his shoulders tightened. “Like I was saying, all samples were positive for HIV-3 and HMV…” Tobias added. “Extremely high viral load. Uniform markers.” Elias exhaled slowly through his nose. “That doesn’t happen by accident.” “No,” Tobias agreed. “Which is why the house is locked down. Quarantine radius established within the hour. Media blackout—‘carbon monoxide leak’ for now.” “And the missing?” Elias asked. “Seven residents,” Tobias said. “No confirmed sightings since the night before finals. Phones dead or abandoned on site. No exit footage. Nothing on traffic cams.” The SUV’s engine idled softly. Snow tapped against the roof like static. Tobias hesitated, then scrolled further. “One more thing.” Elias glanced up. “What.” “Frat vice president,” Tobias said. “Derek Vance.” He brought the file up and held it there. “Medical history includes a confirmed CCR5-Δ32 mutation.” Elias went very still. Tobias didn’t look at him as he continued. “Same mutation you have.” Silence stretched between them, thick and loaded. Elias nodded once. “Meaning resistance,” he said quietly. “Not immunity.” “Exactly,” Tobias replied. “Which means if he’s involved—” “—then maybe we have a chance at a new ally,” Elias finished. They both looked toward the house again. The lights ahead flickered as a generator kicked somewhere in the perimeter. The snow kept falling. The frat house remained dark. Whatever had happened inside it had selected its targets carefully. And it hadn’t finished speaking yet. — They suited up in silence. Respirators sealed with practiced ease, filters clicking into place with the soft, final sound of containment protocols engaging. Tobias adjusted the straps at Elias’s shoulder automatically, muscle memory from other sites like this—places where the air itself had become a liability. “Feels festive,” Tobias muttered, glancing at the snow piling against the curb. Elias didn’t answer. His eyes were on the house. Phi Alpha Gamma sat behind police tape and portable floodlights, its Greek letters still bolted proudly above the door. Someone had tried to decorate for Christmas. A string of lights drooped unevenly along the porch railing, half of them dark. One red bulb blinked intermittently, slow and tired, like a failing pulse. They crossed the threshold together. The front door stuck before giving way with a dull crack, wood warped by cold. Inside, the smell hit immediately even through the respirators—stale beer, the reek of cigar smoke, pine sap, old urine, something metallic beneath it all. The air felt wrong. Not thick, exactly. Just… used. Tobias swept his light across the living room. The Christmas tree lay on its side near the television, ornaments shattered across the floor like glittering debris. Tinsel clung to the couch cushions. One stocking hung torn from the mantle, its contents spilled and trampled. “No forced entry,” Tobias said quietly. “Whatever happened, it started inside.” Elias moved slowly, methodical. His gaze tracked details Tobias knew better than to ignore: drag marks in the carpet, smears on the arm of the couch already flagged with biohazard tape, a half-empty beer bottle knocked beneath the coffee table. The television was still on. Static hissed softly, filling the room with white noise. Tobias frowned and muted it. The sudden quiet felt heavier than the sound had. “Basement?” Elias asked. “Eventually,” Tobias said. “But let’s finish the main floor first.” They moved deeper into the house. The kitchen showed signs of interruption rather than chaos—chairs pushed back, a case of bottled beer stacked neatly near the counter as if someone had been in the middle of moving it. A faint trail of boot prints led toward the back hallway, then vanished. Elias stopped near the couch. “There,” he said. Tobias followed his line of sight. A single gift box sat on the center cushion, perfectly upright amid the mess. Red wrapping paper. A crisp silver bow. Untouched by the surrounding destruction. Two names were written on the tag in neat block letters. FOR TEX AND REAPER Neither of them moved for a moment. “Forensics couldn't have missed that,” Tobias said softly. “No,” Elias agreed. “That’s for us. Seems someone must have snuck in and left it for us.” The house creaked around them, settling in the cold. Somewhere deeper inside, a pipe knocked once and fell quiet. Elias stepped forward. “The Alpha wanted us to see this.” Elias stared at the box for a long moment before touching it. Protocol said to wait for a containment tech. Protocol also said do not interact with unknown media devices. But nothing about this scene had followed protocol so far, and the longer Elias looked at the box, the more certain he became that it wasn’t going anywhere on its own. Tobias shifted beside him. “You want me to call in a team and—” “No,” Elias said quietly. “If this is meant to be seen, it’s meant for us. I’m sure he wouldn’t leave us any clues on it.” He picked it up. The box was light. No ticking. No vibration. Inside, nestled in cheap green tissue paper, was a single black flash drive. No logos. Just plastic and metal, clean and deliberate. Elias’s jaw tightened. Picking it up and turning it around before finally seeing the small Korean anime girl etched on the case. “Of course,” Tobias muttered. “One of Pixel’s, I’m sure. Because who else would leave us such a clue?” They exchanged a glance. Then Elias walked to the television, inserted the drive into the side port, and stepped back. A single movie file was on the drive, and grabbing the remote, Elias selected it and hit play. The screen flickered. Static gave way to video. At first, it was hard to tell what they were seeing. The footage was shaky, handheld—someone laughing just out of frame. The camera swung wildly, catching glimpses of the frat house interior they were standing in now, but altered. Darker. Warmer. Lit by blinking red and green Christmas lights that were no longer there. Then the figures came into view. Tall. Inhumanly broad. Black, glossy skin reflecting the lights like polished stone. Horns curved from their heads in shapes that felt intentional—decorative, even. Several of them turned toward the camera at once. Each one waving at the screen. Their old team. Tobias inhaled sharply. “Jesus…” More figures moved into frame. Young men. Naked. Smiling. Elias’s stomach dropped as recognition set in—faces from the files he’d read in the SUV. Noah. Evan. Paul. Zach. Ty. Bran. All standing among the creatures as if they belonged there. All in advanced stages of being transformed. Every one of them looked altered in horrifying ways: posture too relaxed, expressions too vacant, eyes pure black. Horns starting to grow out of their heads, skin grey, teeth sharp and glistening. Their movements were uncoordinated but eager, like performers waiting for a cue. Except one. Derek Vance stepped into the center of the frame, pulling a chair behind him and slumping into it with a happy smile. He looked… unchanged. Mostly. Still human in shape. Still smiling the same easy, arrogant smile from his student ID photo. A cigar hung from his mouth, ember glowing as he took a slow drag but his pupils were blown open, with black veins creeping off around them. “Hey, Tex. Reaper,” Derek said cheerfully, waving at the camera. “Or would you prefer Toby and Elias? Hope you had a nice Thanksgiving.” Tobias froze. “He knows us. What a cocky little shit.” Derek laughed, smoke curling around his face. “Let me guess… Tex just said something cutting… Just so you both know, we already knew you both would be coming. We figured it’d be rude not to leave you something to open for Christmas. Don’t bother checking for anything of use on the box or drive… we made sure to hide our tracks.” He gestured behind him. The creatures shifted. The transformed frat brothers moved closer together. Someone off-camera began humming. The tune was unmistakable. Elias felt his blood go cold. The camera tilted, capturing a line of creatures standing behind each transforming frat guy. As if on cue, Derek walked over to who Eli guessed was Gravestone, the largest in the group, and quickly backed himself onto the massive cock with a groan, pulling out the cigar out of his mouth and locking lips with him before placing it in Gravestone’s mouth. Gravestone grinned at the camera and smacked Derek’s ass hard. For a brief moment they all stood there, and then it began. Each one of their former teammates took a turn, slamming their dick hard into their frat boy, as each frat boy began to individually moan in key each word to “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.” Tobias turned away instinctively, letting out a muttered curse, but Elias couldn’t. His eyes burned. His hands clenched at his sides. Right as they reached the final part of the song, they sang in unison. “We wish you a Merry Christmas…” The camera rotated again as the sound of growls and moans echoed out into the room, each man cumming on the floor or into a frat brother. The camera stopped moving and faced the one holding it. The Alpha. Larger than the others. Horns more elaborate. Its grin was wide, teeth gleaming. It lifted one clawed hand and waved slowly at the lens. The gesture was almost friendly. The video cut back to Derek, with his cigar back in his mouth. His eyes were fully black now. “And a Happy New Year, Elias. We’re coming for you soon.” “Fucking bastard,” Elias whispered, jaw clenched. “Our master wanted me to say we’re long gone,” he said pleasantly. “Too late again, buddy. But don’t worry though—he’s very excited to see you.” He leaned closer to the camera drawing on his cigar and blowing it at the camera, before blowing a kiss at it.. The screen went black. The house was silent again. Tobias swallowed hard. “Elias… what in the actual fuck…” Elias didn’t answer. He was staring at the dark screen, his reflection faintly visible in it. The Alpha hadn’t just escaped. It had planned this. And it knew exactly who was coming next. Like it had a fucking crystal ball or something. Silence held the room long after the television went dark. Elias was the first to move. He reached up and pulled off his respirator, dragging in a sharp breath that tasted like dust and disinfectant and something older underneath. Tobias followed suit more slowly, rubbing a hand over his face as if that might erase what they’d just seen. “That was some psy-ops level shit right there. Tell me you’re as fucking disgusted as I am,” Tobias said finally. “Please.” Elias shook his head once. “Too coherent. Too… personal. He’s playing with us now.” He crossed the room and knelt near the couch, careful not to touch anything. The gift box sat open where he’d left it, innocent now, like it had never held anything at all. Around them, the house felt suddenly smaller—walls closing in, shadows pressing closer. Elias tapped his comm. “BLACKWELL Command, this is Reaper,” he said. His voice was steady, even if the rest of him wasn’t. “We’ve confirmed contact with the Alpha. I repeat, confirmed. Evidence recovered includes direct communication, pre-recorded taunting, and proof of full conversion of all seven subjects.” A pause. Static crackled faintly. “Copy that, Reaper,” came the reply, clipped and controlled. “We were able to see it ourselves from your live feed. Upload all the data immediately. New orders are pending.” Tobias leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over his chest. “They left it for us,” he said quietly. “Not just the video. The house. The scene. Like a god damn calling card.” “Yes,” Elias said. “And a warning.” His comm chimed again. “Reaper, listen carefully,” Command said. “Site status is now a Level 5 Quarantine. No recovery. No rescue. No pursuit beyond perimeter. You are to disengage and await further instruction.” Elias’s jaw tightened. “Disengage,” he repeated. “With respect, Command, the Alpha is mobile. It’s recruiting. It knows our identities.” “We’re aware,” Command said. “Which is why this just escalated to Level 5. BLACKWELL is assuming full jurisdiction. A joint task force is being assembled.” Tobias let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Another fucking task force. Great. Like the last one they got.” “Tex,” Elias said softly, without looking at him. Command continued. “Reaper, there’s another factor. Medical flagged something in the subject files you reviewed. Derek Vance.” Elias didn’t respond immediately. “Yes,” he said after a beat. “I saw it.” “The CCR5-Δ32 mutation,” Command confirmed. “Same as yours.” Tobias straightened. “Your point being?” “The guys in the lab here think it likely explains why he reacted differently,” Command went on. “Why he isn’t transformed just like you. That makes Derek a dangerous vector, Reaper. Or worse… a prototype for the Alpha.” The word hung heavy in the air. Elias closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, whatever shock he’d felt was locked down, buried under years of training. “So what are my orders?” he asked. Another pause. Longer this time. “You and Tex are to return to base immediately,” Command said. “Medical screening. Another round of antivirals. Full debrief. After that— you’ll be on immediate standby.” “Fucking lovely. There went our Christmas, Mom and Trev are going to be furious. Control, what about the Alpha?” Tobias demanded, leaning toward the comm like it might answer him directly. “The Alpha is now designated a global bio-threat,” Command replied. “Reaper?” “Yes.” “If it reaches out again… we’ll need to activate Omega protocols.” The channel went dead. Elias lowered his hand slowly. The house seemed to exhale around them, as if relieved the conversation was over. Tobias looked at him. Really looked at him. “They’re saying this is bigger than Helixion, aren’t they?” “Yes.” “And that thing—” Tobias swallowed. “It knows you.” Elias glanced once more at the dark television screen, imagining the Alpha’s grin, the casual wave. “It always did, remember?” he said, tapping his head in annoyance. He replaced his respirator and turned toward the door. “Come on,” Elias added. “We’re done here. Leave the rest to the clean up team.” They both removed their suits and tossed them into the biohazard bin, listening as it locked electronically. Behind them, the frat house remained quiet and empty—quarantined, condemned, and marked. Reaching into his pocket, Elias pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up, exhaling in annoyance. Tex looked over at him and sighed, muttering something about how Trevor would be pissed if he caught him smoking again. Elias sighed, leaving a trail of smoke behind him, his mind fixated on one thing. He knew, without a doubt, somewhere beyond the cordon, the Alpha was already planning its next gift. — Derek kept his head down as he walked, the leather collar of his jacket turned up against the cold. Sunglasses hid his eyes from the bright glow of the snow, and anyone passing him would’ve clocked him as just another student cutting through the neighborhood—nothing remarkable, nothing worth remembering. The phone pressed warm against his ear. “Hey Ty. Tell the Alpha they found it,” he said casually, voice light. “Wrapped it up real neat. Whole place is crawling with suits now.” A pause. Then a low, pleased hum from the other end. “Yeah, Blackwell is moving in now,” Derek continued, slowing as he reached the end of the block. A government SUV idled at the corner, its lights dark, engine murmuring. “They’re packing up the scene as we speak. Quarantine tape, stern faces, lots of very serious words.” He smiled. Behind the lenses, his eyes were pitch black. Another pause. Derek nodded along, even though Ty couldn’t see it. “Mm-hm. Told you they would. Always so predictable. Anyways, tell our Master that I’m off to the next recruit.” He ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing in the winter air, listening to the distant sounds of radios and engines and people who thought they were still in control. Derek pulled a cigar from his coat, bit the tip, and lit it. He drew deep, savoring the burn in his lungs, the familiar calm settling over him. Next year, he thought, amused. Next year will be even more fun. He adjusted his coat as he walked toward the waiting car, posture relaxed, unhurried. His cock was hard and digging into his hip as he walked. With a brief grope, he adjusted his now massive uncut cock and balls and kept walking, sucking harder on the cigar and enjoying the feeling of the nicotine flowing through his toxic veins. The phone buzzed in his pocket again. Derek pulled it out and glanced down at the screen as he exhaled a thick stream of smoke, opening the PigLoadr app on his phone. Cumlvr99: You close? I need your load in me so bad, dude. Been taking loads all night. He smiled as a picture of the guy’s ass loaded on the screen, gaping and dripping with white cum. He typed back without breaking stride. Daddysboi25: On my way now. Hope your ready for me to change your fucking life. He opened the car door, checking himself out in reflection, adjusting the black leather coat and aviator glasses, adjusting his wavy black hair and touching the newly-placed septum ring in his nose. Pulling out the cigar for a brief moment, he let out a large glob of spit into the snow, smiling at the ever so slightly grey tinge to it. “Fuck, I look so much hotter now,” he said, grinning at his reflection. Satisfied, Derek stepped inside, smoke curling after him as the door shut, smoke filling the cabin. “Time to go claim another victim.” The engine revved as he pulled away from the curb. And somewhere, deep beneath the city’s noise and lights, something ancient and satisfied watched the road stretch open ahead. —------------------------------------- That concludes this year’s Christmas Special. We hope you enjoyed this one-off event, as it was a lot of fun writing it. With that, Merry Christmas from the Master Pathogen team. We hope you all have a great holiday and look forward to continuing the main story in the new year! - leatherpunk16 and kspozcum

@BearCubCuntBoi: I can’t exactly speak for @leatherpunk16 on this, but I am always happy to help people with their stories, and to provide feedback and proofreading. Feel free to DM me any time you’d like. As for being canon, this is not, but we -may- have something very early in the pipeline being planned out.

Chapter 6: Chestnuts Roasting Over An Open Fire Ty woke up annoyed before he was fully awake. He’d been having an amazing dream, fucking that hot blonde bimbo from the student bookstore, when the sound of his door hitting the wall woke him up. Someone was standing in his doorway, and that alone pissed him off. He cracked his eyes open, already halfway to snapping, and saw Paul Carter—Porkchop—looming there like a bad decision that hadn’t figured out when to leave yet. “Jesus Christ,” Ty muttered. “What do you want?” Paul swayed slightly, hands loose at his sides, wearing a dumb, unfocused smile that immediately set Ty’s teeth on edge. He looked drunk. Or worse—clingy. “TV’s messed up,” Paul said, words slurring together. “Keeps doin’ weird stuff. You’re the only one who knows how to fix it.” Ty rolled his eyes and flopped back against the mattress for a second. “That sounds like a you problem. Unplug it. Or don’t. I really don’t care.” Paul didn’t react. He just stood there, smiling, like Ty hadn’t spoken at all. That irritation sharpened. Ty hated when people did that—hovered, waited, expected him to fix things or just stare at him. He also had suspected for a long time that Paul was likely gay, what with the rumors he’d been hearing lately. And had likely a thing for him. Not that he was surprised, plenty of girls and guys liked looking at him. He was hot, and he knew that about himself. Long flowing brown hair, flawless skin, gym chiseled body, round bubble butt that filled out jeans. Perfect teeth and classically good looking face. Plenty of girls insisted he looked like a model, and he never once failed to tell them he wasn’t. It made getting in their pants that much easier. “Dude,” he snapped, pushing himself upright. “Stop fucking staring at me. I’m not your mom. Figure it out.” Paul blinked slowly, then tilted his head. “Please… Need help,” he said again, softer this time. “C’mon.” Something about the tone pricked at Ty’s nerves, but he refused to examine it. Instead, he sighed loudly and swung his legs off the bed, already resenting the situation. “Fine. Whatever,” he said, grabbing his pajama bottoms and pulling them on angrily. “But if this is some drunk bullshit, I’m going back to sleep.” Paul turned and shuffled into the hallway without waiting for him. Ty followed, grumbling under his breath. The house felt off—too quiet, too cold—but he chalked it up to the storm and the fact that everyone else had probably passed out. Typical. He was always the one getting dragged into things while everyone else got to check out. “Unbelievable,” he muttered as they walked. “I swear, if this is about the remote needing fucking batteries—” Paul didn’t answer. They reached the stairs. Ty noticed, absently, that Paul wasn’t looking around at all. Not at the doors, not down the stairwell. Just straight ahead, smile fixed, like he was on rails. Ty frowned but kept going. At the top of the basement stairs, he hesitated just long enough to feel stupid about it, then scoffed and started down. “Next time,” he said sharply, “ask Bran. Or literally anyone else. Just because I have a computer science major, doesn’t mean I should have to do tech support. And shut the fucking door. I’m the one who has to pay the damn electric bill each month, dumbass.” Paul’s smile never changed. And Ty, too busy being annoyed to trust the warning itch in his gut, followed him into the dark. The living room hit Ty like a punch to the chest. The Christmas tree was down. Not gently toppled—wrecked. Branches snapped and splayed across the floor, strings of lights tangled around the legs of the coffee table. Ornaments lay everywhere, shattered glass glittering across the hardwood like ice. One of the nicer ones—the hand-painted ones they’d ordered online—was crushed into dust near the couch. Ty stopped short on the last stair. “God fucking damn it!” he muttered aloud, taking in the sight. They had the alumni meeting next week and now the tree was trashed. Paul just stood, swaying and smiling. “What the fuck is this?” he snapped. Paul continued to stand near the doorway, swaying faintly, smile still plastered on his face, shrugging innocently. Ty’s irritation flared instantly, sharp and hot. “Are you kidding me right now?” He stepped into the room, carefully avoiding the glass. “Do you have any idea how much this crap cost? That tree alone was—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. As treasurer, Ty knew exactly how much it cost. He’d approved the charges. He’d argued about them. He’d spent two weeks reminding everyone that decorations weren’t free and that the house budget wasn’t infinite. “This is why we can’t have nice things,” he muttered angrily, dragging a hand through his hair. “Every year. Every single year.” He turned on Paul. “Did you do this? Were you drunk and flailing around like an idiot, or did someone else trash the place?” Paul didn’t answer. Ty scoffed. “Unreal. You’re fucking wasted and no help at all.” The TV hummed softly behind him, screen filled with flickering static. The sound grated on his nerves. He stalked toward it, irritation overriding the faint prickle at the back of his neck. “I swear to god,” he muttered, reaching for the power button, “if this is broken too, I’m docking dues—” A sudden cold washed over the back of his neck as the skin of his bare chest prickled with goosebumps from the cold wave coming from the basement. Ty froze mid-step. The air felt wrong. Thicker. Charged. He straightened slowly, turning just enough to glance over his shoulder. “Paul?” he said sharply. “What are you standing there for, looking like an idiot? Go get a god damn broom and dustpan already!” That was when it hit him. Something warm and wet splashed across his face, stinging his eyes and mouth with a sharp, chemical burn. Ty cursed, stumbling back on instinct, hands flying up as his vision blurred violently. “What the—shit!” Heat surged through him, fast and overwhelming. His knees buckled as the room tilted sideways. He staggered blindly, heel catching on the edge of the fallen tree, and crashed down hard amid broken branches and glass. Lights flashed. Static roared. Ty tried to push himself up, rage and confusion tangling together—but his arms didn’t cooperate. His thoughts slid, softened, slipping through his grasp like wet paper. The last thing he saw clearly was Paul standing above him, still smiling. Then the floor rushed up. And everything went dark. — Ty woke up choking on cold air. It scraped across his skin in a way that made his whole body tense, nerves screaming before his brain could fully catch up. He sucked in a sharp breath and tried to roll onto his side—only to freeze as sensation flooded back all at once. Bare skin. Too much of it. His eyes flew open. He was sprawled on the living room floor, every inch of him exposed to the chill, the hardwood biting into his back and shoulders. No clothes. Nothing to shield him. Panic surged as he tried to cover himself, hands fumbling clumsily, his limbs sluggish and uncooperative. A shadow shifted above him. Ty looked up. The thing standing over him was enormous—broad-shouldered, towering, its obsidian-black skin catching the dim light like polished leather. Thick, horned protrusions curved from its head in heavy arcs, framing a face twisted into a slow, mocking smile. It was holding a cigar. The ember at the end glowed red as it took a long, deliberate draw, smoke curling lazily from its mouth. The scent hit Ty immediately—burnt tobacco mixed with something sharp and chemical that made his head swim. “Well,” the creature said aloud, voice deep and amused, “this is a nice present to wake up to.” Ty’s heart slammed. “Back off,” he snapped, scrambling awkwardly, palms sliding on the floor. “What the hell are you?” The creature chuckled, smoke rolling from its lips as it exhaled. “Name’s Stag.” It crouched slightly, bringing itself closer to eye level, its grin widening as Ty’s breathing picked up. “You’re loud,” Stag continued. “I like that. Any mouthy. Makes it even more fun to watch when that fire drains out of you.” Ty swallowed hard, fear burning through his chest. “You think this is funny? Get the fuck out of our house, man!” Stag didn’t answer right away. Instead, it took another slow drag on the cigar—long enough for Ty to notice the ash at the tip growing thick and unstable. Then Stag flicked its fingers. The ash broke free mid-air and landed squarely on Ty’s chest. Ty screamed. The heat was instant—sharp and searing—sending him into blind panic as he slapped at his own skin, smearing the burning embers and making it worse before they finally scattered away. He gasped, chest heaving, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. Stag laughed. A deep, satisfied sound. “Careful,” Stag said mockingly. “You’re just making it burn longer.” Ty curled inward instinctively, hands clutching at his chest, eyes wild. “You sick freak—” Stag rose to its full height again, looming, shadow swallowing Ty whole. It took another drag, unbothered, then casually tapped the cigar against its fingers. “You’re gonna spend a lot of time panicking,” he said calmly, voice deep and gravely. “At first.” It stepped closer, heat rolling off its body, the smell of smoke thickening in the air. “Then you’re gonna get tired,” Stag continued. “And when you do, you’re gonna stop yelling. Stop fighting. Stop pretending you’re in charge of anything.” It leaned down just enough for Ty to see the sharp edges of its teeth when it smiled. “And by the end,” Stag added softly, “you won’t even remember why you thought you mattered.” Ty’s breath came in ragged bursts, fear flooding every thought as Stag straightened again, taking another slow, deliberate draw from the cigar. The ember glowed brighter. And Ty realized—with a sick, sinking certainty—that this thing was enjoying every second of his terror. Stag circled him slowly, boots heavy against the floor, smoke trailing behind like a leash. Ty stayed frozen where he was, muscles locked, breath coming too fast. Every instinct screamed at him to move—run, lash out, do something—but his body refused to cooperate. “You can fight if you want,” Stag said calmly. “Most of you do.” It knelt in front of him without warning, movement sudden enough to make Ty flinch. A clawed finger traced a slow line up Ty’s sternum, not breaking skin, just enough pressure to hurt. Ty sucked in a sharp breath as his muscles seized. “But don’t confuse noise with control,” Stag continued. “That part belongs to me.” Ty tried to shove the hand away. His arms twitched—and stopped. His mind screamed at them to move again, harder this time, but it was like hitting a locked door from the inside. Panic surged, hot and humiliating. Stag smiled. “Feel that?” it asked. “That moment where your body listens to me instead of you?” It leaned closer, tapping a clawed finger against Ty’s temple—light, deliberate. “You’re sharp,” Stag said, almost approving. “You plan. You calculate. You keep track of things. A strong mind in a pretty package. That makes you… interesting.” The finger tapped again. “And it makes this better.” Pain lanced suddenly through Ty’s chest as Stag twisted its grip, pressure crushing muscle and nerve together as he grabbed Ty’s nipple and twisted until he cried out despite himself. His vision blurred, breath hitching as the sensation overloaded him. “That mind,” Stag said quietly. “Is going to be so much fun destroying. That’s the best part of the gift you’re about to receive. How it lets me torture you however I want.” Ty shook his head, jaw clenched, teeth chattering as fear and fury tangled together. “I’m not—” he started. Stag struck him hard, fast, smacking his hand hard into Ty’s unprotected bull balls. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. Ty doubled over with a broken sound, hands curling uselessly as the pain rippled outward as Stag firmly grabbed both large orbs and gave them a hard squeeze. “Nice pair of cum factories you got there. Gonna make you feed me a nice big load when I’m done with you.” Ty suddenly panicked as a sudden mental image filled his brain. He was bent over, drooling and begging, asking Stag to breed him and feed from his cock. He tried to scream out, shocked when he found he couldn’t talk. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t make a single sound. “There it is,” Stag said, satisfied. “That moment where you realize yelling doesn’t change anything.” It straightened slowly, towering again, cigar glowing red as it took another long drag. “You’re going to learn,” Stag went on, voice steady and cruel, “that everything you are—every thought, every reaction—is something I can reach and reshape. Crush out any little part I don’t like. And something I don’t like is pretty boys like you telling me what to do. Thinking you’re so much smarter and prettier than the rest of us.” Smoke drifted down over Ty’s face as the world narrowed to heat, pain, and the horrible understanding that this wasn’t random. This was deliberate. And Stag was enjoying taking him apart one decision at a time. Stag was still looming over Ty when the pressure in the room changed. It wasn’t subtle. The air thickened, pressing down on Ty’s chest until breathing felt harder, slower. Even Stag paused mid-motion, its grin tightening into something irritated as a heavier presence pushed its way into the space. “Enough,” a deep voice said. Stag straightened with a sharp exhale, annoyance flickering across its features. “I was enjoying myself.” “You’re playing with your food,” the Alpha replied coolly. “And you’re dulling his brain doing it.” Ty’s head snapped up despite himself. The Alpha stood at the edge of the room, arms folded across a massive chest, horns longer and more ornate than Stag’s. Its presence dwarfed everything else, the dim light bending around it in a way that made Ty’s stomach drop. Smoke curled lazily around its face, its gaze fixed on him with unsettling calm. Around it stood the others. His frat brothers. Derek was closest, posture loose, eyes bright with something that made Ty’s skin crawl, licking and kissing his body, occasionally smoking a cigar in his hand. Noah stood beside him, calm and distant playing with himself and rubbing a hand over the Alpha’s chest. Paul swayed faintly while kneeling, smiling, fingering his ass as licked the Alpha’s feet. Even Evan was there, looking oddly wet and reeking of piss, licking and sucking on the Alpha’s cock like it was the best thing he ever tasted, gulping occasionally. None of them looked concerned. None of them looked confused. He stilled as he watched Zach suddenly walk in, a sheen of oily black liquid on his body, skin grey and covered in blackened scratches, kneeling next to Evan as he began to reverently grab and tug on the Alpha’s massive low hanging balls. They looked… devoted. Behind the Alpha, several other creatures stood behind him, slowly jacking their cocks. Ty’s panic spiked. “What the hell is wrong with all of you?” he demanded, voice cracking as he looked from one familiar face to the next. “Derek—what is this? Tell him to stop!” Derek stepped forward just enough for Ty to see him clearly. His expression softened, almost fond. “You should just give up,” Derek said quietly, sticking the large cigar in his mouth and hauling hard on it while slowly working his cock, the same smile as the others on his face, eyes looking black and unnatural. “It’s easier if you don’t fight it. It really feels so fucking good when you let go, buddy.” Ty shook his head frantically. “No—no, you don’t mean that—” Stag laughed and leaned down again, clearly irritated now, one clawed hand bracing Ty in place. “See?” he said. “Even your friends know when it’s over.” Suddenly, Stag moved—fast and deliberate. He firmly grabbed Ty’s impressive cock and shoved his longest sharp claw down his piss slit. His other hand held the end of the cigar painfully close to his right nipple, the hair singing against the heat of the cherry. Ty cried out, the sound tearing free of him before he could stop it. His body locked, shock rippling through him as his breath hitched into a broken whimper. Tears blurred his vision as the pain and fear tangled together, overwhelming his ability to think. “Stag,” the Alpha warned, voice sharp now inside Ty’s mind. Stag withdrew slightly, grumbling under its breath. “Fine. Fine.” Suddenly, another glob of spit hit his face, making him shudder and feel numb. Ty lay there shaking, every nerve screaming, his mind scrambling uselessly for escape. The Alpha stepped closer, its shadow swallowing him whole. “Listen to me,” it said calmly, voice reverberating in his head. “You can resist if you want.” It tilted its head, studying him. “But you are already surrounded by proof of what happens when you don’t. Willingly give yourself to my gift, and you will feel nothing but pleasure.” Ty sobbed, chest heaving, the tip of his nipple burning from the heat of the cigar, skin burning and turning red, unable to pull away, locked in place by Stag’s hold on his mind. His gaze flicking back to his brothers—each one watching him with quiet expectation. The Alpha’s voice softened, almost gentle. “Lay back and enjoy this,” it instructed. “And let us finish.” Ty’s body trembled violently as the command settled over him, heavy and inescapable. And somewhere beneath the fear, beneath the shock, something inside him began to give way. Ty barely had time to register the Alpha’s command before Stag moved again. The horned figure’s attention returned to him with a sharp focus, eyes glittering with impatience. Stag struck him hard in the balls—once—watching closely for the reaction. Ty cried out, body jerking on instinct, breath tearing free of his lungs. The pain was immediate and blinding, but his body didn’t behave the way it was supposed to when given pain. It lingered, twisted, and then—confusingly—shifted, sending a sickening wave of sensation through him that made his thoughts stutter. Stag noticed. He always did. “See?” Stag said, voice low and pleased. “Your body’s already learning.” Ty shook, breath coming in ragged bursts, panic tangling with something he didn’t want to name. His mind screamed at him to pull away, to fight—but his muscles betrayed him, locking up, then loosening as if waiting for instruction. “Hands and knees,” Stag ordered. The words sank deeper than sound. Ty found himself moving before he could stop it, posture collapsing into something smaller, more exposed. His face burned with humiliation and fear as Stag loomed behind him, claws spreading with deliberate cruelty. Stag leaned in, forcing Ty still. He slowly felt as his body, against his will, sat up and turned itself over, his mind screaming in agony to stop, to fight this, to bargain. Maybe with money. Or maybe he could find a distraction and make a break for it in the snow. That he might be able to get to one of the houses if he screamed loud enough and someone let him in. He felt himself rest his shoulders on the ground, and slowly pull his asschecks apart, his face looking at the door. He stiffened as he was Stag rest a hand on his shoulder, cigar burning frighteningly close to his face. The impact came suddenly. Smack after horrifically painful smack access his asschecks like fire. He sobbed slightly at the assault on his smooth full, muscular ass. He thought this would be the worst of it when Stag stopped and let out a dark chuckle. He shuddered as suddenly, cigar-scented spit drooled down into his asshole and clawed fingers stabbed deep into him. They inched in, before finally pressing down hard deep inside him. Ty screamed—first from shock, then from the overwhelming rush that followed, his voice breaking as pain bled into something else entirely. His body betrayed him again, reacting in ways his mind refused to accept, his cock hardening and balls aching for release as the man’s claws dug and stabbed hard into his prostate. Stag laughed softly, a sound of pure satisfaction. “There it is,” he murmured. “That moment where it stops being a fight. The little button deep inside you that reduces you to nothing. Nothing but a pretty boy waiting to be fucked raw.” He felt as the fingers pulled out, and Stag’s hand came down again on his firm ass with a resounding smack. Again and again, each strike measured, watching how Ty’s reactions changed—how the fear softened, how the resistance thinned. The burning of his asscheeks spread out, fingers pressed again and pressing hard on his prostate. Only for it to be removed again and again as he was bright to the edge of losing it. The Alpha observed from behind, silent, allowing the lesson to continue. Eventually, he felt Stag’s clawed thumbs jab into his ass and pull his hole apart, followed by the sharp stab of his cock into his ass. He groaned in agony at first, tears streaming down his face until a new sensation started to wash over him. He could feel his ass getting slicker, the foul precum from Stag’s cock slowly working into his battered hole and into the deep scratches inside of him and to his bloodstream. Stag took his time, making sure to make each stroke slow and long, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in as hard as he could. It felt like hours but was likely only minutes later when he felt as Stag slammed one last time and a massive torrent of foul, likely infected cum flooded his ass, and he felt the strange pleasurable warmth spreading through his body, even as his mind tried valiantly to fight it. Just as he thought that the torture was over, he felt as something inexplicable squeezed around his mind, tighter and tighter as he felt something in it break. Ty’s cries blurred into helpless sounds, his thoughts dissolving into sensation. His body shaking in pure pleasure as his mind screamed in protest. He tried to claw at his head, feeling as Stag chuckled darkly and grabbed ahold of his hands and pulled them painfully behind him, fucking him once again. His hands stopped fighting, only loosely hanging at his side as he felt his brain struggle to even form a sentence. Somewhere in the haze, he realized he was no longer trying to escape. He was just trying to keep up. Stag straightened at last after shooting another massive load inside him, clearly pleased. “Good,” he said. “You’re learning your place.” And as Ty sagged forward, shaking and empty, the Alpha stepped closer—ready to decide what remained of him was worth keeping. The Alpha moved. The room responded instantly—pressure deepening, sound dulling, even Stag’s posture stiffening as the greater presence asserted itself, sending out pain to Stag and watching coldly as he collapsed into a kneeling position at the Alpha’s feet. The Alpha did not raise its voice. It didn’t need to. Enough. The word landed directly inside Stag’s mind, sharp and displeased. Stag hissed softly, his head hanging down as its satisfaction curdled into irritation. You knew better than to just break him. We will talk about this later, the Alpha added, colder now. For now, I need to see if you left anything left for me to salvage. Stag stood up, head still hanging down and withdrew a step, jaw tightening, but did not argue. The Alpha’s attention shifted fully to Ty. Ty barely registered the moment before the Alpha’s presence flooded his thoughts. It was not violent. It was methodical. The Alpha sifted through Ty’s fractured mind like a collector examining broken pieces on a table. Fear. Anger. Pride. Control. Identity. Each fragment was lifted, examined, and—if found wanting—discarded. Ty whimpered as memories blurred and slid away. His sense of self unraveled, replaced by a blank, receptive quiet. The Alpha lingered on certain traits—focus, endurance, responsiveness—setting them aside deliberately. These will do. The rest was erased. His mind suddenly pleasantly absent save for a small voice begging for it to stop. Ty rolled onto his back, slack jawed and blank faced, positioning his ass as high as he could as his fellow frat brother’s descended upon him, squeezing his balls, twisting his nipples hard, smacking the head of his cock playfully like it were a toy. Derek positioned himself at Ty’s head, smacking his face a few times as Ty automatically started grinned at him mindlessly, the pain turning to pleasure in his mind as Derek hauled hard on his soon-to-be ever present cigar, and spat a large ball of enhanced spit in his face, smiling as Ty expectantly opened his mouth and began to suck on Derek’s already larger cock. The Alpha pressed in closer, its will overwhelming, reshaping Ty’s responses at a fundamental level. Panic gave way to confusion. Confusion thinned into pleasure. The noise in Ty’s head faded until there was nothing left to fight with. His body relaxed. His thoughts slowed. Drool slipped from the corner of his mouth as the Alpha rewired him, reinforcing one simple truth again and again: You exist to receive. You exist to serve. You exist as a vessel for my gift. To incubate it and spread it. Ty smiled around Derek’s cock, feeding eagerly as Derek erupted in his mouth, flooding it with now black tainted cum. Swallowing happily as Derek removed his cock, switching places with Noah. He began to suck Noah with increased hunger, enjoying the feeling of the Alpha sinking deep into his guts, using Stag’s black cum as lube as he began to fuck Ty’s ass, taking his anger at Stag out on his hole. He whimpered at the feeling, the last shred of his mind clinging on for dear life, barely a whisper in a dark echo as he finally felt the Alpha still, flooding him with a massive amount of seed. Ty felt as his body shuddered in happiness and relief as rope after rope of untainted cum painted his perfectly sculpted abs and chest, smiling with dim satisfaction as his fellow frat brother’s leaned forward and began to feed. Ty’s mind stuttered and fully stopped—then restarted. Not as it had been. Clean. Quiet. Purpose-built. The idea of resistance felt distant and irrelevant, like remembering a dream that no longer mattered. In its place settled a deep calm—and a need to please the presence shaping him. He suddenly found himself happy to give up the last piece of himself untouched by the Alpha, given to fuel his brother’s transformations, feeling as his battered, large balls emptied out, unable to stop himself from the continued flood of cum exiting his body. Pleasure filled him, making his limbs shudder as he felt flash after flash of what his body would become filled his mind. Even more muscles and perfect pitch black skin, sharp teeth and claws, beautiful large horns curving off his skull. He would be a machine, made for spreading the Alpha’s gift. Without any reason to know, he realized he would be able to change himself at will, looking normal as as Derek, purpose built to draw in even more prey for their master. The pain of the change would feel like the best orgasm. The Alpha withdrew slightly, assessing its work. “Better,” it said, standing up and glaring at Stag. “This one has the gift to transform at my will. Next time, see that such a useful mind isn’t so broken that I have to fix your mistake. He’s mine now since you can’t behave. Perhaps next time you will not be so rough when I give you a pretty toy for Christmas.” “Yes, Alpha. My apologies, Alpha,” Stag ground out, angry and hungry for the untainted cum that should have been his. Ty remained where he was, breathing slow and even, expression vacant and eager. Whatever he had been before—treasurer, foul natured, self-assured, loudmouth—had been stripped away and discarded. Only the shape remained. The Alpha turned away, satisfied. Stag watched in silence, chastened. And Ty, newly hollowed and remade, did not notice either of them anymore. Ty rose unsteadily to his feet. Whatever had been carved out of him left behind something unnervingly eager—movements loose, posture open, eyes unfocused but bright. He drifted toward the horned figures one by one, guided by instinct rather than thought, offering himself wordlessly to each presence in turn. He walked over without hesitation and began to make out with the first creature, smiling and groaning happily as he began to make out with it, feeling the long tongue snake down his throat, gently tugging the massive cock and breaking apart only to turn around and sink himself down on the cock, letting the man-creature… his new borther… use his cock and balls as a grip. He groaned happily, letting it set the pace as it painfully squeezed his balls or spanked his ass, his ass clenching down hard in response, enjoying the torture on his cock, balls, ass and nipples. The more pain inflicted on his already impressive body, the more his pleasure became. The Alpha watched, arms folded, assessing. Satisfaction rippled through the room as the ritual completed its circuit, Ty’s behavior smoothing into a practiced, obedient rhythm. “Fucking breed me. Infect me and flood me with your virus,” Ty moaned, veins already turning black. Then a door slammed open upstairs, followed by the sound of frantic feet on the stairs.. “—What the hell—” Bran froze in the doorway, crashing to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, horror etched across his face as he took in the scene: the wrecked living room, the horned figures, the altered brothers—Ty moving among them with vacant enthusiasm, a river of black cum flowing like a river down his leg. Pupils blown open with pleasure and an obedient, happy smile on his face. “No—no, no,” Bran breathed, backing away. Panic snapped him into motion. He turned and bolted for the stairs. “Stop him,” the Alpha said calmly. At once, the frat brothers moved. Derek was first, then Noah, then the others—faces serene, steps coordinated, moving with a shared purpose as they surged up the stairs after Bran. Their footfalls thundered overhead, chasing him into the dark. The Alpha lingered a moment longer, eyes tracking the pursuit before calmly relaxing down on the couch and lounging back. “Bring him back to me,” it added. The house seemed to hold its breath. Below on the ground, Ty happily knelt in front of the Alpha and slowly began to lick and nuzzle its cock, awaiting the next instruction, smiling happily when the Alpha gently began to run its hand through his hair. He continued to aim to please his master while above, the hunt began. Now thrilled to be the personal pet of the Alpha.

Chapter 4: The Christmas Stocking Paul Carter lay on his back in the narrow bed, phone balanced against his chest, the screen casting a soft bluish glow across the ceiling. Snow drifted across the tiny frame of the movie playing—one of those saccharine Christmas romances he’d clicked on without thinking, the kind that promised warmth and happy endings even when the world outside felt thin and cold. Onscreen, two men stood in a flurry of lights and music, breathless and smiling, the argument finally over. They ran toward each other through falling snow, laughter breaking through tears, arms wrapping tight like they were afraid the other might vanish if they didn’t hold on hard enough. Paul sniffed, embarrassed by the sound, and scrubbed at his nose with the heel of his palm. “Shut up,” he muttered to himself, even though the room was empty. He told himself it was the alcohol, the storm, the long night—anything but the tight ache building in his chest as the couple kissed and the music swelled. He locked the phone and tossed it onto the mattress beside him before the credits could roll. The screen lit again almost immediately as his messages opened, the familiar thread already at the top. He hadn’t meant to open it. His thumb just… knew where to go. The breakup text stared back at him, cruel in its simplicity. No explanation worth anything. No apology. Just blunt words and an even blunter dismissal. Paul’s jaw tightened as he scrolled, the memory crashing back uninvited—the night before, the way he’d tried so hard to be everything the other guy wanted, how eager he’d been to please, to prove he was worth staying for. Hell, he even let the guy bareback him, crawling on his knees and begging him. And then the next morning came. The text. You weren’t that good. I’ve already moved on. Don’t message me again. Paul swallowed hard, his throat burning. He hated how much that still hurt. Hated that it made him feel stupid, small, disposable. He locked the phone again, dropping it face-down this time like it might bite him if he looked too long. “Not tonight,” he whispered, forcing the words out like a promise. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the storm batter the house, the wind whining along the eaves like something lost and angry. Somewhere below him, the frat house creaked and shifted, settling into the cold. Laughter drifted faintly from downstairs, muffled now, distant enough to feel unreal. Paul rolled onto his side, curling slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. He told himself he just needed distraction—anything to keep his thoughts from circling back to the same bruised places. Something loud. Something physical. Something that didn’t ask him to feel wanted or loved. Just something that made him feel anything else. He reached for his phone again, screen lighting his face in the dark as the storm outside howled on. Paul stared at the glowing screen for a long moment before unlocking it again. The house felt too quiet up here, the laughter from downstairs fading into something distant and hollow. He needed noise. Motion. Anything to drown out the thoughts pressing in on him. He didn’t open the movie back up. Instead, his thumb drifted through apps without much thought, muscle memory guiding him somewhere familiar and mindless. Images of men fucking in different positions and acts loaded—too bright, too sharp against the darkness of his room—and he felt his shoulders loosen just a little as his focus narrowed. This, at least, didn’t ask him to feel hopeful. It didn’t promise happy endings or soft confessions in falling snow. It was simpler than that. Paul exhaled slowly, letting his head sink back into the pillow. He told himself it was just about distraction, about shutting his brain up for a while. About not thinking of text messages or mornings-after or how easy it had been for someone to decide he wasn’t worth keeping. He spit on his hand, and slowly pulled his boxers down, before effortlessly shoving two fingers into his still puffy and abused hole. The alcohol helped. It softened the edges of everything, made the room feel warmer than it was. His thoughts drifted lazily instead of spiraling, and he let himself sink into the sensation of it—into the idea of not having to be careful, not having to anticipate what someone else wanted from him. He picked out a fisting video and watched as the top commanded the muscular guy to get into the stirrups and the scene shifted. The guy was now dripping and stretched as the top pulled a massive black dildo out of his ass, and quickly replaced it with his black gloved first. The guy groaned as the top spit in his mouth, calling him a good boy. He swallowed, adding another finger while admitting something quietly to himself that he rarely said out loud: it was easier to want things when he was a little drunk. Easier to imagine letting go. Easier to pretend, just for a few minutes, that being wanted like this could be uncomplicated. His phone slipped from his hand onto the bed as he closed his eyes briefly, breathing through the haze, focusing on the sensation of his battered hole being stretched open again as he mentally put himself in the place of the bottom guy.. The storm outside surged again, wind rattling the window like impatient fingers, but he barely noticed. His attention had turned inward, wrapped around thoughts he usually pushed away during the day. He wasn’t thinking about love. He wasn’t thinking about relationships. He was thinking about control—or the lack of it. About how nice it might feel to stop making decisions altogether. To stop bracing himself for rejection. To let something else take over, even if only for a moment. The thought unsettled him enough that he opened his eyes again, heart thudding a little faster. He shifted on the bed, restless now, and reached for his phone once more, scrolling without really seeing what passed beneath his thumb. “Just… calm down,” he murmured to himself, voice low and shaky. A sudden knock at his door made him flinch hard, phone slipping from his fingers and bouncing against the mattress. Paul sucked in a sharp breath, pulse racing. “Yeah?” he called, scrambling to sit up, pulling his pants up and wiping his hand on the sheets in a panic. “Who is it?” The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. The silence stretched just long enough for Paul to wonder if he’d imagined the knock. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath him, and cleared his throat. “Hello?” he called again, louder this time. “Who is it?” The handle turned. Derek leaned into the doorway with an easy smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The hall light framed him in a thin yellow outline, making the rest of him look oddly dim, like the shadows clung too closely to his shoulders. He looked relaxed—almost loose—swaying faintly as if he’d had one drink too many. “Hey Paul,” Derek said. “You… busy?” Paul blinked. “Uh. Just… sleeping?” He pulled the covers closer around himself, then frowned. “What’s up?” Derek’s gaze drifted past him into the room, unfocused, as if he were looking at something that wasn’t there. “Need a hand downstairs,” he said after a beat. “Kitchen stuff. Noah was sleepwalking in there and I need to get him back to bed. It’ll just take a minute.” The way he said Paul’s name—Paul, not Porkchop—made Paul pause. Derek almost never used it. The familiarity felt wrong in his mouth, too deliberate. Paul opened his mouth to comment on it, then hesitated. Derek was older. Vice President. Noah’s cousin. If he needed help, it was probably easier just to go. “Yeah. Okay,” Paul said slowly. “Give me a sec.” Derek nodded once, already turning away. His footsteps retreated down the hall without waiting for an answer. Paul sat there for a moment, heart thudding, trying to shake the strange feeling crawling up his spine. He grabbed his phone and flicked on the flashlight, the narrow beam cutting a clean path through the dark as he stood. The house felt cooler than before, the warmth from earlier draining away like someone had cracked a window somewhere. He followed Derek down the stairs, the beam bobbing slightly with each step. The living room was empty now, couches abandoned, the TV a black mirror reflecting nothing. The storm outside pressed against the walls, wind moaning through the frame like it was searching for a way in. At the bottom of the stairs, Paul slowed. The basement door stood ajar—just a few inches—breathing out a thin ribbon of cold air that raised goosebumps along his arms. It smelled damp, metallic, and faintly chemical, like old pipes and something sharper layered beneath. “Derek?” Paul called, uneasy. “Where’s Noah? Were you able to get him to wake up?” Derek stood near the kitchen threshold, back to him. He turned slowly, smile still fixed in place, eyes glassy and distant. For a split second, Paul thought he saw something dark flicker behind Derek’s reflection in the microwave door. He took a step forward. Something warm and wet struck his face without warning. Paul gasped as the sensation spread—slick, clinging, burning faintly as it seeped across his skin. His flashlight clattered to the floor, the beam spinning wildly as dizziness slammed into him. The world tilted violently, his stomach lurching as heat surged through his chest and down his limbs. “Oh—shit—” he tried to say, but the words tangled and fell apart. It felt like inhaling something impossibly strong, like his head had been dunked into a haze that stripped his thoughts down to their softest edges. His knees buckled. The floor rushed up to meet him. As he collapsed onto the kitchen tile, vision swimming, Paul managed to look up one last time. Derek loomed over him, swaying gently, smile widening just a fraction too much. Then a shape moved behind him—tall, broad, impossibly dark—and strong arms lifted Paul from the floor as if he weighed nothing at all. The last thing Paul saw before the fog swallowed him completely was the kitchen filling with silhouettes that did not belong in any house built by human hands. --- Paul came back to himself in fragments. First the cold—tile pressing against his back, leeching heat from his skin. Then the smell: old beer, something metallic, and beneath it all a faint, acrid sharpness that made the back of his throat prickle. His eyes fluttered open, vision swimming, the ceiling light above him reduced to a dull halo. He was on the kitchen table. That realization arrived slowly, accompanied by the distant clatter of a bottle being set down somewhere nearby. His clothes were gone—when that registered, a weak rush of embarrassment flickered through him, dulled almost immediately by the lingering haze in his head. Panic tried to rise, but it met resistance, like it was pushing through syrup. He swallowed hard. “D-Derek…?” The name came out thin, barely audible. Figures stood around him. At first, his brain insisted they were frat brothers—tall silhouettes, broad shoulders—but the illusion fractured as his vision steadied. These weren’t people. Their bodies were too large, too symmetrical, their movements too fluid and deliberate. Skin the color of wet ink caught the low light, glossy and smooth like polished rubber stretched tight over muscle. Horns rose from their heads in sweeping curves and jagged points, casting warped shadows across the cabinets and walls. Paul’s breath hitched. His mouth opened, then closed again, soundless. His thoughts skidded uselessly, failing to form a coherent response to what he was seeing. One of the figures stepped closer, looming at his side. The air seemed to thicken with its presence, pressing down on his chest. Another followed, then another, until the kitchen felt impossibly crowded, as if the walls had crept inward. A voice echoed—not through the air, but inside his head, reverberating with layered depth. “Patch.” The name struck like a bell. One of the creatures responded immediately, shifting forward with calm assurance. He was broader than the others, posture relaxed but unmistakably dominant, as if this space already belonged to him. Paul felt the weight of that attention settle over him, pinning him in place more effectively than any physical restraint. Patch tilted his head, studying Paul with open curiosity. A low chuckle rolled from him, the sound vibrating through the table beneath Paul’s back. “You already know what you like,” the voice murmured—heard and felt at once, threaded directly through Paul’s thoughts. “You just don’t like admitting it.” Paul’s chest rose and fell too quickly. He tried to speak, to protest, but only a thin, broken sound escaped him. Hands—large, careful, impossibly strong—adjusted his position, arranging him with unsettling familiarity. Paul’s gaze drifted helplessly to the edges of the room, where more of them stood watching. Some held bottles of beer, tipping them back casually, dark eyes never leaving him. Others were smoking cigars, the ends glowing in the dark. A sudden, dizzying realization cut through the fog. Derek stood among them. And Noah. Both smoking a cigar and drinking a beer. They leaned close, faces calm, almost gentle, eyes reflecting something Paul didn’t recognize anymore. Derek met his gaze and smiled—not cruelly, not kindly, but with the certainty of someone who had already crossed a line and wasn’t looking back. “Relax,” Derek whispered. “It’s easier if you do.” Noah nodded in agreement. “We did. And man, it feels fucking amazing.” The words hollowed Paul out. His fear faltered, replaced by a strange, aching confusion. If they were standing there—if they were like this—then whatever was happening to him wasn’t chaos. It was a process. Patch’s attention returned to him fully. A massive hand settled against Paul’s hip, not rough, not gentle—simply inevitable. “This one’s been waiting,” Patch said, tone almost conversational. “Even upstairs, he was waiting.” Paul squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head weakly. “Please… don’t hurt me.” A presence brushed against his mind—vast, patient, impossibly heavy. The Alpha. Even without seeing him clearly, Paul felt that authority settle over his thoughts, smoothing his panic, reshaping it into something quieter and more malleable. “You want this,” the Alpha’s voice echoed softly within him. “You asked for it in ways you don’t yet understand.” Paul’s breath stuttered. Memories surfaced unbidden—loneliness, longing, the desire to be taken seriously, to be wanted without conditions. The fog thickened, wrapping those thoughts in warmth until resistance felt pointless. Patch leaned closer, his shadow swallowing Paul’s torso. “We’ll take care of you,” he murmured. “Just let go.” Paul didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His thoughts drifted apart, pulled gently but relentlessly toward the dark certainty pressing in around him. The kitchen lights flickered for a brief second before blinking off again. And whatever Paul Carter had been clinging to began to slip away. Patch did not rush. That was the first thing Paul noticed—dimly, through the haze pressing against his thoughts. Where the others moved with a predatory stillness, Patch moved with patience, like someone following a familiar set of steps. The kitchen felt less like a room now and more like a prepared space, every surface humming with a low, almost inaudible resonance. Patch’s attention stayed fixed on Paul as if nothing else existed. The others receded to the edges of Paul’s awareness—present, watching, but no longer the focus. Even Derek and Noah seemed to fade slightly, their shapes blurring as Patch’s presence sharpened. “You don’t have to fight,” Patch said, voice threading directly into Paul’s mind. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. “Your friends already learned what happens when you do.” Paul swallowed, throat dry. His fear had not vanished, but it had thinned, stretched out into something softer and more uncertain. He felt exposed—not just physically, but emotionally, like every private thought he’d tried to bury upstairs had been pulled into the open. Patch’s hand traced a slow line along Paul’s side, not touching skin so much as skimming the air just above it. Wherever that attention passed, warmth bloomed, dulling the cold and sending a strange, calming heaviness through Paul’s limbs. “You want to be full,” Patch continued, almost gently. “You want to stop holding yourself together.” Paul shook his head weakly, though the denial felt automatic, unconvincing. His thoughts drifted back to the bed upstairs—the movie, the messages, the ache he hadn’t known how to name. The Alpha’s presence brushed against those memories, turning them over, reframing them. “You sought release,” the Alpha murmured, distant but unmistakable. “Patch will show you how.” The room seemed to tighten around that statement. Patch leaned closer, his shadow falling across Paul’s chest, and Paul felt the weight of attention settle over him completely. Something in Patch’s demeanor changed—not more aggressive, but more focused, like a craftsman beginning his work. Hands guided Paul’s posture, adjusting him with careful precision. Paul’s muscles wanted to tense, to resist—but the warmth spreading through him made it hard to remember why he should. Each movement felt inevitable, as though his body understood what his mind was still struggling to accept. “Breathe,” Patch instructed. Paul did. Shallow at first, then deeper, drawn along by the steady cadence of Patch’s voice. With every breath, the edges of his panic softened further. The kitchen sounds—the storm outside, the distant creak of the house—faded into a dull background hum. Patch’s attention pressed inward, not just on Paul’s body but on his thoughts, nudging them open. Images surfaced unbidden: being seen, being chosen, being used for something specific and purposeful. The loneliness that had gnawed at him upstairs twisted into something else entirely—a yearning to be shaped, to be told exactly what he was for. “You like being opened up,” Patch said, not accusing, not mocking—simply stating a truth as he understood it. “You like when someone knows you better than you know yourself.” Paul’s breath hitched. His denial caught in his throat and dissolved before it could form words. Derek and Noah leaned closer again, their voices soft, familiar. “It’s okay,” Derek murmured. “This part’s hard, but it doesn’t last.” “You’ll feel better after,” Noah added, eyes bright with something unreadable. “We did. It feels so fucking good.” Paul’s gaze flicked between them, confusion and a fragile hope tangling together. If they could stand there—changed, calm—then maybe what was happening to him wasn’t just destruction. Maybe it was becoming. Patch felt the shift immediately. A low, satisfied sound vibrated through him. “There,” he said. “That’s it.” The Alpha’s presence pressed down once more, sealing the moment. “Begin.” Patch moved with certainty then, initiating the ritual in earnest. Paul watched as his boxers were ripped away, and with a loud wet sound, a glob of whatever had hit his face suddenly impacted his battered hole, dripping and slightly burning as hit got into the small tears in the flesh. He felt as his hole immediately relaxed, like it had the night before when the guy had him huffing poppers and riding his cock. He watched as Patch’s hands went into the same shape as the fisting top’s did in the video and suddenly was pushing deep inside him, twisting and pushing, his ass burning as he choked out a startled gasp. He felt as Patch’s fingers began to spread out and stretch him further, tears streaming down his face as he felt like he was tearing in half, his hole impossibly stretched to accommodate the abuse when he felt it. Patch pushed in and with an audible plop his massive fist suddenly slammed deep inside him, his asshole clenching in response as he tried to let out a loud screaming sob, only to be stopped by Noah and Derek holding him down and clamping their strangely too strong hands down on his mouth. Each smiling as they deeply inhaled their cigars. Paul’s thoughts fractured under the pressure—not shattering all at once, but peeling away in layers. Fear bled into sensation. Sensation into acceptance. Acceptance into something dangerously close to need. He gasped, gripping the edge of the table as the room seemed to tilt around him. The warmth inside him flared, spreading, reshaping him from the inside out. He felt smaller somehow—lighter—like he was being hollowed out to make room for something else. Suddenly, Patch stepped closer and shoved his monstrous dick in beside his hand. Paul sobbed, his mind reeling from the pain as his asshole felt like he was giving birth. Patch easily began to fuck his ass, drolling more saliva into his ass as he began to fuck his hand inside of Paul. Suddenly, he felt as Patch shuddered forward, and a burning sensation began to spread through his guts, the pain suddenly giving into deep pleasure as he felt his legs begin to quiver. Patch quickly pulled out and began to shove his arm deep inside of Paul, who was now panting and shaking, feeling as his body began to relax and surrender, until suddenly he looked down and saw Patch’s fist pushing upwards, deep inside him and making his stomach bulge obscenely. He swore he could feel the sharp claws on the fingers scratching his insides, as more and more pleasure flooded him and made him groan. WIthout warning, Patch devoured his leaking cock whole, and after a few quick sucks, Paul began to shoot without warning, feeling as his ass tried pitifully to clench down on the forearm burning deeply in his ruined guts. Patch continued to nurse on his cock until he finally finished coming and pulled out his fist with a loud wet plop. He stayed close, steady, guiding him through it. “Good,” he murmured. “Let it happen.” And despite everything—despite the cold table, the watching figures, the impossible reality pressing in—Paul felt himself letting go. The change in the room was immediate. Paul felt it before he understood it—like the air itself had thickened, pressing inward, drawing every sound and movement into a single, heavy focus. Patch slowed, his motions easing to a deliberate stillness, head lowering a fraction in deference. Around them, the other figures shifted subtly, attention snapping toward the same point. The Alpha had moved closer. Paul didn’t see him at first. He felt him—an immense gravity settling across his thoughts, steady and inescapable. The warmth coiling through Paul’s body deepened, no longer frantic or disorienting, but purposeful, as if something inside him had finally found the rhythm it wanted. “Enough,” the Alpha’s voice murmured, resonant and calm. Not a command shouted across the room— a certainty placed gently into Paul’s mind. Patch withdrew his hands and stepped aside without hesitation. Paul’s chest rose and fell too quickly. His thoughts drifted, then snagged on the Alpha’s presence like fabric on a hook. Every instinct he had left screamed that this was the moment he should fight harder—but the scream faded, smoothed over by the steady pressure pressing against him. The Alpha came fully into view. He was larger than the others by far, horns sweeping upward in ornate, impossible curves. His form radiated heat and authority, the faint glow beneath his skin pulsing in time with the low hum vibrating through the room. When his gaze settled on Paul, it felt less like being looked at and more like being measured. “You are afraid,” the Alpha said—not unkindly. “And you want it anyway.” Paul swallowed. The truth of it landed with startling clarity. His fear was still there, coiled tight in his chest—but beneath it lay something heavier, older. A longing he hadn’t known how to name upstairs, alone in his bed, staring at a phone that never gave him what he wanted. “I didn’t mean—” Paul started, then faltered as the Alpha’s presence brushed his thoughts aside. “Intent is not required,” the Alpha replied. “Desire is.” Paul’s breath shuddered. His resistance, already worn thin, finally tore. He felt it happen—felt something inside him loosen and slip free, drifting toward the Alpha’s steady pull. Images surfaced unbidden: himself empty of doubt, shaped with purpose, no longer bracing for rejection or disappointment. No longer waiting to be chosen—already claimed. Him being reshaped and perfected. “I…” His voice cracked, barely more than a breath. “I just don’t want to be alone anymore.” The Alpha’s attention softened—not gentler, but more precise. “Then you will not be.” A massive hand settled against Paul’s chest, radiating heat that sank straight into his bones. His body arched instinctively beneath the touch, not from pain but from recognition, as if this contact completed a circuit that had been waiting to close. Patch watched closely, satisfaction evident even in stillness. Derek and Noah leaned in, eyes bright, reverent. The Alpha’s voice filled Paul’s mind completely now. “Let go of what you were.” “There is nothing left for you there.” Paul’s thoughts unraveled at the edges, memories losing their sharpness—faces blurring, words losing meaning. The ache that had followed him for months from rejection after rejection dissolved into a warm, spreading certainty. “Yes,” he whispered, surprising himself with how easily the word came. “Okay.” The Alpha’s presence enveloped him fully, sealing that choice in place. “Good,” the voice murmured. “Then we will finish.” The room pulsed once, like a living thing drawing breath. He watched and held his legs up, waiting as his new master stepped forward and with one simple push, buried itself deep inside him and began to fuck him hard and fast. And Paul surrendered to it. The Alpha let out a growl and began to cum deep inside him, flooding his tattered and ruined guts with its black foul cum. Paul could feel as it flooded his body, his mind rolling in pleasure as thoughts of being chained up in a sling, countless men flooding his guts and working the loads deep inside his ass with both hands up to the shoulder. His mind shifted and he was being walked around with a chain around his neck, letting men piss and cum inside his gaping ass, held open by a metal ring. Mindlessly thanking the men as he felt his precum dribble out of the cockcage around his locked up meat. The moment Paul gave in, the room seemed to exhale. He began to cum uncontrollably, covering his chest and stomach with rope after rope of cum, watching as each of his new brothers, Noah and Derek included, descended upon him, feasting on his still fresh and untainted cum, his body almost seeming desperate to rid itself of the nourishing liquid to give way for his body to start making its own tainted cum. The pressure that had been bearing down on him did not vanish—but it changed. Where it had once crushed and disoriented, it now settled into something colder and steadier, like chains locking into place. The Alpha withdrew his hand, not because Paul was free, but because the work had been done. Derek stepped forward and placed a mostly smoked cigar in his mouth, mentally telling him to suck hard and deep on it, that it would make him feel even better. Paul’s breathing slowed, his virgin lungs sucking in and absorbing the thick smoke as his body began to subtly change. He lifted his legs up and held his gaping ass open and begged each of his new brothers, including the two newest ones, Derek and Noah, to shoot their tainted loads inside him, smiling happily as each one shot inside the gaping crater of his ass. His thoughts, once frantic and spiraling, dulled into a heavy calm. Memories of upstairs—the movie, the bed, the ache in his chest—felt distant, like scenes from a life he’d watched rather than lived. He tried to summon the sharpness of fear again and found only a faint echo. Patch straightened, satisfied. “It’s set,” he rumbled, the words carrying weight beyond language. “He’s already begun to change.” The Alpha regarded Paul for a long moment, eyes unreadable, presence immense. Then, with a subtle nod, he stepped back into the shadows. The other figures followed his lead, retreating slightly, their attention loosening now that the ritual’s core was complete. Paul sagged where he lay, exhaustion rolling through him in deep, irresistible waves. His body felt warm, heavy, and strangely right, as though something inside him had been rearranged into a shape it preferred. He realized—dimly—that he wasn’t afraid anymore. He, too, would grow massive horns, his body losing all its fat and instead covered in massive muscles and skin black. That realization should have terrified him. Instead, it brought relief. The Alpha knelt briefly beside him, tilting Paul’s head with a firm but careful hand. “Rest now,” he said. “You’ll wake when you’re ready to spread our gift. Relax and let the changes happen.” The words sank deep. Darkness folded in, thick and quiet, carrying with it the faint hum of something alive beneath his skin. Paul’s last conscious thought slipped away as easily as breath: I won’t be alone anymore.

-silently knows and refuses to share-

@Knightfalconer: Like @leatherpunk16 said, you are both correct and completely incorrect. I would suggest reading the source material if you'd like (linked at the beginning), as it might give you an idea of what's going on. But, this is also meant to be a one off, so nothing in this should be considered canon, and instead just a fun side project... so it should enjoyable on its own if you don't feel like reading the novel (quite literally) we have posted there. Both the one-off and the main story have been a fun project to write. This is only meant to tide people over until we can post again, as well as help drive people to checking out our full story. Also, it will only be about 7-8 Chapters long. Anyways, without much further wait, here is chapter 2... -------------------------------------------------------- Chapter 2: Up the Chimney He Rose The storm outside had grown vicious enough to make the old fraternity house groan at every gust. Snow slapped hard against the windows, blurring the world beyond into a white, swirling void. Inside, Phi Alpha Gamma had settled into a warm, chaotic mess: blankets draped over sagging couches, empty cans scattered across the coffee table, the air thick with the mingled smells of popcorn, sweat, and cheap beer. Die Hard lit the room in flashes of gunfire and Christmas lights—Derek’s official “holiday classic” and the one time of year no one bothered arguing with him about movie choices. The boys were loud, half-buzzed, and fully invested in watching Bruce Willis crawl through air ducts. Until Bran paused the movie. The sudden stillness felt unnatural, leaving only the sound of the storm beating against the house. Bran didn’t explain; he didn’t have to. His gaze had drifted toward the basement door, expression tightening in that way that said he’d been thinking about something for longer than he let on. “Noah’s been down there too long,” he finally said. A few groans circled the room, but nobody contradicted him. Even in their half-drunken state, they all knew the unspoken rule: if a pledge disappears for more than fifteen minutes, someone checks. And if you’re the one who brought him in, that someone is always you. Derek exhaled heavily into the couch cushion, reluctant to move. He’d just gotten comfortable—blanket over his legs, beer warming his hand, the best part of the movie queued up. He tried half-hearted excuses, joking attempts to pawn the duty off on someone else, but Bran wasn’t budging, and everyone knew it. Responsibility. The one downside of being VP. And the dipshit’s cousin. With a dramatic sigh, Derek peeled himself out of the blanket and pushed to his feet, cracking joints and stiff muscles protesting the movement. The room laughed at him for being over-the-top, and he tossed back a lazy middle finger as he headed toward the hallway. The warmth of the living room faded with each step. The house felt different here—quieter, cooler, the kind of silence that seemed to listen back. Derek paused at the basement door, hand on the knob, feeling the faint cold radiating through the wood. The storm rattled the glass panes in the living room behind him; the floor creaked under his weight. “All this for family,” he muttered, mostly to himself. He opened the door. A draft of cold air spilled up the stairs like a warning. Derek descended anyway. Derek reached the bottom of the stairs and let the basement swallow him. The door creaked shut behind him with a hollow sound that seemed too loud for the space, muting the movie and laughter upstairs until it felt like a different world entirely. Down here, the air was heavy with the scent of dust, old cardboard, and the faint mineral tang of cold concrete. He swept his phone flashlight across the basement. The clutter was familiar—bins stacked haphazardly, half-deflated holiday inflatables, strings of lights tangled like abandoned vines. Nothing out of place. Nothing disturbed. And still no sign of Noah. A part of Derek relaxed at that. No crisis. No broken limbs. No fainted pledge for him to drag upstairs like a responsible older cousin. He’d been gearing himself up for a lecture, a report, maybe even a call to campus security. But the basement was just a basement. “Of course,” Derek muttered, rubbing a hand over the tense muscles of his neck. “Kid probably flipped the breaker and sprinted upstairs to crash like a little gremlin.” He turned back toward the stairs and called up with an unnecessarily loud voice, “NOAH WENT TO BED! HE’S NOT DOWN HERE!” The boys erupted into laughter—muffled by distance but still carrying their usual rough affection. Someone threw in a sarcastic cheer. Someone else shouted a joke about Noah already hibernating. It was exactly the kind of idiotic chorus Derek expected from them, and despite his irritation, it loosened something in his shoulders. He let out a breath and scanned the room again. The storm slammed against the house with renewed force, rattling the small basement window. A sharp gust knifed through the old frame, sending a sweep of cold air across Derek’s bare arms. He shivered and shook out his shoulders, then crossed the room to push the window open just a few inches. The icy wind sliced through the basement’s stale warmth, refreshing in a way that made Derek inhale deeper. Perfect for smoke. Perfect for clearing his head. Perfect, honestly, for ignoring Noah for another ten minutes. He moved toward the tarp-covered crate tucked behind a pile of unused folding chairs. The tarp lifted with a soft rasp, revealing exactly what he’d hoped to find. The cedar cigar box gleamed softly under the flashlight beam—rich wood, smooth finish, the one nice object he owned that hadn’t been ruined by frat life. The cigars inside were arranged neatly, nestled like small luxuries among the clutter. Next to them sat a trio of half-functioning lighters, a cutter, and beneath those— The stack of glossy magazines he definitely didn’t want anyone else finding. He thumbed through the pile. Old issues with worn corners, kink mags he’d bought in out-of-town gas stations, a few things salvaged from older brothers who’d graduated. He stopped when he reached the leather daddy spread—the one with the broad-shouldered biker gripping a femboy’s jaw with an expression that promised absolutely filthy things. A slow, amused smile tugged at Derek’s mouth. “Yeah… you’ll do,” he said quietly. He selected a cigar, clipped it, and lit it with practiced ease. The end glowed orange, and the first inhale filled his lungs with warm, earthy smoke. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the nicotine smooth out the tension of finals week and the annoyance he’d felt climbing off the couch. Down here, away from the noise, the cold, and responsibility, the cigar felt like a small oasis. Dragging over the battered folding chair, Derek unfolded it beside the cracked window, settling into it like a man claiming a throne. He unzipped his jeans, pushed them down enough to get comfortable, and angled his phone’s flashlight downward toward the magazine on the cement floor. The glossy page lit up beautifully in the beam. “Variety’s the spice of life,” he murmured to himself with a smirk. “And these guys upstairs would die if they knew how spicy I’ll go.” He took another deep pull from the cigar, savoring the burn in his throat. Smoke curled from his lips in slow, luxurious streams as he leaned back into the metal chair, letting the cold air kiss his bare skin while the heat of the cigar warmed him from within. He lowered his gaze to the magazine. The leather daddy stared back, smug and powerful, the twink kneeling between his boots. Derek couldn’t help the huff of laughter that escaped him. “Goddamn,” he whispered, and began. Expertly, he spit into his hand and slowly began to to stroke his uncut cock as he drew hard on the cigar, enjoying the rush as he began muttering at the twink on the page. “Yeah, you wanna getting fucked by daddy, don’t you boy? Gonna be daddy’s good little boy and suck every drop down? Bend over and hold that prettly little ass apart and let me fuck you raw?” He stoked hard and fast, occasionally drawing hard and blowing out a cloud of smoke at the page, letting his mind pretend it was that little cocktease of a TA in his English lit class at his knees. He took a deep inhale, enjoying the feeling of the smoke billowing out of his nose. Suddenly, a strange idea floated into his head, not of fucking someone, but being fucked. Wondering what it might be like to be the one under the biker, feeling as someone suddenly started to fuck his ass, fill it with their cum. Derek laughed and shook his head, immediately telling himself that he was a top. And that there was no fucking way he’d bottom for anyone, forcing his mind firmly back to his mental assault on the TA. Minutes drifted by unnoticed. The storm’s howls softened into background noise. The boys upstairs were distant, irrelevant. Down here, Derek was alone with smoke, cold air, and the steady rhythm of his pleasure—soothing, familiar, private. He only stopped when a sound broke through the quiet. A low, dull thud from behind the locked maintenance door. Not the furnace. Not the house settling. Something else. Something that didn’t belong in the basement at all. Derek was just settling into the rhythm of it—warm cigar smoke in his lungs, the cold wind from the cracked window brushing against his overheated skin—when a dull, heavy thud rolled out from the far side of the basement. The sound came from behind the old maintenance door, the one nobody ever opened because it led to pipes, storage, and decades of dust. Derek froze, his hand still wrapped around himself, head tipped slightly as he waited for it to repeat. For a moment the basement sat completely still, empty except for the rattle of the winter storm battering the window. Then the second noise came—a dragging scrape across old stone, slow and uneven, like something heavy shifting its weight in a room that shouldn’t have contained anything heavy at all. A cold prickle crept up the back of Derek’s neck. He lowered the magazine and tried to listen past the thump of his own pulse. He wasn’t scared exactly, just thrown off in the same way he’d been the night Ty insisted the house was haunted after getting drunk on peppermint schnapps. Still, the sound was wrong enough to get under his skin. He let out a frustrated exhale and quickly zipped himself up, the motion abrupt and irritated. The warmth in his body hadn’t faded, but now it competed with a creeping annoyance—of course Noah had found a way to make this simple errand complicated. Derek jammed the cigar back between his teeth, grabbed his phone, and stalked across the room toward the maintenance door, muttering under his breath about clueless pledges and avoidable concussions. As he approached, the cold coming from beneath the door brushed over his ankles like a draft from an open freezer. The handle felt even colder when he wrapped his fingers around it—a sharp, metallic chill that didn’t match the rest of the basement at all. He hesitated only long enough to grumble a final complaint about getting stuck with responsibility duty, then gave the door a firm shove. It swung open with a long, low groan. A wave of stale, icy air drifted out, carrying the smell of damp stone and something faintly chemical that stung the inside of his nose. Derek stepped inside cautiously, lifting his phone so the flashlight beam cut through the darkness. The light washed over rusted pipes, coils of forgotten wiring, and an uneven stone floor slick with moisture. The entire room felt older—deeper—than the rest of the house, as though it belonged to a different building entirely. He tried to steady his breath, forcing a cocky tone back into his voice more for his own benefit than anyone else’s. “Noah, if you wandered in here and knocked yourself out on a pipe, I swear—” Something slapped across his face with sudden, shocking force. A thick burst of warm slime splattered over his mouth, nose, and eyes. The shock of it made him stumble backward, grabbing blindly at the air. The slime burned cold for a split second before turning hot—unnervingly hot—like someone had poured liquid fire along his skin. When he wiped at it, the chemical taste hit immediately, bitter and electric against his tongue. The heat rushed downward into his chest and limbs so fast his knees buckled. His phone slipped from his fingers, bouncing across the stone with a clatter that sounded strangely far away. Derek tried to suck in a breath, but the air felt thick and syrupy, his thoughts dissolving into static as the warmth spread down into his spine and stomach. He dropped to one knee, then the other, hands braced on the cold stone that now felt distant beneath him. Another wave of heat rolled through, stronger, heavier, pulling his muscles into a loose, unreliable tremble. He forced his head up, blinking through the blur distorting his vision. That was when he saw them—massive, inhuman feet standing just inches in front of him. Not boots. Not shadows. Skin. Obsidian-black, glossy like wet leather stretched over raw muscle. The ground seemed to tilt under him as he stared, barely able to process what he was seeing before another hot surge pulled him sideways into the dark. The maintenance room swayed around Derek like it was being viewed underwater. The cold stone under his palms should’ve grounded him, but the heat spreading through his veins made everything feel distant and unreal. He tried to lift his head again, struggling against the syrup-thick fog gathering behind his eyes. His breath hitched. The figure in front of him wasn’t a trick of the light. It was enormous—taller than any human he’d ever seen, muscles carved in deep, shifting ridges beneath pitch-black skin that gleamed like oiled leather. Curved horns rose from its skull, thick and heavy, sweeping backward in a shape that made Derek’s chest seize with a primal, instinctive dread. Drool slid from the creature’s sharp teeth in thin ropes that glimmered faintly in the dim red glow pulsing somewhere further inside the chamber. A low growl rumbled through the stone floor and into Derek’s bones. He tried to scramble backward, but his limbs barely answered him. The chemical heat coursing through his body made his muscles feel detached, like something else was controlling the signals before they reached him. His hands slipped on the damp stone as he attempted to push himself away, his vision swimming harder with every movement. Another shape shifted in the dark beyond the creature—then another. More footsteps echoed from deeper in the chamber, slow and deliberate, like predators circling a stunned animal. Derek’s gaze flickered sideways, catching only brief impressions: the glint of more horns, the ripple of massive chests, the dull glow of reflected red light sliding across slick skin. His phone, lying several feet away, flickered once before the screen dimmed. The tiny glow made the rest of the chamber feel impossibly vast, the shadows unnervingly alive. Derek tried to speak—maybe Noah’s name, maybe a curse—but the word dissolved into a thick, breathless sound as another pulse of heat rolled through him. His chest tightened; his stomach clenched; his thighs shook beneath him. The cigar he’d been clinging to slipped from his mouth and hit the floor with a soft hiss, the ember smearing against the wet stone. A clawed hand—massive, warm, impossibly precise—reached down and closed around his jaw, lifting his head. Derek choked on a startled gasp as the creature tilted his face up, forcing him to meet the dark, hollow places where its eyes should have been. Another growl vibrated from the creature’s chest. This one felt almost… amused. Derek’s vision flickered in and out, his pulse hammering in his ears. He could feel his body giving out, the chemical warmth dragging him deeper into helplessness. He fought to stay upright, to stay conscious, to make sense of anything— Then another splash of wetness hit him across the cheek and temple, more slime catching the heat of his skin instantly. The chemical burn intensified, spreading down his neck and shoulders in a sizzling wave. Derek’s arms buckled; his breath stuttered; the world tilted sideways. He collapsed fully onto the stone floor. The cold should have shocked him awake. Instead, it barely registered against the feverish overheating of his skin. His vision dimmed at the edges, shapes blurring into dark smears. He heard the heavy footsteps closing in, the low chorus of growls echoing through the chamber, the slow exhale of something enormous drawing nearer. Through the haze, he caught a single, horrifying detail: Noah was lying on the ground a few feet away. Naked. Motionless. Glowing faintly under the red light. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, a dazed half-smile on his lips that made Derek’s stomach twist. Derek reached toward him instinctively, fingers dragging across the stone. “Noah—” The whisper barely left his throat before the darkness tightened around the edges of his vision. The last thing he saw was the towering creature leaning over him again, its silhouette blotting out the flickering glow like a closing door. Then the floor rose up to meet him, and everything went black. — A thick, rumbling vibration pulled Derek back up from the dark—like the sound of a distant engine or an animal too large to imagine. The noise crawled up through the floor and pressed against his chest, coaxing his eyes half open. The world swam, then steadied just enough for him to comprehend the shape looming above him. The creature was kneeling now, massive shoulders hunched, horned head tilted with an unsettling calm. In the red glow pulsing from the sagging Christmas lights strung deep in the chamber, its obsidian skin gleamed like lacquered leather pulled taut over dense muscle. Drool slid in long, viscous ropes from its sharp teeth, pattering onto the stone near Derek’s cheek. His stomach lurched. He tried to push himself back, but his limbs barely twitched, the lingering chemical warmth numbing half his strength and scrambling his senses. The creature’s claws moved with unexpected gentleness as it plucked Derek’s fallen cigar from the floor. It inspected the half-burned end, then leaned forward and slipped it between Derek’s lips as though returning something he’d dropped at a dinner table. Derek inhaled reflexively. Heat filled his lungs again, thick and smoky, pulling a shiver from somewhere deep in his spine. Another vibration echoed through the room—footsteps, heavy and deliberate. Derek forced his blurry gaze upward just in time to see more shapes emerging from the shadows. One by one, they stepped into the faint red glow: A second monster, then a third. A fourth, fifth, sixth. Seven in total, each massive, horned, and dripping with saliva, their bodies built like sculpted nightmares carved from obsidian. All of them carried themselves like soldiers. And they weren’t alone. From the far end of the chamber, barely visible, another presence lingered—larger, stiller, watching with a slow-burning patience. Derek couldn’t fully make out its form, only the faint ember of a cigar glowing like a solitary red eye in the dark. The Alpha. Even through his haze, Derek felt it—an instinctive tightening in his chest, a pressure at the base of his skull. The air grew heavier, charged, as if gravity itself thickened in the Alpha’s presence. Derek’s gaze drifted, searching through the blur, hunting for an anchor in the panic— And then he saw Noah again. His cousin lay curled on the opposite side of the chamber, skin slick with sweat, chest rising and falling in shallow, rhythmic breaths. His eyes were open, but unfocused—dreamy, dazed, still caught in a fog that made Derek’s throat tighten. “Noah…” Derek tried again, but the word melted into a rasp. The monsters responded to the sound with a chorus of low growls, the tones layered and resonant, vibrating through the chamber like a ritual drumbeat. Their horns caught the dim light in quick flashes—curved, jagged, imposing—each pair slightly different, each head bowing subtly toward the Alpha’s distant glow. Derek blinked hard, fighting the pull of sleep or blackout. The heat in his chest bloomed again, spreading through his limbs in slow, molten waves. Every breath seemed to thicken the haze around him. The creature holding his jaw rumbled softly, as if pleased by his attempt to stay conscious. The others closed in, forming a loose semicircle—silent except for their deep breathing and the soft drip of saliva onto stone. Their presence crowded the air, heavy and unyielding, a wall of muscle, horns, and furnace-hot breath. Something important was about to happen. Derek felt it—not in his mind, but in his body, in the way his skin prickled and the heat inside him swelled as though anticipating command. He wanted to move. He wanted to scream. He wanted to wake up. But all he could do was breathe smoke and stare helplessly as the eight monstrous silhouettes surrounded him like a ritual coming to life. The creature crouched nearest to Derek shifted, angling its massive frame so the dim red bulbs overhead struck its features more clearly. The others seemed to still in response, adjusting their posture, their growls lowering as though they were making room for something—someone—important. Derek blinked through the haze, forcing his vision to stabilize long enough to really see the one holding him. This monster was different. Its horns were thicker than the others’, curling backward in heavy, sweeping arcs like ram’s horns coated in black tar. The ridges of its shoulders were broader, its chest heavier, its posture confident in a way that felt almost… deliberate. Not just monstrous. Commanding. The kind of presence that walked into a room expecting obedience before it ever spoke. In the flicker of the failing Christmas lights, its skin gleamed with a deep, leathery sheen. Not slick like the others—more matte, almost textured, like worn black leather stretched tight across muscle. Derek’s drifting, chemically-fogged mind made a jolting connection: It looked exactly like the biker from his magazine. The leather daddy fantasy he’d been jerking off to fifteen minutes ago was now crouched in front of him as an impossibly tall, horned, drooling demon. The realization hit him so hard he almost sobbed. The monster leaned closer, head tilting with eerie curiosity. Its horns cast long curved shadows across Derek’s trembling chest. The humid breath rolling off it smelled faintly of cedar smoke, stone, and something darker underneath—something old. Behind Derek, the other monsters shifted subtly, their stances widening as though giving this one more space. Every movement, every growl, every ripple of their massive bodies deferred outward from this central figure. Even in his fogged state, Derek sensed the hierarchy: Not the Alpha. But close. Second-in-command. The creature’s claws tightened around Derek’s jaw—not painfully, but with a sense of ownership, of evaluation. It studied him in a way that made Derek’s ribs feel too small for his lungs. From the back of the chamber, the Alpha’s ember glowed brighter for a moment. A voice Derek couldn’t place—deep, resonant, vibrating more in his skull than in the air—rolled through him like a slow thunderclap: “Gravestone. Give me your opinion of this one.” The name wasn’t spoken aloud so much as delivered. A designation. A command. A recognition. And in that instant, Derek knew without question that this was the creature’s name. Heavy. Unyielding. Final. Gravestone. The creature rumbled in acknowledgment of the Alpha’s call, a deep sound that shook Derek’s bones. It dipped its head once, almost ritualistically, and the circle of monsters responded with a collective shift—lowering their posture a fraction, deferring to its authority. Derek felt the pressure of Gravestone’s grip increase just slightly, an unspoken signal that he was now the focus of the second-in-command’s attention. The thought should have terrified him. It did. But tangled in the fear, beneath the chemical heat crawling through his limbs, was something Derek didn’t want to name—an involuntary pull toward the creature staring him down like he was something meant to be claimed. Gravestone’s cigar ember glowed as the monster drew in a long, resonant breath. Smoke curled from its nostrils in thick ribbons that drifted lazily downward, brushing Derek’s face with a warm, smoky veil. The creature leaned in closer, its voice rumbling through both the air and Derek’s mind—low, gravelly, and almost amused: “Derek Vance… Hmm… This one will not break easily like the other. If we push, he will fight and not break. Like… The one who hunts us, Alpha.” Derek’s pulse jumped violently. He wasn’t sure if it was fear. Or something far more dangerous. Gravestone’s grip shifted, his claws spreading along Derek’s jaw to tilt his head upward with a deliberate slowness that felt more like examination than restraint. The monster’s enormous frame blocked out nearly every trace of red light behind him, leaving only a faint glow outlining the heavy curl of his horns and the dripping points of his teeth. Derek tried to jerk his chin free, but the attempt was sluggish, weakened by the chemical heat humming through his bloodstream. His breath shuddered out in short bursts, smoke leaking from his lips with each trembling exhale. Gravestone watched him with unnerving stillness. Then the monster leaned closer. The leathery sheen of his chest flexed beneath the dim bulbs, muscles shifting like coiled stone. The scents of cedar and smoke and something darker—something primal—rolled off him in thick waves. When he spoke, his voice emerged as a layered growl, vibrating through the chamber and through Derek’s ribs: “Easy now, boy. If you behave, I will make it enjoyable. This can be pleasurable if you agree to it.” The words weren’t shouted. They weren’t gentle either. They landed with the finality of a hand on the back of the neck. Derek’s heart seized. “I—I’m not—” But the protest fell apart halfway, tangled in smoke and fear. Gravestone’s thumb traced the line of Derek’s jaw, a slow, possessive drag that made Derek’s breath catch despite himself. The monster’s eyes—if he even had eyes—felt like they were inside Derek’s skull, sifting through his scattered thoughts. Another low rumble. Amusement. “You came down here,” Gravestone growled, the cigar ember glowing as he spoke, “with a cigar in your mouth. Played with yourself looking at smut.” Derek swallowed hard. His pulse hammered against the monster’s grip. “I—just needed some air—just needed to—” He choked on the next inhale, the smoke thickening in his lungs as though responding to Gravestone’s voice. The monster leaned even closer, so close Derek could feel the humid heat of his breath against his ear. “You walked into my master’s chamber tasting of smoke,” Gravestone murmured, the sound crawling down Derek’s spine, “almost like you were asking for this.” Derek’s body tensed. “No—no, I didn’t—this isn’t—” Gravestone cut him off with a deep, dark chuckle—half-growl, half-laugh, wholly unsettling. The vibration rolled through Derek’s chest like an invisible hand pressing him deeper into the stone floor. The monster’s clawed thumb slid to Derek’s chin again, tapping lightly once—an oddly deliberate gesture, as though assessing how much fight was left in him. Then Gravestone spoke again, this time both aloud and pulsing in Derek’s skull: “You like smoke, don’t you boy? You claim to want to be in charge, but you wish to serve someone as well.” Derek’s breath hitched, his lungs flaring with another involuntary inhale of the lingering cigar haze. His thoughts scattered like dry leaves in the wind. He didn’t answer. Gravestone didn’t need him to. A slow, satisfied rumble rolled through the chamber, echoed faintly by the other monsters. Their heavy footsteps shifted, stances adjusting as if they could feel Derek weakening—feel the tremor in his chest and the subtle drop of his shoulders. Gravestone’s next words curled around Derek like heat: “You love to smoke. To shoot your load as you flood your lungs. To fuck in public places, and provide pleasure to other men already. These are good traits I look for in a boy. You would make a suitable new cigar pig for me.” The phrase slammed into him with a force that made his stomach drop. Derek flinched, confusion and panic knotting in his throat. His instinct was to snap back, to deny it, to push the creature away—but the chemical warmth pulsing through his blood dulled the edges of resistance, spinning his thoughts into loose, heavy loops. He managed only a broken exhale. Gravestone’s grin widened, drool slicking down onto Derek’s chest in slow, steaming trails. The other monsters stepped in closer, forming a tighter semicircle—horns gleaming, breaths heavy, bodies shifting with a predator’s anticipation. They were waiting. Watching. Listening. Gravestone dragged one claw down the center of Derek’s sternum, gently caressing the soft skin under the mat of fur on Derek’s chest, slow enough to make every nerve spark under the heat. Then, with a voice low enough to feel more like a command than a question: “You will breathe smoke for me, boy. I will take you on personally and help you learn. I will help you see how you wish to bend over and be filled. I will not force you. I will make you want to come to me willingly.” Derek’s resolve wavered. For the first time that night, he felt something inside him tilt. Not break. Not yet. But tilt—dangerously, undeniably. As if Gravestone had found the first crack. And was widening it with every breath Derek took. The moment Gravestone spoke his command, something shifted in the chamber. The other seven monsters responded like a single organism—horned heads rising, bodies straightening, their massive frames aligning around Derek in a slow, deliberate formation. The air thickened with heat and breath and a faint chemical tang that clung to Derek’s skin like a second layer. Gravestone didn’t release his jaw. He didn’t need to. With one steady motion, he guided Derek’s head upward, forcing his gaze toward the circle closing around him. The creatures’ cigars glowed like scattered embers in a dark forest, each inhale a slow flare of orange-red light that reflected off drool-slicked fangs and lacquer-black skin. Derek tried to pull in a breath—any breath that wasn’t smoke—but Gravestone tightened his grip until Derek’s lips parted, taking Derek’s cigar and putting it in his mouth. A nearby creature locked lips with him, and exhaled. A thick, heavy cloud of cigar smoke poured over Derek’s face, sinking into his lungs before he could stop it. The heat hit him instantly, flooding his chest with a molten rush that made his ribs shudder and his limbs tremble. He coughed once— Then inhaled again, deeper, without meaning to. The warmth in his bloodstream responded immediately, blooming outward in a dizzy, spiraling wave that loosened his thoughts and softened the edges of fear. His muscles slackened. His breath slowed. The floor beneath him felt distant, his limbs disconnected, like he were floating just above his own body. Another creature stepped forward. Another set of lips locked with his, sharp teeth teasing his lips and tongue. Another plume of smoke washed into him—sweet, heavy, numbing. Derek’s eyes fluttered. His jaw sagged slightly even before Gravestone pulled his head back into position. “There you go,” the monster rumbled, pleased. “Breathe our smoke in for us. Be good for us and we will make you happy.” Derek wanted to argue, to push back, to keep some piece of himself intact. But every breath was a fresh rush of heat and fog, dissolving his resolve in increments. His thoughts felt syrup-thick, drifting from one to another too slowly to hold onto. A third creature leaned in, its horns casting jagged shadows across Derek’s chest. It exhaled directly into his mouth—hot, dense, overwhelming. Derek inhaled instinctively, his chest expanding against the pressure, the taste of smoke coating his tongue so completely he couldn’t imagine breathing anything else. By the fourth monster, Derek wasn’t resisting. His head tilted slightly forward, lips parting in anticipation of the next exhale, finding himself willing its tongue into his mouth, licking and sucking, groaning as he felt the chemicals in the saliva give him a head rush and the smoke flooded his lungs. The realization horrified him for a split second—just long enough for the chemical warmth to swallow the thought whole. The circle tightened. Red light pulsed overhead, flickering in time with the slow rhythm of the monsters’ breathing. Their shadows shifted across Derek’s trembling body like markings in a ritual, each movement purposeful, each inhale followed by a deep rumble of satisfaction. Then the spitting began. Warm droplets—thick, chemical, tingling—splattered onto Derek’s chest and shoulders, dripping down his ribs in slow trails that made his skin prickle. Each drop sent a pulse through him, echoing outward from the point of contact until his entire torso felt like it buzzed. He shuddered involuntarily. Gravestone noticed instantly. “Good boy,” he growled, voice curling into Derek’s mind like smoke through a cracked door. “That’s it. Take what we give you. Ride the rush of our spit and smoke filling you, letting your mind break gently.” Another monster spit. Heat spread. Derek’s breath quickened. He felt detached from himself—like the version of him who smoked cigars by the storm window, who joked upstairs with the guys, who insisted he wasn’t into submission—was slipping backward into some fog he couldn’t pull himself out of. The monsters continued their slow, ritualistic circle, filling his lungs with smoke and his mind with warmth. Each exhale pushed him closer to that tipping point, the place where resistance became too heavy to carry. Gravestone’s claws tightened around the back of his head, steadying him. “You’re breathing deeper now,” the creature observed, voice thick with approval. “You want this… even if you don’t know it yet.” Derek tried to deny it. But when the next plume of smoke washed over him, he inhaled without hesitation, diving in for more when one of the creatures took another deep inhale on its cigar. Gravestone chuckled—a low, indulgent growl that shook the air around them. “Good,” he murmured. “Be my little cigar pig. Show daddy how much you love fucking your lungs with smoke.” Derek’s pulse stuttered. His chest expanded. His resistance cracked—not broken, not shattered, but splintering under the weight of heat and breath and Gravestone’s relentless presence in his brain. Suddenly, the images started to trickle in. Derek, in a sling, smoking a fat cigar as Gravestone ushered men to feed him their smoke, to fuck him and fill him with their cum. Derek smiling happily and feeling Gravestone tell him how happy he was, how proud, how he wanted to see him please every man there. He barely felt as his jaw slowly fell open, drool slowly dripping out as Gravestone placed the cigar back into his mouth and closed his mouth for him. And Derek’s world narrowed to smoke, heat, and the feeling of something inside him leaning—slowly, dangerously—toward surrender. With one last puff, he felt it finally give, and he smiled, knowing exactly what he was meant to do next. Without a word, Derek crawled over to Gravestone and pulled the cigar out of his mouth after inhaling hard and deep, and let Gravestone begin to fuck his mouth, his massive cock worming its way down his throat and making his neck bulge. He felt as the copious amounts of tainted cum mixed with the cigar spit in his mouth, greedily gulping it down and smiling as he felt Gravestone gently begin to run his clawed fingers through his hair. With a growl, Gravestone shot his first full tainted load into Derek, watching as he moaned and gulped it down greedily. With an audible pop, he pulled out of his mouth and moved to behind Derek, sending countless more images mentally into his brain, smiling as he felt it start to stutter and shut down. The chamber seemed to hold its breath the moment Gravestone moved behind Derek with clear intent. The other monsters shifted outward in a wide, slow ripple, giving their second-in-command space. Their cigar embers glowed brighter, a ring of red eyes circling Derek’s trembling, smoke-flooded body. The Alpha watched from the shadows, silent and immense. Gravestone’s claws slid down Derek’s spine, steadying him with a grip that felt both possessive and inevitable. Derek’s breath trembled in his chest, lungs full of heat and smoke that made it difficult to think in straight lines. Every inhale fed the softness in his limbs; every exhale made the world blur a little more. “Easy,” Gravestone murmured, voice thick as molten rock. “You’re ready. It’s time for Daddy to convert you himself.” Derek shook his head weakly, but the protest dissolved into a thin, breathless sound. The warmth coursing through his veins tangled with the weight of Gravestone’s hands, drowning out what little clarity he had left. Gravestone positioned him, gently drooling out his potent saliva, smoky from the cigars. Gently, he slowly forced his massive cock deep into Derek, calmly running his sharp claws along his back, letting him tremble and puff hard on the cigar in his mouth. Slowly and steadily, he watched as Derek became more and more docile, before finally taking his chance and speeding up, quickly getting to a jackhammer speed, jabbing hard and fast. He smiled as Derek began to beg for Gravestone to claim him, to flood his insides, to make him his son. Letting out a groan, Gravestone shot his first load deep inside Derek and watched as it quickly flooded his body and began to take control. Derek gasped—shocked, overwhelmed, disoriented. Smoke rushed from his lips in a trembling plume, his fingers curling helplessly against the stone. His mind reeled, trying to cling to the last scraps of who he thought he was— I’m a top. I don’t— I’m not— But the heat flooding through him crushed the words before they could fully form. Gravestone growled with slow, brutal satisfaction, the sound vibrating through Derek’s spine. The other monsters echoed the sound, a low chorus that filled the chamber with ritualistic approval. Smoke drifted downward in swirling ribbons as they watched, bodies shifting in restless, anticipatory hunger. Derek’s thoughts thinned. Bent. Then bent further. Gravestone leaned close to Derek’s ear, his breath hot and thick with cigar smoke. “Good boy…” A rumble. “You take what you were meant for well. I am proud.” Derek shuddered, his resolve buckling under the pressure of sensation, heat, and Gravestone’s overwhelming presence. Every breath felt heavier than the last, weighted with smoke that pulled his mind deeper into that soft, pliant fog. He began to smile when Gravestone removed both of their cigars and locked lips, shoving his tongue down Derek’s throat and exhaled his smoke into him, growling as Derek clenched his hole down on his cock. From the shadows, the Alpha rose. The temperature seemed to drop and rise at once, the air tightening as the Alpha stepped into the dim ring of red light. His horns were longer than Gravestone’s, spiraling upward with jagged, ancient symmetry. His body dwarfed the others, every muscle carved like obsidian monoliths. The glow of his cigar burned fiercely. The monsters immediately lowered their heads. Even Gravestone’s rhythm slowed, his posture tightening in deference. The Alpha approached Derek with slow, devastating certainty. “He resists so much less now,” the Alpha observed, voice echoing in the air and in Derek’s skull simultaneously. “Well done, Gravestone. He bends beautifully. He will be yours to own and consume now. Just remember to share.” Gravestone growled, pride evident even in the rumble. Derek tried to lift his head—to pull away—to salvage something of himself—but the Alpha crouched beside him, one massive hand settling on Derek’s chest with terrifying gentleness. Derek froze. The weight of that touch wasn’t just physical. It pressed into his mind. Into his breath. Into the place where his resistance used to live. The Alpha tilted his head, studying him like a rare specimen. “You still breathe like one pretending to hold on,” he said softly—almost kindly. “But you came to us already wanting this.” Derek’s heart raced, panic surging—but it drowned instantly under another rush of smoke and heat. The Alpha raised one clawed hand, resting it on Derek’s cheek. The touch was warm. Heavy. Commanding. “Gravestone has opened you,” the Alpha murmured. “But I will finish it.” Gravestone growled low in agreement, tightening his hold on Derek—stabilizing him, presenting him. Derek’s mind flickered, desperate, frightened, overwhelmed— and then the fog swallowed the flicker whole. The Alpha leaned closer, cigar ember glowing like a miniature sun. Derek mindlessly let himself be positioned perfectly by Gravestone, rolling onto his back and quietly taking Gravestone’s still hard and dripping cock into his mouth and nursing gently on it as Gravestone rested his knees on his shoulders, giving the Alpha fully access to Derek’s and wrecked and dripping ass, and slowly began to suck on Derek’s cock, ready to slurp down the remaining load of cum from his cock as his master claimed him. With gusto, the Alpha firmly gripped Derek’s firm ass and slammed hard and fast, hauling on his cigar and growling as he furiously began to slam as hard and fast as he could, grinning as he could hear Derek’s muffled cries around Gravestone’s cock, feeling as the walls of his guts readily moved out of his way, legs spreading further and allowing him access to begin spanking Derek as he fucked him. Each smack made Derek’s ass clench and after just a few short minutes, he felt the Alpha let out a deep, guttural growl and begin to shoot volley after volley of black thick jizz into his ass. The sensation and sudden mental praise flowing through his mind suddenly made him shudder and with one last firm suck from Gravestone, he choked out a cry and began shooting uncontrollably, his cock shooting over and over in an attempt to please his new cigar daddy, to feed him and nourish him, not even caring when his cock continued to shoot, with nothing more coming out be a few feeble drops and a painful ache in his balls. His final strands of resistance curled inward, melted, and vanished as the Alpha’s voice echoed inside him: “There. Now you belong to us.” Derek sagged entirely, consciousness wavering, breath ragged and smoky. Gravestone rumbled with deep satisfaction, his claws sliding supportively along Derek’s sides as he helped him sit upright. Almost on instinct, Derek stuck both cigars into his mouth, greedily sucking the smoke into his lungs as his mind began to change, craving the changes about to occur in his body, wanting to speed up his infection, to change, to transform. “Good boy, that’s Daddy’s good little pig. Make sure to take all these nice men’s loads in your tight boyhole and you’ll become perfect,” he growled. “Fuck, I want every one of them to infect me,” Derek groaned around the cigars, already wanting to crawl over and offer his ass to each and every one, to memorize the shape of their dick in his ass, to swap smoke with them and feel each one add their own potent load to his guts, making him change even faster. He now knew his true purpose. To feed the virus now consuming him and to provide comfort and a warm nourishing place for their Alpha’s strain. The Alpha nodded once, pleased. He gently ran his clawed hand through Derek’s hair, like one would pet a dog. “Yes. Let the rest of your new brothers share their loads in your firm ass to aid my seed and then you may sleep. You will remain smaller and not show the signs like the others, but will be better equipped to take our loads and draw in our prey with your pretty face and splendid features. A perfect pet for me and my commander.” His hand pressed gently to Derek’s forehead— and the world folded into grey, a pleased smile on his face.

Welcome to The Master Pathogen Christmas Special. While our main story is on hiatus until next year, @leatherpunk16 and I decided to post a short aside piece as a fun one-off to tide everyone over until we start the story back up. I hope everyone enjoys the short series and feel free to comment and share your thoughts. We will be posting each day until it's finished on Christmas Eve. Below is a link to our original story and source material... The Master Pathogen And without further ado, here is a teaser of what's to come: --------------------------------------- Prologue: Twas the Snowstorm Two Weeks Before Christmas... Snow drifted in gentle spirals over the Merrydale Christmas Tree Farm, settling on the endless rows of evergreens like powdered sugar. The lights strung along the pathways glowed a soft gold, illuminating smiling families carrying bundled trees toward their cars. Laughter chimed through the crisp winter air, warm and bright despite the cold. Grace Turner stood at the end of the main lane, watching the final visitors depart. She breathed in the scent of pine, her chest lifting with a feeling that was almost too big to contain. Everything around her felt peaceful—settled—as though the world had finally aligned in exactly the way it should. She turned toward the man standing beside her. Cole Henderson waited with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, a shy, contented smile on his face. Snow dusted his shoulders and dark hair, giving him a quiet, gentle glow. His presence was as steady as the old farmhouse behind them—solid, dependable, safe. “Today was perfect,” Grace said softly, her voice touched with wonder. “I—I didn’t know it could feel this right. Staying here. Being here.” Cole stepped closer, his breath visible in the cold. “It’s because you made it that way.” He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek. “You brought life back to this place.” Grace let out a shaky, emotional laugh. “I thought I needed skyscrapers and boardrooms to be happy. But… standing here now, I realize I was always running in the wrong direction.” Cole smiled, warm enough to melt the snow between them. “Sometimes you don’t know what you’re missing until you come home.” She looked up at him, eyes shining. “I ended things with Andrew,” she whispered. “For good. I’m not going back. I don’t want that soulless corporate life anymore.” The words hung in the air—not dramatic, just true. Cole touched her face, gentle and sure. “You deserve a life that feels like yours.” Snow swirled around them as she leaned into his touch, emotion thick in her throat. “I want to stay,” she said. “Here. With you.” Cole’s forehead rested against hers. The background lights blurred softly, turning the world warm and golden. “Then stay,” he murmured. “Stay, Grace.” She closed her eyes. “I will.” Their lips drew closer—slow, inevitable, filled with quiet certainty. The world around them seemed to hold its breath. Rows of trees whispered in the wind as the last light of evening glimmered over them. Grace stepped forward, heart full, ready to— — Grace Turner’s frozen, love-struck face lingered on the TV screen for barely two seconds before an avalanche of popcorn and empty beer cans pelted the image. Groans erupted from every corner of the room. “BOOOOOO!!! TURN THAT SHIT OFF,” someone yelled. But it was Bran Coletti, Chapter President of Phi Alpha Gamma, who truly commanded the chaos. Towering over the others even from the couch, Bran had a voice that operated at only two volumes—loud and louder—and both were currently in full force as he pointed accusingly at the screen. “Who in the holy hell requested we watch this?” he demanded. “Seriously. Whose emotional support movie is this? Stand up. Confess.” The rest of Phi Alpha sprawled around him in varying states of drunken festivity. Evan Marsh hovered near the window like a nervous bird, mumbling about the storm. Ty King, already shirtless for no reason anyone could identify, lay half-asleep on the floor. Zach Dempsey, eternal skeptic, looked personally offended by the movie’s existence. Derek Vance lounged with a smug smirk, clearly proud he’d thrown the empty beer can that hit “Grace” between the eyes. And Paul “Porkchop” Carter—adorably sentimental and two drinks past capacity—was sniffling into his sleeve. “Oh my god,” Zach muttered. “Is Chop actually—?” Porkchop shot up, cheeks flushed. “Shut the fuck up guys,” he snapped, voice thick with emotion. “She… she should be able to spend her life how she wants, okay?” Dead silence. Then the entire room detonated with laughter. “CHOP IS CRYING!” “Bro’s fuckin’ HAMMERED.” “Oh my god, someone take his schnapps away.” “He’s got a fuckin hard on too!” “I am empathizing,” Porkchop insisted, with all the dignity of a man slurring. Bran—President, tyrant, self-appointed god-king of the house—clapped his hands sharply. “Alright! That’s enough. We are NOT ending the night on emotional tree-farm drama.” He pointed at Noah Vance, Derek’s younger cousin, the pledge, who was trying to disappear into his too-tight children’s Christmas sweater. “Rookie. Up.” Noah froze. “Uh… what?” Bran waved him forward with the authority of a drill sergeant who’d been given a candy cane and too much power. “Pledge task. Pick the next movie. And don’t fuck it up or you’re on toilet duty for the entire next semester.” Noah stumbled toward the huge mixing bowl on the coffee table, filled with folded slips of paper—the frat’s chaotic holiday watchlist. He stuck his hand in, swirled, pulled something out. Bran snatched it before he could read it. “KRAMPUS!” he yelled triumphantly. “Hell. YES.” The room exploded. “FINALLY!” “Murder time!” “Christmas is SAVED!” “Play it, Rookie!” Noah hurried to cue up the movie while Ty grabbed another beer and Derek mock-wiped tears from Porkchop’s face. As the opening music of Krampus started, Evan drifted to the window again, tipping aside a tangle of pathetic garland. “Guys… the snow is getting, like… really bad.” Zach didn’t look away from the TV. “How bad?” Evan pressed his forehead to the glass. “Like… campus-shuts-down bad. I bet classes get cancelled tomorrow.” A triumphant roar shook the room. “FUCK YEAH! SNOW DAY!!” “No exams!” “Long live Phi Apha!” Behind them, the Christmas lights blinked twice, then once more… a faint, hesitant flicker. No one noticed. Not yet. — Krampus was barely ten minutes in before Phi Alpha Gamma descended into the predictable chaos of a winter-night watch party. Bran Coletti, Chapter President and self-declared Emperor of Christmas Movie Night, lounged in the center of the couch like it was his throne, barking commentary at the screen every few minutes. Ty whooped every time something vaguely violent happened, and Derek yelled back alternate lines he thought the characters should’ve said. Porkchop, miraculously recovered from his emotional meltdown, shoveled fistfuls of cinnamon popcorn into his mouth at a rate science would consider dangerous. Noah, the pledge, sat wedged between two couch cushions, trying not to look like a frightened woodland creature. Outside, the storm still raged—but the power in the neighborhood hadn’t so much as flickered. Through the front window, rows of houses remained warm and bright; the streetlights glowed steadily beneath the snowfall. This, unfortunately, did nothing to reassure Evan Marsh. “Guys,” Evan muttered, forehead nearly pressed to the glass, “the snow is really piling up out there. Like, uh… aggressively.” “No one cares, Evan,” Zach said flatly. “No, seriously, look—there are weird footprints in our yard. Like… big ones. That’s not normal, right?” “Footprints?” Ty perked up. “Like Santa?” “No,” Evan whispered. “Like… not human.” Before anyone could mock him further, the movie hit a tense beat: a child screaming, Krampus bells jingling ominously. And then— Every light in the frat house died. Instant. Total. Silent. The TV blinked out. The Christmas tree went dark. The heater cut off with a dull, defeated sigh. But through the front window, all the neighboring houses remained lit. And the streetlights still glowed. For a moment, no one said a word. Then Bran’s voice tore through the pitch-black living room. “OH, WHAT THE HELL? Why is OUR house the only one out? This is bullshit!” Ty yelped, “My beer— I can’t find my beer!” which was approximately the least helpful observation possible. Zach groaned. “It’s a blown breaker, obviously. This dump is older than Porkchop’s browser history.” “Hey,” Porkchop sniffed defensively, “my history is— is tasteful.” Someone bumped the coffee table. Someone else tripped over a plastic reindeer. The house filled with the sounds of chaos and mild suffering. Derek launched an empty can in Bran’s direction. “Nice job plugging in that sketchy space heater again, Prez.” “It was COLD,” Bran snapped. “Now shut up. We just need someone to flip the breaker.” As if on cue, a faint whistle drifted through the room. A cold draft crept up from the hallway leading to the basement—icy and damp, like something breathing from below. No one noticed. Not even Evan, who’d pressed closer to the window again and whispered, “Guys… I’m serious. Those footprints are really fucking weird.” Noah lifted his phone, its flashlight cutting a small pale circle through the dark. Zach’s voice came from somewhere near the tree. “Pledge. Basement. Breaker panel. Go.” Noah froze. “Why me?” “Because you’re the pledge,” Bran said, as if that were the entire explanation, the law, the universe. “And because someone needs to fix this before my toes freeze off.” Derek added, “Basement’s right there, buddy. Don’t scream too loud. Krampus might getcha.” Laughter rippled around him—forced, shaky at the edges. Noah swallowed. He turned toward the basement door. A stronger gust of cold rushed up as he pulled it open—unnaturally cold, like winter had carved itself into the earth beneath the house. He hesitated. Behind him, Bran barked, “Go on, Rookie. We believe in you. Sort of.” Noah stepped down the first creaking stair, phone flashlight trembling in his hand. The basement swallowed the light. The whistle echoed again—just for a moment, just enough to raise goosebumps. But the guys upstairs were already resettling themselves, arguing about whether they should start where Krampus stopped or restart it entirely. No one paid any more attention when Noah disappear into the dark, each guy grabbing their cellphones to kill the time. — Noah descended the basement stairs with steady, reluctant steps, one hand gripping the railing, the other holding his phone high like a makeshift lantern. The narrow beam of light pushed weakly into the darkness below, illuminating dust motes that drifted through the cold air like tiny, suspended particles. The further he went, the more the warmth of the frat house disappeared behind him, replaced by a chill so sharp it felt as though the temperature dropped several degrees with each step. His breath fogged immediately, a thin white cloud that startled him—this basement shouldn’t have been that cold. The space opened before him in a low sprawl of clutter and neglect. Cardboard boxes marked XMAS DECOR leaned crookedly against the far wall, their corners softened by years of damp. Tangles of old Christmas lights were piled in plastic bins or strewn carelessly across the concrete floor like discarded serpents. A cracked inflatable snowman sagged in the corner, deflated and slumped over as if defeated by time. The air smelled of mildew and something sharper—an acrid, chemical bite that made Noah’s throat tighten when he inhaled too deeply. He swallowed and tried to focus. The breaker panel sat near the furnace, its metal face dull with age. Noah forced himself toward it, trying to ignore the uneasy sensation that someone—or something—might be watching him from the darker corners of the basement. The feeling wasn’t entirely new; the basement had always felt strange, but tonight the atmosphere seemed charged in a way he couldn’t explain. There was a stillness to the air, a heavy, waiting quality that made him quicken his steps. A cold draft brushed the back of his neck as he reached the panel. It wasn’t the casual chill of an unsealed window or a poorly insulated wall—this felt like a long, icy exhale. Curious and unnerved, Noah turned and swept his flashlight toward the far wall. That was when he noticed it: a narrow door he had never seen before, partly obscured behind a stack of storage bins. The wood was warped and discolored, the frame cracked, as though it had endured decades of neglect. The door hung open by perhaps an inch, swaying subtly with the draft that flowed from the darkness beyond it. A soft, wavering whistle escaped from the unseen space behind the door, a hollow sound that pricked at his nerves. He didn’t investigate. His instincts urged him to turn back to the breaker. With fingers that trembled despite his efforts to steady them, he flipped the tripped switch. The house above him responded instantly—lights came back on, voices erupted in cheers, and the muffled thump of resumed movie sound reached him from the ceiling. Relief washed over him so quickly it made him dizzy. He let out a shaky laugh, raking a hand through his hair. He headed back toward the stairs, eager to rejoin the brightly lit world upstairs, but halfway up he paused abruptly. Something in the corner of his peripheral vision tugged at his attention. He turned, hesitant, and his flashlight swept across the basement floor. The tangled string of Christmas lights he’d seen earlier was no longer sitting motionless. The entire strand was shifting, inching slowly across the concrete floor like a living thing. The bulbs flickered irregularly—green, red, green, red—in a pulsing pattern that reminded him disturbingly of a heartbeat. The sight rooted him to the stairs, caught between disbelief and a rising sense of dread. Before he could convince himself he was imagining it, something struck him across the face. It wasn’t a physical blow so much as a wet impact, a sudden splatter of warm, viscous slime that hit with enough force to make him stumble back a step. He gasped as the substance slid down his cheek and jaw, its sickening chemical odor flooding his senses. His eyes burned from the sudden contact, and he instinctively wiped at his face, only smearing the slick fluid across his skin. Behind him, from the direction of the warped basement door and the creeping lights, a low growl rolled through the darkness. It was deep and resonant, carrying a weight that vibrated in the air around him. Noah froze on the stairs, heart pounding wildly in his chest. The growl shifted, curling upward into a sound that was unmistakably a chuckle—wet, guttural, and inhuman. His phone screen flickered violently as it crashed to the ground. The flashlight dimmed. The last coherent thought Noah had was that he needed to run. But his legs were already buckling beneath him as the world went black. — For the first twenty minutes after the power returned, none of the Phi Alpha Gamma brothers gave Noah a second thought. The movie was back on, the lights were on, the beer was flowing, and the living room had snapped right back into its rowdy rhythm. Bran restarted Krampus “properly, from the beginning, because cinematic excellence deserves respect,” and everyone groaned but went along with it. Ty sprawled across the rug with his head on a pillow shaped like Santa’s ass; Porkchop got emotionally invested in the opening scenes for reasons no one understood; Derek heckled the movie nonstop; Zach critiqued the pacing; Evan sat close to the window, flinching at every rattling gust of wind. Noah’s absence barely registered at first. He’d only gone to flip the breaker. A two-minute job. Maybe he’d stopped to check the Wi-Fi. Maybe he’d taken a leak. Maybe he’d found a dusty treasure trove of weird old frat history down there. And the movie was good. So good they didn’t notice how long it had been. Thirty minutes passed. Then forty-five. By the time the movie hit its midpoint, the guys were laughing, shouting, deeply engrossed—and Noah had been gone long enough for a quiet unease to slip into the edges of the room. It showed first in Evan, whose nervous habit of glancing at the basement door had become more frequent. Between flickers of lightning outside, he kept pressing his forehead to the glass, watching the snow pile into white drifts that swallowed the yard. Streetlights still glowed; nearby houses were still brightly lit. Their house remained the odd one out. The storm grew louder—wind scraping at the siding, rattling the gutters—and still the pledge hadn’t come back. When Ty finally muttered, “Damn, Rookie’s been down there forever,” it broke the spell over the room. Zach paused mid-sip of beer. “Huh. Yeah. He really has.” Bran frowned at the screen, though his gaze wasn’t quite focused anymore. “He’ll come up in a sec. Probably wiping cobwebs off the porn stash Derek keeps pretending isn’t his.” “They aren’t mine! I wasn't even alive to have that old of Playboys, you jackasses!” Derek barked, because that was the law of the universe. The laughter was weaker this time, the timing off. Another ten minutes passed. The snow outside grew deeper. The storm howled harder. The movie played on. And Noah remained conspicuously absent. Eventually, Porkchop sat up, frowning blearily. “Guys? Seriously. He’s usually back fast. Like… puppy-returning-with-the-ball fast.” Zach scoffed, but it didn’t carry the same confidence. “He’s fine. Probably went down a TikTok rabbit hole.” “Noah doesn’t even have TikTok,” Evan said quietly. The room went still again. Bran shifted forward on the couch, elbows braced on his knees. He looked toward the basement door, the only completely dark spot in the entire house. Something about it—the angle, the stillness—felt wrong, as though the darkness there was heavier than natural shadow. “How long’s it been?” he asked, voice lower now. Ty checked his phone. “Uh… like an hour? Maybe more?” An uneasy silence rippled through the room. “That’s… not normal,” Porkchop mumbled. Evan swallowed hard. “If he slipped or passed out or something—we’re gonna be in so much trouble. You know campus security already thinks we’re on probation even when we’re not.” No one argued. The paused Krampus frame stared back at them from the TV, claws raised mid-swipe, frozen in a way that made the air feel suddenly colder. Bran stood, breaking the tension with a crack of his knuckles. “Alright. Enough. Someone go down and get him.” The others looked at one another. No one moved. Not a single person volunteered. The basement door loomed in the far corner, a dark rectangle swallowing the soft glow of Christmas lights. And for the first time all night, even Bran didn’t bark an order.

Actually, its a shared labor with @leatherpunk16. We've been working on this since June. Both of us writing and proof reading each other's contributions. Both of us are the authors. 🙂

Chapter 20: Shattered Silence Quarantine Camp. Helixion Genetics, Building 4, Hot Labs. 18:26 MST. REDACTED location. 31-Oct-20XX “You’re staying, and that’s final,” Krell thundered in a declamatory voice. Dr. Grant was becoming more frustrated by the minute. He had been asking Krell to call it a day, without success. “General, you’ve kept me here all afternoon,” he pleaded. “Can’t you see I’m sick and need bed rest? I can’t be any good to anyone in this condition.” He hacked loudly to emphasize his point, echoing in the small room, and his expectoration brought up a little ball of yellowed phlegm. Krell looked at the doctor with obvious, silent disgust at his sharing of bodily fluids. “No. You’re assisting with the research. I’m done listening. ” Then he pushed past him, but Dr Grant continued his case. “General, there’s nothing here - nothing to study. That fool Jack ran off with everything, the test subjects, and probably all the research.” Krell stopped his steps again, a headache forming in his skull, and anger in the pit of his stomach. “I can’t do anything without it, and I don’t even know what my former colleagues were working on to even guess at it.” “Did you not hear me, doctor?” “Look, I don’t work for Helixion Genetics anymore, and I’m not even being paid for this,” Dr. Grant said in a louder voice. “You have no business keeping me here. I’ve barely slept these past few days, I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, and you have me working on a project I know nothing about. You can shoot me if you want, but I’m leaving. I. Don’t. Work. For. You.” Dr. Grant stabbed his finger into Krell’s chest with every single word, driving his words home. “Shut up already!” Krell said angrily. “I’ve heard all of your arguments twice over, and I’m not going to budge on this. You are needed here. We’re dealing with something very sensitive, and you don’t get a vote in this.” Tex had the great misfortune to walk in on this, and Krell observed him as he entered. “Do I look like I need your input, Dr. Vahn? Get back to work.” Tex was put off balance by the general’s aggression, but stood firm to his purpose. “No, sir. But it’s shift change, and I’ve been off duty for the past twenty minutes.” It was then Tex noticed, for the first time, a pile of seemingly junk in one corner. It was haphazardly arranged, as if carted here, dumped, and just left for later sorting. Something in it caught his eye, but he couldn’t get a detailed look in front of Krell or Dr. Grant. He made a mental note to come back to it before leaving. Dr. Grant was silently grateful for Tex’s interruption that allowed him to take a breath and decide what to say next. But it required no flowery language or bargaining. “If he gets to clock out, so do I. I’m going home.” “I can’t let you do that, Doctor Grant.” “You won’t be able to stop me. Free citizen last I checked and not some military contractor anymore.” The silence hung in the air between them as they stared each other down. Tex silently withdrew from the scene, unobserved by either man. When he was safely out of sight, he leaned back against a wall, and quietly exhaled as he cast his eyes on the ceiling. What an asshole. Just let the man go, he’s not useful to us! I swear these past twenty-four hours have been a goddamn rollercoaster. Even I want off this ride already… Then a new train of thought passed through Tex’s mind. Things just didn’t seem to add up with everything he’d witnessed. Jack…. JACK took the research? That doesn’t make sense. He probably has to take his shoes and pants off to count to twenty-one. No way he’s smart enough to know what to do with it. Tex absentmindedly checked a tooth filling with his tongue while he started to draw his own conclusions. Jack couldn’t possibly develop a biological weapon, and then engineer his own escape from this place AND take the data with him. It doesn’t add up. And Elias didn’t trust Grant, either. I wonder… His thought was interrupted by Krell, who came storming around the corner and into Tex’s line of vision. Krell said nothing to him, and continued on his way to his unknown destination. Dr. Grant followed shortly after, and stopped in front of Tex. “I’m going,” he said in a relieved but tired voice. “Sorry I can’t do much. I might be back tomorrow, but don’t count on it. Right now I’ve got something important to do.” With that, Dr. Grant walked toward an exit. Tex silently watched him go, and when he was sure the man wouldn’t come back, Tex returned to the pile of junk. Upon inspection, he discovered it was mostly paper files mixed with small unmarked black electronic boxes, cables, and broken unidentifiable bits. None of this was of interest to him - just the thing that caught his eye. With a little digging in the pile with his foot, he unearthed it: a small flash drive with a sticker on it. Here we go. The sticker was a bright pink color with a cheerful anime character on it. He didn’t know which one, but that wasn’t important. The Korean text on the sticker was a big clue. I’ve seen this before. And this script. Then it hit him. Pixel. It’s Korean. That can’t be a coincidence. He wondered what terrible fate had befallen his comrade, and whether he was a smiler now, too. I’ll bet this is the drive he used last night to download the research from the server. Giving a quick look around, he casually dropped his pen next to the drive, letting out a small curse before grabbing it and the drive before standing back up. Tex quickly pocketed his find just before an MP came through the door. “Ah, there you are,” Tex said in an upbeat voice to disguise any impression of wrong-doing. “I’m going back to my hotel.” “Do you need an escort, Dr. Vahn?” “No, thank you. I’ll manage on my own,” Tex answered. “Do let General Krell know he can reach me on my phone if something happens.” The MP, barely interested in the events of the day, simply replied, “Will do. Good night, Dr. Vahn.” Tex, with his pocketed hand grasping the data drive, moved toward the same exit used by Dr. Grant a few moments ago, and was already forming an idea before he got through it. —------- Discount Grocery. 18:58 MST. 31-Oct-20XX “Ten ninety-five, please,” the cashier said blandly. Doctor Grant handed over two rumpled five dollar bills and a one, wordlessly. The cashier took the money, pressed a few buttons, and the cash drawer opened noisily. She put the bills in their slots, withdrew a single nickel, and handed it to her ill-looking customer. “There you go, five cents. Do you want your receipt?” Doctor Grant closed his eyes and shook his head. “Okay, thank you for shopping at Discount Grocery.” She quietly looked at the flowers he had purchased. “They’re awfully pretty. No doubt for someone you love.” He picked up the bundle of flowers, pocketed the nickel, and answered sadly, “Yes, they are. Happy Halloween.” Grant turned toward the store’s front door, and walked through it. Stepping outside, he inhaled the night air with grateful zest. The scent of the rain earlier in the day was barely present to a normal nose, but Dr. Grant picked right up on it. The clouds had moved on, and he felt a little relief that he was away from the quarantine zone and back among normal spaces. Dr. Grant got in his car, turned the engine over, and with the flowers lovingly placed in the seat next to him, he drove off. Unbeknownst to him, another car was following him at a distance. Dr. Grant drove to the nearby cemetery and parked his car in the empty lot. Grabbing the bouquet, he stepped out of the car, and looked around for any observers. On the road to the cemetery, he noticed a single pair of headlights was consistently behind him, but paid it very little attention. Now he was suddenly concerned that someone might have been following. Probably Krell keeping tabs on me, or one of his blackguard gestapo underlings. But seeing no one at the moment, maybe it was just a coincidence and not about him at all. Grant silently walked between the various rows and headstones, the fog lending a naturally eerie vibe to the setting. As he moved through the silent place, flowers in hand, the memories began to crowd around him. It always began with the smell of antiseptic—sharp, cold, the kind that clung to your clothes long after you went home. It dragged Clark back to that room whether he wanted it or not, back to the slow-dying quiet where Julian lay fading under thin hospice blankets. Even now Clark would still clench his jaw remembering it. Because Julian didn’t have to die like this. Not like this. Not gasping softly in a room too quiet for a man who once lived louder than life. Clark sat beside the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers knit so tightly they hurt. Julian’s breathing was a fragile flutter, a rise and fall that barely lifted the blankets. His collarbones were sharp ridges. His eyelids trembled. Every detail carved itself into Clark’s memory until it felt like punishment. “Hey,” he whispered, brushing knuckles along Julian’s arm. “I’m here.” Julian didn’t speak at first. He just shifted his head a little, searching for Clark’s hand like he always did—instinctive, trusting, even now. Clark slid his hand into Julian’s, wincing at how cool the skin felt. “You look tired,” Julian murmured, voice faint, thin. “You should sleep more.” Clark almost laughed—almost. “I sleep,” he said. “Just… not when I’m here.” Julian’s mouth twitched, a ghost of the smile Clark used to chase across his face with kisses. “Liar.” Clark didn’t deny it. Instead, he looked toward the window where a sun he hated now was setting in gentle pink. Julian had always loved sunsets. Clark hated how poetic it all felt, how cinematic, how cruelly fitting—because this wasn’t a moment meant for beauty. It was a moment born of corporate cowardice, of boardroom politics, of numbers on a page that outweighed a human life. His hands tightened slightly around Julian’s. “You know,” Julian whispered, “you don’t have to stay through all of it.” “Yeah, I do.” Bitterness sharpened Clark’s whisper before he could stop it. “It’s the only thing I can still do.” Julian’s fingers twitched. Clark squeezed back, careful, gentle. He didn’t want Julian to feel the rage simmering under his skin, the kind that pulsed every time he saw the IV stand—empty, silent. He had designed a drug, spent two years shaping it, believing it would save him. Believing it would save people like Julian. But the company said no. That fucking rat bastard Jack had refused. Not enough data. Not enough precedent. Not appropriate for compassionate use. Too risky. Too expensive. Too soon for clinical trials. He knew it was only because of things like shareholders and dividends. Clark replayed those phrases every night like a litany of knives. They had denied him the one thing—the only thing—that could have bought Julian more time. And they had done it while sitting across a polished table, sipping water from embossed glasses, pretending to be sympathetic. His bitterness bled into his silence now. Julian sensed it. He always did. “Clark,” he murmured with a strained smile, “don’t be angry anymore.” “Julian,” Clark said, the name cracking in the middle, “I built that drug for you.” “I know.” Julian’s eyes opened a little more, dull but gentle. “But it wasn’t guaranteed.” “It was our best chance,” Clark snapped softly, the words trembling. “And they took it from us. From you. They took you from me.” A slow breath. A thinner exhale. “It wasn’t your fault.” “Well it sure as hell wasn’t yours.” Julian’s lips curved in the barest tease. “You always… get mean when you’re scared.” Clark huffed a wet breath. “I’m not scared.” “You’re terrified,” Julian whispered. Clark bowed his head, forehead pressed gently to Julian’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I am.” The room dimmed as the sun eased below the horizon. The shadows grew longer. Every second felt like an hour. Julian’s thumb brushed weakly against Clark’s hand. “You gave me everything,” Julian murmured. “Time. Love. A home. You fought for me… harder than anyone ever has.” “I didn’t fight hard enough,” Clark whispered. Julian’s breathing stuttered, then smoothed. Too smooth. Too quiet. “You did,” he insisted. “And I’m… grateful. So grateful, Clark.” Clark felt the words like broken glass. Julian’s next breath came late. Too late. His eyes drifted half-closed, focused somewhere past Clark’s shoulder—as if he saw the place Clark wasn’t allowed to follow yet. “Stay,” Clark pleaded. “Julian, just—stay with me a little longer.” Julian didn’t answer. His fingers slackened in Clark’s hand. Clark realized the exact moment Julian exhaled for the last time, because the world seemed too still with him. No machines beeped. No alarms rang. It was quiet—too quiet for the end of a life that should have burned brighter, lived longer. Clark pressed Julian’s hand to his forehead, breath shaking. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so damn sorry.” He stayed long after Julian’s skin went cold, bitterness settling deep in his bones like iron. He had built a miracle for a man he loved. And a corporation had let him die anyway. —- Dr. Grant could feel the tears starting to come to the surface as he approached the familiar spot. The sight of it stabbed at his heart, an anguish and guilt that nothing could assuage. Dr. Grant knelt at the grave, and gingerly placed the bouquet atop the mound of dirt. He brushed away some orange and brown autumn leaves from the grave marker until the full engraving could be read. HERE LIES JULIAN A. MAREK beloved son, brother, and lover “Hey, babe,” he said in a gentle whisper. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m here.” —---- Cemetery at St. Barton’s. 19:14 MST. 31-Oct-20XX. Tex kept on driving, letting Dr. Grant’s car turn to the left into the cemetery without following him in. He now knew where the suspicious doctor was going, and could only speculate his purpose at a cemetery on Halloween night. While goth kids might find such an activity edgy, Tex was pretty sure the man would go there for a more serious reason. Whatever he’s up to there, he at least deserves a little privacy, and the dead, our respect. I don’t get it. Dr. Grant had been adamant that he be allowed to go home and rest, but he came here instead? I should make sure he’s not up to no good. Tex parked his car a couple blocks away, and went back to the cemetery on foot. Passing revelers and small children in colorful costumes (and one very tired-looking woman chaperoning them), he found himself at the cemetery’s gate within a few minutes. He quietly opened it, wishing that last night’s passage through a gate had been as simple. If it had, Gravestone or Reaper could be doing this detective shit instead of me. Once on the other side, Tex scanned the area for any sign of anybody. He saw a little movement, almost in the dark, and decided to start his search for Dr. Grant there. I could also do with help from Zero for stealth in this. He slowly realized he was the only one of the Black Sigma team who hadn’t been infected, and this “sole survivor” distinction meant he was the best person to rescue them from whatever had taken them. The thought filled Tex with sadness, but also pride and determination to be the one to do it. He could hear, in the distance, the sound of sirens, but paid it no mind. As quietly as he could, he eventually came upon his quarry from behind, found on both his knees at a headstone and audibly sobbing. He was holding a lighted candle while he talked to his lost love. “I miss you so much,” the doctor whispered between hiccups. Tex at once felt sympathy for the man, and let him grieve for his deceased lover. “I know I promised you I would never work with these assholes—” He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly aware that he was being watched. Dr. Grant wiped both his eyes and his cheeks with his hands before he looked partially over his left shoulder. “You know, you make a really shitty spy, Dr. Vahn.” A lump suddenly leapt into Tex’s throat as he realized he’d been caught, and rather easily. “How… how did you know it was me?” “Lucky guess. Why are you here?” Tex fumbled for a legitimate reason, having been unprepared for the possibility of discovery. “I… um… you… were acting funny, so —” “So, what? You thought you would follow me?” Dr. Grant said accusingly. “To my dead partner’s grave? How dare you. This is none of your concern, and you’ve got no right. Did Krell put you up to this?” Dr. Grant rose to standing, blew out the candle, and turned to face his stalker. “No, doctor,” Tex said soothingly, showing both his hands to show he was unarmed. “I just thought maybe —” “What did you think?” He crossed his arms tightly in front of him, both to protect himself from the intrusion, and to show his displeasure. “Well? I’m waiting.” Tex couldn’t invent a reason fast enough, and he realized he’d made a bad choice to follow him. I’m not going to be able to lie to him. “I’m not here because anyone ordered me to be here.” “Look, your friend with the weird name, something King, came to my home today, and now you are here, interrupting a private moment.” The doctor snapped his fingers once. “Hudson. That was it. He’s a phony, and I have to wonder about you, too. You guys have got some nerve. Tell me something. How badly do you want to be part of this, Tex?” The way Dr. Grant called him by his code name shook him to his very core. The lump in his throat had returned, forming an identical one in his stomach. I never told him my code name. How does he know about that? What’s his deal? A quick revelation shot across Tex’s brain. I was right. This guy knows everything about what’s going on. “Krell may be fooled, but I read that mission brief as well. And your ankle seems to be doing rather well, Dr. Tobias Vahn… Tex… for someone who was too ill to make it to the mission last night,” Grant commented, arranging the flowers on the grave. Shit. Bastard is sharper than I gave him credit. He saw right through our smokescreen. “Just so you know, this borders on stalking,” Dr. Grant continued. “Same goes for your friend, Mr. Kade. Or would you rather I continue to call him Hudson King? I’m sure Krell would love to know you both were there last night and escaped the quarantine, too. Jack was rather insistent that he knew you.” Tex found himself tongue-tied at the accusations, which were unfortunately true. And he had a feeling nothing he could say would convince the doctor otherwise. “What have you got to say for yourself, Tex? Should I just deliver Krell a new round of test subjects to play with? Might be enough to get that self-righteous bastard off my back and let me rest.” Before Tex could answer, Dr. Grant was on the ground in an instant, tackled from the left by something large and dark. In the dim light, Tex couldn’t clearly see what it was, but he could no longer see Dr. Grant standing before him. The dark figure perched over Dr. Grant’s disheveled form, now in a heap on the damp, leafy grass to the right of where he’d been standing, and it turned its head in Tex’s direction. It smiled at him evilly, displaying its sharp teeth, blackened eyes, and curvaceous horns. There was no doubt in Tex’s mind about what was looking at him, and what he was seeing. Then the creature scooped up the doctor in its arms, and ran toward the line of trees that dotted the back end of the cemetery. Tex stood transfixed with horror and shock. It all happened in less than ten seconds, and he wished he had brought his sidearm when he left his car. He hadn’t anticipated getting caught, and certainly not needing to draw his weapon. Shit! His mind screamed. That smiler took my best lead! Tex pulled his burner phone from his pocket, and instantly dialed Elias’s number. We’ve got to do something.

Chapter 18: Graveyard Shift Central Dispatch, County EMS. 18:48 MST. 31-Oct-20XX. REDACTED LOCATION. The station had that end-of-day hush where noise carried farther than it should. In the locker room, the fluorescent tubes hummed, and somebody’s half-torn paper bat trembled in the faint breeze from the vent. On the bench, Rafi sat with his boots unlaced and a Styrofoam cup of coffee steaming between his palms like evidence. Marco, already zipped into his jacket, folded his spare uniform top along the seam as if the way the fabric met might keep the universe from falling apart. Kyle stood at his open locker, pretending to reorganize the same three items—trauma shears, penlight, spare gloves—until they felt like they belonged to him. The room smelled of sanitizer and old sweat, and beneath that, the crisp trace of October air that leaked in whenever someone opened the bay door. He could hear it out there: the distant carry of kids’ voices on the street, laughter ricocheting down from one porch to the next, the dry whisper of leaves against asphalt. Rafi didn’t look up. “You sure you’re ready for tonight?” Kyle clipped his radio to his belt and managed a nod. “Ready.” Rafi grunted, noncommittal. “Everybody’s ready until they meet the Q-word.” Kyle turned. “The… what?” Marco didn’t glance away from the precise fold. “Don’t say quiet in this building. Especially not on Halloween.” “That’s— everyone says it's just superstition.” Kyle smiled, then corrected himself. “I mean—got it.” Rafi finally dragged his eyes to him, half amused. “Rookie rule number one: we honor the gods of pattern recognition and spite. Don’t tempt ‘em, or every patient will shit themselves.” Voices spilled in from the hallway: the echoes of day crews shedding momentum. Locker doors clanged, someone laughed too loud, someone else swore about paperwork. A paramedic in a sweat-damp undershirt leaned through the doorway, hair stuck to her forehead. “You three on nights?” Rafi lifted his cup. “Our sins demand it.” “Watch the east bypass,” she said, already moving on. “They’re still fucking cleaning up that jackknife from this morning.” “Hit a deer?” another voice called from the hall. “Nah,” someone answered. “News said dog.” That drew a round of scoffs. “If that was a dog, it had its own ZIP code. Should have seen what it did to the front of that semi.” The woman reappeared just long enough to add, “MPs showed up and sent everyone packing. Never seen that on a pileup.” Then she was gone, leaving the word MPs hanging in the air as a dare. Rafi rolled his eyes and stood, the bones in his knees cracking like gravel. “Helixion’s in that direction. People say ‘dog’ when they don’t want to say ‘lawsuit.’” Kyle closed his locker. “The article said animal containment. Veterinary wing.” Marco slid the folded jacket onto the shelf and shut his locker with two fingers. “You will learn two things fast,” he said mildly. “One: press releases are bedtime stories. Two: we are not the audience.” Rafi drained the last of his coffee, grimaced at whatever it had done to itself, and crushed the cup. “Rule two,” he told Kyle as they filed out. “Trust nothing you didn’t check with your own hands.” “Rule one was—” “Don’t say quiet,” Marco replied. “Rule three is: if in doubt, blame dispatch.” Kyle laughed because it seemed expected, and because laughter made his chest feel less tight. They stepped into the bay, and the night breathed at them. The big doors stood open, letting in a ribbon of cold air that smelled faintly of cut grass and exhaust. Out beyond the apron, the neighborhood glowed—porch lights, jack-o’-lanterns, plastic ghosts on fishing line rocking in some invisible convection. A kid in a dinosaur costume sprinted past the far end of the lot, the cheap tail bouncing like a metronome, a parent’s voice trailing after him—slow down, watch for cars. Medic 14 waited in her slot, white paint still showing the day’s handprints of road dust. Marco slapped her side as if greeting a dog. “There she is.” “Be nice,” Rafi said. “She hears you.” Kyle climbed into the box and let the cold settle on his face for a second before the familiar antiseptic chill took over. He moved methodically—open, check, close; confirm the monitor leads, peek at the charge on the suction, squeeze the Ambu bag and listen for the healthy squeak. He counted Epi pens and Narcan, confirmed the insulin dates, ran a finger down the inventory checklist as he read aloud, catching himself and falling silent when he realized he’d spoken. Rafi leaned in through the side door. “Talk to the gear if you need to. Just don’t talk to the radio.” Kyle’s grin came easier this time. He kept moving. Hands found the rhythm on their own. When he reached the narcotics box, Marco had already popped it, checked the seal together, then nodded for Kyle to sign the log. “You want me to—?” “Yep,” Marco said. “Your name, your license number. Means you’re accountable now. Congratulations.” The pen hovered a heartbeat; then Kyle wrote, block letters neat from years of school forms. His name looked too clean on the line. He blew on the ink out of habit. In the common room, a muted TV ran the evening news with captions: INTERSTATE FULLY REOPENED AFTER EARLY-MORNING CRASH. The footage was standard—tow trucks, a semi at an angle like it had pivoted on its own shadow, a rectangle of tarp carried between two men, the corners sagging with weight. No rain. No fog. Just that clean, flat fall light that exposed everything. A few off-shift medics hovered in front of the screen finishing donuts. One of them jabbed a finger. “Back it up. See that?” Rafi didn’t look. “Don’t feed the birds.” “Bro, tell me that’s not a military truck,” the medic persisted. Marco, beside Kyle at the doorway, watched a moment and then blew air through his nose. “Could be DOT. Could be National Guard.” “Could be Helixion has friends,” someone else said. “All I’m saying. I hear that freaky shit goes down in that place.” Kyle glanced between the screen and the room and felt the double-pulse of the job: inside jokes stacked on top of the unspoken. He knew better than to ask follow-ups. He grabbed a water from the fridge and stood alongside, in the eddy of conversation where nobody had to perform. The TV cut to sports. The room loosened like a held breath let go. Rafi took a long pull on a fresh coffee, made a face, then another as if daring it to get worse. “All right,” he said. “We staging or we haunting the recliners?” “Staging,” Marco said. “I don’t want my legs forgetting how to exist before 2200.” They rolled the ambulance to the lip of the apron and idled with the doors open for another minute, just to feel the night. Crisp. Clear. A whisper of warmth still trapped in the concrete from the day’s sun. One could hear the county moving—distant tires, a garage door stuttering up, the tiniest chorus of trick-or-treaters negotiating trades at a curb. (I’ll swap you two Reese’s for your full-size KitKat—no, full-size.) “So, man, why EMS?” Rafi asked, eyes on the driveway, tone idle. Kyle surprised himself by telling the truth without polishing it. “My brother, the junkie. A couple years back. I found him. Paramedics were… they were steady. They made something feel less… out of control.” He took a breath. “I figured if I could do that for somebody else, maybe—” Rafi nodded once, not dramatic. “Good reason.” Marco, not looking away from the street, added, “And a hard one. You okay on overdoses?” “I’m okay.” That much was true; he had rehearsed okay until it fit in his mouth like a mouthguard. “I’m okay.” Rafi drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “Then rule four: you’re allowed to feel later. It’s not heroism to feel nothing. It’s a one way ticket to burnout.” The radio crackled to life with a routine radio check. Rafi answered, voice flipping to that even cadence—Medical 14, clear and available. The dispatcher returned the affirmation. Kyle watched the channel indicator slide back to their home frequency. Clean. Quiet—no. Calm. They ran a lazy round of the nearby streets to “let the wheels remember,” as Rafi put it, then parked in the small cutout where ambulance employees were tolerated by the diner across from the station. The windows down half an inch cleared the stale cab air and let in hints of bacon grease and cold air. The waitress inside waved without making them come in; she knew better than to pin medics to a table. Rafi pulled a notepad from the console and flipped through three pages of scribbles. “Calls you’re likely to see tonight,” he announced into the cabin, mock-formal. “Unsupervised teenagers meeting alcohol for the first time. Parents calling 911 because their kid ate four fun-size Snickers and ‘looks pale.’ A guy who thinks he’s possessed running down the street naked because his vape pen is ninety percent THC. Lots of allergic reactions. Lots. Someone falling off a porch while adjusting a skeleton. And—if the gods really hate us—somebody’s grandma who waited all day to call and now can’t breathe.” “Also,” Marco said, “one extremely sincere haunted house actor who won’t break character while we try to take his blood pressure.” “That happened?” Kyle asked, then realized how naive it sounded. “Everything happens,” Rafi said. “Given enough time.” In the passenger mirror, a pair of teenagers drifted by at the end of the block, faces painted white, black hoodies up, a carton tucked under an arm. They clocked the ambulance the way kids clock a school mascot: half awe, half mischief. Rafi saw Kyle watching and gave a noncommittal noise. “Harmless until they’re not. Keep your windows up if you see ‘em later.” “Got it.” A breeze lifted dry leaves in a little swirl and set them down again. The sky held that deep, clean navy that meant it would be cold by midnight. Kyle listened to the steadiness—no wind, no sirens close by, just the everyday thrum of a county minding its business. If dread lived anywhere tonight, it lived in other people’s heads. The radio chirped once with a unit clearing the hospital. Nothing for them. The second hand on the dash clock ticked into 20:00. An hour of night, and all they had to show for it was coffee breath and a short list of rules. Kyle let his shoulders drop, just a notch. Across the street, a dad in a puffy vest shepherded a princess and a vampire past the diner window. The little vampire was already chewing, cape flaring with each step. “Okay,” Rafi said, settling deeper. “We wait. We listen. We don’t say the thing we don’t say.” Marco tapped the radio with a knuckle. “And we answer when it calls.” Kyle nodded. He found his spot—the space in his head where boredom and readiness braided together—and stayed there. The night held. The air was cold and clean. Somewhere not far away, kids practiced throwing their voices to sound scarier than they felt. The rig smelled like disinfectant and plastic and the faintest trace of chocolate from some wrapper that had slipped under a seat. Kyle reached into his breast pocket for his penlight, clicked it on and off—a nervous habit—and watched the circle of light bite into the dash and disappear. He didn’t have a name for the feeling that came next; it wasn’t fear, and it wasn’t excitement. It was that sense of standing at a door and hearing footsteps on the other side. Not running, not rushing—just coming. He breathed once, deep, the way instructors told you to, and let the cool air clear him out. The door would open when it opened. His hands were ready. The radio broke the quiet at 20:42 with the clean, two-tone chirp every medic’s body knew how to answer. “Medic Fourteen, respond priority one, possible allergic reaction. Pediatric patient, age nine. 214 Oakridge Lane, cross of Willow. Caller reports difficulty breathing after eating candy containing peanuts.” Rafi’s hand was already on the ignition before the dispatcher finished. “Show us en route,” he said into the mic, the calm practiced tone of someone who’d said those words ten thousand times, before yelling to the back cabin area. “Called it on the first call.” The diesel engine caught with a low growl. Kyle snapped his seat belt and swung into motion before thought could catch up—monitor bag secured, airway kit at his feet, gloves out of the box. His pulse sped, but his hands were steady. First real call of the night. The first anything. Outside, the town slid by in Halloween colors. Pumpkins glowed on porches, a few late trick-or-treaters still hopping between houses in groups. The air was crisp enough to sting his lungs when he breathed deep; the stars sharp, unblurred by cloud. No rain, no fog, just the hum of tires on clean asphalt. Marco read from the tablet. “Mom reports the kid’s swelling up fast. Says he’s allergic but didn’t have his EpiPen.” “Classic,” Rafi muttered. “People always remember the costume, never the meds.” They turned off Main and into a neighborhood where the streetlights stood farther apart. Each beam of yellow left a pocket of darkness between, full of tree branches and quiet yards. Porch decorations rocked gently in the night air. Kyle leaned forward between the seats, eyes scanning numbers. “Oakridge Lane—on the right.” “There,” Marco pointed. “Blue house, porch light flashing.” Rafi pulled to the curb, killed the siren but left the flashers painting the siding in red pulses. Parents were already outside—mom waving, dad pacing tight circles in the driveway. Kyle grabbed the airway bag and followed Marco up the path. Inside was chaos in miniature: candy wrappers everywhere, a child sitting upright on the couch, face blotched and puffy, breaths short and whistling. The mother’s voice trembled between words. “He—he grabbed the wrong candy—I didn’t—he’s allergic to peanuts—” “Okay,” Marco said, gentle but firm, kneeling in front of the boy. “You did the right thing calling. We’ve got him.” Kyle dropped to one knee, opened the med kit, found the auto-injector, thumbed off the safety cap. He’d practiced this motion on oranges until he could do it blind. “I’ve got epi ready.” Rafi stood behind them, starting vitals—pulse ox clipped to a finger, cuff around the small arm. “Go ahead.” Kyle placed the injector, counted under his breath, pressed, held. The boy flinched, then gasped, and the wheeze turned to a rough inhale. Color crept back toward pink. The mother started crying from relief. “Good response,” Marco said quietly. “Let’s get him loaded for transport. Mom, you can ride in the transport with us and have dad follow in the car.” Rafi called out vitals for the report: “Pulse 110, sat 94 and climbing, BP 92/58, respirations 28.” He nodded toward Kyle. “Bag the wrappers, bring one for the hospital.” Kyle gathered the torn candy pieces into a glove, tying off the end like evidence. One wrapper was smeared in chocolate and what might have been grass—probably dropped in a yard—but when he turned it in his hand, he noticed two faint indentations along the edge. For a split second he thought teeth marks, then corrected himself: Probably just creased. He shoved it into his pocket and helped lift. They wheeled the stretcher down the walkway. Somewhere up the street, laughter exploded—a group of kids sprinting past, voices high on sugar. One yelled, “Cool lights, dude!” as they ran by, a chorus of sneakers slapping pavement. The boy’s father jogged alongside, out of breath and holding an Epi pen as well. “He started coughing maybe five minutes ago, I ran—” Rafi raised a hand, slowing him. “We’ve got him. Follow us in your car if you want, but don’t tailgate the rig.” They loaded the patient, clicked the stretcher into the floor mount. Kyle climbed in beside him, Marco took the jump seat. The doors slammed; the sound sealed them into a bubble of light and soft mechanical beeps. Rafi’s voice came through the intercom. “All right, gentlemen. County General?” “Yep,” Marco answered. “Let’s ride.” The ambulance eased from the curb. Kyle switched on low cabin light and monitored the boy’s breathing—still fast but smoother now. He offered oxygen through the pediatric mask, adjusting flow until the boy’s chest rose easy. “You doing okay, buddy?” Kyle asked. The boy nodded slightly, eyes wide but focused. “Yeah… I’m… okay.” “You’re doing great. Just breathe slowly.” Marco filled out the electronic chart, fingers tapping softly. “Kid’s lucky. Textbook reaction, textbook fix.” Kyle smiled faintly, adrenaline beginning to ebb. For the first time that night, he felt the job click into place—fear giving way to procedure, chaos shrinking to something you could measure in numbers on a screen. Then came the first thunk. A hollow pop on the side panel, then another—thwack, thwack. Wet, flat sounds. Rafi’s voice burst through the intercom. “What the hell—?” Kyle glanced at Marco. “Tire?” Marco leaned toward the small rear window, then laughed, short and disbelieving. “Nope. We’re getting egged. Fuckin’ teenagers these days man. That’s going to be a bitch to get cleaned off.” Outside, a trio of teenagers darted from the shadow of a hedge, their silhouettes briefly caught in the strobe of the light bar. One threw again, the egg bursting in a smear that slid down the glass. Rafi laid on the air horn. The kids scattered, shrieking with laughter. “Happy Halloween to us,” Marco muttered, shaking his head. “God, I really hate this job.” Kyle let out a shaky breath that turned into a laugh he hadn’t expected. The boy on the stretcher even managed a weak smile beneath the oxygen mask. “See?” Kyle told him. “You’re not missing much out there.” Rafi’s voice came back, dry. “Remind me to file for emotional damages. Damn near spilled my coffee.” The rest of the drive was uneventful. The monitor’s rhythm smoothed, the pulse settled under a hundred, and the boy’s breathing evened out to sleepy sighs. Marco called to report to the ER: age, cause, treatment, response. Routine, professional, steady. When they pulled beneath the bright wash of the hospital canopy, Kyle hopped out first, unlatched the stretcher, and guided it down the ramp. The automatic doors opened, releasing a breath of warm air that smelled faintly of antiseptic and cafeteria soup. “County EMS to Bay 3. County EMS to Bay 3.” The tinny sounding speaker overhead announced their arrival, as one of the nurses pointed them in the correct direction from the ambulance bay. A nurse waved them through triage. “Room three. They’re ready.” Within minutes, the boy was transferred to a hospital bed, IV equipment switched over, parents ushered in by social work. Rafi finished the handoff with the attending physician and met Kyle and Marco by the door. “Good work, newbie. Nurses were happy you got an 18 guage in him,” he said simply. Kyle nodded, feeling the rush of quiet after action—the echo of purpose that hung in the chest once adrenaline drained away. Outside, under the floodlights, he noticed the streaks of egg on the side of the rig drying to a pale crust. He wiped one with a gloved thumb, the shell grit scratching faintly against paint. Marco grinned at him. “Congratulations, rookie. First Halloween call, textbook save, and you’ve been officially hazed by the disobedient youth of America.” Rafi climbed into the driver’s seat, calling back, “We should start a bet on who cleans the rig. My vote’s for the guy whose handwriting is still legible.” Kyle rolled his eyes, half-smiling, and climbed in. The engine rumbled to life again, and the ambulance eased out of the bay toward the cool dark streets waiting beyond. Through the windshield, the night looked clean and harmless—porches still lit, windless trees, candy wrappers skittering across asphalt like leaves. For now, it was just another shift. And for the first time since clock-in, Kyle believed it might actually stay that way. — By midnight, the tempo of the night had found them. Calls rolled in steady, a rhythm that carried them through the quiet neighborhoods and back again: chest pain at a retirement complex, a drunk fall in a parking lot, a teenager with a panic attack after too much caffeine and a vape pen that wasn’t just nicotine. Each run blurred into the next—the routine calls that defined the job. The air outside had grown colder, the smell of dry leaves sharp enough to bite. Trick-or-treaters were gone, replaced by the late-night crowd: bar hoppers in costume makeup flaking off, voices slurred into laughter. Kyle started to recognize the small sounds of fatigue in Rafi’s voice, the sigh in Marco’s. They joked less now, talking mostly in shorthand. “You got the monitor?” “Yeah.” “Vitals clean?” “Clean enough.” They cleared a call near the industrial park—false alarm, a man sleeping behind a warehouse mistaken for a body—then another for a domestic dispute that turned into a refusal when both parties decided they loved each other again, dry humping on the couch in the living room. It was the kind of night that trained you to be patient, to keep the machine in motion. Then the odd calls began. A report of a smash and grab at a convenience store, only to find the place completely empty. PD cleared them before they arrived—nobody there to transport. A welfare check at a motel, where the occupant swore something was crawling in the walls. No injuries, just fear and the smell of bleach. And then the call from dispatch that made Rafi stop mid-sentence. A voice over the radio, hesitant for once. “Medic Fourteen, respond to multiple injuries, possible assault outside the InfraRed Club, 8130 Fifth Avenue. PD on scene requesting medical.” The words hung there. The InfraRed wasn’t just any nightclub—it was one of those places that pulled half the city’s drunks and ODs and a good share of its trouble. Halloween there usually meant fights, but multiple injuries at once was a different tone entirely. Rafi put the rig in gear. “Here we go again.” Marco tapped the address into the tablet, the glow washing his face pale. “Reports are saying five, maybe six victims. Some kind of animal attack? PD’s still sorting it out.” Kyle blinked. “Animal attack? In the warehouse district?” “That’s what they said.” The tires hummed as they picked up speed, passing the quiet suburban streets and heading back toward the city lights. Ahead, the skyline shimmered faintly with blue and red strobes bouncing off glass. The radio chatter grew thick—units calling in, updates overlapping. “… unknown assailant—” “… requesting additional units for crowd control—” “… bites and lacerations—possible dog, large—” Kyle felt that small, familiar tightening in his chest. Not fear, exactly—just awareness sharpening. He checked the airway kit, more out of habit than necessity. “We’re really going to another dog call?” Rafi’s eyes stayed on the road. “If it walks like a dog and barks like a dog… it’s probably just some nut job in a dog outfit outside a gay nightclub.” Marco didn’t laugh this time. “Helixion’s two miles from there.” The siren wound up, a long, rising note that sliced through the night. Storefronts flashed by in streaks of orange and silver; the world compressed to light and sound and motion. Kyle tightened his seat belt and looked out at the streets rushing past—costumes, flashing lights, faces turning toward the noise. For a moment he caught a reflection in a window: three figures inside the ambulance, framed in red light, racing toward something they didn’t understand. Dispatch came back on the air, voice clipped and urgent. “Medic Fourteen, be advised—PD reports at least one officer injured. Scene not yet secured.” Rafi’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t slow down. “Copy. We’ll stage a block out.” He turned on to Fifth. The city opened in front of them—a smear of flashing lights, a crowd spilling into the street, something chaotic at its center. Kyle could see shapes moving—officers, bystanders, maybe victims. The scene pulsed like a heartbeat. He felt the shift inside him again—the edge between the world he knew and whatever waited ahead. “Welcome to Halloween,” Rafi muttered, killing the siren. “Let’s earn our keep.” The rig rolled forward into the light.

Chapter 16: Trapped Between Truths Helixion Genetics, Main Quarantine Tent. Quarantine camp. REDACTED LOCATION 12:07 MST. 31-Oct-20XX “General Krell, I’m truly sorry to interru-” the small, mousey looking man in a lab coat and glasses said, interrupting the General and Tex as they began the tour of the main Quarantine area. The large white tent was set up at the entrance of the newest building on the site, still under construction but having at least a secure shell, HVAC, and several holding areas for the labs.. “I am busy, Johnson,” Krell replied, an air of arrogance as he spoke. “I’m sorry it's… it's just that Dr. Grant…” Tex watched the lab tech continue, clutching a clipboard to himself as if he could use it as a shield against the larger man. “He… we already sent a team out and he’s refusing to come in. Keeps saying he was fired and doesn’t answer to the company and…” “God damn it!” Krell shouted, anger in his voice as he grabbed the man’s clipboard and threw it to the ground. Tex watched as the man lost his temper. He’s even worse in person than he was last night, he thought to himself. Raging dickhead doesn’t even cover it. “I don't care if you have to take a team of armed soldiers over to that ungrateful bastard’s house and drag him out by gun point,” Krell continued, his thick finger shoved hard into the small man’s chest as his voice raised in volume. “Get over there and get him. NOW!” The smaller man shook at the yell, turning around and running away, leaving his clipboard and rushing off. Tex had to get a message to his now partner in what likely was a dozen crimes to warn him… but how? Suddenly, he got an idea and picked up the clipboard, before continuing to walk behind Krell as his tour continued. They stopped first at the hot lab, with a set of thick biohazard suits in the antechamber and several hose lines for air up in the ceiling. “As you can see, we got the mobile BSL-2 lab set up and rolling while we wait for the CDC to coordinate with us on getting a…” Krell said, droning on as he showed the lab off. Tex stopped paying attention as he quickly pulled out the cheap plastic phone and began to type out a brief message to Elias, using the clipboard as cover. “GET OUT NOW. Krell and his men are on the way to Grant as we speak – with guns,” Tex quickly typed out, thankful that years of texting girlfriends in the middle of class had finally paid off. Tex realized with a start that they had been woefully unprepared for the mission the night before, given the massive amount of resources now available to them after their failed mission inside. Had something like this been available from the start for their team, he could help but wonder if they wouldn’t have been more successful and not currently sitting, infected, in the building they had entered the night before. “Is there something more interesting on that phone than your job there, soldier,” Krell said, noticing as Tex slyly tried to put the phone back in his pocket. Shit. Need to come up with a lie. “Sorry, General, you know how women can be. Girlfriend is sending a list of things she wants from the store and I had to tell her I’m at work,” Tex lied smoothly, hoping it would be enough. “You can tell her later you won’t be coming home for a few days,” Krell said coldly, apparently buying the story on the spot. “I’m going to need you focused as we go into the containment area.” Nodding, he followed Krell through the next set of tent flaps. When he looked at what was inside, his blood ran cold. —-------- Grant Residence. 12:15 MST. 31 Oct 20XX. REDACTED LOCATION. The quiet suburban neighborhood was calm, as one or two neighbors drove by the wide, tree shaded street. Hundreds of red and orange leaves littered the street, floating around in a swirl as each passing car drove by. Elias sat parked in Trevor’s borrowed car, his hands still clenching the steering wheel as he tried to process the news his husband had given him at the hospital not even two hours prior. He replayed it over and over again, each time leaving him in confusion. It simply didn’t make sense. P24 HIV PROTEIN: REACTIVE. The words played on an endless loop as he struggled to process how he was infected. Clenching the leather-clad wheel even harder, he could hear the leather and cushioning begin to creak, instantly causing him to release where he was grabbing. In the wake of his hands were two separate sets of very distinct finger marks, not disappearing after he let go. Looking down at his hands, Elias stared in disbelief. How hard am I gripping to be able to do that? Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he decided to get out of the car, quickly crossing the street and towards Dr. Clark Grant’s home. It stuck out like a sore thumb, with its overgrown yard covered in leaves and piles of newspapers, an overflowing mailbox, and a dusty looking, albeit expensive SUV in the driveway, looking like it hadn’t been driven in quite a number of days. All the other houses around them were extremely well kept, with their perfectly manicured lawns and various Halloween decorations, ready for the coming night of fun. At first, Elias thought maybe he had made a mistake coming here. That maybe Clark Grant was out of the country, or that maybe he had got the address from Trevor wrong. Hesitantly, Elias walked up the leaf-littered path and onto the sprawling covered porch. The boards creaked under his feet, and Elias observed the peeling of the paint. Evidently, the place hasn’t been cared for in a while. He rang the doorbell and waited a solid minute before the door finally swung open. Before him, the sweaty and pale-looking form of Dr. Clark Grant stood, a tired and annoyed look on his face as if being interrupted during something. Elias took in his features. Dark wavy hair, unkempt and sticking up at odd angles, glasses balanced on his nose, with dark bags under his eyes. His skin was pale and sweaty, looking like someone who had a terrible case of the flu. There was a scowl on Dr. Grant’s face, as he brought his elbow up to his arm and coughed wetly several times, almost as if to drive the point home at his state of unwellness. He was wearing a loose white shirt, the look of an old coffee stain on the bottom hem and loose pajama bottoms, with chickens and eggs patterned on them. A loose rumpled looking robe was hanging untied around his frame. Grant looked up and down at Elias before he finally spoke, his cultured voice gravelly as he spoke, sounding annoyed and exhausted. “Look, like I told you the last time, I am sick with the flu and have no intention of going back to that lab. Tell General Krell that it no longer was my problem when Johnathan Blaine fired me 4 days ago. If Krell wants someone to help him with this little issue of his, he should be reaching out to the ringleader himself.” The way Dr. Grant said Jack’s full name gave Elias the distinct impression of nothing but hate and disgust towards the man. Quickly, Elias reached out, holding his hand up to shake Grant’s hand. “Sir, I’m Hudson King. General Krell only sent me here with some questions.” Dr. Grant stared at Elias’s hand for a long moment. At first he could swear the man was looking at where the scar was on his arm where the smiler had sliced into it, before it almost magically healed overnight. Finally, he spoke, breaking Elias out of his brief moment of thought. “You’ll be remiss of me if I don't spread more of my germs.” Dr. Grant slowly started to close the door as he continued speaking. “You can tell the General Kr-” Elias quickly put his foot in the way, before giving a brief fake smile on his face. “Please Dr. Grant, I promise to only take up a few minutes of your time. You know how the General can be if he doesn’t get his way.” Elias hoped that his reading of the situation was accurate and that the doctor knew Krell in such a way. Watching as the sick and frazzled man glared at him for a second, before giving a resigned sigh and opening the door, he felt a wave of satisfaction at guessing correctly. A sudden ding on his burner phone had Elias taking a quick look. “GET OUT NOW. Krell and his men are on the way to Grant as we speak – with guns.” Fuck! Elias thought to himself, realizing he now had a very short timeframe to get his information. Doing the mental math, he figured he only had at most 10 minutes before he needed to leave, in order to keep from being caught in the middle of the shitstorm about to hit. Keeping his cool, he followed Dr. Grant into the dimly lit house, noticing the disarray of the outside also matched the inside. A discarded pillow and large blanket lay strewed on the couch, a pile of haphazardly laid bills on the table and laptop closed sitting next to them. Several empty coffee mugs, some empty and others with only a small amount in them were set about the living room. The air even had an almost dustiness to it. Underneath he could see the signs of great care and pride to the interior design of the space lying covered by the stifling layer of someone who clearly had given up. “Make yourself comfortable, I guess,” the man said, before leaving the room. Elias slowly walked around the room, looking at the various photos on the wall of Dr. Grant and another person in places all over the world, smiling faces beaming at the camera. The final one, however, of them sitting at some beach resort together had a massive crack down the center, with various lines shooting off of it as if it had been thrown down to the ground in a fit of rage. Finally he returned, carrying a bottle of cold water, taking a few sips of it. “Okay… tell me what was so important that you had to come here instead of calling me.” He asked, his voice tired as he spoke. “Between you and the other group of lackeys Krell has sent, I’m about to call the police and put in a harassment complaint.” Elias needed to handle this carefully if he were to get any valuable information from Dr. Grant. “Excuse my intrusion, I thought a face-to-face meeting would be more respectful, and I could better understand the situation if we sat and talked.” Elias began to gently lower himself into a chair. Dr. Grant impatiently said, “How dare you presume to sit in my house before I invite you?” Elias shot back up to full height at once and stepped away from the chair. “Can’t you see I’m sick? I’ve had this blasted cold for a couple weeks now, and still I went to the labs to work on the project until that sonofabitch fired me. He’s had it in for me for ages, and now that I don’t work there anymore, suddenly I’m needed?” Elias didn’t know how to react to this exposition dump from a virtual stranger. “I… I’m not here to drag you back. I just want to talk.” Dr. Grant looked away, slightly shaking his head, and taking another sip of water. “I worked so hard on the project, and as soon as he got what he wanted —” Dr. Grant swatted at the air midsentence. “POW! Canned.” The project? Elias wondered. We walked into his project? “Yeah, you and your team sure stepped in it…” Dr. Grant muttered under his breath. Then he said aloud, “You know I have a suit filed against the company, right? They refused me bereavement leave when my husband died, and —” Elias held up a hand. “I’m not here about your separation from the company.” He could see Dr. Grant was visibly sweating, but said nothing about it. “Then why the hell are you here, Hudson King?” The way Dr. Grant said the fake name implied that he knew it was bogus. “Ask your damn nosy questions so I can go back to what I was doing,” Dr. Grant said hotly. “What was your role in the project?” Elias asked evenly. Dr. Grant gave him a puzzled look. “Don’t you know?” He looked away and smirked slightly. “Oh, you’ll find out soon enough.” What an odd thing to say, Elias thought. “Krell hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about the details,” Elias said. “All I personally know is that something got loose, people are in quarantine, and there’s a big camp set up in the parking lot. Everyone’s pretty tight-lipped about it over there, but I can’t help anyone if I don’t know what happened. The project you mentioned –” “Is above your pay grade, Mr. King. We study genetics. I signed a non-disclosure agreement. If you want to know, ask Blaine. He’s the mastermind of it all. Next question?” “Why did Jack fire you?” Dr. Grant stepped over to the window, and stared out. “He’s had it in for me for a while. He’s a homophobe, and a total prick, and just because his dad’s the CEO, he walks all over people and gets away with it. I filed a suit against the company for workplace discrimination and sexual harassment, and his response was to fire me. So I’m adding wrongful termination to the list as well.” Elias’s memories of Jack the previous night only confirmed Dr. Grant’s accusations. “You said ‘sexual harassment’. Did he come on to you?” Dr. Grant whipped around, and gave Elias a pointed stare. “He’s a gay-basher, as I’m quite sure you know already. Don’t waste my time with dumb questions.” Elias was slowly getting frustrated with the lack of progress in the conversation. Any minute, Krell’s people could show up and find him in a place he shouldn’t be. “Did you set up any sort of anti-viral countermeasures?” Elias asked quickly. “Ask Johnathan Blaine,” the doctor repeated as he also became frustrated through the repetition. “You know, Krell should already have this information, because he keeps such thorough research notes.” Dr. Grant rolled his eyes hugely as he drew out the vowels to show sarcasm. This is going nowhere fast. Before Elias answered, he took another look around the room and at the photos on the wall. He decided on the sympathetic approach. “This man. You loved him, didn’t you. See, I’m recently married myself. His name is —” Elias stopped suddenly, realizing that giving his husband’s actual name could blow his cover. He decided on the first T-name that came to mind. “T-Todd. He’s the sweetest —” “Liar,” Dr. Grant said angrily. “His name isn’t Todd, and I want you out of my house this instant.” Elias sensed the danger gathering, and knowing Krell’s goons could appear any minute, he chose to comply. “All right. Sorry if I upset you,” he said with resignation. Elias moved swiftly to the front door. “Damn right you did,” Dr. Grant said while following Elias to the door. “I remember your face from the funeral, and I don’t appreciate this line of questioning. I’m sorry about your team, but my hands are clearly tied by your boss. You should already know what’s going on. And please, Hudson was it? Give Doctor Bingham – I mean, Doctor Kade – my regards.” Shit, he knows. Elias forgot to breathe as he realized his cover was blown from the get-go. Making it clear that his guest was unwelcome, Dr. Grant picked up the leaf broom by the door, and shook it in Elias’s direction. “I don’t want to see you again.” Elias showed himself out, and the door slammed behind him. He was back on the porch, blinking in the midday sunlight with almost no more information than he had when he arrived. The sunlight was uncomfortably harsh, and Elias squinted against it. Elias calmly but quickly went back to his car, and quickly got inside. When the door was closed, he sat there, processing what just happened. Resting his head against the steering wheel, he closed his eyes and sighed with relief that he got out before Krell’s team showed up. “Fuck, he knows who I am.” Elias raised his head, and sat blinking, wondering what it all meant. “And how the hell does he know about my team? I never told him about that…” He sighed softly as he found the keys, and prepared to start the car’s ignition. Then he remembered the text from Tex. No. Stay here, and see what happens. Elias left the keys in the ignition and waited for Krell’s men to show up. Before two minutes passed, an unassuming car came from the horizon, and parked far enough away from him that Elias could only see movement. Three men - one in a dark suit, and two in military gear, and all wearing dark sunglasses - marched up to Dr. Grant’s house. Elias watched with interest, but tried to remain inconspicuous. He couldn’t hear any words between them and Dr. Grant except for the occasional indistinct shouting, and before long, Dr. Grant was drawn from the dilapidated house. His clothing had not changed, and he walked to the car the men came in, followed closely by them. One clearly had a pistol in his hand, and was doing his best to keep it concealed from prying eyes and nosy neighbors. Dr. Grant didn't look too happy with this latest interruption to his morning. All four of them climbed into the non-descript vehicle, and drove back the way they came. Elias pulled out his phone, and sent a swift reply to Tex. “They took Dr. Grant. Got out before they arrived. They’re coming back now. I’m going back home.” For a moment, Elias just looked at Dr. Grant’s despoiled house, and wondered if the doctor had brought any research home with him. Given the haste with which they left, Elias considered the possibility of reentering the house and performing a search, but he didn’t know what he would be looking for. No, can’t do that. With my luck so far these past twenty-four hours, a neighbor would see me breaking in and call the police. That should be our last resort. With that decided, Elias put the key into the car’s ignition, and turned it. —--------- Helixion Genetics, Main Quarantine Tent. Quarantine camp. REDACTED LOCATION 12:12 MST. 31-Oct-20XX The building smelled heavily of plastic and disinfectant and sterilized air. An endless symphony of beeps and whirs from the medical equipment. Before Tex stood four massive glass chambers, each tall enough for a person to stand fully upright and have room to spare. Each one was occupied by a man strapped to a steeply-inclined exam table, a multitude of tubes and wires and monitors, and still leaving enough space for a second body to walk all the way around him. It was something straight out of a science-fiction movie. Tex never expected to see this with his own eyes. “Here we have three men and a specimen who were taken into custody last night,” Krell said calmly with a grand sweeping gesture. He was clearly proud of his captures. “These are the only subjects we found so far inside Building 3. Take a look.” In silent disbelief, Tex slowly approached the first chamber on the left. A middle-aged man in standard police gear was asleep on his table, though his incline was lower than the others. He didn’t recognize the man, but took him for building security, perhaps a Rent-a-Cop. Tex observed a printout of a single page attached to a clipboard on the exterior of the tube, and took it, reading silently. “Beaufort Oglethorpe Cosgrove”. Tex did a double-take as he read the absurd name. His parents must’ve hated him to give him a name like that. We’ll just call him Bo. B.O. Then Tex grinned slightly. B.O.C. Boc-Boc. He visualized a chicken on a farm somewhere, and tried not to laugh. Distracted by his joke, Tex couldn’t really focus on the man’s medical numbers. They blurred together on the page, reading but not comprehending or retaining any information beyond BOC-BOC. He put the file back in the slot, and as he moved to the next, he noticed Krell had left him by himself. Well. That’s lucky. Who else do we have here? Tex moved to the next chamber in the row, and was hardly surprised to see Jack. Good, they caught the little fucker. He’s the reason we lost Gravestone last night. Before Tex’s anger could fully reach the surface, another thought intruded. He’s also the reason you got out last night. It could have been ME in here if we hadn’t got out. As Tex came closer to the chamber, Jack raised his head, and tried to wrestle free from his restraints. “It's you!” Jack shouted. “You gotta get me out of here! I don't belong here! I didn't do anything wrong! Please get me out! PLEASE! I swear I'll be good!!” The soldier standing next to the glass slammed his hand on the glass several times, causing Jack to jump at the sound. “Hey, Crazy! Keep it down in there already!” Shocked, Tex’s mind raced as he tried to think of an excuse to explain away sudden outburst from Jack. Thankfully, he needn’t bother. “Don’t mind him… crazy fucker in there has been saying that to everyone he sees,” the nameless soldier said lazily. “I'm not crazy!” Jack wailed. “You saw what they did, and now you're here, and I'm here, and we have to go! Please don't let them hurt me!” Jack continued struggling, but his leather restraints held fast. Jack wasn't going anywhere until someone decided to release him. “Don't let them spit on me anymore, I can't stand it…” Jack began to sob. Tex felt a touch of sympathy for the man, but knew he couldn't let Jack out of his confines. A machine beeped, and Jack slowly became sedated and said no more. Tex shook his head, but filed this information away in the appropriate place. The next one contained one of the smilers. He, too, was strapped to a table, and asleep, but fully upright. Seeing one of these things in the light was unsettling, and it brought back the memories of watching a rape on the security monitors, and one of these beasts striking Gravestone and scratching Elias. Tex wished he could bring his shotgun to the camp so he could blow out the brains of these abominations. I’d sure like to show them how we handle varmits like these in Texas. They are clearly studying it. I wonder who this was before. Finally, he came to the last chamber. Inside, also strapped down like the others, was none other than Zero, stripped down to his underwear. And he looked rather unwell - his skin was splotchy, small rashes had broken out in various places, and his head lolled curiously to one side. His breathing was ragged, and he was covered in a sharp sheen of sweat. His mouth looked slightly deformed, as if he were wearing an oversized mouthguard to keep him from biting his tongue. Zero had always been a small, nimble-looking man, and Tex showered with him on a couple occasions on base, but Zero's figure never resembled one of an elite gymnast. So Tex was in shock for at least two reasons when he realized that his comrade had developed significantly since three weeks ago. Zero’s abs were tight, his arms and torso muscles all perfectly rounded, showcasing him in the best shape of his life. The size difference was pronounced all the more by the presence of solid muscle pushing his veins to their absolute surface all across his body in a bizarre roadmap. Zero looked directly at Tex, but his mind wasn't processing it. Damn, they got him, too. I don't know which fate is worse - this, or capture by the monsters. Why's he so… big all of a sudden? When his presence didn’t get any kind of visual response, Tex came as close to Zero as the glass wall would allow, hoping for some kind of reaction. Zero continued his glassy-eyed stare as Tex returned his gaze helplessly. As Tex observed the setup, his heart sank. Sweet Jesus, what have they done to him… Tex glanced over at the nameless soldier by Jack’s chamber - from the angle between his position and Tex’s, there was no way the soldier could see what Tex was about to do unless he moved from his position. He stepped back from the glass, and took out his phone, flipping it to record as he silently hoped that the camera’s quality would be good enough to record evidence. He slowly walked, pretending to send a text as he walked, letting the camera then pan to the smiler in the other chamber. He got several seconds of footage and pocketed the device before Krell could return and catch him in the act. Zero slowly turned his head, and blinked gently at Tex. There. A flash of recognition. “You… he injected me. He did this—” Zero said softly. Tex looked back as Zero looked in the direction of where Krell went. Giving Zero the barest of nods, he watched as Zero’s head lolled back. Suddenly, alarms went off as Zero began to seize and spasm on his table. His eyes bulged as he fought against the restraints. His heart rate jumped and the machines began to beep faster in a panic. An alarm went off somewhere inside the chamber. Tex inhaled sharply as he watched his friend suffer a violent seizure. Zero succeeded in tearing one of his straps, and as he did so, Krell and some medics rushed into the room. The medics ran to the chamber, and unlocking it, they stepped inside and began assisting Zero. One of them drew a curtain across the glass, blocking Tex’s view of their proceedings. “What the hell happened?” Krell demanded of Tex. “I – I – I don’t know,” Tex stammered. “One minute he was fine, and the next, he had a seizure. What’s wrong with him?” “Did you approach the subject?” Krell asked accusingly. “No,” Tex said, casting his eyes on the floor while he heard the noise of Zero’s chamber continue. “I was … just coming to look for you. Where did you go?” “None of your concern.” Krell’s lips twisted into a snarl. “If you disturb the subjects, you could find yourself joining them if you’re not careful.” Tex returned his gaze to Zero’s chamber. The noise slowly began to settle down, and the curtain was drawn back. Tex could see that Zero’s table was now lowered to an even plane, and his restraints replaced. One of the medics emerged from the room, wearing a protective mask, and she approached Krell. “Patient’s stable again,” she said lightly. “They’re starting an IV to keep him sedated while he undergoes the trans –” “Thank you, Miss Vega, that will be all,” Krell interrupted in a loud voice so Tex would miss what else she said. “Is he ready for another dose?” “Yes, General.” “Good. Don’t let this happen again.” The other medics came out of the chamber, all wearing protective facial gear. Tex could not make out any distinctive features of them beyond their skin tone and hair colors. Turning back to Tex, Krell said, “These specimens are very important to understanding what happened here last night, Lieutenant Vahn. For your own safety, you are not to interact with them unless I give you orders to do so. Understood?” “Yes, sir,” Tex answered quietly. “Miss Vega, will you take the lieutenant here to his work station?” She didn’t answer, but motioned for Tex to follow her. Tex took one more look back at Zero. I’ll do what I can to help him. He is our best witness to the General’s laundry list of crimes against humanity here. Tex followed the other medics out of the tent, and Krell walked back to Zero’s chamber. He pressed a few buttons, unlocked it, and stepped inside. Zero stared up at the ceiling, seeing nothing, and hearing nothing. Krell walked around him completely, and came to a standing medical table. He removed a small bottle from his pocket, and finding a syringe, loaded it up with the chemical inside the bottle. When the dose was measured correctly, Krell walked back around to Zero, and inserted the needle in the IV. The compound was injected slowly until the syringe was empty. Satisfied, Krell withdrew the needle, capped it, and pocketed it with the tiny bottle. He leaned down so only Zero could hear him, if he was aware at all. “Thank you for doing this service for your country.” Krell stood back up, adjusted his tie, and calmly walked out of the tent.

Chapter 14: The Book of Elias Trevor’s private office, Clearbrook University Medical- Steighn Research Building. 1020 MST. REDACTED location. 31-Oct-20XX Elias sat atop the medical table with his legs dangling uncomfortably, the paper covering beneath him crinkling noisily as he tried to find a comfortable part of the hard blue cushion. Trevor sat at a cart/desk which held a computer and its monitor in a most awkward way, clicking through several screens and remote connections that Elias couldn’t see. “All right,” Trevor finally said. “The lab just confirmed receipt of your blood sample, and we’ll have the results in a little while.” Trevor opened a new document, and said, “Now, babe, be completely honest with me: tell me everything you’ve experienced since returning from your mission.” Elias sighed loudly while he tried to recall all the unusual occurrences. “Let’s see… I can hear and smell everything much stronger. And I feel physically stronger, like, abnormally stronger…Um… when I was in the shower, I… sorta hit the wall, and the tile cracked. Don’t know if that’s relevant. When I looked in the mirror, my eyes were severely dilated, and I shit you not, I swear I could see the veins beneath my face.” “Weird,” Trevor said flatly as he typed. “Go on.” “There was the sweating this morning, and disorientation. You saw those. My spit seems thicker, too. I noticed it when I was bent over the kitchen sink and spit out that goober.” “Interesting.” “What else, what else…” Elias struggled to remember more. “Oh, and my teeth seem kind of sharp, too.” Trevor stopped typing, and looked at Elias with a raised eyebrow. Lines began to form in his forehead. “Your teeth?”, Trevor asked, bewildered. “Yeah, they just look different. I know you’re not a dentist, but that seems abnormal. Didn’t I just get a crown put in a couple months back?” “You did, babe. We’re still paying for it,” Trevor added with a gentle smile. Elias winced, not sure if laughter or even a chuckle would be appropriate. He raised his upper lip with a single finger. “Here, take a look. It's not supposed to be this pointy or sharp.” Trevor wheeled his stool over to Elias who was holding his mouth open. Trevor didn't see anything unusual, but when he touched a finger to a molar, it did indeed feel sharp and ready to slice a finger at a slight graze. Trevor said nothing, but wheeled his stool back to the desk, and resumed his entries. “My speech was pretty slurred last night when Toby and I waited for the cab,” Elias recounted. Trevor entered this detail as well. “As for how I physically feel… horny. Definitely horny. Like I could screw for days.” “We’re gay. It’s a given.” Trevor said with a wink. “What else?” “I feel ten years younger,” Elias continued. “No joint pain, no muscle pain, not anything that could be a hurt. Like I’m super-caffienated, but without the hyperness and the jitters. And like I could take on the world.” “I … don’t think that’s a symptom of anything.” Trevor entered the information anyway, no matter how irrelevant it may be. “This may be out of your field,” Elias began with concern. “I keep hearing a voice in my head.” Trevor stopped typing, and looked at Elias, alarmed. “You’re hearing voices?” “No, just one voice,” Elias explained. “Like someone’s in my head. Telling me to do things. Remember when I tried to fuck you on the table? That was one of those things. And I heard the same voice when we were in the bedroom and I got sick. And when Tex – Toby – was bent over in the fridge.” He stopped, and tried to recall another instance, but decided that was enough examples. Trevor slowly resumed typing, fearing his new husband might have a mental disorder. “I think that’s everything. Oh, and my urine smelled funky this morning.” Trevor finished entering the data, and silently reviewed it on his monitor. After a minute, he said, “None of these things sound like any sickness I know of. And this started after the smiler, as you call it, scratched you?” “Yep.” Trevor sat blinking and pondering, but came up empty. “Hmm.” More silence. Finally, he said, “My initial prognosis is that maybe it's all just a reaction, not necessarily an infection, and it could subside after a day or two. I really can't say more than that until we see your blood work.” Elias expected neither more nor less. —--------- Helixion Genetics, South Passage, Ground Floor. Building 3, Security Room. 1032 MST. 31-Oct-20XX. REDACTED location. Zero had been watching the building’s external camera feeds for the past hour. A swarm of people in medvac gear had been setting up holding tents and quarantine through the night, and now a dais had been erected. It looked to be set up for some kind of conference or briefing, and without the benefit of audio, Zero could only speculate what it was for. So far, the door of the room had held, and Zero spent the night in here undisturbed. He would occasionally check the feeds for any sign of his comrades, but there was nothing for most of the night. Once in a while, one of the monsters would be out on the prowl, but they didn’t come near where he was holed up, so it wasn’t a concern. Only one thing caught his interest for a brief moment: an external camera from the parking lot showed a few seconds of footage where two figures came from out of the frame. One was clearly supporting the other who was limping along with his foot dangling in the air. Zero couldn’t make out their faces, but he had a strong feeling that it was two of his men. They hobbled off into the woods and were gone after only a short sighting. Zero barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he kept seeing the assault and brutal violation of Patch and Pixel. When the whole facility had gone quiet and still, Zero managed to nod off for at least a cat nap. His rations were good enough to keep him in here another day if he needed it, but with the forces outside and daylight, Zero was convinced that the worst was over, and he’d leave this room very soon. He wasn’t going to use the PA system to alert them to his presence, lest he be considered hostile and a threat. Recon and stealth were his specialty, and those were certainly needed skills right now. He took a peanut butter protein bar from his front pocket, and unwrapped it, chewing slowly as he watched the outside crew in their various tasks. Familiarizing himself with the layout of the facility through the cameras and where everyone was, sneaking out undetected wouldn’t be easy. Waiting them out wasn’t exactly an option, either: his rations, what little he had on him, would run out, and searching the facility for food or water wasn’t safe. Zero continued watching the feeds, hoping for some indication that it would be safe to go. His team didn’t have all the intel going into the operation, leading him to posit that he couldn’t trust other forces, especially where General Krell was involved. Then he saw something curious on one monitor. A second team came into view, and they didn’t look like military of his own branch. Zero’s stomach clenched when he recognized the uniform: SWAT. Like a swarm of locusts, a team in heavy tactical gear and gas masks emerged from a van, each carrying standard military issue weaponry. Zero knew he was trapped. Time to go!, he thought. Zero grabbed his webbing and bergan, and after unbarring the door, he left the room as fast as he could. They’ll be here before I know it. If I hide and sneak out as they’re coming in… That would be the best option. Capture would most likely mean interrogation for intel he didn’t have, or getting subjected to testing, or possibly being shot on sight. None of these outcomes were appealing. Zero began to run through the corridors, his mind racing the whole time as he tried to think of a suitable hiding place. I have to survive. Someone has to corroborate Reaper and Tex and Gravestone, and I can’t be seen here! Hide! But hide where? You don’t know this place. Zero came to a stop in his tracks. He was now in Accounts Receivable, and no doubt the SWAT team would search the ground floor first. I need to get to higher ground, buy myself more time. Then he looked up. Higher ground… Yes! A smile broke out on his face as he figured it out. Zero climbed on a desk, and then carefully balanced on the top of an office cubicle divider. He was at the highest elevation in the room, and pressing against the ceiling tiles, he made an opening. The tile was pushed inside the ceiling; after tossing his bergan up into the rafters, and a simple jump, Zero pulled himself up inside the space between. It reminded him of when he did so the previous night when he hid from the smilers while Patch and Pixel were attacked. The smilers hadn’t detected him then, and maybe he could fool the SWAT team as well. He quickly replaced the ceiling tile, and just as he did so, he heard a familiar hissing below his position. Shit, they’re gassing the place! Zero left his bergan and began to scurry along the steel frame inside the ceiling support. A couple minutes passed, but the smoke was already rising up into the ceiling. Zero then knew he couldn’t maintain his position - he would be knocked out before he found any exit, and up here, he was practically running around in the dark. His pace began to slow as the chemicals began to make him unnaturally sleepy, and his limbs became too heavy to move. This can’t be the end. Too bad. I was looking forward to those seashells. Zero tried to stay awake, his eyes burning, and his breathing became laboured. Exhaustion and the chemicals in the air finally caught up to him, and he keeled over, and crashed through the ceiling to the foggy room below. Zero landed face down on the hard laminated floor, and passed into unconsciousness. *** “What did you find?” “A man in combat gear, Sir. According to records, his name’s Lieutenant Mason Hawke. Part of the Black Sigma team. Looks like he was hiding in the ceiling.” “Status?” “Alive but unconscious. What should we do with him, Sir?” Silence. “Put him in with Blaine and Cosgrove. He… could be useful.” “At once, General!” General Krell appraised the unconscious Zero on the floor, and then turned back to the soldier. “Anything else to report?” “Nothing, Sir. He’s the only body we found.” “Damn it. Keep looking. Dismissed.” The soldier gave a sharp salute, and left. Krell’s mouth twisted, almost into a snarl. “That’s one more for the experiment. But where are the others…?” —-------- Trevor’s private office. Clearbrook University Medical - Steighn Research Building. 1052 MST. 31-Oct-20XX. REDACTED location. The phone on Trevor’s office desk rang, causing both of them to jump as Trevor quickly reached over and grabbed the phone. Activating the speakerphone, he set the phone to the side, grabbing a small notepad and pen. “Hey Dr. Kade, it’s James down in the lab. I just wanted to let you know we have some critical levels to report,” the bubbly sounding male voice said. “Sure, I’m ready, go ahead,” Trevor said, looking up at Elias before readying his pen. Elias did not meet his gaze, instead looking at the floor with shame and concern. “So, the CBC is showing a massive spike in total white blood cells at 27. Hemoglobin is at 21. eGFR is… huh… this has to be an error, just says high limit. Cholesterol is…. Wow, this guy must have like no body fat, it's at 14. Never seen one that low. TSH is 0.2. We’re still waiting on total counts, but the respiratory PCR panel was negative, same with the liver panel, normal sepsis workup was negative on all growth, but we won’t have that finished for another day or two. D-Dimer is normal…” Trevor only nodded, quickly writing down the numbers with a calm demeanor. The words sounded like Greek to Elias, and he just sat back and watched as Trevor continued writing. “Wow, sounds like this guy is a meathead… Testosterone is 1790. Jeez, buddy, take it easy on the gym juice, am I right, Doc? Drug screen is completely negative. Oh, we went ahead and added in an STI workup as part of your standing orders. It’s finalizing now,” the bubbly voice said, continuing to mumble under his breath as he read off various other letters and number combinations. “All right, let's see here… CT and GC non-reactive... TB Gamma is 0.03, Hep B surface antigen is non-reactive, same with the Hep C antibody. HIV RNA still is waiting to come back since that's a send out, but it does look like the p24 antigen is detected. Did you want me to go ahead and add on a Genosure with it? We can also run a CD3, CD4, CD8 if you want.” Trevor froze with shock, and locked eyes with Elias, saying nothing. Then he returned to the notepad. Then raised his eyes again in disbelief. “God, that … doesn’t seem possible…” Trevor’s voice trailed off. “I, um, yeah, that’s fine. Thanks for the rush on that, James,” Trevor said, looking shocked and confused as he spoke. “Any time, Doc. The girls on night shift wanted me to tell you thank you for the pizza the other night.” “Uh… yeah sure. Any time,” Trevor said, before finally taking the phone off of speakerphone and hanging it up. “What is it?” Trevor didn’t answer. “In mercy, tell me what it means!”, Elias said in a near-panic. Trevor licked his lips, as if about to give voice, but still said nothing. He couldn’t comprehend it. They both had blood tests before, even shortly before the wedding, but Elias’s results were nothing like this on previous screenings. Confused, he made a few clicks in the chart before finally printing out the results onto the small printer in the corner of his office. “Honey, you’re scaring me,” Elias said with trepidation. “Explain to me what they said.” Trevor still didn’t answer, didn’t know how to begin. Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Elias snatched the paper from the printer, and looked for himself. Trevor finally found the words to speak. “I don’t get it. These numbers and the timeline, it doesn’t make sense. You were literally negative a week ago and on the test we got before getting married. The p24 doesn’t even show up for at least 16 days. Babe… just be honest with me… How long have you had HIV? And why the hell didn’t I know about it?” Sure enough, Elias turned to the second page, and found the accusatory words right there. “P24 HIV PROTEIN: REACTIVE.” Elias could only drop his jaw in stunned silence, and then, dropped the pages to the floor. “Baby, I’m sorry,” Trevor began to say, trying not to cry himself. “I don’t understand it. The numbers make zero sense. There must have been a mix-up in the lab. We double-check, don’t worry. It’s rare, but something could have happened.” Elias started to break down into a quiet sob. Trevor took Elias’s head in both his hands. “Honey, I trust you, okay? I. Trust. You. This has got to be a mistake.” Elias didn’t stop sobbing, the tears already streaming. “I love you,” Trevor reassured him. “I’ll be by your side, no matter what those test results say.” Then a revelation hit him. “Waaaaait a second…” Trevor returned to the desk without sitting. He looked over the symptoms Elias had described. “I thought so.” He poked his head above the monitor, hoping Elias would meet his gaze. “None of the things you describe, except for the sweating part, is a symptom of HIV. And that sweating could be any number of things. You’re still taking the Truvada, right?” Elias started to feel relief wash over him as Trevor’s explanation started to make sense. “Yeah… I don’t miss any doses, and you know I don’t play around. ” Trevor smiled kindly. “I know, babe. I believe you. That’s why I said it’s just not possible.” Trevor resumed his seat, hiding his face from Elias. What the fuck kind of mistake IS this? The machine shouldn’t take HIV antibody proteins for anything other than HIV antibody proteins! Trevor scanned his badge on the security device next to the computer, logging him out, and stood up. “I’m going to go have a talk with the lab, see if … I don’t know… Just stay here, this’ll be cleared up in a jiffy,” Trevor said hurriedly before dashing out the door. Elias wiped the tears from his face, and slowly picked up the fallen papers. He examined the second page again, and as he did so, he could clearly imagine Trevor giving the lab tech an earful. His mind began racing, and only two instances stood out as being potential infection moments: the scratch from the smiler, and the hookup with Todd. I think I can rule out Todd, Elias decided. That was just hours ago, not enough time for anything to be transmitted like that and show up on a test. That left only the smiler from last night, and Elias knew even less about that situation than he did about Todd’s sexual history. He decided it might not be the best time to tell Trevor about his infidelity. No use making this worse. Fuck, Trevor must be as terrified as I am right now. Shit… Trevor… Elias started to be slightly suspicious of his husband. But… no, that doesn’t make sense. Could he cheat? On our honeymoon, maybe? Or sometime before that? Could I have got it from him, and this is all just a smokescreen? No, the Truvada again. I don’t miss doses, not ever. Neither does he. Elias let out a low sigh of relief. Well, at least my husband’s not a cheater. I, on the other hand… He needed to put a stop to that hypocritical judgment and negative thinking. Trevor re-entering the room stopped it for him. Trevor closed the door quietly, and sat in the chair next to Elias, and just held him in both arms. “I’m afraid there was … no mix-up. It’s your blood, there was no cross-contamination with other samples, and … I don’t know… it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before…” Trevor started to shed his own tears. “I’m here for you, Elias. I love you, and I won’t desert you. Swear to me that you didn’t cheat on me!” Elias gulped. Face the music now or later. After a pause, Elias answered. “I swear.” He hoped his lie wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass. —- Helixion Genetics, exterior. Quarantine camp. 1141 MST. 31-Oct-20XX. REDACTED location. Tex stood before a large yellow tent, only beginning to second-guess the plan when he saw the setup. People he didn’t know by their faces simply buzzed about, all engaged on different tasks and errands as the camp came to life, and paid him no attention. He looked up at the big Helixion building number 3, and memories of last night’s shitshow poured into his head. He inhaled sharply for a calming breath, and tried to remember the first steps: find the General and get checked in, then try to find out what happened to the others. The first task took care of itself as a decorated older man approached him with interest and slight suspicion. “You, sir! I’m General Anton Krell. Do you have authorization to be here?” Tex nodded twice. “Sure do,” making sure to lay on the Texan accent. He started to put his hand out for a friendly greeting, but remembered to salute and stand stiffly at attention at the last second. “Lieutenant Tobias Vahn, virologist and containment scientist, Sir!” He shot a crisp salute to the General, who returned the salute half-heartedly, as if Tex had overdone it but still stood on formality. “At ease, soldier,” Krell said in a low voice. “I know your name, but I don’t recall you appearing on my list.” He turned to an accompanying officer and said, “Get me the most current version of personnel, and tell Officer Truman to come back with you.” The soldier gave a salute, and left the two of them together. “A virologist, hmm? Very useful,” Krell said, narrowing his eyes slightly. “What is the situation, General?” Play it cool, Toby. You weren’t here last night. And I’m betting he doesn’t know any different. “Black Sigma Special Ops Team entered the facility last night at 20-hundred hours for a retrieval and rescue mission for the scientists of Helixion Genetics,” Krell answered. “I personally established contact with Commander Nathan Briggs, but it seems the men have gone away on their own accounts. They stopped responding to comms with several acts of insubordination, and all communications between us ceased by zero dark. I’ve heard nothing from inside since asking for an uplink to interior security footage, and we lost contact shortly thereafter. They’ve gone AWOL, and SWAT teams have gassed Building 3 to neutralize any hostile forces.” “Hostile forces, sir?” Tex had to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out. “These are just scientists. Do you think their contaminants and specimens got loose?” “One did get loose, Lieutenant. Attacked two of my men, and ran for the road when it ran into a truck. Caused a major traffic jam while we contained it and cordoned off the area. It’s in custody now, along with the two men we found inside the lab.” This piqued Tex’s interest. Two men? One was probably Zero. The soldier from before returned carrying a tablet, and accompanied by another soldier who Tex took to be ‘Truman’. “Sir, the personnel list you requested,” the soldier said loudly as he handed the tablet to Krell. Krell took it without a word, and after a cursory review, Krell was satisfied. “Welcome to the team, Dr. Vahn,” Krell said approvingly. “I thought you were assigned to Black Sigma for last night’s mission?” Play it cool, Tex! Remember your alibi and what Trevor told you to say. “Originally I was, General,” Tex began, choking down fear of getting caught or making a mistake. “But I twisted my ankle earlier in the week. I was teaching my niece to ice-skate at the arena, and … I’m so out of practice, and twisted it by accident. So I asked to be reassigned to desk work and not active duty while it heals. They took me off the mission, and here I am, sir.” “Mm-hmm,” Krell answered, again studying the tablet for this information. He didn’t entirely believe it, but there was nothing to contradict the story, and it sounded plausible. Tex’s body language didn’t give any hint of untruth. Krell cast his eyes down to look at Tex’s feet, wondering which one it was. Neither one looked particularly injured, but a twisted ankle after a couple days usually didn’t require any visible support like crutches. “All right,” Krell said, handing the tablet back to the soldier. “You two are dismissed. Vahn, follow me. I’ll show you around.”

Chapter 12: Hunger Pains, Hidden Truths Trevor and Elias’ apartment. Front room. 10:00 MST. 31-Oct-20XX “Oh my god… for the last time, use a goddamn fork, Toby,” Trevor said with irritation, handing one to Tex. “Didn’t your mother teach you to not eat with your hands?” “Sure, right after your dad taught me how to scratch myself.” Tex ignored the fork, and continued picking up bits of scrambled egg with his fingers and guiding the pieces toward his mouth. Trevor gave him up for a lost cause, and loudly let the fork clang on the coffee table. Elias came in at just that moment, and hearing it drop, covered his ears with his hands. The clanging cutlery and the sounds of his husband and brother-in-law bickering like teenagers gave him a massive headache as if he'd been out drinking all night. “Guys! Please! I can hear you in the next room,” Elias complained. “Keep it to a dull roar.” “There’s still some bacon left in the kitchen, babe. Help yourself. That is, if Toby hasn’t eaten it all like the barnyard animal he is.” Two seconds later, a dry corner of toast and crust came flying at his face, thrown by Tex. “Is this all the food you cooked?” Tex asked. Trevor shot him a dirty look. “If you can’t keep it on your plate and off my floor, you obviously have had enough to eat.” “All right, guys, I’m serious!” Elias nearly shouted. “Give it a rest.” Both brothers stopped and stared at Elias, surprised at the sudden outburst. “Um… Look who’s feeling better!” Tex opened his mouth and showed Elias some bits of chewed-up egg on his tongue. Elias let out an exasperated sigh, and walked into the kitchen, before muttering, “Why am I even friends with you?” He found a few strips of stiff, cold bacon drying on a small stack of paper towels atop a small plate. Taking it all, he put it on a separate plate and walked it over to the stove, adding the remainder of the cooling scramble to the plate. Looking around, he found the thing he wanted more than food. Trevor had set out Elias’s favorite mug right in front of the coffee machine. Elias poured a healthy amount into the mug, added three slices of toasted bread to the plate, and returned to the front room with his breakfast. As he returned, he noticed the television was on, and a commercial for a feminine product was showing, thankfully at a low volume. It was Trevor’s habit to turn on the local morning news, but never really watch it. Elias tried to break him of the routine, but without success. The bantering between the twins had quieted, and Elias was appreciative of the lull in their brotherly battle. Elias sat in his usual spot on the couch, and placed his plate on the coffee table. Taking a grateful swig of the coffee, he found it tasted better than anything right now. The caffeine rushed through him, sharpening his focus. “Got your coffee, sweetie?” Trevor said, flopping down beside Elias and leaning against him. “Yeah, I need this now, especially after last night,” Elias said with relief. “We had quite the adventure,” Tex said cautiously. “But, um… I don’t think we ought to share the details with civilians…?” He gave Elias a pointed, raised-eyebrow look, a familiar signal to keep military actions confidential. Trevor raised both his hands. “Yeah, yeah… I know the drill, guys. I don’t want to know, and I don’t want to have to deny anything. That’s between you.” Then he planted a quick kiss on Elias’s cheek. “Still love ya, babe.” “Love you, too,” Elias said with a mouthful of eggs. Turning to Tex, Trevor sarcastically said, “So gross. Married a real romantic, didn’t I. Am I the only one with any manners here?” Elias and Tex didn’t answer, but continued eating. The news program came back on. “Continuing with the top stories of the morning, we’re back with breaking news out of the Sterling Heights area,” a cheerful woman began. “We take you live now to the Helixion Genetics campus, where a press briefing is ongoing.” At the sound of ‘Helixion Genetics’, Elias damn near choked on his coffee. Tex rushed forward and grabbed the TV remote, and turned the volume up. He and Elias exchanged worried glances, but said nothing. Trevor looked at his brother with slight concern at the sudden movements. On screen was a rather nervous-looking man in an ill-fitting suit, standing next to and occasionally glancing at a much larger man. He repeatedly tugged at his tie as though the offending piece of clothing was choking him. The other man had an almost military air about him, his face flat and unyielding as he looked out at the small group of reporters. Elias would bet almost anything it was likely General Krell. “... a lab animal escaped from the facility last night, and was struck by a passing motorist,” the Helixion representative said in an even voice. “There is no cause for alarm, the animal has been recaptured, and the site has been quarantined for observation. We will do everything we can to keep the public safe, but access to the facility is restricted, and no one without authorization should approach the site.” Tex silently mouthed, “A lab animal?” to Elias, who didn't reply verbally but only looked at his plate as memories of the smilers danced across his vision. A sinking feeling grew in the pit of his stomach. “General! General Krell, Amanda Preston, KZRM News 9. Can you confirm if the animal poses any risk to the general public? Witnesses state that it appeared to be infected.” The camera panned first to a smartly dressed brown-haired woman, holding out a large microphone towards the General, before it panned back to General Krell, zooming in slightly. “There is absolutely no cause for concern,” the General said, smiling intensely and giving a stern look to the man next to him before continuing. “The animal in question was recovered and all testing is being performed. We can confirm, however, that all testing has so far shown negative and no testing occurs at the facility that can harm humans in any way. Any other questions?” Another reporter stepped forward, wearing a polo shirt and khaki pants. “Mike Pollimero, KTVK News 48. Sir, how did the animal even escape?” The General looked slightly perturbed before clearing his throat. “A careless employee accidentally left a door open earlier this morning and it escaped from a secure area in one of our labs. Thankfully, nobody was injured in the process. An internal audit will be performed and we will be happy to share the results with everyone once we have them. We have a lot to do, so I think we will have to cut this briefing short. Thank you everyone.” The news anchor reappeared at her desk, her face devoid of emotion, and resumed speaking. “We’ll return to this story as more details come in. Drivers on I-276 are advised to use alternate routes and avoid the surrounding area. We now go to Jim, over in the weather center for the 10 day forecast, Jim?” Trevor pointed at the screen. “Ah... That’s why it took me so long to get home. Traffic was a real mess. I guess now we know why.” Elias continued chewing, never taking his eyes off the plate, trying to come up with an explanation he didn’t really need. Tex was silently transfixed on the screen, flipping through several channels in search of more information, before finally stopping on a small news blurb about the lab. “- lead geneticist, Dr. Clark Grant’s lawsuit with the employer. Comments from Dr. Grant and Helixion about the continuing lawsuit weren’t answered at the time of writing the story.” “I know that guy! Clark! Sweetest guy ever.” He turned to Elias, who still hadn’t looked up. “Remember? We went to that funeral a few months back? I was his husband’s Infectious Disease doctor. So awful what happened.” Elias swallowed hard before speaking. “I don’t… wait… I remember.” Then a flash of recognition. “Oh… Shit! You remember that guy that showed up wasted, and they had to cart him out? He damn near ruined the whole ceremony with his—oh god—" Elias shuddered hard as the connection, which had eluded him less than a day ago, finally clicked: "Jack. The CEO’s son, Jack.” Tex turned his head slightly, his mouth forming an O shape. “You don’t mean… No way…” “What?” Trevor asked. “What about Jack Blaine? I mean… I’ve heard things, but…” Tex considered what he was about to say. Elias closed his eyes, and softly sighed. “I should have known. I should have known it was him.” “What is it?” Trevor asked with alarm. “We…” Tex began but trailed off before he could continue, unsure whether he should discuss this with non-military personnel. “Okay, but swear on our mother’s life that you won’t repeat this!” Trevor nodded, silently acquiescing. “We ran into Jack last night. At Helixion.” “What do you mean you ran into him at Helixion? You guys were on a mission last night, weren’t you?” Trevor asked, a confused look on his face. Elias reopened his eyes, and turned them toward Tex. After a deep breath, he slowly said, “I think we better tell him everything.” —----- Trevor was quiet for a long time after Elias and Tex told him the whole story. He rose without a word, and went to the window, just staring out. Then he turned around suddenly and faced them both. “I swear, I really want to beat the stupid out of you both. You’re both lucky you weren’t killed,” he finally said. “And Jack just took off?” “Yep. Ran right toward the smilers,” Tex said flatly. “And then right past them, too.” “That’s when we lost Commander Briggs,” Elias said darkly. “He put a dart in one of them, but it just bounced off, like the creature was made of stone. Then it flung him across the room. We got the door open, and the fucker scratched my arm. Hurt like a bitch.” “He ordered us to go, so we did. We got it closed again, and made a run for it. I twisted my ankle on the way out. Had to hobble for a while and take a cab to get back here,” Tex concluded. “Which reminds me…” He took out his mobile phone, and began a quick search for the cab company. “I owe that driver a tip for last night.” “The thing that surprises me is that they’re trying to cover this all up. I know Clark, he’d be the first to blow a whistle on all this,” Trevor said, shaking his head. “I mean, he’s like a damn saint. You should have seen him with his boyfriend at the end.” Elias didn’t feel any better after sharing this wild tale with his husband. He looked at Tex with worry. “So what are we going to do?” Trevor closed the distance between them. “I have an idea. Toby, see if you can get into the mainframe of your operation. They don’t know you weren’t there, so if you,” pointing at Elias, “log in and mark him down as absent for some medical reason. If I remember correctly, the same company that makes our EHR makes your operations software. So, you should be able to backdate it so no one else knows. Meanwhile, Elias, let me look at the scratch. And don’t you dare be a baby about it.” Elias quickly sat down. He knew that when Trevor gave an order regarding something medical, he was quite serious about compliance and didn’t need the same shit he gets from other adult patients. The fact he was using his first name without any emotion further drove the point home. Elias rolled up his shirt sleeve, knowing full well that Trevor would find only a healed scar. Tex went out of the room to give them privacy and to properly compensate the taxi driver. Trevor came in close to inspect the scratch. He said nothing while he looked over the entire arm, puzzled. “I can’t find it. All I see is this thin white strip you didn’t have before. You’re sure it was this arm?” “Positive,” Elias answered confidently. “Look at my torn jacket. It’s definitely this arm.” Trevor didn’t believe him. “Hmm. I mean, it must have been a glancing blow.” He pulled the shirt sleeve back down. “But I don’t see anything to treat here.” Then he looked into Elias’s face before giving a slightly relieved smile. “Looks like you’ve been working out, too. Remind me to frisk you later.” “You got it, babe,” Elias answered quietly, quietly sniffing the air. He then noticed that Trevor smelled different, but he couldn’t quite understand the change in scent. I should be smelling only his body wash, not antiseptic and hospital. Odd. Tex reentered, and closed his phone. “Cabbie’s all paid. Now let’s get into that database.” Trevor stood and picked up the laptop in both hands, and walked it over to the dining room table. Pulling out a chair, Tex seated himself, and Elias next to him while Trevor stood looking over his shoulder. While it booted up, Elias went into the kitchen for another mug of coffee and to return his plate to the sink. At the splash page for the military website, Tex exchanged a glance with Elias, and then turned to Trevor. “I know you’re helping us, but… this is classified stuff. You know I can’t let you see this.” Trevor stood to his full height, unoffended, and walked away from the table without a word. Tex returned to the computer, and began typing in passcodes and clearances. After a minute, Tex said, “You can come back now, little bro.” Trevor returned to the table as if nothing happened. Elias could swear he was hearing the heartbeat of his lover, and found he could not take his eyes off him. The stare was more of a desire to mate than one of pure love. In his mind, he was undressing Trevor while Tex’s back was turned, eager to show him a few new tricks. He was snapped back to the moment when Tex repeated, “Eli, you’ll have to log in here. If I do it, the system will record my virtual entry.” Elias nodded twice, and took the laptop from Tex. After a few keystrokes, he was in. Scanning the ledger for the Black Sigma roster, Elias quickly found what was wanted. “All right, here’s the list of assigned soldiers for last night’s mission. Scroll, scroll, scroll… And here you are. I’ll just mark that as absent for medical reasons… backdate it for three days ago… And… presto! All done.” He turned to Tex triumphantly. “You were never there, my friend.” Tex chucked darkly, the laugh not reaching his face. “I wish it were that easy to erase the memory of it.” Elias returned to the screen. “I know what you mean.” Looking to dispel the gloomy mood, Trevor continued outlining his plan. “Okay, now reassign him to the DARPA crew.” With a few clicks and keystrokes, Elias completed this task. “I’m thinking that, while you’re there, you can find out what’s going on, what they were doing in Helixion, and whether your comrades are still alive. Having an inside man will give us an edge, help us figure out what we’re dealing with, and whether there’s any danger to the outside world.” Tex nodded, saying nothing. And he just came up with this in a flash. Way to go, bro. “While we’ve got it turned on, let’s look at the Helixion website. See if I can get a clearer picture of the scene.” Elias typed hurriedly, and after a minute or two, the Helixion website displayed on the laptop. “Let’s have a look at the personnel of the facility. Maybe we’ll recognize some faces.” Before long, the three of them were reading the professional biography of Dr. Clark Grant. But all the other employees - at least the higher-up employees - had pictures and awkwardly smiling pictures. They all looked so corporate. Dr. Grant’s was the only one missing; in fact, it looked like it had been removed forcibly. In its place, a solid black bar reading ‘pending internal review’ was in its place. —------ Hours later… “OK, let’s review the plan: Toby will return to the lab, and be reassigned to the quarantine crew. I’ll do what I can with the information. Text me on the burner phone you’ll be getting when you can.” “Got it.” “And Elias, I think it would be a good idea to go see Dr. Grant. I know where he lives, and I’ll write his address down for you. It’s not too far from my work if memory serves me right. He might be able or willing to fill in the blanks for you.” Trevor stifled a yawn. “There is more going on than you were told, without a doubt. And if he has any answers, he’ll definitely be willing to help us. They cannot get away with it.” “They won’t,” Elias agreed. “And besides, we still have to rescue Zero.” Upon saying this, his mind suddenly connected to an external source. He could account for each of his missing teammates except for Zero. All of them were taken by the smilers, and he knew each one was fine. Changed, but still alive. Shit. Zero. They must have killed him. His eyes began to tear up at the thought of his comrade sacrificing himself to ensure Elias and Tex escaping, and he turned away. Trevor put a consoling hand on Elias’s shoulder, saying nothing. Tex let out a loud breath. “Whew. All right, it’s a good plan. Let’s get to it!” Tex stood from the chair, and collected what personal items were around the front room. Elias tried to take a few quiet calming breaths, and noticed he was getting hard again while Trevor soothed him by rubbing his shoulders. “Toby, take it easy on that ankle,” Trevor cautioned. “I’ll call you if I need anything,” Tex said. “Thanks, guys. Be safe.” Tex went out the door quickly. “Hey! Can you at least pick up your dishes?” Trevor called after him. —----------- Trevor wrote an address on the notepad, and tore it off loudly, its sharpness harsh on Elias’s ears. He handed it to Elias, saying, “Here you go. That’s his name, address, and phone number. Take my car, and keep a low profile otherwise.” Elias pocketed the paper, and then suddenly planted a hard wet kiss on Trevor, who reacted with surprise. “Hey! Mmm.. Hey, take it easy.” Elias pulled back a little. “Your brother is gone now, so we have the place to ourselves,” he said seductively. “How about we have a little fun before I go?” Elias grinned amorously. “Babe, as much as I love how clingy you are suddenly, I need to get a little sleep before work tonight, and you have investigating to do,” Trevor said, smiling as he looked Elias in the face. Trevor started to pull away from Elias to go to the bedroom, but Elias wouldn’t let go of his hand. His grip was stronger than Trevor remembered, and found himself a little flummoxed when he couldn’t move beyond an arm’s length. “What, baby? What is it?” he enquired with curiosity. Do it. If he wants answers, he can get an up close and personal experience, the voice whispered. Elias paused for only a half a second, unnerved. This time, Elias didn’t fight against it. “I’m going to fuck you right here on this table.” Elias pushed Trevor down on the glass tabletop, and tried to kiss him again. “Right… Hey, hey, not here, babe. We EAT at this table,” Trevor objected. Seizing the shorts in both hands, Elias yanked them down and pinned Trevor against the table. “Damn straight we do!” He raised Trevor up on the tabletop, pushed his legs over his head, and began licking Trevor’s hole with his tongue. Although they had experimented with rimming before, Trevor wasn’t really into it, but this time it was different. “Babe, seriously, I don’t want to have to take another shower because I’m covered in crumbs from you and To….. oh god… Eli…” His eyes began to roll back in his head as a wave of dopamine rushed through him, stirring a passion and hunger long forgotten. Elias’s tongue breached the soft tissue with a frenzy he had never felt before. Eating his husband’s hole out like he hadn’t tasted him before became a ravenous, frenetic energy. Trevor moaned, and began to reconsider his aversion to the activity. Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. Elias had again caught a whiff of the chemical smell coming off Trevor, and he suddenly stopped and pulled back, retching. Trevor lowered his feet to the floor, curious what stopped their fun. “Okay, that’s the second time you’ve done that this morning, and I know for a fact I’m clean down there,” Trevor said with alarm. “Tell me right now. I know something is up, and you’re not acting normal. What the fuck is going on with you?” Elias rushed to the kitchen sink, and began another round of dry heaving. Between breaths, he began to say, “I’m sorry… darling… something you’re wearing is making me feel nauseous. Did you change soap or something? I…” Elias had to fight back another dry hurl, his words almost guttural as he choked up phlegm and bile. “I... keep smelling something chemical… like a hospital.” Elias finally was able to clear his throat, going over to the sink and spitting out a large glob of saliva. Trevor smelled under his arms, but got only the scent of soap and deodorant. “I don’t smell anything like a hospital.” Elias gave another heave into the sink, and then began to run the tap. “Babe, you’re scaring me. I think I need to take you to the clinic, get you looked at. I can just crash in the on-call room in the clinic.” “What about Dr. Grant?” “He can wait. He’ll still be there later. Hopefully. But YOU are my utmost priority right now.” Trevor pulled the shorts back up, and promptly went to the bedroom for his keys and wallet, as well as a clean pair of scrubs and his hospital badge. Elias pushed himself up from the sink with both hands, turned off the water, and just stared into the backsplash. He turned about, and going through the dining room, he spotted the wall mirror. He went over to it and examined himself in the reflection. “What am I doing? Who am I? What the fuck is wrong with me?” he asked his reflection. He observed that his face seemed somehow foreign to him, and he leaned in for a closer look. It was then he noticed that his teeth had a different shape. It was barely noticeable, but recent dental work kept him aware of what his mouth looked like. And then he saw something entirely new. The teeth had grown longer by a fraction of an inch. Reaching up a shaking hand, he pressed the tip of his index finger, pulling back suddenly as he felt the sharpness of the point of his incisor.

There is, just on a brief hiatus due to work being busy and picking up a lot of shifts.