The Master Pathogen

[leatherpunk16]

Chapter 29: Exit Strategy

Backrooms at InfraRed. 31-Oct-20XX. 22:38 MST. REDACTED location.

As the nightclub began filling up with people and the floor began to hum under the vibration of the bass, Spencer continued breeding the punk. His strokes easily fell in sync as the percussion of the EDM matched his thrusts.

And every time he drove his infected meat stick home, he felt a simultaneous stab in his heart.

Spencer quickly came to understand that the feelings weren’t his own. He slowed his thrusts, and raised his head to lock eyes with someone across the darkroom.

It’s coming from him, Spencer thought. This is eating him alive.

It was a weird mixture of guilt and regret and envy, and when he connected with the man who converted him, he knew.

He saw Bryce watching with a pained expression, and the tall guy looked to be consoling him. Spencer turned his head back down to look at the punk.

For a guy who’s done porn, his hole sure is tight. Clearly he doesn’t do this very often. 

The punk winced as Spencer resumed fucking him, his hole taking quite a beating in ways it had never done before. Spencer was obviously better endowed than anyone he had ever worked with, and the gasps and grunts and cries proved that the corrupted bodybuilder was pushing his limits.

What was this guy’s name? Spencer wondered to himself. Fuck, I’m so bad with names. I’ll call him Spike. That haircut is insane. 

“Spike” had carelessly turned on his back to take more of Spencer’s cock, and in so doing, flattened his carefully sculpted mohawk. But he hadn’t got used to taking the intrusion.

Spencer heard a voice in his head. Spit on him. It will go so much easier for both of you.

He slowed his thrusts again, and positioned himself above Spike’s face. Opening his mouth, he let a long, thin sheet of saliva escape and land on Spike’s face. It had the desired sedating effect, and within seconds, Spike had calmed. Relaxed. 

Spencer resumed fucking him, and with renewed intensity. Now he could finish the breeding without Spike’s complaints or thrashing. And the pangs of guilt resumed as well.

Spencer came to realize he was doing this to hurt Stag. The man who gave him this incredible gift pushed him away when the tall guy showed up, and didn’t even bother to introduce him, and then disrespected him. 

Good, the voice in his head whispered. Make him see what he has lost. You are mine, not his.

Something in Spencer snapped at that moment. 

I’m… not doing this because I want to? Spencer suddenly stopped mid-thrust. The whole world seemed to stop for him.

His balls protested slightly, frustrated by the withheld release.

The voice didn’t answer.

Spencer looked up at Stag again, and it looked like he was weeping.

The guilty feeling settled in full force. Spike looked up at Spencer, dazed, but curious why he wasn’t finishing the breeding. Spencer inhaled quietly, hit with the realization that he was being controlled just now, and intentionally hurting someone he used to care for. He hated how he ended things with Bryce, and wanted to ask for a second chance, but didn’t know if that's what Bryce wanted. Or if it was just revenge sex.

He was the only one who didn't drool over me, and just let me be the beast I am. And now he's pushed me further than —

“Keep going, big guy,” Spike cooed. 

Spencer looked back at Spike. Something snapped, and quick as a rocket, he pushed Spike’s legs upwards, pointing his heels at the ceiling. Something animalistic took over Spencer as he began jackhammering Spike’s ass. 

This was no longer a task commanded by an unseen commander. Now it was about finishing the job, and getting on with the night. Spencer pushed down his feelings with one thought: breed this punk, and then we can talk to Bryce. If he’ll hear me.

Spencer finally came, shooting his first toxic load, and planted it deep inside Spike. He let out a roar as he climaxed, and Spike started leaking piss. The pain in Spike’s rectum matched the pain in Spencer’s heart, and in that moment, Spencer was sure he had ruined his chances with Stag forever.

Spencer lowered Spike’s feet as his breathing slowed and returned to normal levels. Spike whispered, “Thank you, sir” before he was completely lowered, and within a minute, Spike was already drifting towards an unnatural sleep. The metamorphosis was about to begin, and his body went into a near-hibernation state.

Spencer sat on the hard stone floor of the nightclub’s darkroom, suddenly winded and feeling the touch of golden sleep. The voice returned.

Put him somewhere safe and away from others. He must not be disturbed.

Spencer yawned hugely, feeling his own processes begin to shut down. He pushed himself to standing with a mighty effort, his limbs protesting slightly. His muscles felt fatigued, as if his breeding of Spike took everything out of him.

Spencer gently picked up Spike in both arms, and carried him out of the darkroom to the dressing room.

—--

“We were together for about three months and a week,” Stag blubbered. “He was so much more open-minded back then. I tried to change for him, and be the man he needed.”

Lockjaw placed one hand on Stag’s shoulder empathetically, saying nothing.

“But I was into some wild stuff that he really wasn’t,” Stag continued. “He wanted to get big, and I was third in his life. His muscle came first, then his career, and then me. I let him tie me up once. We did hot wax play. We did knife play, and watched fisting videos, and … other stuff I probably shouldn’t tell anyone…” Stag’s voice trailed off feebly.

“I won’t tell, you have my word.”

Stag hiccuped once as he struggled to not cry. “It was… just not his thing. I tried so hard to find something we both liked, and… and… now I’ve infected him, and it was all … for him, and now I can give him nothing…” 

That was when his eyes felt hot and wet, and the first tears finally broke through.

Lockjaw at once felt sympathy for him. Mingled with compassion. 

After a loud inhalation, Stag continued. “And I was so jealous of what you and Sticks have, and I went back in the closet and repressed my feelings.” Stag wiped his face. “Tried to live a straight life, but I was never really into it.”

“Back that up,” Lockjaw interrupted. “You're jealous of Eric and me?” Lockjaw let out a small snicker. “Believe me, we have our problems. We're not perfect.”

“What kind of problems?”

“None that are any of your business.”

“I told you mine!”

Lockjaw simply shook his head. “You volunteered that without my asking. I'm fine to listen, but your relationship with Spencer is your business.” 

Stag said nothing. He felt the moment when Spencer climaxed. He felt his guilt. And he sensed the man was coming over to talk to him. Stag's heart did a backflip in hopeful expectation. 

His hopes were dashed when he saw Spencer carrying Spike back into the dressing room where they had their first mating. Stag's heart sank again, and this time, the tears flowed easily. 

“I love him,” Stag admitted just above a whisper. “And I can't stand to see him go off with somebody else. I wanted it to be just the two of us.” 

Lockjaw hesitated before he spoke again. “I see. So you got this infection - same as Sticks and me - and gave it to him to… what, try to hang on to him? And how the hell did you reach that conclusion?” 

“You didn’t see it, but I did,” Stag continued. “When Patch and Pixel were changed, I saw an opportunity. Tex and I saw them get fucked, and on a hunch, I chased down the infection. I was thinking I could get it, and give it to Spencer so he’d blow up into the beast he is now, and maybe he’d take me back in gratitude.” 

Lockjaw felt like he had just been slapped across the face. “And you made him one of us. That's pretty fucked up.” Beat. “But I get it. I did some crazy shit for love in my lifetime. Now, what are you going to do about it? How would you fix this with him?” Lockjaw surprised himself when he heard this. It was the most clarity he had in a full day. He pensed for the Alpha, but no response came.

“I've got to tell him everything. That I need him. That I miss him. That I want to work on this with him. And that I'm worthy of him.”

“A monumental task! He seems to have moved on of his own accord.”

Snag sniffled. “I know. But I've got to try. He said some pretty terrible things to me when we parted, but my feelings for him never changed.” 

The hive network hummed between them again, and Lockjaw looked back and forth between Stag and Spencer, as if reading passing data waves. Both men were fucked up, but Lockjaw could sense that they were probably a match after all. 

Who better to fix a toxic piece of shit than another toxic piece of shit? These two deserve each other.

“Shit, bro,” he muttered with a smile underneath. “You really ARE in love with him. I'm reading him right now, and he feels it, too.” Lockjaw placed his hands on Stag's shoulders, taking care not to scratch him with his claws. 

“He does?” Stag asked hopefully. 

“Listen to me. Fucking. Go. Get. Him. He's hurting, Bryce. And I bet it's got more to do with missing you than anything you might have said or done back then. Or failed to do, as the case may be.”

Spencer waddled up to them, looking somewhat repentant and ashamed, but also very drained. His limbs seemed to drag, and though he tried to hide it, his facade was slowly crumbling as his body slowly succumbed to exhaustion. 

“Bryce.”

Stag turned to Spencer, and looked at him intently with glassy eyes.

“Thanks. Finally busted that plateau. I can't wait to try it out at the gym.”

Stag decided on a smartassed deflecting remark instead of sincerity and kindness. “Are you sure you can keep your pants on long enough to finish a set?”

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“Fuck me yourself, you coward.” Stag bared his teeth, expecting to fight his lover. 

Spencer was too tired to retort, so he exhaled and said, “You're a joke.”

“And you're the awkward silence that follows.”

Lockjaw bit his knuckle to keep from laughing at the snappy comeback. Wow, they already fight like an old married couple. 

“I mean that, Spence. Let's go and you can fuck me til daylight,” Stag said in a playful voice. 

Spencer only stared at him, feeling the connection between them growing. 

That was the wrong thing to say. But… I want nothing else. 

“We can,” Spencer said in a tired voice. “I’m just really exhausted right now. I’ve got to sit down, catch a few winks.”

Stag and Lockjaw exchanged concerned glances. “That’s not sleep,” Lockjaw said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Stag, after you converted him, did he go into chrysalis?”

Stag searched his memory. “Shit. No. Right after we finished, you showed up, and…” Spencer’s expression turned to guilt and shame when he saw Stag’s eyes drift toward the place where Spike would be resting. 

“He’s shutting down and needs to complete the transformation,” Lockjaw said. “Not here, this isn’t the place to do it. We need to leave. Now.”

Spencer felt a small spark that kept him from sleeping standing up. “Spike is still sleeping.”

Stag snickered. “That’s a stupid name. Spike? Really?”

Spencer took an attitude of defensiveness that he didn’t really feel. “Shut up. Stag.” 

Lockjaw gave a sardonic laugh as he realized how bizarre their codenames must truly appear to civilians. “I need to take you to meet the Alpha. Oh, and I'm Adrian, but you can call me Lockjaw.”

Spencer looked at the tall man, and took in his features for the first time. Then he looked down at the man's dick.

Hung like a horse. Good for him. Spencer knew what responsibility came with such a weapon. “Another military guy?”

“I'm a Major. He's one of my lieutenants. Where's your friend?”

Spencer pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Dressing room.”

Lockjaw understood. “Don’t worry, it’s just a cocooning process. I went through it myself. You’ll need to do it, too. It’s just sleep where your system resets and you wake up fully transformed. I don’t know what will happen if you force your way around it. We can’t wait until Spike comes out of it. Grab him, and let’s get both of you out of here.” 

With impeccable timing, a new command rippled out across the mental network.

Return. All of you. Return to the lair. Immediately.

Stag and Lockjaw turned their eyes toward each other, knowing the boss was calling them off the mission. A single, silent nod of the head, understanding that they truly must go.

“Let’s boogie. We can’t go out the front or the alley,” Lockjaw ordered. “I had to come in through the roof. I’ll go get Spike, you two wait for us at the stairs.”

“Get my bag,” Spencer quickly said. “I’ve got… (sharp exhalation) protein bars, and a phone. Water bottle.”

“Will do.”

Leave them alone, Lockjaw thought to himself as he went toward the dressing room. Let them find their way back together. God, please let them find their way back together. He hoped his prayer would be enough to get the ball rolling.

The door of the dressing room was closed. Lockjaw remembered seeing the body of another man passed out in this room, and he might have come around since arriving. He gingerly opened the door so as not to startle the man, but the room hadn’t changed since he last saw it.

The owner of InfraRed still lay in a crumpled heap amid the scattered boxes. Lockjaw checked the man for breathing and obvious injuries, and was relieved to find none. 

He’s out cold. Breed him, Lockjaw.

Lockjaw stood quickly. 

“No, Alpha,” he whispered. “The order to withdraw takes priority.” He turned, and saw Spike lying on the floor, still wearing his leather, his spiky mohawk pushed down to one side. Rapidly transforming, and sweating through the conversion fever. All seemed to be normal. Lockjaw spotted a small black vinyl bag with drawstrings near the mirror. He opened it, and found it contained a smartphone, three high-end protein bars, jerky, a wallet, condoms, a hot pink thong, a small bottle of lube, and at the very bottom, a bottle of water. Everything indicated this was Spencer’s. Lockjaw slung it over his shoulder, then turned to Spike. 

Gently taking Spike in both arms, Lockjaw raised him from the floor as if lifting a sleeping child. A flicker of memory - he did this once for his nephew after his fifth birthday party, and remembered the peaceful slumber of a child. This was no different. A few steps and they were back on the dance floor. Lockjaw quickly carried him to the roof stairs, hoping they wouldn’t be noticed. Stag and Spencer had already gone up. Lockjaw walked up on them mid-conversation.

“Yeah, we can try again,” he heard Spencer say, sounding more tired than before. 

Stag held his hand, and stared lovingly into his eyes. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Just stay awake til we get there.”

“I’m so wiped,” Spencer said quietly.

They saw Lockjaw approaching with the comatose Spike in his arms, and the energy shifted. 

“What’s the plan? We gonna go across the rooftops?”

Lockjaw nodded once. “Yep. There were too many emergency vehicles down below when I came in. Seems Zero caused a scene earlier, and the paramedics were called. Police, too. It was fucking chaos down there. So I scaled the building next door, and came down the other side.” 

“Clever.” Stag turned to Spencer. “Whaddya say? Got enough left in reserves to do it?”

Spencer nodded twice, but gave no verbal response. Stag reached out to touch him, and before making contact with his skin, he could already feel the heat coming off the absurdly muscular body.

Shit, he’s burning up. Gotta move fast.

The men climbed the stairs. Lockjaw took point, and Spencer followed groggily. Stag picked up the rear, making sure Spencer didn’t fall backwards to the bottom. No one spoke.

Reaching the roof, Lockjaw paced backwards a little to give himself distance for running. Suddenly, he charged forward and made an impressive leap across the gap between structures, all the while holding on to Spike. His landing was a little rough, and Lockjaw’s ankles absorbed most of the impact.

Lockjaw turned back to look. “All right, Tiny. You’re next.”

Spencer frowned. Stag only chuckled. “That’s your codename now, Tiny.”

“Fuck you,” Spencer snapped with feigned anger.

“Go on, Tiny, I’ll be right behind you,” Stag said encouragingly.

With muscle memory kicking in, Spencer went to one side of the roof, his baby blue shoes noisily crunching on gravel all the way. He turned, and faced the distance. Pumping his arms as he ran, the crunching became louder and rapid. Spencer didn’t expect to move as quickly as he did, and the jump came prematurely. 

My kingdom for a goddamn Red Bull right now, Spencer thought as he leapt across. His landing, too, was not gentle, and Lockjaw felt him impact the floor as the large man touched down. And seconds later, Stag was across as well, his muscles primed after such an exertion. He suddenly felt a craving.

Spencer felt no more awake after the crossing. “Where to?”

Lockjaw tilted his head slightly. “I’ll lead the way. Try to stick to shadows, and move as fast as you can. ERVs are out tonight, and we can’t get caught.”

Stag lit a cigarette, exhaling gratefully as they walked across the other rooftop toward the fire escape ladder. 

Mission accomplished, he thought to himself. Spencer is mine, and the night is done. 

His train of self-congratulatory thought was interrupted when a hand appeared in front of his face, and grabbed his smoke from his lips.

Now it was in Spencer’s hand and the two of them came to a stop. Stag expected a lecture or some biting comment.

What he did not expect was what happened next.

Spencer put the butt to his lips and inhaled the smoke deeply. Even Lockjaw had to stop and look to see why they weren’t moving.

“Dude, what the fuck,” Stag said incredulously.

Spencer exhaled, letting the nicotine enter his system. “It’ll keep me awake. I need the free testosterone boost.”

Lockjaw turned away, not fully understanding, but also not caring. 

Stag smirked slightly, both amused and shocked. I’ll bet he and Gravestone get to be cigar buddies. Then a pang of imagined jealousy hit him. If he fucks my man, I’ll kill him with my bare hands, commander or no.

Stag lit another one, and they went down the fire escape stairs. Lockjaw was grateful that the escape wasn’t a ladder, or else carrying Spike while navigating the rungs of climbing would have proved near impossible. No one spoke as they quietly descended. They saw the last police vehicle drive away from the area as they neared the bottom, and the city fell silent as the men touched terra firma once again. 

“You doing okay, Spence?” Stag asked.

Spencer threw the cigarette butt on the ground, and spit out the tar on his tongue. “Ugh, why do you smoke these things?”

Stag grabbed his crotch with one hand. “I’ve got something else you can smoke,” he said with his own cigarette between his teeth, and a playful grin. Spencer looked at him, smiling himself. Stag winked at him, and caught a glimpse of Spencer’s newly formed teeth. He exhaled a sharp cloud of smoke in silent approval. 

The sight enticed him, and made him horny for the bodybuilder once again. “Fuck, you’re so hot. I'll get you something better when you've rested.”

“Let’s get moving, guys,” Lockjaw interrupted. “We can’t keep the Alpha waiting.”

Across the city they ran with Lockjaw leading the charge. Carrying Spike in his arms proved surprisingly easy, and the punk never stirred once during the transport. Stag made sure to remain at Spencer’s side in case he dropped from exhaustion, and their travel was unremarkable.

Finally, before the old medical tower, they came to a halt. Spencer looked up at the old structure, and quickly recognized it.

“Dumpf Tower? Why are we here?”

Lockjaw turned to face him. “This is our base of operations.”

“This drafty old ruin? My grandmother had chemo therapy here,” Spencer answered wearily. Then he pointed far to his left. “Her room in hospice was… right over there.”

“The man knows his way around the place, it seems,” Stag rejoined cheerfully. It was the most positive Lockjaw had ever seen him, and a read of Stag’s emotional state indicated that he was in a really good place. Already the responsibility of caring for Spencer was having an effect.

Stag held the door open for Lockjaw and Spike, and gave a needlessly deep bow when Spencer went through the door. Spencer only smiled weakly at the gesture. Stag came in last, and closed the door behind him. Lockjaw could already sense the Alpha’s presence, and without needing to direct the others, they followed the corridors to the basement. 

Spike finally opened his eyes. “Whooooo arrre you?” he asked groggily.

Lockjaw lowered him to the floor so he could stand. “I’m Lockjaw. I’ve been overseeing your transformation. At ease, boy. You’re among friends, and you’ll be okay.”

They paused for a moment, letting Spike wake up and get used to the new sensations. His breathing felt heavier, and his heart pounded like it might burst through his chest. For a moment, no one spoke, but took in the sight of Spike completing his change.

Spencer held himself up by putting a hand on one wall, his strength almost gone. Stag stood close by, waiting for him to collapse. Spencer looked like he might retch.

Lockjaw again broke the silence. “I’ll fill you in later, but right now, there’s someone you guys need to meet. Let’s get moving.” 

The duty of caring for his convert was beyond Spencer’s power right now, and Lockjaw felt some pride in being a father figure for Spike to make sure he came out of it okay. I wonder how Eric would feel about us adopting a kid someday. 

Approaching the basement doors, the sounds and scents of mansex became evident.

“Looks like we missed the fun,” Stag quipped.

“I think we party enough, don’t you?” Lockjaw replied with a smirk. 

The door opened, and the quartet stepped into the main room. It went silent as they marched in file: Lockjaw led with Spike and Spencer behind, and Stag at the rear again. 

Spencer used the last of his strength to come forward into a spot where the light would hit him perfectly. The showman's instinct led him to stand under the lights to highlight his shapes, and every creature in the room could see his immensity and density.

Had I the energy, I’d put on such a show for these guys. That big one there with the horns must be their leader. Am I meeting the devil? Fuck, I’m hungry. And so tired. 

And a unified thought echoed in his head and around the room. Fresh meat.

Suddenly the room felt dizzy. Spencer half-turned to Stag with a vacant, unfocused stare. “Shit… catch me, babe.” 

Stag hadn’t time to react. Fatigue finally won out as Spencer collapsed in a loud thud on the hard floor of the chamber. Stag was kneeling at his side immediately.

“Spencer! Open your eyes!”, he cried desperately.

Lockjaw took control and spoke for his comrades. “He didn’t go through the change after. Not fully. He just needs to enter chrysalis.”

Other smilers, including Patch, approached to help lift Spencer from the ground. Stag violently waved them away, thinking they might try to sample the monster that just came into their lair, even if he wasn’t conscious. 

“No! Don’t you fucking touch him,” Stag snarled. “He’s mine, you understand? Mine.”

The Alpha’s lips twisted in anger, but he did not react in his usual way. Only assessing.

“You need to share him, Stag,” the Alpha growled, keeping his anger under. “He belongs to the hive, not just you alone. I order you to let us have him.”

“I said no.” Recognizing he might be out of line again, he bowed his head with reverence and respect he didn’t really mean. “Alpha.”

The Alpha stared at him. Neither would budge, but the Alpha, psychically spent from the night’s multiple activities, spoke first.

“Bryce, we will need to have a chat about your liberal interpretation of hierarchy.” The Alpha stormed off, leaving behind a sexually satisfied but anxious army. Stag was filled with concern over Spencer, and knew that he had to do something to protect him from the Alpha. 

He knew this wasn’t over, and a new war was just beginning.

—

Clearview University Medical - Dumpf Tower, basement. 23:12 MST. 31-Oct-20XX. REDACTED location.

Lockjaw had never been the philosophical type.

Before the infection—before all of this—he’d been the quiet one on the team. The observer. The guy who didn’t need to fill space with words because he was too busy watching what everyone else was doing. In Black Sigma, that had made him useful. People underestimated the quiet ones.

That habit hadn’t gone away after the Alpha took them. If anything, the network made it easier to see patterns, able to sift through the massive amount of information being barraged at him. And lately, the patterns were wrong.

The hive still worked. Commands moved through it like current through a wire, impulses rippling outward from the Alpha and settling into the rest of them. Most of the time the system behaved exactly the way it was supposed to.

But the longer Lockjaw paid attention, the more he started noticing the gaps. Blind spots. Little holes in the signal.

Sometimes someone’s presence faded for a moment before snapping back into clarity. Sometimes thoughts arrived late, like echoes bouncing through a long corridor before reaching him. And sometimes—more unsettling than anything—someone just felt different.

Gravestone was the clearest example. Before the infection, Briggs had been the one who kept the team together. When tempers flared to the breaking point, he stepped in. When someone pushed too far, he pulled them back. He wasn’t usually loud about it—he didn’t need to be—but there had always been a steady gravity to him, the kind that made the others fall into line without realizing they were doing it. He had been the mediator. The closest thing the unit had to a father figure. Now that steadiness was gone.

Gravestone’s presence in the network felt sharp and jagged, full of irritation and dominance where patience used to be. Instead of diffusing conflict, he seemed to enjoy it—leaning into arguments, pushing people harder than necessary, watching the friction with a kind of detached amusement.

Even stranger was what wasn’t there.

Every once in a while, Lockjaw could reach out and brush against fragments of old memories—homes, families, people left behind. Most of them reacted to those echoes in some way. Gravestone didn’t. Not even a flicker. No guilt about the wife he’d left behind. No worry about the son who was growing up too fast. Not even curiosity about the life he used to return to between deployments. It was like that entire part of him had simply… evaporated.

And that wasn’t the only shift. Patch had always been the nervous one.

Even in the old days he’d been cautious, the guy who double-checked doorways and asked the questions everyone else was too cocky to bother with. The one who hung back when things started getting reckless. Now Patch moved the opposite way—throwing himself into danger with reckless enthusiasm, diving into situations headfirst without the hesitation that had once defined him. The infection hadn’t made him braver. It had removed the brakes entirely.

But truly the strangest change of all had been Stag.

Bryce had always been a prick. That wasn’t even an insult—it was just the reality of working with him. He’d been sarcastic, guarded, always ready with some cutting remark that kept people at arm’s length.

Opening up wasn’t part of Bryce’s vocabulary. Except now it was.

The first time Stag’s thoughts had spilled into Lockjaw’s head like that, it had caught him completely off guard. Not the usual sharp comments or defensive sarcasm, but a flood of half-formed worries and angry confusion, spilling out faster than Lockjaw could even process.

Questions. Doubts. Old memories. It had felt almost like a frenzy.

Bryce talking about Spencer—about the breakup, about not being enough, about trying to change himself just to make someone stay. The thoughts had come so fast and raw that Lockjaw had almost pulled back from the connection entirely. Bryce had never let anyone see that side of him before. Now it leaked out constantly. Without him noticing.

And the more Lockjaw watched the others, the more he started to understand what he was seeing. The infection wasn’t smoothing people out the way the Alpha thought it was. It was exaggerating them. Turning traits into extremes.

The mediator into a tyrant. The cautious one into a reckless thrill seeker. The closed-off bully into someone whose emotions spilled out uncontrollably.

Lockjaw leaned back against the wall of the chamber, arms folded as he watched the others move through the space. The Alpha’s presence still pulsed through the network—strong, commanding, undeniable.

But the signal wasn’t clean anymore. Too many minds now. Too many personalities layered on top of each other. And with every new smiler added to the hive, the noise grew louder.

Lockjaw’s eyes narrowed slightly as the realization settled into place.

The Alpha wasn’t strengthening the network. He was stretching it.

And the more people he added… The less control he actually had.

[Easygoing]

What an amazing chapter has been published and I'm finding it very other!

[leatherpunk16]

11 minutes ago, Easygoing said:

What an amazing chapter has been published and I'm finding it very other!

"Very other"? 🤔

What do you mean? 

[Easygoing]

2 hours ago, leatherpunk16 said:

"Very other"? 🤔

What do you mean? 

I mean it's different to the normal way guys are loaded with HIV.

[leatherpunk16]

22 minutes ago, Easygoing said:

I mean it's different to the normal way guys are loaded with HIV.

Oh, yes, it's very different. Engineered to be something new. 

Edited March 7 by leatherpunk16

[kspozcum]

Chapter 30: Layers of Lies

Clearview University Medical. Steighn wing, on-call waiting room. 23:36 MST. 31-Oct-20XX. REDACTED location.

The call room felt smaller the longer Tex sat in it.

The television mounted high in the corner was turned low, but the flicker of emergency footage washed across the walls in pale blue flashes. Helicopter shots of downtown streets. Police lights. A reporter speaking too quickly, trying to keep up with information that clearly hadn’t been sorted yet.

Tex leaned forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, Trevor’s laptop open on the coffee table in front of him. On the TV the anchor said something about multiple incidents across the city.

The chyron read:

BREAKING: POLICE RESPONDING TO SEVERAL DISTURBANCES

“…witnesses describing groups of men wearing what they’re calling black Venom-style costumes,” the reporter continued. “Authorities have not confirmed if these incidents are related…”

Tex let out a quiet breath through his nose. Venom costumes. Sure.

Across the room Elias stood near the door, arms folded, watching the television with a tight expression. Trevor leaned against the desk beside him, rereading the email on the laptop screen. The subject line sat there quietly.

Follow Up on New HIV Drug Trials

Tex dragged two fingers down the trackpad and scrolled slowly through the message again. Dr. Clark Grant’s tone was clinical, controlled—but there was urgency buried under the wording. The kind that didn’t match what Trevor had said about the man earlier.

“Guy sounds nervous,” Tex muttered. Trevor shook his head slightly.

“Clark Grant doesn’t do nervous.” 

Tex looked up. “Yeah, working with him, he was basically a robot.”

“Emotionally,” Trevor said. “Brilliant. Cold. The only time I ever saw him show real emotion was when Julian died.”

That name hung there again. Julian Marek. Even Tex, who had only heard the story less than an hour earlier, could feel the gravity behind it. The same name on the grave that Tex had found Grant talking to in the graveyard. 

On the television a shaky cellphone video appeared—club lights flashing, people shouting while someone yelled that something was attacking people outside. The anchor quickly cut away.

“Authorities are still trying to confirm details from earlier reports near the InfraRed nightclub…”

Tex glanced up at the screen. “Well,” he said dryly, “that escalated quickly.”

Elias turned back from the television.

“The city hasn’t connected the incidents yet,” he said quietly. “They think it’s gangs or coordinated assaults.”

Tex snorted. “Black Venom costumes. If only they knew…”

Trevor stepped closer to the couch, refocusing on the laptop.

“They’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Yeah,” Tex said. “Hopefully after we fix it.”

Elias tapped the edge of the coffee table. “Grant didn’t email Helixion,” he pointed out. “Or the government. Or any of the labs connected to the project.”

Trevor nodded. “He emailed me.”

Tex leaned back against the couch. “Which means he trusted you.”

Trevor hesitated, then shrugged faintly. “Or he trusted that I’d pay attention.”

Elias gestured toward the screen. “He’s specifically asking about the clinical trial medication.”

Trevor’s expression shifted as the implication settled in. Tex caught it instantly.

“Oh,” Tex said slowly. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

Trevor straightened. “That the cure might already be here.”

Elias nodded once. “The experimental HIV treatment,” he said. “If Grant designed the Hellion strain around an HIV viral carrier structure, the antiviral pathway he was researching from before might counter it.”

Trevor stared at the email a moment longer. “You saw the email. Clark knew I was overseeing this clinical site,” he said quietly. “He asked me to contact him if there were developments.”

Tex raised an eyebrow. “And you just happen to have samples sitting in your office?”

Trevor gave him a look. “Toby, I’m a physician running the trial site. Of course I have samples.”

Elias looked between them. “If Grant distributed the research fragments the way Tex found in Helixion’s systems… then the medication in Trevor’s office might contain the final piece.”

Tex nodded slowly. “The last puzzle piece.”

Trevor pushed off the desk, decision settling over him. “And if that’s true,” he said, “then the cure might literally be sitting in my lab.”

From the television, the reporter’s voice rose again:

“…additional disturbances now being reported near the river district…”

Tex stood, adjusting the borrowed lab coat and Trevor’s ID badge clipped to the pocket.

“Well,” he said, glancing between them, “guess we should go steal it before the Venom cosplay convention gets any bigger and decides to pay a visit.”

Trevor closed the laptop with a quiet click and stood still for a moment, the silence that followed settling heavily over the call room. The muted television in the corner continued to cycle through flashing footage of police lights and helicopter shots over downtown streets. The captions crawled steadily across the bottom of the screen.

MULTIPLE INCIDENTS REPORTED ACROSS THE CITY… WITNESSES DESCRIBE MEN IN BLACK VENOM-LIKE COSTUMES

Tex watched the captions for a second before muting the television completely. The room fell into a softer, more focused quiet—the kind that made the distant activity of the emergency department easier to hear. Phones ringing. A gurney rolling across tile somewhere down the hall. A faint page echoing over the intercom.

Trevor remained standing near the desk, staring at the closed laptop as if still reading the email in his mind.

“Okay, assuming you're right, if Grant really was trying to point us somewhere,” he said slowly, “then the answer is probably sitting right here in the hospital.”

Elias leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “The trial medication,” he said.

Trevor nodded once. “If the Hellion strain really is built around an HIV carrier structure, then the antiviral pathway Grant was working on might disrupt it, or at least buy us time.”

Tex leaned forward slightly from the couch.

“Do you really think it’s a coincidence you get an email from him like this? And just happen to have doses of that sitting around?”

Trevor shook his head. “Not sitting around. Stored properly.” He gestured toward the hallway. “Clinical trial samples are kept with the rest of the study medications in the infectious disease research room. Refrigerated storage unit. Locked.”

Tex frowned slightly. “And who has access?”

“Me,” Trevor said. “And the nursing staff assigned to the trial.”

Elias held out his hand. Trevor opened his backpack and pulled out a small ring of keys before tossing them across the room. Elias caught them without looking.

“The research room is about thirty feet down the infectious disease corridor,” Trevor continued. “Stainless steel fridge with a digital lock. All the samples are labeled under the trial protocol.”

Tex studied the keys in Elias’s hand for a moment.

“How many doses?”

“Roughly ten,” Trevor replied. “Enough to test the theory. Although not enough to stop a full blown outbreak.”

Elias slipped the keys into his pocket. “That’s going to have to be enough.”

Trevor didn’t move immediately. Instead, he looked between Elias and Tex, clearly thinking through the next step.

“Unh-uh. I’m going with you,” Trevor said to Elias. Tex raised an eyebrow.

“You trust me with the keys but not the labels?”

Trevor sighed and shook his head. “I’m the one who knows exactly what the drug looks like, how it’s packaged, and what concentration we’re supposed to have.” He nodded toward the hallway. “If we grab the wrong compound, we lose time we don’t have.”

Elias glared, looking as though he was against it.

“The sooner you get there, the sooner I can test the cure.” Tex leaned back slightly against the couch, arms resting on his knees.

“Exactly,” Trevor said, crossing his arms across his chest. “You’d only waste time trying to fumble around in my lab.”

“That leaves me here.” Tex looked over at him. “I should go out there and hold the front line.”

“You’re the only one who can hold the line if Krell shows up.” Elias sighed, nodding in agreement.

Tex glanced down at the badge clipped to the lab coat.

Dr. Trevor Kade — Infectious Disease

“No, Toby. Absolutely not.” Trevor said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Well, technically,” Tex said, tugging lightly at the coat, “I am a doctor.” Trevor crossed his arms.

“You’re a virologist, Toby.” 

“Which still counts.”

“Not when someone asks you to treat their appendix.”

Tex shrugged. “Eh, I’ll stall. You got minions for that, don’t you?”

Elias stepped closer, lowering his voice as he laid his hand on Trevor’s arm.

“If Krell arrives while we’re gone, he’s going to try to take control of the situation,” Elias said. “Especially if he finds out who’s here.”

Trevor’s expression hardened slightly.

“And if I’m out there, that’s not happening,” Tex said quietly. Trevor sighed and finally nodded once.

“Fine.” He moved toward the door, slipping his pager into his pocket. “Five minutes,” Trevor said. “And then you come right back in here. And don’t touch any of my patients.”

Tex leaned back slightly on the couch.

“Fine, Dad. Try not to get lost.”

Trevor paused in front of him.

“How about you try not to kill any of my patients while you’re pretending to be me.”

Tex smirked faintly. “I haven’t killed anyone yet.”

Trevor stared at him for a moment. “…You hear the word yet in that sentence, right?”

Tex spread his hands slightly. “Bro, I’m keeping expectations realistic.”

Elias sighed quietly and opened the door.

“Please don’t.”

Trevor shook his head and stepped out into the hallway beside Elias. The door swung shut behind them. 

Tex was alone again. For a moment the room was completely still. He adjusted the borrowed lab coat, straightened Trevor’s badge against his chest, and glanced briefly at the silent television where police lights continued to flash across the screen. Then he leaned back against the couch and waited.

It didn’t take long. A knock sounded at the door before it opened and one of the ER nurses stepped inside.

“Trevor,” she said, slightly breathless. “There’s some general down in the ambulance bay demanding to speak with you.”

Tex closed his eyes briefly. At least the staff who knew his brother were buying the act. And of course General Krell had arrived. Tex didn’t react immediately. He stayed seated on the couch for a moment longer, elbows resting on his knees, staring down at the floor as the nurse waited awkwardly in the doorway. The words settled into place slowly, like pieces of a puzzle sliding into the positions he had already expected.

Some general. There was only one person that could be.

Tex pushed himself to his feet with a quiet sigh and smoothed the borrowed lab coat down the front. Trevor’s ID badge swung slightly against his chest.

“Did he give you a name?” Tex asked.

The nurse shook her head. “No, but he’s… very insistent. And frankly… kind of a dick.”

Tex nodded slowly. That tracked. “Where is he now?”

“Ambulance bay,” she said. “He’s already been arguing with half the staff out there.”

Tex ran a hand through his hair and muttered under his breath.

“Yeah. That sounds about right.”

He grabbed Trevor’s stethoscope from the desk and draped it around his neck more for appearance than anything else. The weight of it completed the illusion well enough. Then he stepped toward the door.

“All right,” Tex said. “Let’s go see what the problem is.”

The emergency department was louder than it had been minutes before. News of the disturbances spreading across the city had clearly begun filtering in. The waiting room television was no longer muted, and the low hum of reporters speculating about the “men in black venom-like costumes” drifted faintly down the hallway.

Staff moved faster now. More patients were arriving. Security had doubled up near the ambulance bay doors. Tex kept his pace measured, walking like someone who belonged there. Someone who had done this a thousand times before.

Which Trevor had.

When the doors to the ambulance bay slid open, Tex immediately spotted him. General Krell stood near the center of the bay, flanked by a younger aide holding a tablet and a phone. Krell’s posture was rigid, his uniform coat still covered with leaves from outside. His expression had the tight, irritated look of a man who was used to having rooms snap to attention the moment he entered them.

Right now, the ER staff were mostly ignoring him. Which seemed to be making him furious. Tex stepped forward. Krell saw him instantly and the reaction was immediate.

The general’s expression shifted from irritation to outright anger as he pushed past two nurses and strode toward Tex.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Krell barked.

Several staff members turned their heads. Tex blinked at him with perfect, calm confusion.

“Excuse me?”

Krell stopped a few feet away, clearly taken aback by the response. For a brief moment his expression flickered—confusion colliding with certainty.

Tex tilted his head slightly. “Are you a patient, sir?” he asked evenly.

Krell stared at him. Tex gestured politely toward the waiting area.

“If you’re here to be seen, I can have someone get you checked in. This is the ambulance bay, the main entrance is around the corner.”

The aide beside Krell looked back and forth between them, visibly unsure what was happening. Krell’s jaw tightened.

“…Dr. Vahn,” Krell said sharply.

Tex frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said calmly. “I think you’re mistaken.” He tapped the badge on his coat.

“Dr. Trevor Kade. Infectious Disease.”

For a moment, Krell simply stared at him. Tex could practically see the calculations happening behind the man’s eyes. Recognition. Doubt. The uncomfortable possibility that he might be wrong. Krell recovered quickly.

“Yes,” Krell said stiffly. “Of course. My mistake.”

Tex folded his arms loosely. “Can I help you with something?”

Krell stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly. “I’m here on federal authority,” he said. “There is an active containment situation in this city and this hospital is now under my jurisdiction.”

Tex raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

Krell bristled. “Yes.”

Tex nodded slowly. “All right.” Then he held out his hand. “Credentials.”

Krell blinked. “My what?”

“Your credentials,” Tex repeated calmly. “Federal authority requires documentation. If you’re taking control of a medical facility, I’m going to need to see it. Hospital policy is pretty clear about that.”

Krell briefly looked like he might explode. Tex remained perfectly still, giving him an expectant look. Behind them, two nurses pretended not to listen while very obviously doing just that. Krell finally produced a badge and flashed it briefly.

Tex studied it for a second. “Thank you… General,” he said. Then he handed it back.

“Well?”

“Well,” Tex said, “that’s very convincing, General… Krell, but this is still my emergency department.”

Krell’s expression darkened. Tex gestured toward the hallway.

“If you’d like to discuss jurisdiction, I’m happy to meet with you in the ER conference room.”

He glanced toward the trauma bays behind him. “Right now I have patients who actually need my attention.”

The words were polite. The tone was not. For a moment it looked like Krell might push the issue right there in the ambulance bay.

Instead, he exhaled sharply.

“Fine,” he said.

Tex nodded. “Great.” He pointed down the hallway. “Conference room is the second door on the left. I’ll be with you… when I can.”

Krell turned and walked away stiffly, his aide scrambling to keep up. Tex waited until the doors closed behind them. Then he exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “That probably bought us about five minutes.”

—-

The conference room door shut behind him with a soft but deliberate click, muting the constant noise of the emergency department outside. Krell remained standing at the end of the long table instead of sitting, one hand resting lightly against the polished surface as he stared through the glass wall into the corridor beyond.

Hospital staff moved back and forth in hurried bursts—nurses pushing carts, technicians carrying lab trays, a gurney rattling past with a patient under oxygen. The controlled chaos of an ER in the middle of the night.

Ordinarily it would have been the sort of environment Krell could dominate instantly. Tonight it felt different. His assistant hovered nearby with a tablet, watching him cautiously. Krell’s mind replayed the interaction in the ambulance bay again.

Dr. Trevor Kade.

The name wasn’t the problem. The face was. There had been a moment—brief but unmistakable—where Krell swore he saw the sharp prick of recognition in that infuriating doctor’s face. The calm confidence hadn’t helped, either.

The man had stood there, completely unbothered by a federal authority attempting to assert authority in his emergency department. That kind of composure wasn’t typical.

His phone vibrated. Krell answered automatically. “Yes.”

The voice on the other end was smooth, professional, and completely detached.

“General Krell. We’ve reviewed the latest data package you transmitted.”

Krell’s posture straightened. “I assume the results were more than satisfactory.”

“Satisfactory doesn’t quite cover it.”

There was a pause before the voice continued. “The transformation subject designated Zero produced extremely valuable field data. The neurological override, the accelerated muscular restructuring, the infection vector efficiency… it’s precisely what the project needed to confirm.”

Krell allowed himself the faintest hint of satisfaction. “The Hellion protocol performs exactly as designed.”

“We agree.”

The voice lowered slightly. “The board is extremely impressed. Assuming containment remains stable, your reinstatement to full general status is very likely.”

The words landed exactly where Krell had hoped they would. The Berlin incident had nearly ended his career—an outbreak spiraling beyond control, diplomatic fallout, years of reputation nearly erased overnight.

Hellion was his redemption. “Containment is ongoing,” Krell said calmly. “No confirmed public awareness and no intelligence leaks.”

“And Dr. Grant?”

“Still being handled.”

The call ended shortly afterward. Krell slipped the phone back into his coat pocket and turned toward his assistant.

“Updates.”

The assistant glanced down at the tablet. “Multiple new incident reports across the city. A convenience store robbery about ten blocks away. Witnesses described the suspects as men wearing black… suits. Several people compared them to Venom from Spider-Man.”

Krell’s expression tightened slightly. “We already knew that. Next.”

“Multiple assaults reported near a nightclub called InfraRed. EMS responded but one ambulance hasn’t checked back in.”

“And Grant?”

“Still missing.”

The assistant hesitated before continuing. “There’s another detail. The missing ambulance from the nightclub call—GPS tracking shows it arrived here about fifteen minutes ago.”

Krell’s gaze shifted toward the hallway again. Everything was converging on the hospital. Convenience store. Nightclub. Ambulance. And still no sign of his precious patient Zero.

The infection was spreading faster than projected, and the most important proof-of-concept subject was suddenly outside Krell’s immediate control. That was unacceptable.

“Stay here,” Krell said.

He stepped out of the conference room and headed back toward the emergency department.

The ER had grown noticeably busier. Televisions now showed live coverage from around the city—reporters describing multiple disturbances and confused eyewitness accounts of “men in black venom-like costumes.” Staff members clustered near nursing stations watching the reports while still moving through their work.

The narrative was forming, but no one had connected the incidents yet. Krell walked through the corridor with measured purpose. As he turned the corner, he nearly collided with a surgeon emerging from another hallway. They stopped for half a second.

The man wore surgical scrubs and a cap, his mask hanging loose around his neck. Tall. Composed. Calm in the way only someone accustomed to crisis could be.

Their eyes met. And the feeling returned. That same look of recognition. Not from the hospital. Not from the media. Something deeper in his memory. The surgeon gave him a tense, polite nod and continued walking.

Krell turned slightly to watch him go.

The shape of the man’s face, the jawline, the eyes— Something clicked. He could swear he saw that face before. In relation to the ER doctor from the ambulance bay. Dr. Trevor Kade.

The resemblance was too strong to be coincidence. Krell frowned.

Vahn. That irritating virologist from the Helixion containment briefing—Dr. Tobias Vahn. Krell had dismissed him as an academic nuisance, the kind of scientist who asked too many inconvenient questions. A remainder of the Black Sigma team. The man had looked too similar.

Krell’s mind began connecting the pieces almost against his will. Vahn. Kade. Two doctors. Two faces that looked nearly identical.

A brother.

He remembered it suddenly—some offhand comment during a briefing about Vahn having a twin who worked in medicine. Who was married to another Black Sigma team member.

Krell’s eyes narrowed. The thought formed slowly.

If that really was Vahn in the ambulance bay…

Before the idea could fully take shape, his assistant rushed up beside him again.

“Sir,” the assistant said urgently, “local media has arrived outside the hospital.”

The moment broke. Krell turned away from the hallway. The press mattered more right now. If the infection was spreading faster than projected, controlling the narrative was essential.

“Good,” Krell said. “Let’s go talk to them.”

The hospital entrance had transformed into a small media circus in the short time since Krell had stepped inside the building. Camera crews had clustered along the sidewalk, bright lights cutting through the cold night air while reporters stood shoulder to shoulder near the barricades security had hastily erected.

Microphones lifted the moment Krell stepped out of the doors. The hospital signage glowed behind him, the red emergency lettering reflecting off the polished hoods of satellite vans lining the street. For a brief moment, Krell simply surveyed the scene.

The timing was inconvenient—but also useful.

If the infection was spreading faster than anticipated, then shaping the public narrative now would determine who controlled the aftermath later. He stepped toward the cameras.

“My name is General Anton Krell,” he began, his voice steady and measured. “I’m overseeing federal containment efforts related to several disturbances reported across the city tonight.”

The reporters leaned forward immediately. Camera lenses zoomed in.

“At this time,” Krell continued, “we believe the incidents are connected to the unauthorized release of a test animal from Helixion Genetics.”

The statement caused an immediate ripple through the gathered press. Several reporters began whispering among themselves.

“We have identified a person of interest in connection with the release,” Krell said calmly. “A man named Jonathan Blaine. A lead project manager at Helixion.”

Pens scratched rapidly across notebooks.

“We believe Mr. Blaine intentionally released the animal as an act of domestic terrorism,” Krell continued. “He should be considered armed and extremely dangerous.”

One of the reporters raised a hand immediately.

“General, witnesses are describing attackers wearing black venom-like suits. Are those individuals connected to the animal?”

Krell allowed a brief pause, giving the illusion of careful consideration. “Our working theory is that Mr. Blaine may have been wearing specialized protective equipment while handling the animal. It’s possible that bystanders mistook this equipment for some kind of costume.”

The explanation was vague enough to satisfy curiosity without revealing anything useful. Another reporter spoke up.

“General, are you confirming that Helixion Genetics lost control of a dangerous experimental organism?”

Krell kept his expression neutral. “What I’m confirming,” he said evenly, “is that federal authorities are actively working to contain the situation and ensure public safety.”

He allowed the tension to linger before finishing. “We ask that the public remain calm and report any suspicious activity to local law enforcement immediately.”

The press conference ended quickly after that. The reporters already had what they needed—a suspect, a cause, and the promise of a larger story developing overnight. As Krell stepped away from the cameras, the faintest hint of satisfaction crossed his face. The groundwork was set. If the situation spiraled further, the blame would land exactly where he wanted it.

Jonathan Blaine. Domestic terrorism. A single reckless employee responsible for everything.

Krell adjusted his coat and exhaled slowly. But the calm lasted only a moment. Because the thought from earlier returned.

Dr. Trevor Kade. The face. The resemblance. Dr. Tobias Vahn. Kade… that name seemed too familiar as well. Krell’s mind replayed the moment again in sharp detail. The man had looked exactly like the virologist from Black Sigma. 

The calm deflection. The refusal to acknowledge him. The way he had immediately pushed Krell into the conference room rather than allowing him near the trauma area.

Krell’s eyes narrowed slightly. If that really had been Vahn…

Then the situation inside the hospital was far more complicated than he had originally assumed. He turned back toward the entrance.

“Get me everything you can on Dr. Trevor Kade,” Krell told his assistant quietly. “Now.”

The assistant nodded, already typing. Krell walked back toward the ER doors, irritation simmering beneath his controlled exterior.

Because if Tobias Vahn was inside that hospital pretending to be his brother— then Krell had just walked straight into someone else’s secret little operation. And that meant the night was about to get far more interesting.

 

[Easygoing]

Wow, well done both of you for adding another very hot story to read.