Fungal Halo

I peer through the glass into the holding chamber. The specimen within paces aimlessly, without purpose or direction, interacting with nothing inside.

"What's wrong with it?" I ask.

"She's been restless and agitated like this since we separated her from the others."

I must be careful. It is frighteningly easy to forget what sleeps in my blood, but as long as I take sufficient care, we will all stay safe. I will not need to be caged.

I'll find the cure for myself, and nobody will need to learn about my lapse of judgment.

It's fun working in a facility that does research and development on exciting new mutagens.

Someday we're going to design the formula that elevates humanity to the next stage of evolution! Until then, the slow, steady work of experimentation continues.

The door to the other observation chamber—the one kept off the record—opens for me with a welcoming chime as I scan my badge on the reader. Inside, my colleague waits for me.

She renews her struggles when she sees me enter, but the straps secure her firmly to the table.

My colleague and partner—the only one who understands me on any meaningful level—ignores my pleas and my thrashing against these restraints to inject me with the same substance that killed all our test subjects.

She is a monster, and it was me who encouraged her to be so.