Prologue
The footage jolts awake with a flicker and a strained whirring sound. A shaky image stabilizes as the lens refocuses on a dimly lit laboratory. The space feels cramped, overwhelmed by cluttered metal shelves lined with jars filled with biological samples. Some are suspended in murky amber fluid. Others are dry and shriveled, pinned open like strange trophies. Paperwork is strewn across every available surface—handwritten notes, diagrams, and printouts covered in scientific jargon.
In one corner of the room, a small metal cage sits atop a counter, partially obscured by a dangling array of tubing and bundled wires. The walls are concrete, painted a dull industrial gray, with grime leaking from pipe joints. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a sickly yellow hue over the chaos.
Suddenly, a high-pitched, squeaky voice bursts through the speaker.
"Hello! To whomever discovers this footage—assuming the camera survives what's coming—my name is Professor Nadia Collins."
A woman steps into frame, arms gesturing dramatically. She's incredibly thin, her bony frame wrapped in an oversized lab coat that looks far too heavy for her. Her white hair is frizzed and chaotic, fraying at the ends like overworked fibers. Her face is drawn, skin pale with an unnatural sheen under the lab's lighting, and her vibrant blue eyes flick rapidly from the camera to her surroundings.
"Today," she continues with unrelenting excitement, "I'll be sharing the result of the work my husband and I have dedicated months of our lives to. It's beautiful. It's terrifying. It's real."
Footsteps echo behind her. A heavy-set man appears from the shadows of the lab, his pace deliberate. He's muscular, even through the stiffness of his stained lab coat. Brown hair falls across his forehead, thick and slightly curled, and his green eyes gleam with intellect and something more primal—curiosity laced with ambition.
"We've been researching a highly specific branch of parasitology," he says, voice firm but calm. "Ophiocordyceps—an insect-targeting fungus that invades the nervous system of its host, controls motor functions, and compels the infected body to seek elevation before death. This process results in optimal spore dispersal. It's nature's own bio-engineered puppeteer."
He pauses and steps closer to the camera.
"Our question was: could this fungus, given sufficient resources and time, evolve? Could it break the barriers of simple neural architecture and adapt to higher-order organisms?"
The lens shifts slightly to focus on the cage behind them. Inside lies a squirrel, twisted awkwardly on its side. Its fur is patchy, revealing flaking skin beneath. Gray and purplish discoloration spreads across its limbs. And then—its chest moves. A slow, shallow breath.
William gestures toward it.
"The serum we created combines a minimal quantity of extracted squirrel DNA with cultivated, activated spores. The subject was injected less than a week ago. Already, we're seeing signs of systemic decomposition. The tissue is breaking down. Yet it lives. The fungus appears to be sustaining essential biological functions independently."
He moves to a monitor displaying erratic neural scans and fluctuating heart rates.
"It's adapting. Not mimicking life but rather sustaining it."
Nadia suddenly steps back in front of the lens, gripping the camera's edge with trembling fingers.
"We're expecting contact from our founder any moment! And—"
Her sentence is violently interrupted by the clang of metal. Something slams against the heavy back door of the lab, sending tremors through the walls. William stiffens, then strides quickly toward the door. He opens it a few inches, enough for a pale, gloved hand to slide through a white envelope. No words are spoken. The hand vanishes just as quickly.
William holds the envelope in both hands. His brow furrows.
"Speak of the devil," he mutters, tearing it open with cautious precision.
Inside is a single sheet of thick paper, immaculately preserved despite the humidity. The message is short, typed in pristine cursive:
Bring your test subject to me. In the States. You know where to find me. —WHT
Nadia leans over his shoulder, eyes wide with something that isn't just awe. It borders on fear.
"He wants it already?" she whispers.
"He's always wanted it," William replies.
He returns to the desk, unlocking a small steel drawer beneath it. Inside is a slender glass vial filled with a glowing bluish substance. He lifts it gently, as if it might break.
"We synthesized an antibody," he explains. "It's untested. Still unstable. But theoretically, it should suppress the fungus if administered early enough. Maybe even reverse some of the cellular corruption."
He carefully places the vial beside the sample notes and looks back at the camera.
"We'll leave it here. We can't let him know we have it."
Nadia reaches for the camera. Her expression, once manic, is now grim.
"If this footage survives... use it."
A loud screech cuts through the room. Alarms begin to flash. The squirrel jerks—its head twitching, limbs contorting in unnatural spasms.
William lunges toward the console.
"We're out of time," he snaps. "Cut the feed!"
The last thing visible is the squirrel slamming against its cage bars, leaking fluid from its eyes, before the transmission erupts into jagged waves of static.
Then nothing.
