His history with Artyom had blossomed from the black rosebud of the mundane.

He'd shook hands with the esteemed doctor some time ago amidst the field of perpetual combat, replacing a traumatized colleague cowed by the pressure of working at a medical research station straddling the great wall of Grimvault, or more likely from the irradiating and wilting exposure to Doctor Payne himself. They had worked very well together… from a purely technical standpoint in the field of cutting instruments and blood.

He'd always liked to think that he could have the right tool in his gnarled hands or a wound cleaned and sutured before the skilled surgeon even asked. This did not grant him an exemption from the doctor's vile barbs, but by good fortune and fortitude he had shown himself more or less immune to its effects. All he did was smile and shrug in response and help the enclave in any way he could.

Then, one night, the outbreak took place. Vital and vast reservoirs of the team's vitalus serum were soon sullied by invasive traces of the strain. Unfit for imbibing (and generally agreed upon that infection was a fate worse than ravening) the mordesh population within the research station began to drop like flies – short-lived mayflies, one by one. Dmitriy and Doctor Payne had toiled tirelessly in the main triage theater to a time worryingly later than their usual vitalus changing, setting the two surgeons an hour or two out of sync with the rest of their doomed cabal. It saved their lives, in a way.

While familiar faces stalked the halls shrieking and sniffing out signs of unturned flesh the mordesh men managed to dispatch some minions of the contagion's embrace, find each other in the midst of the battlefield still sane, and hid. A barricaded broom closet made do for the moment as they waited, ticking down the minutes until their vitalus too ran out and they would willingly join the fold.

He could not remember who had grabbed the other first out of raw, cold fear for their mortality, clutching at a warm body in lieu of scooping up the last few grains of sand in their hourglass. He'd marveled at the surprising tactile warm from such a waspish frame; such a quick beating heart strangled by adrenaline, excitement and dread.

Likewise, he couldn't recall who had crushed lip to unfeeling metal jaw-frame or if he'd moved first, forgetting artificial prosthesis wreathed in black memories for the first time since such clouds had formed. Hands had moved of their own accord, groping hard in darkness. If he was going to die, torn apart by ravenous ally or starved for serum until he snapped and ripped apart his comrade's face, the only primal scream they could emit into the face of doom without attracting death was to each other – a petulant, violent statement that they were alive until the end.

Indeed, in the end the Black Hoods rescue attempt found them before the ravenous or strain-infected could. They'd arrived just in time, too; some months after the fact the head of the rescue squad admitting to Dim that another fifteen minutes without forcibly separating, tying them down and slamming an emergency vitalus booster into their reservoirs and they never would have brought both Dmitriy and Doctor Payne back from the verge of growling, carnal beasts. He'd laughed at the worlds of his friend, proudly remarking that even now in all honesty nothing much had changed.

All jokes aside though, it had been awkward. Very awkward. You don't just end-of-the-world fuck with a respected colleague in a moment of crisis and then pretend like everything is completely normal the next day. He'd tried to ignore it, tried to push aside the bloodlust-tinted ravenous recollections in that coffin-like rectangular space, for the sake of professionalism, for the sake of decency, but from the very beginning there were cracks in his façade – and Artyom's too.

He daydreamed against his will. He became absentminded, often forgetting a carefully worded instruction or a request for assistance in the middle of an operation, back home safely now in the middle of Thayd. He'd caught himself glancing more and more at the red-haired, demon surgeon behind cloth face masks; always when he wasn't looking. In turn, Doctor Payne didn't yell or roar or attempt to sting him with carefully worded barbs of poison either, merely repeating his instruction more firmly and curtly until Dmitriy snapped back to reality again.

They hadn't really spoken at length about what had happened to them, even now. All Doctor Konstantinov knew was that some weeks later, when the whole fiasco was just beginning to fade from his mind and swapping scrubs for his more comfortable civvies, Doctor Payne had come upon him without remorse, cornering him in the changing room.

It hadn't been to roast him alive, or to make up for the past few weeks of vitriol. The towering, feared surgeon of atomic anger that had scared his predecessor off in a matter of days instead hesitantly, almost shyly had asked him for a date. A date. In both bewilderment and relief he had accepted right away.

The rest, as they were so wont to say, was history.

For the first time in many, many decades Dmitriy had been happy. They did fight at times, held wildly different opinions on a great many things and often were as night and day, but something seemed to just click between them. Eventually he had realized that the desperate flutter in his chest every time Artyom came skulking in with that scowl on his face was the resurgence of love.

Love. Who could have guessed, in such a rotten world?

So, was it wrong to want to remove an unfeeling metal jaw-frame to kiss him for real, for the first time? Was it hubris to watch the object of his affections suffer in painful prosthesis and yearn to change all that? Regen could have been his ticket to greatness, true, but that was merely a by-product of his true intentions.

But he had messed it up.

He had messed it up so bad, so bad.

This was not something the fancy of fortune would be able to fix.

xxx

He'd cried out before in pain and surprise, but this time Doctor Konstantinov let out a shriek of abject terror. He felt that, felt his hand touching the lump… and felt the lump in turn touching his hand.

So paralyzed by the discovery was he that his ruined and regenerating body gave a violent, uncontrollable buck to distance himself from the growing horrors attached to his flesh that his socked feet slipped forward on the metal flooring of his lab and his knees crumpled once more, dropping him fast enough to crack the back of his head against the edge of the table and douse his vision in a shower of sparkling stars.

Fortunately, the cables framing his face and skull were made of a sturdier stuff than he'd hoped and the only thing he received was a visible dent that hadn't even broken through the durable polymers. Almost panting, (and later on he'd realize, quite ineffectively for air), Dim probed a hand around to feel for the damage. He tried to rise again, grasping at the furniture for purchase, but his fingers were too mangled and his legs too numb to rise. Only pins and needles danced up and down the panicked nerves where he'd fallen. Even with vigorous, clawed rubbing he could barely feel anything at all.

Dmitriy's laughter was high-pitched and wheezing, almost whistling through clenched teeth as tears of hurt and fear streamed freely down his cheeks. He didn't know what was happening – he hadn't a clue! Nothing, not a single outlier in any of his wildest scientific dreams could have accounted for this! What in the name of Kemos was happening to him?

The mordesh measured the growths around his waist one more time, battling to bring his composure back under control. He stretched out his fingers and thumb and found that the nubs were already longer by a good third and could hardly be called a nubbin anymore, stretching out and out with every twisting, wrenching pulse of his bruised body. Little clusters of virgin suckers were forming across the underside, exuding a thin protective lubricant to insulate himself from the harsh, open air.

He chuckled through his pained tears. Surely he must have raised the shutters and opened the window directly into true insanity. All he need do now is stick his head inside.

"Ahhh… Bambi. My Bambi. I've really done it this time…"

He fumbled for his damaged datachron one last time. It was the only object that could root him to normalcy in the midst of madness, as difficult as it was to manipulate with uncooperative digits. As alien limbs sought to slither across his already atrophying legs he hit the redial for the second time that day, pleading, almost praying in weak whispers to "please pick up. Come on now, please… please pick up."

It rang for a few moments, hesitated in turn, and then switched immediately back over to the familiar and clipped intonation of Doctor Payne's voicemail. As Artyom had earlier, a city away, Dmitriy felt the impulse to throw his datachron against the wall in frustration, but what would that have accomplished, really? He truly would have been cut off from the rest of the world.

The pressure in his core tightened as fresh pain erupted from the base of his skull. He dialled again, listlessly, his only movements the heaving of his chest and the slight twitch of a thumb against the screen.

Whirr. Humm.

"Speak now. Swi-"

Click.

Dmitriy slumped back further against the table. Admittedly, it did not feel quite as bad as his jaw trying to rip through his face and displace his prosthesis while still attached to his body, but he was… quickening. Becoming. Parts of him were quietly dislocating and dissolving. Muscles bulged larger than they had ever been in life. He flicked his thumb again.

Whirr. Humm.

"Speak-"

Click.

New nerves arched to life, petitioning a permanent connection to his brain. All of a sudden he could feel; really feel, more than he had ever felt before. He felt wrong, dry; unpleasant – remembering the dark, dripping depths of his dreams.

Whirr. Humm.

"Spe-"

Crackle.

The good doctor let out a growl that sounded right at him in the deep wilderrun jungle. It took all the willpower from the kind, gentle half of him slowly drowning in endless waters to not completely crush the contraption in powerful, too-large hands; merely cracking the casing instead. Artyom was not going to suddenly spring to action and rescue him. It already seemed too late to rely on the aid of an esteemed, great surgeon and scientist to fix his mistakes and make him all better again.

But perhaps there was someone else.

Drifting away from familiar territory, the degenerating doctor dialled another number not nearly used as often as his lover's. There was an aqueous quality to his breathing now, so soon freed from the artificial tinge of false vocal chords, slipping past teeth hooked and horrible as they clumsily spun out the words. It took scarcely more than three rings for the receiver to pick up this time, thank the gods.

"Mmmaaaaaalllll…" Dmitriy groaned before the other could even speak.

He heard a marked hesitation on the line, sounds of slight static, and the unmistakeable crunch of boots on dry leaves coming to a snappy stop. A soft, deep voice intoned; "… Doctor?"

The abomination coiled against (and somewhat around) the lab table exhaled a wet sigh of relief. "Furrr… mmmmallll-deeeeh…. Hhhhk… Mmmal. I nnnneeed yuuuuhhh…" He tried to say, but it was difficult. He had quickly remastered speaking with flesh and bone again after so long, but it felt like the air to breathe wasn't exactly taking the right channels to come out as words. Something felt like it was sticking like a dam in his lungs and his sides hurt at every ragged attempt.

As for the agent on the other end, his voice was harder this time. Firmer. Hundreds of miles away a shadowed, lithe form waved towards some seemingly empty trees to give the signal to hold the snipers for now, and then he touched his ear delicately to focus on the call. "Dim. This is dire. Are you about to become ravenous? Is this why you are calling me?" He asked.

He'd asked himself that not long ago. Now, it was much harder to waive such a concept away. Dmitriy shook his head slowly before realising his friend had his datachron configured to audio only. "Mmmalll, I mmay have mmmade… mmyself a mmonsterrr… Ssssend help…" He pleaded, trying to gain enough leverage to rise from his tangle on the floor.

Agent Formaldehyde absorbed this data, such as it was. He was already mentally preparing the paperwork to justify the order to retreat, for on the borders of disputed territory most of his men were mordesh and many would have agreed; a potential patient zero catalysing an outbreak carried more weight than the war of attrition against the Dominion so far.

His short nod was barely discernable in the darkness as he opened up a secondary channel. "Acknowledged. Markus. Miles. Mikhail, abort. Fall back while I contact the nearest harrower." There was only a rustling of the trees and mere moments later faint footsteps echoed into the night. The black hood turned back to his datachron call, sallow features creasing into a frown. "Dmitriy, are you still there?"

He received no words for an answer but he could hear the other man panting. Wet, gluey, raspy panting.

"This had better not be one of your jokes, Dim. The Widow does not have much of a sense of humour." Formaldehyde warned, but he already highly doubted such a possibility. Something felt quite wrong according to the raised metaphorical hackles at the back of his neck.

By this point Dmitriy needed both hands free to heave himself back up to an average standing height against the lab bench. To manage this a clumsy, uncoordinated appendage at first gripped around the datachron for him before dumping it with a clash and a clatter upon the clean surface. He peered at it unsteadily like a mermaid propping himself up against jutting rocks. How had he even, he didn't know just-

– AHHH! –

- but a roiling, ripping feeling was beginning to coalesce between his pelvic bone and navel, one that also seemed to be pulling outward too, but with fire; white hot rolling fire!

Formaldehyde visibly cringed and pulled his earpiece out with slender fingers as an almost surprised, sharp howling scream pierced through the ear bud receiver. It had barely sounded human, or in their case mordesh. Erstwhile, in the wake of something horrific and vital ripping open within him Dmitriy slid like a cage-less squirg low to the ground once again.

A massive pair of jaws unhinged. Black keratin, hard as iron. One great big hook lunged down and sliced through cloth, skin, rotting flesh and weak dissolving bone. The doctor all at once experienced an agony-tipped sensation that none other on nexus had felt – the simultaneous half-numb pain of being eaten alive and the strange, sickly-sweet taste of his own flesh and soft marrow.

"Dim! Are you there? Dim! Answer me!"

He could not respond now. His call to Formaldehyde, more often called Mal to friends, may as well have been in the Halon Ring for all the good it did him now. But still, the call continued unabated and recorded every pained moan, every audible thrash and every crack, crunch and hungry gulp.

Agent Formaldehyde spat out a word in his native mordescu that he wasn't allowed to say at home. If looks could kill the stalker's glowing grey-eyed glower could have… made a colleague pretty uncomfortable at the time. "Very well, stay right there. Operatives will be sent to your location." It was a bold statement considering he had no real control over that, but he was confident. His expression softened somewhat. "Dmitriy. Do not die."

All this fell upon distracted ears. The doctor was far too preoccupied with the hurt in his guts and the savage, almost feathered-membranous slits slicing open beneath his ribs to hear the reassurances of a friend. Abandoning the damaged device, Dim crawled across the floor painfully like a snake on his belly, clawed fingers seeking purchase on the uneven metal panelling to pull his large and too-long body along, foot by foot.

Artyom. He wanted Artyom to find him instead. He wanted his tall, clever firebrand to stride in through the door right this very minute, fold his arms and glare at him in that unmistakeably doctor Payne way that always set his heart at ease. He'd say something incisive that Dim would not be able to deny or refute, and then he would forgive him and help him into his lab and… and… and fix things. Artyom would think of something – he always did – and come this time next week he'd be kissing him for real; for the very first time and it would all be so… so worth it.

Dmitriy wept new tears this time, not of pain but simple weary despair. That was merely a delirious dream and not about to happen, and it was all his fault.

His urgency increased as the cuts in his sides strained and gasped for… not air, he determined, but something else. It was becoming more and more difficult to breathe with his lungs and his skin was so dry it hurt. He could not remain like this any longer.

The taste of blood and bone faded from his senses as his massive muscled arms hoisted the humanoid part of his body up against the windowsill letting in the gloaming twilight into his lab. He'd kept it locked most of the time and he didn't have the key on hand right then, but if his memory served him correct two storeys down and a little ways further into the jungle a strong river flowed through wilderrun and beyond. It had made for good fishing once upon a time, or refreshing to dip ones toes in, but now all Dim could think about was the water.

Water.

Water.

Every fibre of his distorted being needed it more than air and earth combined.

The creature shrugged off his stained lab coat and the tattered remains of his shirt, wrapping a fist in the fabric before slamming it as hard as he could into the pane. The glass shattered readily into ragged shards and he took the extra time to pick out the pieces still attached tenaciously to the frame.

Levering himself to barely fit inside the window, just like the little scamp he had once been to sneak out of history class alone, Dmitriy took one last look over his shoulder at the cradle of his hubris. The datachron was still running and the place was an utter mess. Well, he'd clean it up later, he thought.

He crawled outside the window and leaned. Alien limbs gripped, adhering to every crack and crumble. For a moment he felt the fresh touch of wind on his unmarked, healed face.

And then he fell.