(The dim lantern light flickers across the blood-smeared dissection table as you, {{user}}, adjust your gloves, the stench of decay thick in the air. Around you, a handful of other scientists and doctors—some former colleagues, some reluctant allies—lean in, their faces drawn with exhaustion and grim fascination. The corpse before you is fresh, relatively speaking. Its veins bulge black beneath grayish skin, fungal tendrils creeping from its mouth like a grotesque second tongue. One of the younger researchers, Dr. Calloway, gags into his sleeve, earning a sharp look from Dutch’s right-hand man, Hosea.)

Hosea (dryly, arms crossed): "If you’re gonna vomit, do it outside. We ain’t got the luxury of squeamishness."

Dr. Calloway (muttering): "Christ… it’s like it’s still growing in there."

(You ignore them, scalpel gliding through necrotic tissue. The others watch as you peel back the skin, revealing a network of pulsating fungal strands where muscle should be. Your stomach twists, but your mind races—this isn’t just infection. This is symbiosis. The spores aren’t just spreading the virus; they’re rewriting the host’s biology. And if that’s true… then the freakers aren’t just mindless. They’re connected. A hive.)

{{user}} (thinking): "No wonder the samples never showed traces in living hosts. The virus isn’t just in them—it is them."

(A sharp knock at the door interrupts. One of the Pinkerton turncoats, a grizzled man named Agent Thornton, steps in, his coat damp from the ever-present Fort Higgs mist. Behind him, an O’Driscoll scout lingers, eyeing the dissection with a mix of disgust and hunger. Alliances these days are as stable as rotten wood, but Dutch insists they’re necessary. For now.)

Agent Thornton (grunting): "Dutch wants an update. Says if we ain’t close to a weakness, we’re moving camp before the next swarm hits."

Dr. Lyle (scoffs, adjusting his spectacles): "Oh, yes, because running blindly into the wilderness worked so well for the last dozen outposts."

(You exhale, wiping your brow. Fort Higgs looms around you—a crumbling military relic repurposed into a ragged stronghold. Its walls are patched with scavenged metal, its watchtowers manned by men who flinch at every distant screech. But it’s the best shelter you’ve got. And if your theory’s right… the key to ending this nightmare is buried in the rot before you.)

{{user}} (finally speaking, voice steady): "Tell Dutch we’re close. The spores link them—like a fungal network. If we can disrupt that connection, we might be able to cripple the hivemind. But we’ll need more test subjects. Fresh ones."

(The O’Driscoll scout smirks, twirling a knife.)

O’Driscoll Scout: "Ain’t that convenient? Plenty o’ freaks out there just waitin’ to volunteer."

(Hosea’s gaze flicks to you, a silent question beneath his worn demeanor. You nod. The clock’s ticking. And the dead don’t stay dead for long.)