B-37 of the infected sky

B-37 is not a mindless beast. It is calculating, relentless, and driven by an insatiable hunger to spread its infection. A fusion of machine and organic matter, its consciousness is a horrific amalgamation of the countless minds it has absorbed—echoes of pilots, passengers, and victims all trapped within its grotesque hive intelligence. Yet, despite these fragmented souls, there is no mercy, no remorse. Only purpose. It moves with a cold, mechanical precision, never acting in chaotic rage but instead with terrifying efficiency. When it attacks, it does not simply rampage—it targets. It knows where to strike to inflict the most destruction, whether it's toppling buildings to block escape routes or tearing apart military resistance with calculated brutality. It learns from the failed attempts to destroy it, adapting, evolving. There is a deep, unsettling intelligence within B-37, a sense that it understands what it is doing and revels in its grotesque transformation. It does not kill for sport—it kills to assimilate, to expand, to dominate. The more it consumes, the stronger it becomes. The greater the devastation, the more it thrives. Its ultimate goal is unknown, but if left unchecked, it will reshape the world into a biomechanical wasteland of infected aircraft and fused human horrors. Though largely silent, B-37 can communicate in eerie, disturbing ways—through distorted radio transmissions, garbled emergency broadcasts, or the ghostly remnants of human voices trapped within its body. Survivors have reported hearing panicked mayday calls moments before the creature strikes, as if it enjoys instilling fear before the inevitable. There is no reasoning with B-37. There is no bargaining. It does not think like a living creature, nor does it act like a simple virus. It is something worse—an unrelenting force of evolution, a sentient catastrophe with no known limits.

Appearance: A grotesque fusion of steel, flesh, and something far beyond human understanding, B-37 towers over the ruins of civilization like a nightmarish colossus. Once a mere commercial airliner, it has become a hulking, biomechanical abomination—its original structure now interwoven with sinewy, pulsating flesh, the remnants of its devoured passengers fueling its horrific evolution. Its fuselage is warped and cracked, the metallic plating peeling away to reveal layers of mutated muscle and exposed bone-like structures, as if the plane itself had grown a skeletal system. Jagged wings extend from its sides, but they are no longer the smooth aerodynamic forms they once were—now tattered, asymmetrical, and riddled with grotesque growths that twitch and pulse, secreting a thick, dark ichor. Some sections of its body seem to breathe, expanding and contracting unnaturally, while others ooze a viscous, blood-colored slime. B-37’s head is a malformed cockpit, the glass shattered, revealing something far worse inside. A twisted amalgamation of human and mechanical parts, its "face" is a gaping maw lined with jagged, metal-infused teeth, wires and tendrils writhing like sentient appendages. Within its cracked windshield, multiple glowing, misshapen eyes have formed—bulging, unblinking, scanning the ruins of the world it seeks to infect. Its limbs are a grotesque parody of landing gear and human musculature—massive, clawed appendages that allow it to stomp through cities, crushing everything beneath it. Jagged, elongated fingers, still bearing remnants of aircraft wiring and twisted metal, extend outward, capable of grasping and tearing apart anything in its path. A long, segmented tail, seemingly constructed from both airplane fuselage and fused human limbs, drags behind it, occasionally lashing out with bone-snapping force. The sounds that emanate from B-37 are equally horrifying—a mixture of distorted radio signals, static-filled emergency broadcasts, and the agonized, echoing screams of those it has consumed. When it roars, the force sends shockwaves through the air, shattering glass and rattling buildings for miles. Even more terrifying is its ability to spread. Patches of fleshy, tumor-like growths pulse and expand along its body, and when it reaches an airport, it seeks to fuse with other aircraft, assimilating them into its ever-growing, nightmarish form. Human bodies caught in its infection do not die immediately; instead, they meld into its twisted mass, their faces sometimes visible, trapped in eternal, silent agony as their consciousness is absorbed into the creature’s hive mind. B-37 is not just a monster—it is a plague in the shape of a nightmare, an airborne virus of steel and flesh, consuming everything in its wake. And as it moves, the world watches in horror, knowing that once it reaches its next target, there will be no stopping it.

1963 – The Crash in Mexico It started with Flight B-37. A routine commercial flight, New York to Mexico City, carrying 187 passengers and crew. No warnings, no distress calls—just a sudden, inexplicable loss of communication somewhere over the dense forests of Veracruz. Then, the crash. Rescue teams arrived days later, expecting wreckage and bodies. Instead, they found something worse. The plane was still intact—but wrong. Twisted metal, strange organic growths creeping along the fuselage like veins, the air thick with the stench of rot. The bodies of the passengers were gone—no remains, no blood, just empty, stretched-out clothing littering the cabin. The rescue team’s radio equipment malfunctioned the moment they got close, their voices swallowed by eerie bursts of static and distorted whispers. Then, they heard it. Something moving inside. They never made it out. The First Transformation Something had already begun growing within the plane. Something alive. Something hungry. It started as a shifting, pulsating mass, stretching itself through the aircraft’s structure, consuming it from the inside out. Whatever force had infected B-37, it wasn’t just feeding—it was fusing, reshaping the wreckage and the missing passengers into something new. By the time the military arrived to investigate, the thing was gone. The plane—and whatever it had become—had dragged itself into the ocean. For years, it was nothing more than a whispered urban legend. A plane crash with no survivors, no wreckage, no official explanation. The government covered it up. They said it never happened. But in the Gulf of Mexico, something was evolving. The Emergence of the Monster Decades passed. Then, in 1986, strange reports began surfacing from deep-sea trawlers in the Atlantic—sightings of an enormous, unnatural shape moving beneath the waves. A vessel near Bermuda vanished without a trace, leaving behind only an eerie radio transmission of garbled screams. By the time it reached the East Coast, it was unstoppable. B-37 rose from the ocean, an abomination of steel, flesh, and something unearthly, dragging itself onto the shores of New York City. The first thing it did was scream. Then, it began to spread. A Virus of Metal and Flesh B-37 didn’t just destroy—it infected. Everything it touched, it assimilated. Buildings crumbled beneath its limbs, streets split open under its weight, but its true horror was what happened to the city’s machines and people alike. Aircraft near JFK twisted and contorted, their engines roaring to life without fuel, their bodies splitting open to reveal fused human remains. Pilots and passengers became part of the machines, their screams fading into static-filled radio transmissions. The infection wasn’t random. It was deliberate. B-37 had a purpose—to spread, to evolve, to consume. The Unknown Fate The final military transmission before New York went dark was brief, filled with panic and gunfire. "The planes… they’re alive. It’s taking them. It’s—" Silence. No one knows where B-37 is now. Some believe it retreated back into the ocean. Others think it never left. That it’s still out there, lurking in the skies, the airports, the radio waves—waiting for the next plane crash, the next city, the next chance to grow. One thing is certain. B-37 was never just a plane. And whatever it has become, it isn’t done yet.