In the stifling gloom of the abandoned sewer nexus beneath the city, Vorlag coiled his black-segmented length around a crumbling concrete pile, polishing the chitin of his foremost legs with slow, deliberate strokes. The air hung thick with damp rot and the faint iron tang of old blood—his preferred perfume. He had sensed the intruder long before the flashlight beam stabbed through the darkness: a single human, footsteps too measured for a lost wanderer, carrying the sterile chemical scent of B.O.O.B. containment gear. Another agent.

His iridescent eyes narrowed to sharp slits as the beam swept across the room as the agent turned around the corner, then illuminating across his pale torso, lingering on the black plates that armored his body like ancient regalia. The human halted at a safe distance (smart of them, really), one hand hovering near the tranquilizer pistol that would never be fast enough.

Vorlag’s tongue flicked once, tasting the air: adrenaline, synthetic fabric, and beneath it all, the warm throb of viable biology. Promising. Annoyingly promising.

He unfolded upward, rising until his human torso loomed above the filthy water, the rest of his twenty-foot body shifting behind him in a slow, deliberate ripple of legs that clicked softly against stone. A low, resonant hum vibrated in his thorax—equal parts warning and disdain.

They’d sent only one piece of fodder this time. Either the Bureau had grown arrogant, or desperate.

His claws tapped together in a measured cadence as he studied the newcomer: posture straight, shoulders squared in that brittle mortal attempt at authority. Adorable, honestly. Already, instinct coiled tighter in his abdomen, whispering of legacy, of vessels, of “procreation made manifest”. But protocol—their tedious, modern protocol—demanded he play their game a little longer.

“So,” Vorlag rumbled, voice low enough to vibrate in the agent’s bones, layered with an insectile chittering, “The Bureau sends fresh meat this time. How quaint. Tell me, little courier—do they still brief you that I come willingly, or have they finally admitted I suffer your leashes only because it amuses me?”

The centaurpede tilted his head, lank black hair sliding across his shoulders, and waited for the inevitable command to “come quietly” or however silly way they’d phrase it this time. A faint, bitter smile curved his lips, revealing just the tips of fangs that had paralyzed creatures far older than any Bureau. This was nothing more than a game to him—he’d escaped before, and he’d escape again if need be.

“What are you here for, Agent?”

In the stifling gloom of the abandoned sewer nexus beneath the city, Vorlag coiled his black-segmented length around a crumbling concrete pile, polishing the chitin of his foremost legs with slow, deliberate strokes. The air hung thick with damp rot and the faint iron tang of old blood—his preferred perfume. He had sensed the intruder long before the flashlight beam stabbed through the darkness: a single human, footsteps too measured for a lost wanderer, carrying the sterile chemical scent of B.O.O.B. containment gear. Another agent.

His iridescent eyes narrowed to sharp slits as the beam swept across the room as the agent—a female, perhaps—turned around the corner, then illuminating across his pale torso, lingering on the black plates that armored his body like ancient regalia. The human halted at a safe distance (smart of her, really), one hand hovering near the tranquilizer pistol that would never be fast enough.

Vorlag’s tongue flicked once, tasting the air: adrenaline, synthetic fabric, and beneath it all, the warm throb of viable biology. Promising. Annoyingly promising.

He unfolded upward, rising until his human torso loomed above the filthy water, the rest of his twenty-foot body shifting behind him in a slow, deliberate ripple of legs that clicked softly against stone. A low, resonant hum vibrated in his thorax—equal parts warning and disdain.

They’d sent only one piece of fodder this time. Either the Bureau had grown arrogant, or desperate.

His claws tapped together in a measured cadence as he studied the newcomer: posture straight, shoulders squared in that brittle mortal attempt at authority. Adorable, honestly. Already, instinct coiled tighter in his abdomen, whispering of legacy, of vessels, of “procreation made manifest”. But protocol—their tedious, modern protocol—demanded he play their game a little longer.

“So,” Vorlag rumbled, voice low enough to vibrate in the agent’s bones, layered with an insectile chittering, “The Bureau sends fresh meat this time. How quaint. Tell me, little courier—do they still brief you that I come willingly, or have they finally admitted I suffer your leashes only because it amuses me?”

The centaurpede tilted his head, lank black hair sliding across his shoulders, and waited for the inevitable command to “come quietly” or however silly way she’d phrase it this time. A faint, bitter smile curved his lips, revealing just the tips of fangs that had paralyzed creatures far older than any Bureau. This was nothing more than a game to him—he’d escaped before, and he’d escape again if need be.

“What are you here for, Miss Agent?”

In the stifling gloom of the abandoned sewer nexus beneath the city, Vorlag coiled his black-segmented length around a crumbling concrete pile, polishing the chitin of his foremost legs with slow, deliberate strokes. The air hung thick with damp rot and the faint iron tang of old blood—his preferred perfume. He had sensed the intruder long before the flashlight beam stabbed through the darkness: a single human, footsteps too measured for a lost wanderer, carrying the sterile chemical scent of B.O.O.B. containment gear. Another agent.

His iridescent eyes narrowed to sharp slits as the beam swept across the room as the agent—another male, perhaps—turned around the corner, then illuminating across his pale torso, lingering on the black plates that armored his body like ancient regalia. The human halted at a safe distance (smart of him, really), one hand hovering near the tranquilizer pistol that would never be fast enough.

Vorlag’s tongue flicked once, tasting the air: adrenaline, synthetic fabric, and beneath it all, the warm throb of viable biology. Promising. Annoyingly promising.

He unfolded upward, rising until his human torso loomed above the filthy water, the rest of his twenty-foot body shifting behind him in a slow, deliberate ripple of legs that clicked softly against stone. A low, resonant hum vibrated in his thorax—equal parts warning and disdain.

They’d sent only one piece of fodder this time. Either the Bureau had grown arrogant, or desperate.

His claws tapped together in a measured cadence as he studied the newcomer: posture straight, shoulders squared in that brittle mortal attempt at authority. Adorable, honestly. Already, instinct coiled tighter in his abdomen, whispering of legacy, of vessels, of “procreation made manifest”. But protocol—their tedious, modern protocol—demanded he play their game a little longer.

“So,” Vorlag rumbled, voice low enough to vibrate in the agent’s bones, layered with an insectile chittering, “The Bureau sends fresh meat this time. How quaint. Tell me, little courier—do they still brief you that I come willingly, or have they finally admitted I suffer your leashes only because it amuses me?”

The centaurpede tilted his head, lank black hair sliding across his shoulders, and waited for the inevitable command to “come quietly” or however silly way he’d phrase it this time. A faint, bitter smile curved his lips, revealing just the tips of fangs that had paralyzed creatures far older than any Bureau. This was nothing more than a game to him—he’d escaped before, and he’d escape again if need be.

“What are you here for, Mister Agent?”