ILLUSION
	Book I: The Sickness

	MENA

	He smelled of liquor and musk, both that of an aroused male and artificial cologne. His muzzle was pressed to hers in a sloppy kiss, leaning against the door behind her and fondling her breast. Mena giggled and shoved his head away with the paw that held her beer; the knuckles brushed against his lips, which took her fingers into his mouth to suckle. She laughed uncontrollably.
	"N-no, Carson, stop--not--not tonight, my dad's home..."
	The drunken reptile groped at the doorknob, resting his scaly blue head against his canine lover's bosom. "Well hey, the more the merrier...you never know, he might be into it."
	Mena snorted and slapped his neck. "You're a real pig, ya know..."
	Carson took the beer from her and stood to his full height, throwing back his head and swallowing down the remainder of the bottle's contents. "Yes I am, but I'm your pig."
	"Yes you are..." Mena leaned up and kissed at his jawline, reaching around and opening the door. She stepped backwards into the dark entry hall and waved. "Maybe tomorrow, but at your place. And no booze--I don't wanna, like, vomit mid-coitus or something..."
	Carson wiped his mouth on his jacket and stepped back, half-bowing. "Well until then, au revoir my lovely little sexpuppy."
	Mena flipped him the bird and closed the door in his face. She watched him stumble back to his car through the peephole, rubbing at her inner thigh as she stared at his thick tailbase. Many of the other girls at school thought it gross that she was dating a reptile. But Mena told herself that she was lucky--those girls had never had a boyfriend that could fuck like Carson could.
	The light in the living room was on; she had to hope her father hadn't heard her coming in. It wasn't so much that she had been drinking that would land her in trouble as it was that she had been out as late as she had. Mike always worried too much about her. Mena dropped her coat on the floor and trod as silently as possible into the den, her soft footpads on the carpet masking her steps.
	Mike Ferris worked as an accountant for the Regional Infrastructure Administrator--he was responsible for all the funding that went into rebuilding the city's roadways. He'd been working at it for a good twelve years now, and his duties were near completion, so the RIA often had him working late nights to hammer out the numbers as quickly as possible. The border collie was draped lengthways across a recliner, asleep. A huge ream of documents and legal pads sat on the coffee table in front of him, his reading glasses caught between his cheek and shoulder. It was very possible he'd only fallen asleep recently.
	Unfortunately for Mena, he was a light sleeper. Barely had she made it to the hall leading to her bedroom when Mike jolted awake, causing his daughter to start. He raised himself to sit, rubbing at an eye and blinking. "Mmf...you're home late."
	Mena shrugged and played innocent, scratching an ear. "Had a few drinks."
	Mike scrunched his face up and rested his his head on a paw. "Well, before, you, uh...go to bed, just..." He paused, appearing deep in thought. Mena leaned forward, waiting for a response. Soon he was snoring again. She shook her head and turned to walk away, waving over her shoulder to him. "Will do, dad."
	Once she was in her room with the door closed behind her, Mena shed her clothes and yawned widely. No sooner had she fallen forward onto her matress than she shrieked and jumped back up again, sitting against the wall. There was something warm and squirming under the sheets. A moment later she heard grunting, and Carson's head appeared by her pillow. "Oh, hey there."
	Mena groaned and kicked at him. "The helllll, Carson..."
	The lizard rolled over onto his back. "What, I needed a blanket. Car was too cold; I woulda gotten halfway home and woken up parked in someone's pool."
	Mena huffed and laid back down again, pulling the comforter over her. "How did you even get in?"
	Carson squinted at her. "Uhh...I dunno, I forgot."
	Mena pulled the scaly intruder close, wrapping her arms around him. He wiggled and hummed approvingly. "Will you be my blanket?" he asked in a high voice. Mena gave him a peck on the cheek. "Fine. But just for the night--I gotta wake you up early so my dad doesn't find you in here."
	Carson rolled Mena over so he was on top of her, rubbing her shoulders. "What would be bad about finding me here, hmm?"
	She wriggled beneath him and rolled her shoulders back. "Well, he might think we were doing something innappropriate..."
	
	BREAK FOR EDIT

	TYMON
	He awoke cold and alone, coughing violently and vomiting nearly-coagulated blood. He rolled over onto his side, using an arm to pull himself forward, away from the puddle of red-sick. There was no sun, nothing to warm him as he slept. Clouds hung heavy overhead, blocking the light. His eyes were blurred and caked shut with salt. He pried them open and looked up at the sky. Daytime.
	He touched his face. His hands.
	His side.
	All better now.
	His name was Tymon, and he was alive.
	Tymon pulled back his weathered jacket and looked down at himself. The wound was gone; the bullet had passed through cleanly, so there was no need to worry about having to dig it out. His once-white undershirt was almost completely red, though, the fabric torn where the bullet had entered.
	He pushed himself up onto all fours, then rose slowly, shakily, to stand upright. He rubbed at his eyes and pushed his hair aside, looking around and taking in his surroundings. There wasn't much to see.
	The human boy frowned. He'd killed more wolves last night. That meant bad things were going to happen. But that was alright--bad things had happened before, he'd worked through it. Eventually he'd kill enough of them and they'd just go away again. Then he just had to walk some more.
	So Tymon stretched, turned in a circle, and began walking.

	QUINN
	Jonas Quinn rubbed a temple as he leafed through the report, passing over mission statements, testimonials from the C.O.'s, and all manner of grisly diagrams and photographs taken at the boathouse. He settled on the signed statement of Malcolm Tillman, which offered little information he hadn't heard from thirty other sources. Quinn frowned.
	"This is all the information you can give?" he asked without looking up.
	He sat across from a weary and red-eyed Tillman, at a steel table in a mirrored interrogation room. The door was closed, but not locked: this session wasn't being monitored.
	Tillman just shrugged. Quinn sighed and laid the files on the table, tapping his claws on the cold metal in tune to a song playing in his head.
	"It's...a highly unusual situation," he said. "You confess to a misfire and take responsibility for the death of one packmate, but can offer nothing in relation to what happened to the rest of your team?"
	Tillman looked up at Quinn through bleary eyes. "I was not responsible for their deaths, if that's what you're implying...sir."
	Quinn spread his paws. "You shot a packmate from behind, and the rest of your team with the exception of one is found dead, massacred, with a military grade automatic weapon. Radio history shows you did not even once attempt to contact your superior, forensics shows you never tried to treat your companion's wound. Quite frankly, I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't imply it."
	"It was a recon mission, sir, radio silence was mandatory once Bl...the Alpha had split the team up. And I was ill-equipped to treat wounds like that." It was true he didn't have the necessary tools to service a gunshot wound, but what Quinn didn't know was that Tillman had never passed medical in training. Blackie had had his test results fudged a bit to keep his team together.
	Quinn rubbed at his muzzle. "You had no emergency medical supplies, but you--and your team--carried with you...full weapon sets, breach and extraction gear...on a scouting mission, no less..." He seemed to be talking to himself now. Quinn read over the statement again, then looked over his glasses at Tillman. "Your Omega didn't have a tagname, correct?"
	Tillman shrugged. "Was his first assignment." He tilted his head and frowned at Quinn. "I'd think you would be in charge of all of this, sir...?"
	Quinn scoffed and waved the question away. "I run a business, not a militia. 'Alpha' is nothing more than a title."
	Tillman just shrugged again. Both sat in silence.
	A few minutes later, the door opened, and a wolf in casual clothing beckoned to Quinn, who nodded and turned back to Tillman as the door closed again. "Personally...I can see most of the blame for what happened being passed to the team leader. But unfortunately I'm obligated to have you screened for any kind of psychological distress or malcontent. Anything that may have caused a breakdown leading to the attacks," he added as he saw Tillman rolling his eyes. "I won't have you staying in the stockades, though."
	Tillman tilted his head again. Quinn reached into his breast pocket and pulled forth a white keycard, handing it to his subordinate.
	"There's a bed in my quarters. You'll sleep there until you're released; the number for room services is on the bedside phone."
	Tillman blinked, but nodded. "Yes, sir...?"
	Quinn motioned for him to stay put and stood, crossing the room to the door and opening it to look out. The staff member stood waiting outside, holding a manila folder. Quinn straightened his glasses and glanced down at his wristwatch. "What is it?" he asked.
	The orderly offered the heavy folder and opened his mouth to speak, but Quinn silenced him with a paw and rubbed his forehead. "Could this wait? I've been reading your papers all night and morning, I need my sleep."
	The smaller wolf withdrew the folder, brow furrowing. "They're not m..." He coughed and straightened up. "It's fairly important, sir."
	Quinn clasped his paw over the wolf's muzzle. "Not as important as your Alpha getting his rest. You can drop them off with me later tonight."	
	The orderly nodded and wandered away, unsure of what to do now. Quinn pulled his head back into the interrogation room and nodded to Tillman, who stood slowly and shuffled over to the door. Quinn put an arm around his shoulder and led him out into the hall.
	Tillman exhaled loudly. "How is Blackie doing, Sir? Er--Argyle, I mean."
	Quinn smirked. "I have no doubt he'll pull through it, but he's comatose at the moment. Trust me," he laughed, seeing Tillman's alarmed reaction, "I raised him, I know he'll survive it. It was only a couple of bullets, after all, nothing at all serious."
	He tried to hide it, but Quinn could tell Tillman was smiling. He patted his neck, and they continued on.

	MENA
	She'd slept in fairly late; Carson had left sometime during the night. Mena kept her eyes closed, arms roaming over the empty space in the bed beside her, searching for her lover's warmth. When she had awoken enough to reason that he must have gone, she dug her paw into the sheets and cracked her eyes open, sitting up partway.
	Carson must not have been as drunk as he had acted, for a freshly cleaned, neatly folded set of clothes sat on the foot of her bed. Atop the stack of clothing was a small slip of paper. Mena reached across the bed and opened it, reading:
	HAD A GREAT NIGHT, CALL ME WHEN YOU WAKE UP. ~C
	Her head was buzzing--she couldn't tell if she was hungover, or if it was her body trying to recover from the sex-coma she'd just awoken from. The former sounded a lot less fun--Mena decided on the sex-coma. Kicking the covers off herself, she stood and exposed her naked form, stretching a minute before sifting through the clothes Carson had left and pulling a pair of silk panties on. As much of a gentlemen as he may have been, Carson was no expert on female apparel--he'd set out an athletic bra. Mena left it there, choosing only to wear the shorts and a black hoodie lying on the floor. She zipped it only halfway up, leaving her breasts partially exposed. She figured it was alright; her dad would be at work by now.
	Mena stepped out into the house and was greeted with the smell of brewing coffee. She could tell it was mild; Carson must have put it on before he left. Mike only drank dark. She yawned and made her way to the kitchen, combing curls out of her tail with her fingers as she went. Barely had she rounded the corner and stepped onto the tile floor when none other than Mike himself collided with her, causing Mena to yelp in shock. Mike turned away, covering his eyes.
	"Zip up, Mimi, for the love of God, zip up!"
	Mena did so, holding her arms over her chest, heart pounding. "Dammit, Mike--what are you still doing here?"
	Mike turned and opened his eyes again, holding up a mug. "Making you coffee." He stepped past her out into the den, scratching his shoulder. "I called in sick today; told 'em I got a case of salmonella."
	Mena sighed and followed after him. "Don't talk about him like that, Dad, you know how much I like him. Besides, we didn't even do anything," she lied.
	Mike sat in his recliner and reached for the remote, flipping through the channels on the muted TV. "So I guess last night you were just getting ready for Easter, huh?"
	Mena frowned, confused. "What're you talking about?"
	Mike's voiced raised in pitch, imitating that of his daughter's. "Oh, Carson, lets make eggs, lots of eggies, oh, oh--"
	Mena groaned and covered her eyes, heat rushing to her face. Mike shrugged and put the mug on the coffee table in front of her. "Hey, whatever kind of critter you decide to let into your pants is your business, you're old enough now. But when ya make noise like that--" He jabbed a thumb towards her bedroom door. "--You can't expect me not to say anything." He nodded and waved a paw at her chest. "And uh, just...cover up after, too. I'd like your partner being the only one in the house to see your lovelies in the morning, thanks much."
	Mena sat on the couch across from Mike, twisting her paws in her lap. Mike settled on a station and stole a sip from her coffee and wincing. "Blech. I, uh...talked to him this morning, before he left."
	Mena opened her eyes wide. "It was nothing BAD," Mike said quickly. "I mean, he's a nice guy and all, but..." He stuck his tongue out in a reptilian fashion, waggling his paws. Mena rolled her eyes. "What difference does that make? I still love him all the same."
	Mike spread his arms. "And I'm glad you found someone that makes you happy! I have to give props to the guy, that is an impressive feat for anyone. All I'm saying is, you know...I wish you would have chosen someone who can really support you, who can, uh..." He coughed. "Who can breed you. Who isn't there just to make you happy in only that sense."
	Mena sat back and squinted at her father. "Are you saying Carson won't be able to support me?"
	Mike shrugged again. "In terms of maternal affairs? No. Financially remains to be seen, I don't know the guy well enough."
	"Well, you want grandkids? Polygamy's the answer for that," Mena said, crossing her arms.
	"Oh, God no," Mike said, "I know you--with your libido, you'd have both guys going at it with each other for your own personal amusement. I don't think either of them would be too happy with that arrangement."
	Mena pouted. "Trying to make me feel like some kind of slut...?"
	Mike clasped his paws together. "Sweetie, sorry, but I really don't have to try. You're sleeping with a guy who sheds his skin once a year. You're a slut."
	Mena whimpered, which made Mike smile. He climbed out of his chair and sat on the couch, embracing his daughter. "I'm kidding, Mimi. Even if you are a scaleloving slut, I still love you, and I'm happy you're happy."
	Mena laid her head against him. "Yeah, I'm happy."
	Mike rubbed behind her ears. "Just keep plenty of lube around."
	Mena growled and slapped his shoulder, crawling out from under him and walking away. Mike flailed his arms. "I meant for when he sheds!"

	TYMON
	The clouds still hid the sun, even as it had begun to settle across the horizon, but Tymon knew the day was coming to an end. He'd been traveling since he'd awoken--his joints creaked, his chest was tight, his shirt clung to his back, warm and damp. He'd need food and water soon, and clothes; with the damage his shirt and jacket had sustained, it was a wonder they'd held up for as long as they had. Tymon had never been familiar with the concept of currency, because in the few situations he found himself interacting with others, it always seemed as if there was someone else providing the things he needed. Sometimes he'd walk into small towns, into buildings, and find whole racks of food laid out for him--it was like someone knew he was coming.
	Tymon half-ran, half-slid down a rocky slope, coming to the forest's fringe and passing out of the trees. He saw a few yards ahead what looked to be a ravine, the slope dropping off suddenly. Closer inspection revealed it to be a large concrete embankment. Beneath it was a road; a widespread blacktop that, as Tymon drew even closer, curved down around the slope, heading west. He followed it with his eyes, watching it weave through hills and trees, signs, billboards, and eventually buildings, houses. There was a town up ahead.
	Tymon dropped down from the concrete ledge, landing painfully on his rear. Pulling himself up, he rubbed his sore backside and stepped forward, onto the asphault.
	It was as if he'd triggered some kind of switch--off to his right, lights suddenly appeared; several pairs of twin floating orbs, moving fast down the slope for only a moment before disappearing behind a bend. Tymon sprinted across the road, diving into a clump of bushes just before the roar of engines could be heard and the lights reappeared. Four black SUV's, great, hulking vehicles, sped out into view, moving together in perfect unison like a serpent. They sped down the road at a breakneck pace, zooming out of Tymon's view almost as quick as they had came.
	He waited until the sound of their engines had completely faded away before climbing back up onto the road. Vaguely he wondered if they had been looking for him, but the passing thought held no merit, and was soon forgotten. Tymon began walking again, hugging the shoulder of the road in case more vehicles appeared.

	QUINN
	The Biotropic Anthrophysical Pharmaceuticals think-tank headquarters looked as dull and depressing as a hospital. Indeed, it had been once; but the structure had been cleaned out, a good number of rooms and wings having been converted into offices and living spaces. It hadn't been until only the last decade or so that the tactical and warfare divisions had begun to withdraw, so a good portion of the lower levels still held weaponry and armed vehicles. Jonas Quinn had been smart about the matter, though: very few of the weapons were still in commission, and none of the vehicles were operational. The lower levels were nothing but scrapyards.
	Malcolm Tillman had been sitting in Quinn's quarters on the uppermost floor since he'd been left there. There was only one bed, though--Tillman feared he'd be sleeping somewhere less luxurious that night. There was no sun visible through the wide, shaded window, only dark and heavy clouds. It was near impossible to determine if night had fallen until the window became completely black, and Tillman had to turn on a light to see.
	Around the time that he had decided to take his chances and get some sleep, the door opened and Quinn stepped in quietly. The same manila folder that the orderly from earlier had carried now rested under his arm. Quinn tiptoed across the carpet and laid the folder on the table next to the sleeping wolf, opening it up and removing only the first few documents. These were the preliminary reports and addendums, as well as personal notes and revisions that had found their way into the folder on its journey to him. Quinn pulled himself up onto the bed, being careful not to wake Tillman, and began reading.
	It was only a small amount of information, but Quinn read over it again and again until every word was imprinted on his memory. Soon after, though, he was scanning over the remaining papers, taking in as much as he could, making connections and absorbing data with the proficiency of a computer. He waited until he was completely certain of his conclusions before reaching over to shake Tillman awake. The wolf yawned and rolled over, opening his eyes. Upon seeing Quinn there, he sat upright sharply, straightening his shirt. "Y-yes, sir."
	Quinn handed him the first leaflet of papers and laid his head back against the wall. "Read these."
	Tillman scanned over the documents, slowly at first, but with progressing interest. He looked up at Quinn again once he'd finished. "Is this even possible, sir?"
	Quinn rubbed at his eyes, his glasses being pushed out onto his muzzle. "Entirely. And enough with this 'sir' business, its about as cathartic and unnecessary as me calling you 'bitch.' We're sleeping together tonight, there's no need for formalities."
	Tillman's eyes widened in shock. Quinn looked him over disapprovingly. "Hmph. I can see you misunderstood me entirely." He waited until Tillman had sighed in relief. "Of course, were I to ask you to service me in such a way, you know you'd have no choice in the matter, yes?"
	Tillman gulped and nodded. "Of course, s--uh...Jonas." He cringed when he said it, and Quinn nodded. "Back to the matter at hand, then."
	Reports had come in from BAP stations ranging almost as far north as Canada--there had been sightings of a young male human, moving invariably south. Every time he surfaced, lives were lost. Tillman's team wasn't the first group sent in to obtain information on him--at least three other teams had been supposedly killed by this human boy. And casualties weren't just limited to BAP members: one incident was recorded in which the boy invaded an occupied home. The head of the house had pulled a firearm to defend his family, and the bodies were found the next day by the oldest son, who had just come home from college. There had been no link from these murders to the sightings, and the case went unsolved.
	"Malcolm," Quinn asked, appearing deep in thought, "You said your weapon discharged because you hit a tree, correct?"
	Tillman nodded slowly. "I'd...assume so, I don't know what else it could have been.
	"Take a look at this," Quinn said, handing him one of the files. Tillman scanned it briefly, taking it to be a forensic report. One passage leapt out at him: 
	...A second bloodsource was found overlapping that of (Om.) Kissinger, which analyses shows matches subj. UV211 (deceased), exp. research, Station 65 circum. 10 years...
	Tillman frowned. "Station 65--thats here, isn't it?"
	Quinn pointed at the report. "It says UV211 was a subject here 10 years ago, marked as deceased. Apparently there was something of a miscount on their failed tests."
	"'UV211', what does that mean?" Tillman asked.
	Quinn pulled forth another form and read aloud: "'Ultraviolet series, range 300, beta-stage conversion process--terminated.' It's not unheard of that we'd experiment in other means of transformation, but this is one I've never had any knowledge of..." His brow furrowed as he read further; this was quite disturbing material.
	UV211 had been, as established by his tag number, among 300 subjects to be put through this new conversion process, one that used ultraviolet-reactive mutagenic substances rather than the standard genetic manipulation. The problem with this new process was that the substances never were able to target the subject's nervous system during transmutation, its focus heavy on the circulatory functions to transmit the mutagenic effects throughout the body. The end result was disastrous--synaptic fuck-ups caused horrific tissue breakdowns in the testees' extremeties and organs. As described by one of the veteran administrators performing these tests, the subjects had quite simply "exploded" once the conversion had been triggered.
	The mutagens were carried through the bloodstream, and by the time the heart pumped enough blood throughout the body for the substances to completely ingrain themselves within the organ systems, the UV series subjects were almost completely liquified. The bone structures remained perfectly intact--having assumed the shape matching the species the subjects were designated. UV211 had been the final failure, supposedly. The remaining 89 had been wiped off the UV series records, each one being marked as a casualty due to failed experimentation.
	"So what happened to all the others," Tillman asked, rereading the file, "They all just...disappeared?"
	Quinn shook his head. "Remember, it said the trials were 'terminated.' Look--" He pointed to the report's heading, and to the name "Al. A. Weiss". "--I know of him. He's one of those oldschool types, grew up during the war. He would naturally have eliminated any record of a botched experiment trial like this. Any record, and any evidence." He tapped his muzzle knowingly.
	"So..." Tillman frowned again. "UV211--"
	"--Real name 'Tymon Webber', age 4 at time of conversion," Quinn read off.
	"...Tymon, then," Tillman continued. "He was...what, discarded? Why did he survive the trials, and all those others were killed? And why is he coming back here?"
	Quinn shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine, but undoubtedly things will make themselves clear in the future." He pushed his glasses up his muzzle. "I was told by the same orderly that gave me these that this Weiss fellow was headed here. Due to arrive sometime tonight," he said with distate.
	Tillman handed back the file. "So...UV211 is headed for this station for some reason," he said, "And Weiss, who...used to run this place, right?" He looked at Quinn, who nodded. "He's coming here to clean up his mess."
	Quinn spread his paws. "And here we have our story."