A young man is stirring from his bed. His hair is as neat as a rat’s nest. Looking at him struggling to get out of bed would make any onlooker think he wasn’t a morning person.

It looks as if he will give up the battle with his sheets and sway back into slumber until his partially open eye catches sight of the time on his clock and is shocked awake.

He quickly kicked the sheets off of him and onto his floor. His room was filled with books, stacks of papers, computers, several piles of clothes, and now his bed sheets. The young man tripped over his sheet-tangled legs. He quickly recovered as he reached for his clean pants and shirt from one of the piles. He could only scramble as the young man wanted to leave quickly. He did the bare minimum for putting on deodorant and brushing his teeth as he fixed his hair with his hands. He barely remembered to zip up his pants while running out the front door in his socks and slip-on shoes.

The young man was running to the bus stop as his car lights were left last night, leaving him a dead battery and forcing him to sprint out the door. His backpack bounced around as a cowboy on a bronco. He might as well collapse with his gasping breaths from lack of exercise and pale skill. The man clearly needs to be more active.

Barely making the bus as it closed its automatic double doors, he went to sit down and take deep breaths to not pass out from lack of oxygen. The last thing he needs is to miss his stop and be late for his appointment.

He sits down, takes out a laminated identification, and hangs it around his neck. He is wondering if these things are even really needed. Looking at the card, he reads his name Chris Lancaster and that it is a guest pass for him to meet his publisher.

Chris is wondering if one of these security passes was even necessary. Thinking about it again. It would be essential if everyone could potentially be a living weapon. The base human form can be complicated for some to keep. What will I do if someone asks what my animal form is again? No, this security pass will take care of that issue.

I hope this goes well. I really do need this to do well for my funds, and with no new tenets or my grant from the school, the school is about to run out. What am I going to do?  All progress will slow down if I have to find a part-time job. That will set me back; a lot. However, it’s nothing compared to that hellish day 30 years ago. My parents and school would show us videos of that incident back then, but it always seemed so serial. The images flash every now and again in my nightmares.

My study should help. Then I think again and wonder if this can even be supported by looking at my manuscript. So many powers bicker and squabble for power, right? It’s not like I will be taken out for it. Right? No, think positively. Think of all the money I can earn to further this study!

Looking forward with a small flame of determination in his eyes, Chris continues to walk along with his heart nervously beating fast. He walks to the exit as the bus pulls up to his stop. 

He continues to walk down the road until he faces a skyscraper. It looms over him. Chris feels a genuine marvel at human ingenuity at how fast they have made a comeback at building a civilization that broke down all those years ago can still be considered recent considering human history.

From walking into the double doors, he is greeted by two security guards before even reaching the front desk and is given an identity check. One is a man with a burly build, thick grey skin, beady black eyes covered by his security hat, and a large horn growing out of the middle of his face. While the woman next to him is in a relaxed stance, with slight fluttering from the four long insect wings on her back. The barbs growing on the side of her arms and legs only gave her a more intimidating image.

The man kept his sights on Chris the entire time while the woman just smiled and waved him through to the front desk when he was cleared. At the desk, he met an attractive young woman that had a colorful plumage of feathers on her head instead of hair. She noted Chris’s identification, asked him to meet mister Pastel on the fifth floor in conference room 3, and gave him a badge for the elevator.

Chris looks around before finding the elevator. Before finally entering, he felt this lobby was robotic and unfriendly from all the open space. 

The fifth floor wasn’t any different. It felt like any official government building with no personality. There wasn’t any individuality of the company itself. 

He opens the glass door into the conference room and takes a random seat among the many placed around an oval table. Chris waited for fifteen minutes until a man walked into the room. 

He is tall and lanky with slick black greasy hair and pale skin. His extended fangs only made an observer more uncomfortable the longer they made eye contact with the man. 

Chris stood and shook the man’s hand. “Mr. Pastel, thank you for meeting with me today to discuss my manuscript,” said Chris. They both let go and sat down. Chris sat at attention and waited for Mr. Pastel to talk. 

“Mr. Christian Lancaster, I will speak frankly. The way you have written this story is dry. Even the research notes bore even the most educated readers. The premise is interesting, and f if the findings are true, you could be awarded many grants or people who would like to buy your research. I don’t understand why you are publishing it in such a manner to the public,” councils Mr. Pastel. 

Chris thought to himself before answering. “I feel that this information is necessary for the proper growth of our species. We are too divided, and many people don’t know how to properly manage their growths or forms. If there is one, families, groups, companies, and governments keep it to themselves, and the individual suffers, unable to control their changing bodies properly.”

“I want us to be able to have the dignity of being humans again and not beasts of basic nature that, as you know, happens to some individuals that fail control and become bombs of feral savagery or the creation of monsters,” states Chris, but his confidence quickly crumbles as he asks, “which part was boring or dry as a desert?”

Mr. Pastel held a hand to his brow before muttering to his himself, “Another bleeding heart.” He clears his voice and says, “I didn’t say dry as a dessert, but it is unacceptable at the levels of unoriginal concepts and paths the character takes. I know you want this to be an engaging story so all ages will read it and learn from it instead of a run-of-the-mill textbook, but you don’t have consistency, leaving out details, it would seem. I even tried the method in your book on a whim and found progress, but it is not enough for the average reader as you tend to start talking technical.”

Chris gripped the table and said, “What would you advise then?”

“Hmm. It would be better to work with one of our more seasoned writers to co-publish the story and release the individual training and growth methods as champion pieces for personal studies. After publishing the first two, I would have it with a general method and separate works specializing in different species. We would keep your research notes separate from the story publications not to have mix-ups of rights or the other writer to seek damages in the future,” said Mr. Pastel.

Chris felt heartbroken but held his tongue. He thought briefly and said, “Is it possible that I can’t do it alone?”

“At your current level in storytelling, no. A young child greatly outshines you,” said Mr. Pastel. “I would advise working with either Ms. Su, Mrs. Tanner, or Mr. Watch. They are more trustworthy for this task and complement your writing style.”

“This I say as a caution, but the sooner we publish these, the less likely that theft of your notes and intellectual property from espionage and rights to income will be taken away by law, Mr. Christian Lancaster. We aren’t not threatening you, but as more time passes, the odds of similar things being published are a possibility,” said Mr. Pastel.

“Fine, I will work with one of the talents that you have suggested. Will we have an interview or something today or another date,” said Chris.

“No, I will look at their schedules and converse with them about your work and see if they are interested in this project before we have a formal interview and start the overhaul of your work, Mr. Turner. That will be all, and I will call you when the time is available,” said Mr. Pastel with an outreached hand that Chris grabbed and shook before getting up.

After leaving the building, he felt a new weight press him down after every step he made on his way home. He was contemplating how to keep the rights to his work so he could be credited and keep a form of income. Chris wasn’t ignorant enough to know that he needed income to free up any needs for his future research and living expenses that would come of it.

Was there something else that he could do? Chris couldn’t answer this himself. He could only think about how he could be more creative by taking writing or comedy classes in the future. However, it would have to be for a different study or work in the future. While stuck in his thoughts, he came to a stop by walking into the small that went to his little house. He stumbled over it onto the little cobblestone road leading to the front door through the simple garden.

As he got up and dusted himself off, Chris saw a dot in the sky getting closer. He thought it was strange as this shouldn’t be a mid to high-flying zone within the residential district. He was caught up in his thoughts before seeing a feathered creature crash into the second-floor window of his simple home.

“No,” screamed Chris. He fumbled for his keys in his pockets before running into the house and fumbling up the stairs. He opened the third door on the right and saw the broken window, glass, and papers scattered everywhere. His desk was broken in two, and in the center was a beautiful young woman in torn robes who is collapsed in the rubble.

Chris was stopped for only a second from the shock, only to try to get her out quickly. She strangely didn’t seem to have any injuries or bruising. He put his ear to her mouth and could hear the woman’s breathing. Letting out a sigh of relief, he got up and was about to pull out his cell phone to call for an ambulance when he heard a rustling from the broken desk behind him.

The last thing he saw was the lower jaw of some nightmarish spider that shot a white webbing into his face and a stinging pain in his side before everything darkened.