Henry had always admired the high guard, ever since he was a little boy. They were always so strong, so brave, and they always stood up for the right cause. The council picked only the best of the best to join the ranks, and Henry had been hoping for as long as he could remember to be one of them.

He had now been a member of the guard for several years now, and so far, it was everything he dreamed it to be. He was a friend and a leader among his fellow guard members. He didn't have any sort of special authority, but they all looked to him anyway. He was the kind of person who seemed like he should be in charge. His life was going how he had always dreamed it to.

He and a few others were assigned to track down a certain man who was causing trouble in a worse part of the city. Speaking against the government, causing destruction, and causing general mayhem. Henry had dealt with a similar situation recently, a man who had escaped from prison and was terrorizing a neighborhood. He guessed it would be fairly similar.

He and his team had the general location of where the man had been recently seen. Some of their people had managed to narrow it down to a small warehouse near the outskirts of town. Their plan was a simple one. They would have the element of surprise on their side, so they were all to barge in at once, weapons up, capture the man quickly, and drive him back to a prison somewhere. They planned on doing it at night, even though concerns were brought up that he would be gone during the night. But if they walked in and nobody was there, they would just have to try again some other time.

As they approached the warehouse, their odds didn't seem great. It was dark and quiet, and there didn't seem to be any activity around the building. But it was still worth a try. They had ultimately decided on the front door, and they all got into position. Henry was to lead the charge, and the darkness and stillness of the night around him seemed to penetrate him. As he looked at the door, the night seemed as peaceful as any. It really seemed a shame to disturb the perfect silence. But nonetheless, the mission was still a go, and Henry braced himself.

He opened the door and ran through.

Henry held up his baton, pressing a hidden button to fire up the electrical charge. He'd never actually used it before; it just gave off a menacing aura. He and his team rushed in and scattered around the warehouse in a loose circle, searching anywhere they could for the wanted man. Hopefully, they'd be done soon and he'd be home in time for a late dinner. He absently wondered what his wife has made tonight.

He found his attention diverted towards a scuffling noise on the upper level of the warehouse. Curious, he crept up the stairs and held his ballistic shield in front of him for protection. All decorative, of course, but one could never be too sure. Henry managed to reach the top of the metal staircase without any noise and stole his way down a long hallway, his heavy duty boots padding softly against the concrete.

At the end of the hall, there was a closed door made of what looked to be rotting wood. A wooden door in a warehouse primarily constructed of concrete and metal? He didn't think too deeply on it. Henry switched off the baton and slid it into the holster to free up his hand, then jiggled the smooth, rounded door handle, but it seemed jammed. He shrugged and took a few steps back, then positioned his shield in front of him and rammed it into the door at a run.

He fell forward into the room, not expecting the door to fall away quickly without much resistance. Henry landed on the floor with an 'oomph', groaning as the baton dug into his thigh, squished between his warm, soft body and the cold, hard floor. He pushed himself up onto his knees, before noticing what lay before him. His jaw dropped and a wail of anguish unwillingly escaped from his parted lips.

What he saw in that room would scar him for the rest of his life.

Henry tried to right himself, but found his legs pinned to the floor by a force he could only describe as electrical. It pulsed through him, tensing up every fibre of muscle with a pain that was almost blinding, and the very fabric of his thighs felt twisted, rooted to that very spot. He tried to raise his baton. His arm did not obey.

The walls of the circular room lit up in a blue glow. Pyrecelium, he recognised. An old fungal strain that the government had used on its people years ago, under Virecelli's reign. Biological warfare against those it deemed too weak, burning the lungs when inhaled and cooking a person from the inside without leaving a mark on their body. It helped them deny charged of genocide, allowed them to point at slums of people devoid of gunshot wound or stab-marks and say it was a plague. When Wright's people came in, the men he had looked up to for so long, who had made the national guard into an institution to aspire to, to believe in, they had eradicated the genus from existence.

Or so they thought.

Through watering eyes, Henry blinked as hard as he could, still staring at the glowing blooms growing in the cracks in the walls like mould. He thought he felt his throat burn up. He held his breath and his lungs screamed for air, but he forced himself to stay still, chest trembling with the effort. The blue glow intensified, crawling across the walls like veins awakening after a long sleep, blooms pulsing.

A low hum vibrated through the floor.

Henry clenched his jaw. Pyrecelium doesn’t hum, at least, not in any of the reports he’d studied. The old strain had been a silent killer, drifting through the air like dust The harder he thought, the harder the force pinned his legs tightened, sending a jolt up his spine. He bit back a cry. His shield lay useless beside him, its metal surface reflecting the eerie blue light. He tried again to move his arm.

Nothing.

Then, a shape shifted in the corner of the room. At first he thought it was a trick of the light, the glow warping shadows into something vaguely human. But then it stepped forward: silhouette, tall and thin, draped in something that clung to its body like wet cloth. Its movements were eerily smooth as it approached. The figure stopped just outside the brightest patch of blue. Henry could make out the faint outline of a smooth, featureless mask that reflected the fungal glow like polished bone.

“Henry,” it said. The voice was soft.

His heart lurched painfully. “Who--” The word caught in his throat, burning like acid. He coughed, choking on the taste of metal and smoke.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” the figure continued, stepping closer. The mask tilted, as though studying him. “Not yet.”

Henry’s mind raced. He knew that voice. He knew it. But the pain in his throat, the pressure on his legs, the electric pulse in the air, it all blurred together, making it impossible to think clearly. The figure crouched beside him. Up close, Henry could see that the cloth-like material wasn’t fabric at all. It was organic, threadlike almost.

Fungal.

His stomach twisted. The figure reached out a hand, its to-long fingers brushing the air just above Henry’s cheek, not quite touching him. The blue glow brightened in response, as though drawn to the gesture.

“They told you it was gone,” the figure murmured. “They told you it was destroyed. But the council lies, Henry. They always have.”

Henry’s pulse hammered in his ears. He tried to speak, to demand answers, to call for his team, but the figure shook its head gently, almost pityingly.

“They can’t hear you. Not through this.”

The pressure on his legs shifted, loosening just enough for him to feel the pins and needles of returning sensation. The figure stood again, turning toward the wall where the blooms pulsed brightest.

“You’re going to see the truth,” it said. “All of it. And when you do… you’ll understand why we had to bring you here.”

The air grew hotter as Henry’s vision blurred at the edges.

And then the floor beneath him began to move.