Are you going to stare at me now? After I’ve just saved your skin?

  You and me? We’re going to make one hell of a difference.

  Ian, here… it’s a gift.

  …

  Just run! Don’t look back son! Run!

  Now damnit!

  Ian!!!

  They munched at his flesh, and in desperation, he flailed. But the teeth held, digging deeper in. He screamed for help. Two figures stepped out of the shadows behind the beasts attacking him. One with a clipboard and a skeletal face of stone. The other wolven, furred and grinning down at him with delight.

  What are you!?

  An old friend stared at him. Hole in his gut.

  You… you damned mutt!

  You left us to die!

  Now a girl glared at him. Blood poured down her face, eyes red.

  Why did we pity you!? We should have killed you!

  A knife flashed into her hand as she lunged forward, his arms shooting up too late as the cold blade sank into his throat.

  Ian’s eyes snapped open to a grey ceiling. His heart pounded; threatening to burst out of his chest. Something wet ran down his temple. He panted away, willing his breathing to die down. It was just a dream… It had to be…

  He stared at the grey ceiling; it was blurry but… it looked like the roof above his bed. He must have still home… just a rough night. Filled with nightmares. Maybe some industrial smoke slipped through the walls again… maybe-

  “He’s regained consciousness.”

  His heart now sank, and his hands tightened into fists. No… god no, this can’t be happening…

  As his vision came back to focus, the ceiling revealed itself to rounded rather than flat, with a crisscross of supportive struts holding it in place. He didn’t have his ancient – and this point, frankly welcoming – mattress beneath him. Instead, it was a cool, smooth surface that could have only been metal and yet, his body did not shiver.

  Please…he swallowed, promptly tasting how raw his throat felt. No… focus Ian. He told himself, taking in a sharper, deeper breath. Then another. Slowly, his heart began to slow, as did his breathing. You can take it. Just… just check. To be sure...

  Gingerly, Ian lifted his arms. Two human hands drifted into view, shining gold in pale white light.

  Almost human. For it wasn’t his skin that shone, it was thick golden fur. He ran a thumb along the surface of one furry, featureless palm and flipped them over to find his digits ending black, pointed nails. Nails that felt a great deal thicker than those he used to have. Should have had.

  “Ian.” Came the voice again, a quiet, meek sounding one that came across as muffled, “Can you hear me?”

  Ignoring them, and after mentally preparing himself, Ian pushed himself upright. Across his entire body, he was coated in that same damned golden-brown fur, apart from a brief flash of white. He hissed as he glanced at his legs, both broken, bent in all the wrong-

  He stopped himself. He didn’t feel any pain, in fact, compared to the sensation of burning and being torn apart, the thought of which sent a jolt running down his back, this was an unfeeling bliss.

  Digitigrade. He realised coldly. Not human. He lifted a leg, the limb’s double-jointed structure flexing as it moved, and yet it stayed rigid. It was as if that ‘second knee’ was refusing to bend all the way. Nothing ached or stung despite the moment, and Ian couldn’t help but inspect the limb more closely. The leg itself was fairly straight, even taking that ‘knee’ into account. His jacket was gone, leaving him only a pair of badly torn trousers that resembled a ruined set of shorts, and the same grey t-shirt he had snagged from the storeroom back in-

  Burningham…

  Ian clenched his jaw. The moment he saw his hands he knew it was pointless to check the rest of himself. He wasn’t human, something else now. And yet… he needed to be certain.

  He clawed his gaze away to take in his surroundings. He found himself in some kind of glass cell, only a couple of metres wide in either direction and featureless apart from the bunk or platform he had been laid on. Outside, crates sat stowed away across a cylindrical room, secured in place by heavy duty straps. Humans – scientists and soldiers alike - moved around the compartment, checking the dark containers or simply trying to pass the time. A low whirl rumbled around him, engines, he realised as the room shuddered for but a second.

  A plane… when the hell did the bastards pull a plane out of the hat?

  “Ian, can you please talk to me?”

  Something flicked on top of his head. Ears. He tilted his head towards the source: A pair of men, dressed in woollen fleeces, were working on a terminal just past the glass. One of them was looking directly at him. “You can hear me…” he uttered quietly, flinching with a mix of surprise and relief, “How are you feeling Ian?” he asked, a faint shrill confirming it was being amplified somehow.

  Ian didn’t answer. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, glaring at the man. The scientist seemed to stiffen, but didn’t say anything as he glanced back at the console.

  Ian could only return his gaze back towards his own hands. Nyúlfur hands. This… this wasn’t a dream or nightmare at all. What had happened that day was real after all. To deny it… what would it even achieve?

  Just… what did they do to me?

  But he already knew the answer to that question, Hagen had somehow had the generosity - if one could call it that - to tell him the truth. He had been infected by the Retrovirus and yet, instead of losing himself as a Feral, he had lived – no – kept his sanity. Only to be twisted into one of these things…

  A Nyúlfur…

  But… why? Why do this? What does it even achieve? Why des-

  The memory of Birmingham and the blast burned in his mind, and with it came the death, the…

  His hands began to ache, dragging him back into reality. They were clamped shut, nails pressing into rising fur… and now shaking uncontrollably. In that moment, he suddenly felt weak. Hopeless. And unable to contain it anymore, he slumped forward and pressed his head against the clenched fists, hissing in a painful breath. Why me? Why am I still alive? Everyone I know is dead… why do I get to live when everyone els-

  “Ian, I need to-“

  Ian exploded, snapping his head back up, “Why don’t you shut up!!” he roared, words twisting into a wolfish snarl, flashing the new, vicious teeth he had.

  The scientist staggered back, one hand instinctively hovering over his heart. “J-Just-“

  “I said shut it!” Ian bellowed, finishing with a deep growl that seemed to rumble through the plane.

  That did the trick, and the scientist quickly scurried away from the terminal in a fright. Around him, other humans glanced up at him, only for another snap glare to force them to look away.

  The shaking in his hands intensified, and his nails threatened to punch through the skin. Grasping what little willpower he could muster, Ian willed his hands to open and buried his head back into them, trying to gasp in some wooden breathes of air.

  And trying to hold back his tears.

  He wanted to coil up, try and forget about the whole world. But after he managed to calm himself down, a certain, nagging urge finally compelled him to move. To hell with it. It’s better than just sitting here. He swung his legs over the side of what he realised was merely a metal bunk and lowered his feet to the ground.

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  The deck was icy cold, and pins and needles spread through his… paws? Instinctively, he recoiled. Damn it Ian, snap out of it. If Nyúlfur can walk around, you can too!

  When he managed to plant his feet back down, it wasn’t just the chill of the floor. The lack of… balance or stability was easily enough to have him topple back onto his bunk. He had to bite his tongue; in case he started throwing curses left and right. Come on Ian… think about it, you are not used to legs like this. Take it slow…

  As he rose again, he shivered and nearly staggered to one side. His sense of balance distorted; he grasped the bunk. It was like he was a kid again, trying to tip-toe through a room, reaching for some distant item that was still out of reach…

  Toes…

  He huffed, frowning as the second knee… no… not a knee. It was a heel that flexed.

  Just walking on toes huh?

  With that small revelation tucked away, he took those first shaky steps. His brain, or his mind at least still insisted on trying to walk like a human. But some hidden instinct took over and he began to move with more confidence, widening his stride as his legs ceased wobbling like jelly. At least, as far as he could without walking straight into the glass. Standing on toes or not, he would have dwarfed his former human self by height at least. As Ian started to realise where his feet would land, he couldn’t help but experiment. Bending his knee and sensing the heel flex in response as he pressed his toes into the deck. He stamped down, expecting them to sting and yet nothing ached or pulsed. It felt padded and strangely secure.

  No wonder they walk barefoot. They don’t need shoes.

  They… the Nyúlfur. Still thinking about them as if he was just a human being.

  And yet I’m not…

  He half considered kicking at the glass, but he tossed the idea aside. If the people who did this were still as smart as he thought they were, he wouldn’t be able to break out even with a Nyúlfur’s strength. Besides, even if he could smash his way through, he could see the rifles sat at the ready alongside their owners throughout the compartment. Any escape attempt would be cut painfully short.

  Hell, it’s not like I could just climb out a window.

  So, resisting the desire to slump, Ian returned to the bunk. But as he sat, the desire to do something reared its ugly head again. The little cell had nothing to occupy him, and his gut twisted at the thought of talking with one of those scientists. So instead, he decided to put his Nyúlfur senses to the test.

  He listened.

  He scratched one of the fluffy ears as it flicked from side to side. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus. He could start making them out. Voices of the passengers. Almost automatically, he began to shunt the drone of the engines out and murmurs turned to words.

  “…spoke to the pilots…”

  “…where was that sack? I…”

  “…Twenty-two…”

  “…said something was up with the instruments…”

  “…my damn gun…”

  “…need those radar towers…”

  “…still can’t believe Hagen blew the place to hell.”

  Frowning, he focused on the last speaker.

  “Can’t believe that? What about the fact we went after that fucking train instead of getting out of there?”

  “Yeah, even the mutts were ticked off. Barely had time to get on it before the word got through about using 002.”

  “That bomb blew up the Ferals at least, right? And we still got… that.”

  “Not just the Ferals…”

  An ear swivelled and locked onto the source, and opening his eyes, he spotted four soldiers sat further up the plane around a cheap plastic table, cards held in their hands.

  Even from several metres away, Ian could tell that one hand was particularly poor.

  One of the soldiers stiffened as Ian narrowed his eyes, holding his glare whilst the others tracked their comrade’s gaze. Falling silent, the four gathered the cards and moved out of sight, one constantly glancing at him, as if expecting Ian to smash his way through the glass like he was some monster from an old horror flick.

  Ian couldn’t help but smirk at the thought. Got to admit, feels good to make the bastards sq-

  ‘And did you really think I couldn’t see you hiding here? Or hear you rather, typical ape.’

  The smirk washed clean from his face.

  Is that what it felt like?

  He stared at his hands, starting to shake again.

  To see and hear far more than any human? All that raw strength? Speed?

  ‘Welcome to the master race… brother…’

  Superiority?

  His hands clamped shut, disgusted that he even considered indulging in that physical advantage. It’d make him no better.

  He tried to shove the rage aside, but then the memory of his friends crept in. Ed. Jeb. Jack… Liana… all of them dead amongst dozens of others. No, hundreds and thousands of others when Burningham vanished under that mushroom cloud in the blink of an eye.

  Everyone… I’m so sorry…

  His throat tightened and he shuddered. I failed them. If only I had…

  He stopped himself. No… there wasn’t anything he could have done. Even if the guard he pursued didn’t get the slip, they still ran the risk of getting caught.

  Hagen… Travis… they planned for it…

  If we meet again…

  Ian stopped the thought once more.

  He would cross that bridge when he came to it. Vengeance would have to wait. Escape was his only option. But regardless… even if he had that chance, where-

  An alarm screamed into life.

  Ian ducked downward, hands clamping onto his ears as the scream twisted down them like hot knives. The plane lurched sideways, and his back thumped into the glass. “Brace! Brace!”

  Brace!? Wh-

  The plane jerked the other way, metal screeching as he was thrown forward. His muzzle struck steel, his head snapping back as he slid. The alarm faded, replaced with a pitched howl. Chin and ears throbbing, he clambered back upright –

  To find the huge gash torn into the side of the plane.

  Someone screamed, his head spinning just in time to see a scientist fly by and into the void. Are you kidding me!?

  Ian’s heart raced, but no air yanked at him even as more humans were pulled towards the breach, grasping onto whatever they could. The plane tilted, revealing the side of a foggy mountain through the gash as Ian bent his knees to compensate. How am- cell damn it! I’m cut off!

  The floor lurched beneath him again. His feet slipped, sending him crashing against the tail-facing glass. His head throbbed as he tried to push himself upright. We’re climbing!

  Above him, passengers hung on to whatever crate they could grab, save for one fastened into his seat – by raw luck or strength, Ian didn’t know.

  A ping rang out as a crate that one of the soldiers had grabbed onto broke free. She let out a horrific screech as she plummeted with it.

  Right at him.

  His eyes snapped to the bunk, and he leapt up and grabbed the edge just as the glass shattered. Shards peppered the back of his skull as the guard flew past, and Ian could only watch as her head cracked against another crate, cutting off her cry as she kept going. Ian tore his eyes away, holding on as metal dug into his hands. He didn’t have to hold for long as the plane tipped back forward, allowing the former human to roll off the bunk onto his feet. Need an idea and I need it now!

  He leapt through one of the shattered windows, air no longer rushing out even as the wind whipped by the gash. A single soldier staggered to his feet, hand tight around a pistol, “The Nyúlfur! He’s loose!”

  Ian shot forward, far too fast for the guard to react. His fist smashed into the guard’s throat, and he could feel bone break under his knuckles.

  He barely saw the body fly across the hold, instead diving for the pistol, but the plane lurched again and Ian stumbled over, rolling back along the deck. The gash flashed, getting bigger as he tumbled towards it.

  Panic surged through as he clawed at the deck. Shit shit!

  His hand found a strap, but it snapped in his grasp as he fell towards the tear.

  To hell with it!

  Flipping onto his front, he slammed his fist into the deck. Pain stabbed at his hand, but his fingers brushed by something and grabbed on. He jerked to a halt. His fur whipped up in the wind and he tightened his grip, trying to spot something else to grab.

  “Ian! Pull up!”

  The scientist from before clung onto one of the crates, his thick fleece flapping wildly. Behind him, another soldier gripped onto her own. “He’ll kill us!” she barked, “Screw that!”

  She began pulling herself along the crates, towards the still-secured weapon racks and their rifles.

  “There is still time!” the scientist pleaded.

  Ian gritted his teeth, Damn it, climb up and surrender or climb up and fight? And the plane is going to crash anyway!

  There had to be another option.

  Jump! Wait, that’s-

  He stopped himself; a human wouldn’t survive.

  A Nyúlfur might.

  He glanced over his shoulder to find the plane lurching once again; sky transformed into ground. Rocks, trees-

  And a river.

  Engines screamed as the plane began to tip forward, gravity was winning. They had seconds.

  And less distance to fall…

  Risk death from falling? Or live or die as a prisoner?

  That choice was easy.

  Another ping rang out and a new crate tumbled towards him. Swinging towards it with a grunt, his free hand clasped at a loose strap. The weight jerked on his arms, but it was a clean catch as the box dangled in his grip.

  He had one chance.

  Just get lower…

  With a fatal whine, the plane began to fall. He could hear the metal ripping and tearing around him, stressed to failure. The plane might fall apart before even hitting the ground!

  The river drifted closer.

  “Ian! Just climb up! You won’t make it!”

  Lower…

  “Damn it, unjam!” shouted the soldier, but Ian refused to look up.

  Lower!

  The river was now only a few dozen metres below them.

  “Pleas-“

  The gunshot whistled by.

  Here goes!

  He let the crate go.

  Then he did.

  One moment he was yanked back. And the next he was weightless, wind buffeting him from every angle.

  His eyes flicked around, locking onto the crate below him. Snapping his arms and legs together, he dove after it, towards the river.

  Tumbling in the air, the crate smashed into the water with a distant whump.

  He spun round, stabbed his feet out and aimed for the splash-zone.

  Ian closed his eyes.

  His legs nearly snapped back in agony, and he almost gulped down water as everything around him froze. Tossed around in the current, he tried to kick up, but he was tugged back down. He tumbled over, his arm brushing past something hard. His feet hit something solid and he kicked out, shooting upwards.

  Ian’s head flung out of the water; his throat burned as he gasped for air. Blinking, he could see the plane dive ahead of him, engines smoking and flame lighting the sky.

  Then he was pulled under again, and this time he couldn’t stop water rushing into his mouth. He kicked again, clearing the surface and sputtering for breath. The river boiled and frothed, sucking Ian forward. His shoulder bounced off a rock, and he cried out as he was yanked back under. Darkness greeted him as he flailed, his head popped up again. His kicking legs screamed, another rock flashed by, a log skimmed past his head. He swivelled, trying to swim. Desperate for a bank or rock, something to grab onto.

  But the water did not release him. He rolled and tumbled, the world flashed between sky and darkness, water flooded into his mouth once more. He screamed; bubbles blown up in his eyes as his limbs flapped around uselessly.

  Something slammed into the back of his head. And he saw nothing else.