They called her Valaine Knox—the Blade Widow, the Iron Ghost, the woman whose presence chilled the air before her knives ever sang. With platinum hair bound in a soldier's braid and a scar carved like prophecy across her cheekbone, she watched from the shadows as plans were laid. Across from her, under the flicker of dim, dying light, sat Dr. Lorrin Vance—the heretic of science, the self-proclaimed architect of the next evolution. His smile was all teeth and treason.
Varkath Isle relocation, they said. Protection, they promised. But behind closed doors, it was something else entirely. Herd the mutants to one place. Let them burn, let them war. Let them reveal their strengths—and their weaknesses. Let the monsters devour each other, so only the strongest survived.
Valaine's voice cut through the thick air like the whisper of a blade unsheathed. "And what will you do, Doctor?"
Vance's smile widened, unsettling. He leaned forward, the overhead bulb casting jagged shadows across his gaunt face. There was a glint in his eye—not of genius, but of obsession. "I'll unleash the NeuroSpire."
He said it like a god naming a new plague. "A prototype... no, a masterpiece. A brainwave scatter device, designed to tap into the mutant cortex—specifically the volatile glands responsible for mutosterone regulation. It's all energy, you see. Emotions, rage, trauma—it's a chemical storm in their heads. And young mutants? They're walking powder kegs. All they need is the right frequency."
He reached into a leather case and slid out a jagged device, no larger than a lantern, pulsing faintly with violet light. "The NeuroSpire doesn't control them. No. That would be crude. What it does... is far more elegant. It scrambles their emotional inhibitors, forces mutosterone spikes into a frenzy. The stress builds. Their minds fracture. And then?"
Vance chuckled, a low, bone-deep sound. "They rampage. They tear each other apart. They lose themselves to instinct. And the world watches and says: 'This is why mutants must be contained.'"
Valaine said nothing. She only stared, the scar on her cheek twitching ever so slightly.
He tapped the device gently, like a father to his child. "Varkath is the test chamber. The crucible. And the NeuroSpire... is the matchstick."
Valaine's eyes narrowed. Her fingers drummed against her thigh, slow and rhythmic—an assassin's metronome. "How does it work, Vance?" she asked. "I don't care for metaphors. Give me the truth."
The doctor leaned back, the flickering light catching the glint of metal wiring running beneath his gloves. He was more machine than man now—by choice. Progress demanded sacrifice. "Very well," he said, eyes gleaming. "The NeuroSpire operates on a layered frequency architecture, one that taps into the psychic wavelengths common to all mutant brains. Specifically, it targets the parahippocampal cortex, where trauma memories are stored and emotional processing begins. In mutants, this area is hyper-developed—what some call their 'instinct core.'"
He activated a small holoprojection from his wrist, displaying a rotating 3D scan of a mutant brain, lit with flowing neural pathways. "Now, most mutants produce mutosterone as a response to stress—physical or emotional. It's what fuels their evolution, their power spikes, their adaptation. But too much of it, too fast, creates volatility. Mental degradation. Animalistic behavior. Feral instincts."
He zoomed in on the glandular region behind the frontal lobe. "This is the Mutogenic Axis. I discovered it during vivisections of captured mutants—it's unique to them. The NeuroSpire sends out an oscillating psychic pulse—between 47 and 63 Hz—that scrambles this region. It doesn't just amplify mutosterone output; it forcibly overrides their regulatory centers. They feel like they're in mortal danger, even if they're not. Their bodies react. Their minds spiral."
Valaine's brow twitched. "You're turning children into bombs."
"Not bombs," he corrected, almost lovingly. "Catalysts. Chaos incarnate. And the beauty? The NeuroSpire doesn't have to be close. I've refined its range to cover several square kilometers. Hidden towers across Varkath, disguised as communication beacons, already pulse the early test signals. The resonance builds slowly. Like a fever rising."
With a tap of his skeletal finger, Dr. Vance shifted the holoscreen. "Observe," he said, voice like a blade against glass.
The display shimmered, then snapped into focus—Azure Maw, the coastal edge of Varkath Isle. Once a military port, now a bay town inhabited by mutant fishermen. The image, captured from an overhead drone, showed rusted trawlers bobbing in gray waters, their crews hauling nets heavy with bioluminescent serpents and scaled horrors dredged from the trench. "They think themselves safe," Vance mused, "unaware they've been living in the shadow of a tower for weeks."
He tapped again. A narrow spire, disguised as a comms relay on the cliff above the port, flickered once—then pulsed with unseen frequency. Then it began.
One of the fishing ships—lurched suddenly, its engine coughing black smoke as if gutted from within. A deafening BOOM erupted, and fire licked the sky. From the blaze, something emerged. Not just a mutant—a nightmare in flesh.
Vance zoomed in, eyes gleaming. "Subject ID: R-17, codename 'Retch.'"
Retch had been stable once—barely. His mutation gave him bio-acid expulsion, but with the NeuroSpire... it evolved.
Now his body hunched like a gorilla's, skin split open with glowing fissures of viridian bile. His jaw had unhinged, stretching impossibly wide, spewing corrosive acid like a firehose. His arms tore through reinforced hull plating like it was parchment. When one nearby trawler tried to pull away, Retch leapt—leapt—over open sea, landing with a wet crunch onto the fleeing deck. He vomited a stream of acid that melted through steel and flesh alike, screams rising like gulls into the smoky sky.
The other fishermen—mutants too—tried to stop him. One launched a spiked harpoon made from whale-bone and iron. It struck true, piercing Retch's shoulder—he didn't flinch.
Another, with power over water, raised a tide to capsize the burning ship, hoping to drown the monster in the sea. Retch laughed. His breath boiled the water.
He slammed his fists into the deck, sending shockwaves that cracked hulls like driftwood. One mutant tried to psychically calm him, eyes glowing blue, lips murmuring words of peace.
Retch looked into his soul, hissed—and then sprayed a blast of acid that erased the psychic's upper half from existence.
The harbor descended into chaos. Mutants diving into the sea, others setting off flares, hoping someone would come. But there was no help. Only the rising smoke. The broken ships. The screams.
Back in the dark room, Vance's lips parted in something not quite a smile. "Unstable, yes. But oh... so effective."
Meanwhile… The chaos did not end at Azure Maw. It bled inland—into towns. Across Varkath Isle, sirens wailed like dying wolves. In Blackbarrow Hold, a township nestled in the crater of a dormant volcano, children screamed as their parents turned feral—claws sprouting, eyes glowing, bodies convulsing under the frenzy. Homes burned. Stone walls split. The market square, once a place of barter and song, now echoed with the sound of tearing flesh.
In Duskhollow, a coastal hamlet protected by kinetic shield mutants, the barrier failed as one protector's mind shattered under the NeuroSpire's pulse. He exploded from within, taking the entire watchtower with him. Those who could teleport tried—many never reappeared.
And in the capital of the isle, the stone citadel known as Dravengarde, Dren Havoc stood frozen before the panoramic viewport of the command chamber, watching the madness unfold.
He was a mutant too—but one forged by war, not consumed by it. His obsidian skin shimmered with microshards of living iron, a gift and a curse of his mutation. His eyes—normally burning red—dimmed in silent horror. He saw friends. Soldiers. Civilians. Children. Tearing each other apart. Then the NeuroSpire's second wave hit.
And Dravengarde trembled. "Initiate Containment Protocol Omega-Seven," he said, voice low and fractured.
The chamber officers blinked. "But sir, that will—"
"Seal the island," Dren barked, fists clenched so tightly blood seeped between armored knuckles. "Now."
A moment later, the ancient pylons that lined the perimeter cliffs of Varkath—forgotten relics of wars long past—ignited with a pulse of deep violet. A dome-shaped containment field surged up like a curtain of glassy light, rising skyward, sealing the isle from the world above. No ships in. No signals out. No escape.
Dren turned, barking new orders into the intercom. "Evacuate all civilians not affected by the frenzy. Move them to the Deepvaults—all levels. Lock down after phase three. No exceptions."
Throughout Dravengarde and the surviving settlements, massive circular elevators hidden beneath plazas and temples ground open, revealing tunnels carved deep into Varkath's roots—the Underground Bunkers.
Guards, medics, telekinetics—all rushed to shepherd untainted mutants down the spiraling ramps, as above them chaos roared. Those affected by the frenzy clawed at the sealed hatches, screaming in rage and agony. Some had to be put down. Others were trapped behind shield walls, pounding until their bones broke. Dren remained above. Watching. Waiting. The weight of ten million lives pressing on his shoulders. "This isn't madness," he whispered to himself, voice shaking. "It's engineered."
Without wasting another second, Dren stormed through the obsidian corridors of Dravengarde, his armored boots echoing like war drums. Doors hissed open ahead of him, guards clearing his path with silent urgency. Blood still clung to his gauntlets, drying in fractal lines across his knuckles.
He entered the Strategic Conclave Chamber—a vast, circular room surrounded by arcane projectors and embedded war tables. Above the central dais hung the map of Varkath Isle, now riddled with red flares marking outbreak zones. "Gather the Triad Council," he growled into the room's comm-node. One by one, they answered the call.
Magistrate Virellia, Head of Internal Order—gaunt and sharp-eyed, her silver prosthetic fingers tapping nervously against a datapad. She'd served as judge and executioner over Varkath's laws since the isle's founding.
Marshal Korr Thane, Chief of Security—broad-shouldered, face half-melted by past battles, voice like gravel soaked in whiskey. He commanded the loyalist mutant guard, a force already thinning by the hour.
Archivist Arodan Skell, Keeper of Secrets—a man draped in memory-weaves and veilbands, half-shaman, half-spy. He controlled all inbound and outbound communications. Nothing left Varkath without crossing his shadow.
As the chamber sealed and the map centered on the spreading chaos, Dren spoke first. "This is not natural. The frenzy must be triggered. Someone did this."
Thane slammed his fist against the table. "Then we burn whoever did. But first—containment. I need authorization to use lethal force without inquiry. We don't have time to differentiate frenzied from unstable. We end the ones out of control—quick and clean."
"Too many eyes," Virellia warned, scanning reports. "If the Capitol Council learns of this, they'll brand Varkath a red-zone. We'll be cut off, and every mutant on this rock will be classified as a level-five threat."
Skell's voice was cold silk. "I've already initiated blackout protocols. The satellites we can scramble. But ground intel? Refugees might have escaped before the dome went up. And even if they didn't—someone always talks."
Dren's jaw tightened. "So we're agreed. The Edenian government must not know what's happened here. Not until we have control."
Thane crossed his arms. "You want control? Let me unleash the Black Warden squads. We wipe the infected zones, send drones to clean the streets, and torch whatever's left. Hard reset."
Virellia interjected, "And if we do that, how do we explain the bodies? The destruction? You think Edenia won't notice an entire isle went dark and then reappeared with a third of its population erased?"
Skell added, "We could fabricate a volcanic surge. I have illusions ready to simulate tectonic activity. Make it look like a natural disaster—explain the deaths, the comms silence. But it would require temporal sync and full atmospheric masking, which... isn't perfect."
Thane scoffed. "So we're lying. Great. Until Edenia sends a scouting crew. What then? We tell them our monsters conveniently died in a landslide?"
"I'm open to better ideas," Virellia snapped. "Unless your plan is to let Edenia storm our gates and start tagging us like feral dogs."
They all turned to Dren. Waiting. Watching. And outside, the howls of madness still echoed through the ruins of Varkath. Whatever it takes, it should be done in a matter of seconds.