The broadcast wasn't over.
After the explanation of Fog Power stages, Dr. Halbridge barely paused before pulling up a second chart. This time, the screen filled with blurry images—silhouettes of twisted creatures, each one worse than the last.
"And now... onto the bigger problem," Halbridge said, adjusting his glasses. "The Pink Fog isn't just changing people. It's changing everything."
The reporter shifted nervously. "You mean the animals?"
"Animals, plants, anything organic. Once exposed to the Pink Fog, they mutate beyond saving. We call them Nightmare Creatures. Unlike humans, they don't adapt. They don't stabilize. They just become... monsters."
Sly crossed his arms as he watched. "So much for saving the family dog."
Halbridge tapped the next slide. "And humans? Those who survive transformation without losing their minds? We now call them Glints. They're the rare few—sane, functional, and still themselves. But those same people, if they stay in the fog too long, if they push too far... they lose control. When that happens, they become something worse."
The screen shifted again. The image was of a twisted, half-human figure with glowing eyes and too many teeth.
"We call them Fades. Overexposed Glints, driven mad by the fog. Their strength keeps growing, but their minds don't. Eventually, they become no different from Nightmare Creatures. Just another threat in the mist."
The reporter frowned. "And these creatures... they're organizing?"
Halbridge gave a grim nod. "That's the part no one wanted to believe. But yes. The creatures are forming ranks. They're claiming territory. They're fighting for control. We've identified five levels so far."
Another chart appeared, listing the ranks clearly:
Stray – Loner:
The weakest rank. Isolated Fades or Nightmare Creatures wandering alone. No strategy. No coordination. Easy targets if you're careful.
Pack:
Small groups working together. Still clumsy, but they overwhelm with numbers.
Caller:
A significant jump in power. Callers don't just fight —they lead. They can organize packs, direct ambushes, and defend territory. Wherever a Caller appears, territory wars follow.
A General or Boss:
Massive, brutal, and intelligent. A Boss commands entire hordes and controls large regions of fog. They crush rival Callers and expand their domain without mercy.
King?...
"While still unconfirmed, there are increasing reports of higher-order entities referred to as 'Kings.' These are believed to oversee multiple Boss-level creatures, exhibiting coordinated control over vast regions of the Pink Fog. Should their existence be verified, it would suggest the Fog is evolving from isolated threats to a structured hierarchy, which presents a far more complex and sustained danger to human survival."
The crowd watching the broadcast stayed silent.
Bob and the others exchanged glances.
"So... good news all around," Gabe muttered.
Iris nodded slowly. "We've handled packs before. The wolves, the lizardfolks... but we haven't met a Caller yet."
Sly looked at the screen, swallowing hard. "And if a Boss shows up?"
"Run," Gabe said flatly.
Sly didn't disagree.
But Bob?
He just kept watching the broadcast, quiet, unreadable.
Something told Sly that if they ever ran into something stronger...
Bob wouldn't be the one running.
The broadcast carried on, Dr. Halbridge continuing his detailed explanation of creature ranks.
But Iris wasn't listening anymore.
She was stuck back on the earlier part of the broadcast.
Stage 2 – External Aura.
A glow. A pressure. Fog energy leaking beyond the body as a defensive shield.
She frowned, arms crossed, her gaze drifting to Bob standing just a few feet away. He wasn't paying attention either, eyes on the screen but clearly somewhere else in his head.
Stage 2 was supposed to be aura control. But... was that really all Bob had shown?
Iris thought back to the fight at the small base. The Red Hands. Gabe bleeding on the floor.
Bob had been outside when the gunshot rang out. He didn't know if Gabe was alive. All he saw through the window was Gabe lying there, not moving, surrounded by blood.
And then... he snapped.
That wasn't the usual Goliath she'd seen before. No. That was something else.
Big horns curling out of his skull. Red eyes, burning bright. Arms longer than usual, fingers stretched into claws, nails sharp like knives. His whole body had looked harder, sharper, like rage itself had shaped him. A devil Goliath.
But just yesterday? Same Goliath form as always. No horns. No glowing eyes. Just bulk and muscle. Strong, yes, but... softer. Familiar.
So why was it different?
She swallowed.
Emotion.
That was it.
The fog, the transformation—maybe it wasn't just about stages. Maybe anger, fear, pain... maybe they all pushed the body past what it was supposed to be.
What if that wasn't Stage 2 or 3?
What if it was something else entirely?
A hidden trigger.
If rage could shape Bob like that... what would joy do? Or love? Or grief?
Iris exhaled, her mind spinning. "That idiot," she muttered under her breath. "He's rewriting the rules, and he doesn't even know it."
---
Not far away, Sly was lost in his own thoughts.
The more the broadcast explained, the smaller he felt.
But Sly wasn't listening anymore.
Stage 0. That was him. Barely scratching the surface.
Meanwhile, Gabe and Iris had long since moved into Stage 1, pushing faster, growing stronger every day. Every time they entered the Pink Fog, they were ahead of him—absorbing more, transforming quicker, getting better.
And Bob? Forget it. Bob was already miles ahead, so far out of reach it wasn't worth comparing.
But...
Sly closed his eyes, replaying the stages in his head.
Stage 0 – Adaptation.
Stage 1 – Internalization.
Stage 2 – Aura.
Stage 3 – Extension.
Extension.
That was the one about controlling the Pink Fog around you, wasn't it? Turning it into something you could use. Weapons. Shields. Claws.
Did it really have to go in order?
Or could someone... skip?
A crazy idea started forming in his mind, buzzing like static.
What if I just try it?
If the fog energy was already flowing through him...
Why wait for stage 2, cant we skipped to stage 3?
Sly flexed his fingers, focusing on the pink fragment at his hand.
"Come on," he whispered.
Maybe it was impossible. Maybe he wasn't ready.
But he had nothing to lose by trying.
And if the others were moving forward every second, he wasn't about to stay behind and watch anymore.
The broadcast kept rolling,
but Gabe wasn't listening anymore.
He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes half on the screen and half on nothing. The weight of dried blood tugged at his shirt, a stiff reminder of how close things had gotten. How close they'd always been lately.
Red Hands.
Nightmare creatures.
Whatever the hell came next.
And what was their plan?
Wait for Bob to lose his temper and clean up the mess?
Hope Iris stayed sharp?
Hope Sly figured himself out?
Hope Gabe spotted the next disaster before it hit them?
Hope.
He hated that word.
Hope didn't patch bullet holes.
Hope didn't warn you before a gang tried to put you six feet under.
Hope didn't keep food in the bag or give you five seconds of peace from the fog pressing at your back.
But people could.
That was the thought that settled, quiet but clear, while Halbridge's voice droned on about Bosses and Kings and the end of the world.
They needed people.
Not soldiers. Not banners. Not fans screaming their names.
Eyes.
Ears.
Whispers.
A network.
Small. Invisible. Waiting.
A web strung between safe zones, backroads, hidden corners of what was left of the world.
Places to trade.
Places to hide.
People passing warnings before things got bad.
Not tomorrow.
Not next week.
But soon.
Because Bob wasn't going to hold the world up on his shoulders forever.
And when he finally dropped it... someone had to be there to catch the pieces.
Gabe shifted, pulling his notebook from his bag. The pencil dragged rough over damp pages, but the words landed clean:
THE WEB
Below it, he started the list.
No names yet.
Just places.
Roles.
Ideas.
And while the broadcast kept rolling, while Halbridge listed ranks and theories and all the things waiting out in the fog, Gabe kept writing.
Because the next time something came for them, hope wasn't going to cut it.
But a plan just might.
And then there was Bob.
While Doctor Halbridge kept talking—creatures, ranks, doom and gloom—Bob wasn't listening. Probably never was.
Instead, he sat cross-legged near the fire, slowly working through a can of beans like it was the most important task in the world.
Bosses. Kings. Territory wars.
Bob scraped the last bite from the can, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and gave the screen a glance like someone checking the time.
"Cool," he said, like the end of the world was just another thing on the list.
Then he tossed the empty can aside, stretched out on the ground, and closed his eyes.
Because if tomorrow came with monsters and chaos and some so-called King...
Well.
That was tomorrow's problem.
And right now?
A nap sounded better.