Vampires didn’t sleep. They didn’t dream. Yet all animals need rest in some sense of the word.

In olden days, vampires would hibernate when food was scarce. Those days are long passed, yet vampires still need small amounts of rest. By entering a cold, dark enclosed space, it is possible to enter a state of torpor. Depending on a vampire’s age, a few hours of torpor per week is sufficient.

“Subject LH is due for their biopsy.” Enola’s words traveled through acoustic channels in the wall and arrived at Ichabod’s ear.

Ichabod woke from his torpor into darkness. He pushed open the door, the heavy metal yielding with well-oiled silence. Ichabod stepped into his office and shut the hidden door behind him. It closed and blended seamlessly into the wall.

The elder’s second floor office was decorated like most others. The furniture was deep mahogany, matching the blood swirls framed on the walls. Each piece of art was only a print—the originals were stored in a hardened vault not far away. The blood swirls were a mix of abstract self-portrait, autobiography, and family history, each stroke marking a significant event in the vampire’s life, the life of their maker, and lives of prominent sires.

His right hand, Enola, stood expectantly. Even though she was absolutely still, hands clasped in front of her blouse, eagerness tugged at the corner of her red lips.

Ah, youth.

Ichabod walked past her, his footsteps far lighter than his stature should allow. “Follow and temper your expectations.”

Ichabod strode through the halls of Gnosis, with Enola following at his side. Other vampires and staff cast their gazes respectfully downward.

On each of their faces, he saw the same flickers of hope.

~

Whispers about Subject LH had trickled through the compound. Ichabod wouldn’t be surprised if all of Gnosis knew now. The board was disappointed, but it wasn’t possible to stop employees from gossiping.

It wasn’t so much the gossip that troubled Ichabod as it was the unfounded hope that it inspired.

Evolution was rarely measured in weeks, despite what those around him might hope. One could measure the growth of fangs or the dwindling heartbeat of the newly arisen, but those were simple matters. True evolution was the realm of divinity; changing the flesh had more in common with water carving rivers through bedrock.

Years made little difference when it came to their species. A newly turned vampire was little different from one a few decades old. It took thousands of years to carve an elder from the metaphorical rock.

True evolution was divine work and took an equal amount of time.

Ichabod knew this because he was an elder. He’d lived millennia and had seen it with his own eyes. Felt it in his bones.

But that didn’t stop a creature of the night from trying to subvert the gods.

Throughout history, vampire and human alike sought to escape the bounds of evolution. Attempts were made using artificial and environmental selection, though vampiric reproduction made this much less viable than sexual reproduction. In a few dozen millennia, humans were able to change wolves into dogs. Vampires had attempted to change themselves in similar ways, but the differences were minimal.

Some vampire spawn had slightly better senses, or they had slightly faster reflexes or darkvision. Slightly being the operative word. To use the modern power scale, all spawn were born at Class 1. These negligible differences in lineages only disappeared as vampires got older. Beyond three hundred years old, no lineage was different from any other.

No amount of forced selection could make a vampire spawn that was as strong as a thousand-year-old vampire. Time was the only true method of evolution.

Or so he thought. With the advent of Gnosis’s mutagens, Ichabod was forced to admit there was potential in genetic manipulation.

Mutagen-A was equivalent to vampire spawn. Mutagen-E was equivalent to three hundred years. Mutagen-X subjects were equivalent to a thousand-year-old vampire, though their bodies burned out quickly. Other mutagens achieved roughly Class 2 on the power scale.

It felt like they’d hit a bottleneck again. Despite running out of letters, no mutagen had come close to Mutagen-X. And as useful as Mutagen-X was, it was an evolutionary dead end.

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Then came Lachlan Harris.

The young man had been a Belport test subject for Mutagen-X, and, despite a relatively short tenure, he’d proved his worth to Gnosis. He’d been defeated by Dr. Venture’s cybernetic protégé, but even in defeat Lachlan had been useful—he’d exposed a weakness in the Mutagen-X line.

And now Lachlan Harris was proving useful again.

~

Ichabod and Enola descended into the bowels of Gnosis. Plush red decor gave way to concrete. The smells of perfumes and air fresheners yielded to bleach. Whispers of business turned to muffled screams of test subjects. The smell of blood grew fainter, and when Ichabod did smell it, the blood was tainted.

They passed the medical floors, the training rooms, and various storage garages. Guards and staff averted their eyes. Ichabod and Enola passed through like ghosts.

The lowermost levels of Gnosis were made for select test subjects. There were ten rooms—only three of which had ever been used.

Each set of blast doors was made of reinforced steel weighing in excess of two tons. It had taken a team of engineers and machines to set them in place. They were rated to stop everything short of an elder vampire.

Only one room was currently being used.

Finally, they arrived at the unmarked holding room of Subject LH.

The two guards outside nodded to their superior, then entered a code on the door panel. Heavy thunks sounded from the walls and the blast doors parted like some forgotten temple of the gods.

The room beyond was a mass of wires and piping, and dominated by a single massive holding tank. The tank stood almost twelve feet tall and was solid metal save for two small viewing windows and several small surgical ports. In the rest of the room, scientists congregated around the displays like insects around flowers. Ichabod thought he recognized some of them, but Dr. Evelyn Carter was the only one he knew by name. Like most other skilled workers, she was recently turned. It was always easier to turn a genius than to expect vampires to keep up with changes in science and technology.

Dr. Carter stood at one of the dissection terminals while other scientists glanced over her shoulder. Her wrinkles were beginning to mend and her hair was already turning from gray back to its youthful blond. She didn’t notice Ichabod and Enola approach—not until the other scientists retreated from her side.

Dr. Carter’s eyes flickered between Ichabod and Enola, more out of surprise than nervousness.

“Are we ready to begin?” he asked.

“Yes,” Dr. Carter replied. “Harr—Subject LH is stable and unconscious. Commencing biopsy now.”

Dr. Carter changed the display on her screen and took hold of the twin joysticks. Long robotic arms descended from the ceiling and inserted tools into the holding tank through the small ports. Both Ichabod and Enola watched the process on another nearby screen.

Lachlan Harris came into view. The young man was almost unrecognizable. His mouth and nose were covered with a breathing mask, which fed him oxygen and half of the various compounds that kept him unconscious. All his hair had fallen out, and his dark skin was covered in growths—mixtures of warts and bone-like growths. His limbs were secured with a mixture of steel braces and carbon fiber restraints.

Dr. Carter narrated. “Approximately twelve hours since last biopsy. Subject LH has experienced additional spontaneous growths on his arms and upper torso. Growths appear scaley… Others are chitin or bone. Retrieving sample for analysis.” She continued narrating as she retrieved additional samples of Lachlan’s skin and then internal samples from his heart, lungs, and liver.

Ichabod watched the process, partly out of curiosity, but mostly in case Lachlan woke up and tried to break out again.

Enola might’ve been able to manage him last time. She was almost a thousand years old and would’ve been capable enough to take on any Mutagen-X subject. But Lachlan had transcended those old bounds… There was no telling what he was capable of.

Ichabod spared a glance beside him and found Enola’s lips twitching with a mix of emotions. Curiosity, jealousy, fear… All warranted.

Ichabod’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He should’ve ignored it—

But this was his personal phone. Fourteen people had this number, including the other elders. Anyone calling or messaging his personal phone was worth picking up for.

Ichabod opened up his phone to find a single message from an unknown sender. It didn’t even have timestamp information like other text messages. All it said was:

> We want to meet.

Ichabod stared at the message.

Ichabod texted back, careful that his pointed nails hit the right keys.

> Who is this?

>

> Friends of Dr. Venture.

The reply came almost instantly—as if they’d expected the question. Ichabod stared at the message. So far as he knew, Venture hadn’t told anyone of their arrangement.

Ichabod had watched the Binary Brotherhood assault the lab. Despite knowing the assault would happen, Venture never once asked for aid. Gnosis would never have lent its forces to such a cause, but Ichabod could have intervened personally.

…But would he have intervened?

There were few creatures that Ichabod would risk his life for. Ichabod had never considered Venture among them until that night when the Brotherhood attacked. He’d watched from across the street as the warship hovered in the air and drones invaded the laboratory. Ichabod had waited for a sign.

But it never came.

He had watched from across the street as Venture’s lab was ransacked and taken over. Every day, Ichabod saw drones and mechs through the compound’s windows. A constant reminder…

“What is it?” Enola asked, both quietly and urgently.

Her voice broke Ichabod out of his trance, but he didn’t look up. Instead, he typed back:

> Where?

~ ~ ~