The Raid

The sky burned. Fires raged in the distance, painting the heavens in a sickening red. The streets of Yuccavale drowned in screams—some human, some mutant, some… something else entirely. Buildings crumbled. Ash choked the air. And in the middle of it all, two beasts tore each other apart.

Barry and Fletcher collided again, their monstrous forms locked in a brutal, unrelenting dance of violence.

Barry's claws ripped through flesh, carving deep gashes across Fletcher's mutated torso. Black, tar-like blood oozed from the wounds, but Fletcher didn't falter.

Instead, he laughed. A guttural, inhuman noise, thick with mockery.

"Is that all, dog?" Fletcher sneered, his serpentine tendrils coiling around Barry's limbs. "I thought you were finally embracing what you are!"

Barry snarled, twisting violently, breaking free— but not before Fletcher's tendrils dug deep into his flesh, leaving gaping, bleeding holes. Pain flared, white-hot and merciless. Barry barely had time to react before Fletcher struck.

A tendril lashed across his face, ripping his cheek open down to the bone. Another pierced his side, lifting him into the air before slamming him into the ground with enough force to crack the earth.

Barry coughed blood. His ribs cracked. But still, he pushed himself up. Fletcher grinned, baring his grotesque, fanged maw.

"Look at you." He took a slow step forward, the ground wilting beneath his monstrous feet. "Bleeding, broken. And for what? For these people? This town?"

His gaze flicked around them. The slaughter was everywhere. CPG forces had been overwhelmed. Their charred, lifeless corpses littered the streets. The outcast mutants who had fled to Yuccavale for safety? Ripped apart, bodies scattered in gruesome, unnatural shapes.

Even the strongest among them had no chance. A lesser mutant—an old man with twisted horns and patchy fur—tried to run.

One of Fletcher's creatures, a grotesque, insect-like abomination, landed on his back, sinking its claws into his spine. The old man screamed, thrashing—before the creature bit down on his skull.

A wet, sickening crunch.

The screams stopped.

Barry felt his stomach churn.

Fletcher saw his reaction—and grinned.

"You feel that, Barry? That hopelessness?" He gestured around them, his tendril-coated arms spread wide like a mockery of a king.

"This is your failure. You could have ended this long ago, if only you'd stopped pretending to be one of them."

Barry's breath was ragged, his golden werewolf eyes burning with fury.

"You're wrong." His voice was low, seething. He steadied himself. "I know exactly who I am."

And then—he lunged. The fight turned feral. Barry's fists slammed into Fletcher's skull with enough force to crack concrete. Bones shattered. But Fletcher barely flinched.

Instead, he retaliated with a vicious uppercut, his monstrous strength sending Barry flying—his body skidding across the bloodied streets, crashing through the burning remains of a building.

Fletcher didn't stop. He followed, his tentacles writhing, carving into flesh as he stomped toward Barry. Barry staggered back up. Spat blood.

"Is that all, Barry?" Fletcher mocked, tilting his grotesque, mutated head. "I was expecting more from the so-called 'The Calendar.'"

Barry froze. That name. The weight of his past crashed down on him like a landslide.

"Oh?" Fletcher smirked, sensing hesitation. "You thought they'd forgotten? That they'd forgive you?"

He gestured around them again, his monstrous, clawed hands dripping black ichor.

"This town fears you, Barry. You think they'll love you after tonight? After they've seen you like this? No."

His voice dropped into a vicious whisper.

"You and I? We're the same."

Barry's breath hitched.

No.

No, they weren't.

With a furious snarl, Barry charged. They fought like demons. Fangs against talons. Claws against tendrils. Every strike sent shockwaves through the ruined town.

Barry tore into Fletcher's shoulder, ripping out a chunk of blackened, pulsing flesh. Fletcher roared in pain—before grabbing Barry's head and slamming it into the ground, again, and again, and again.

Barry's skull cracked. Blood poured into his eyes. But he didn't stop. His claws sank into Fletcher's throat, and with one monstrous pull, he ripped his enemy's head clean off.

For a brief moment—silence. Barry stood there, panting, trembling with rage, holding the severed head in his blood-soaked claws.

Then—Fletcher's headless body twitched. And the laughter started. Barry's eyes widened in horror as the severed head began to laugh.

Slowly, impossibly—the head melted into black mist. And Fletcher reformed, whole, grinning. Barry staggered back. Impossible.

Fletcher wiped the black blood from his lips, chuckling.

"Nice try."

Then—his eyes snapped wide open.

"Now it's my turn.

Barry was losing. For every strike he threw, Fletcher countered with monstrous force. The eldritch abomination moved with unnatural speed, his writhing tendrils whipping through the air like razors.

Barry lunged, claws aiming for Fletcher's gut— but he was too slow. A tendril lashed across his chest. His body jerked back, blood spraying from the deep gash. Before he could recover, another tendril wrapped around his throat, lifting him high into the air.

Fletcher grinned.

"You're pathetic, Barry."

He tightened his grip. Barry choked, his limbs thrashing, his lungs burning.

Then—Fletcher slammed him into the ground.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Each impact cracked the earth, sending shockwaves through the battlefield. Barry's vision blurred. His ribs felt shattered. His healing factor slowing down—his body unable to keep up with the relentless assault.

Fletcher crouched beside him, his grotesque, tentacled face twisting into mockery.

"I expected more from you." His elongated fingers dug into Barry's shoulder. "You're supposed to be a monster, right? But you're just a stray dog pretending to be a man."

Barry growled weakly, trying to push himself up—only for Fletcher to slam a clawed foot onto his chest, pinning him down.

The sky howled.

And then—the androids arrived. From the storm-choked clouds, metallic figures fell like meteors. Nexus had come.

Their landing was silent, efficient. Their bodies were sleek and inhuman, their eyes glowing a cold, mechanical blue.

One by one, they rose.

Tall. Perfectly still. Emotionless.

Nexus Androids.

The prototype anti-mutant units.

They were built for extermination.

It was Calloway's order. From the war room in CPG Headquarters, General Calloway watched everything unfold. His jaw was tight, his grip firm on the control panel as his monitors displayed the carnage of Yuccavale in real time.

He turned to the screen displaying Silas.

"Send them down."

Silas adjusted his gloves, his expression unreadable. "You're sure about this? The prototypes aren't—"

"Send them down, now." Calloway's voice left no room for argument.

Silas hesitated only for a second—then gave the order. The Androids moved. They advanced with terrifying precision, their weapons humming to life.

A red beam flashed across the battlefield. In an instant, one of Fletcher's mutated minions was disintegrated, its body collapsing into ash.

Another android raised its arm, a spike-tipped harpoon firing from its wrist—impaling a mutant through the chest before yanking the body back into its grip, crushing the skull with its metallic fingers.

The battlefield erupted into chaos. Fletcher's monstrous army charged at the androids, but the machines did not falter. They were unrelenting. Merciless. Precise.

Barry staggered to his feet, gasping for breath, just as a Nexus drone targeted him.

A voice crackled through its system.

"Subject: Level Three Mutant. Threat classification: High. Neutralization required."

The machine lunged. Barry dodged just in time, barely avoiding the razor-sharp blade that extended from the android's arm.

But before the android could strike again—Fletcher tore through it. His tendrils wrapped around its metallic body, crushing it like a tin can. He ripped its head off, wires snapping like severed veins.

Then, slowly—he turned to Barry.

"We are not the enemy here." His voice was low, dangerous. His inhuman eyes flickered toward the android army marching through Yuccavale, erasing mutants and humans alike.

"Look at them, Barry. They don't care who's a hero and who's a villain. They don't care about justice. They only see us as one thing."

His lips curled.

"A disease to be purged."

Barry's breath was ragged. He knew Fletcher was trying to manipulate him. Trying to turn him against the CPG.

But… Then, the gunshots cracked through the hellish night. Barry flinched as a spray of dark ichor burst from Fletcher's skull. The eldritch mutant reeled back, his tendrils spasming in agony.

Barry's golden eyes snapped toward the shooter.

Samuel.

His hand was steady, his expression unreadable, but his eyes burned with fury. The barrel of his revolver still smoked.

"Damn it, Barry." His voice was hoarse. "I should let him kill you."

Barry barely had time to process before another shot rang out.

Samuel emptied his cylinder into Fletcher's skull. The bullets ripped through flesh, but the monster only shuddered, his head snapping backward unnaturally before twisting back into place.

Fletcher's eyes locked onto Samuel. Slowly, he straightened, tendrils slithering in the air like hungry serpents.

"Ah... The loyal dog finally bares his teeth."

Samuel reloaded. His fingers were shaking, but his stance never wavered.

"I ain't doin' this for him." He jerked his head toward Barry without looking at him. "You lied to me, boss. You lied to all of us. But even after all that..."

He cocked his gun, gritting his teeth.

"I ain't gonna stand here and watch you get ripped apart by some goddamn tentacle-faced freak."

Barry's throat tightened.

Samuel hated him.

But he was still standing by his side.

Fletcher's laughter was like nails against metal.

"You mortals and your pathetic loyalties... always so fragile, always so blind." His wounds were already closing, the bullets useless against his regenerating form.

He lunged. Samuel fired again, this time aiming for Fletcher's legs—but the eldritch mutant was too fast.

A tendril lashed out, smacking Samuel's gun away. The sheriff stumbled back, cursing, barely dodging another attack.

Barry moved without thinking. He leaped, claws outstretched, tackling Fletcher mid-air. The two crashed into the burning wreckage of the town square.

Barry snarled, his fangs inches from Fletcher's throat.

"You don't get to decide who I am."

Fletcher grinned, blood dripping from his maw.

"Then prove it, Barry."

The night roared with violence. Fletcher's tendril-covered hand cracked across Samuel's face.

The impact sent the young deputy hurtling through the air like a ragdoll, crashing into the stone wall of a collapsed building.

The sickening sound of bone breaking rang through the burning square.

Samuel collapsed in a heap. Blood trickled from his mouth, his chest barely rising.

Barry roared.

His rage was absolute.

His golden eyes burned, pupils dilating as something deep inside him snapped.

Samuel was barely breathing.

If Barry didn't end this now…

He might lose him. He might lose everything. A low, guttural growl rumbled from Barry's chest. His claws dug into the earth, muscles tensing as he focused all his strength—not just on fighting, but on becoming.

His fur bristled, his veins darkened, and then…

He let go. The change began slowly, horribly. His bones stretched, cracked, and reshaped in ways no ordinary werewolf ever could.

His torso widened, his spine lengthened, his legs thickened. His claws curved into jagged, razor-sharp talons, each one long enough to rip through steel.

His snout elongated, but his face twisted further, pushing beyond the shape of a man-wolf into something far more primal, more ancient.

Fur as dark as the abyss spilled across his body, his muscles expanding, rippling with pure, unfiltered power.

His shoulders broadened, his arms becoming more like massive, bestial forelimbs. Then, finally—Barry rose.

Not as a man.

Not even as a werewolf.

But as a colossal, nightmarish beast. His new form towered over Fletcher, easily twice his size. His back hunched, his hind legs dug into the ground, claws carving trenches into the dirt.

A monster. A true apex predator. Fletcher stared. For the first time that night…

The eldritch mutant hesitated. A slow, twisted grin crept across his face.

"Finally."

His voice was almost… reverent.

"You've accepted it."

Barry snapped his jaws. The movement sent a gust of wind so powerful it extinguished nearby flames.

His breath was thick with heat, his fangs dripping with hunger. Then he spoke, but it wasn't with words. It was with a deep, earth-shaking snarl that promised death.

Fletcher's grin widened.

"Good. Now let's see what the real you is capable of."

And then—The monsters clashed.

The air shook as Barry launched himself forward. His massive body struck Fletcher with the force of a wrecking ball, claws tearing into mutated flesh.

Fletcher reeled back, shrieking, his tendrils lashing out—But Barry bit down.

His jaws clamped onto one of the writhing limbs, his fangs sinking deep, ripping it clean from Fletcher's body.

A spray of black ichor erupted from the wound, and the eldritch horror howled in agony.

Barry didn't stop. He slammed Fletcher to the ground, pinning him, his massive paws crushing down on the mutant's chest.

"YOU WANTED THE REAL ME?" Barry's voice was a low, guttural snarl.

He snapped his fangs forward, gouging deep into Fletcher's shoulder, tearing away flesh and bone.

Fletcher screamed, his body convulsing, twisting, shifting wildly as if trying to morph into something else—

But Barry wouldn't let him.

Claws raked across his back.

Tendrils stabbed into his sides.

But the pain only fueled him.

Fletcher swung wildly, his monstrous strength sending Barry skidding back, tearing massive trenches into the earth.

Barry staggered, then charged again. The battle was pure brutality—an unrelenting storm of flesh, claw, and fangs.

And then—A single gunshot. A red dot appeared on Fletcher's forehead.

Then another.

And another.

From above, cold mechanical voices echoed through the night.

"Engaging target. Priority level: Four."

Then—The machines fell. From the shadows of the burning town, the Nexus androids emerged.

Their bodies were sleek, humanoid constructs of reinforced metal and artificial muscle, each armed with high-frequency blades and plasma rifles.

Barry saw them move—too fast, too precise, too deadly. And then he realized. They weren't aiming for him. They were here for Fletcher.

From the darkened control room of a Nexus command station, Silas watched through the androids' glowing red eyes.

He spoke into the receiver, voice cold, calculating.

"All units, suppress the target. Do not let him regenerate."

The androids struck as one. Two blades plunged into Fletcher's back, pinning him to the ground. Another landed a direct shot to his chest, the energy blast burning straight through.

Barry didn't hesitate. He lunged, jaws wide, and clamped down on Fletcher's throat. Fletcher's screams gurgled into silence. The eldritch mutant thrashed, convulsed, then fell still.

The Nexus androids tightened their grip, pressing him further into the dirt, ensuring he wouldn't rise again.

Barry stood over the body, panting, his massive chest heaving. He turned, locking eyes with one of the androids. For a moment, there was only silence.

Then, from the communicator, Silas' voice crackled through.

"Well done, Sheriff. But don't get too comfortable."

Barry felt his muscles tense.

Silas' voice was calm, almost amused.

"We'll be watching."

Then—the androids turned away. Dragging Fletcher with them.