Big Bad Wolf

The dawn over Yuccavale was unlike any other. A thick, unnatural fog rolled in before the first light, curling through the streets like ghostly fingers. It was silent—too silent. Even the insects and birds had vanished. The warmth of homes, of beds, of a town still lost in its slumber, was about to be shattered. And then, the horrors descended.

He emerged from the sewers, unfolding like a nightmare given flesh. Fletcher had shed any last resemblance of humanity. His form was colossal, a towering mass of writhing limbs and chitinous plates, slick with black ichor that dripped onto the cobblestones, sizzling as it melted through stone and wood alike. His elongated, clawed fingers twitched with grotesque precision, each tipped with jagged barbs.

His head was an abomination—part skull, part cephalopod, with writhing tentacles that slithered like sentient serpents. Hollow, abyssal sockets stared forward, endless voids that consumed light itself. And from the depth of his chest cavity, something pulsed—a second, grotesque mouth that yawned open, revealing layers of interlocking fangs.

His presence alone was maddening. Shadows twisted unnaturally in his wake, buildings groaned as if alive, and the very air thickened with a suffocating pressure. The moment the first unfortunate townsperson stumbled out onto the street, eyes barely adjusted to the dim morning haze, Fletcher extended a hand toward him. The man convulsed mid-step. His body peeled, flesh unraveling from bone as if sucked into an unseen vortex. His scream never left his lips—it was stolen, devoured, erased from existence. And then, Fletcher whispered.

A deep, guttural voice slithered into the minds of all who remained asleep. It wasn't words, but something worse—an instinctive dread, a command that bypassed language itself.

The first true terror came from nothingness. The sound of Yuccavale—the rustling leaves, the distant howl of wind, the murmur of early risers—vanished. The Hollow Man stepped through the fog, a towering, skeletal being draped in the absence of existence.

Guards stationed near the town square turned at the unnatural silence. They reached for their weapons, their shouts of alarm swallowed before they could form. Their boots made no sound against the cobblestone. Their own breathing became ghostly whispers. And then, he moved.

A guard tried to fire his rifle—nothing. The bullet left the chamber but made no sound. The others watched in horror as he crumpled, his body folding inward, as if the very force of sound had been keeping him together. The Hollow Man reached for another, his long, withered fingers grasping the man's skull. No struggle, no scream—only an empty gasp as the guard imploded, his body folding into itself until nothing remained but a collapsed husk. The town square became a graveyard of silent deaths.

From the alleys, a skeletal figure shrouded in decayed rags drifted forward. Vael, the Withered Witch, once a beauty, now a wretched specter of hunger.

A farmer, his lantern barely cutting through the fog, stumbled upon her path. "Who's there?" he called, gripping the handle of his shovel. His breath misted in the air, but Vael's presence devoured warmth itself. She reached out.

The moment her fingers brushed his arm, his flesh shriveled like autumn leaves. His veins darkened, skin cracking, his life force ripped from him in a single, agonizing moment. He collapsed, a hollowed corpse, eyes wide in frozen terror.

Vael turned her gaze to his home, where his wife and child still slept. She smiled. More lives to feed.

A thunderous crash shattered what silence remained. The town armory, a reinforced building meant to store Yuccavale's weapons, burst open. Not from explosives, but from raw, monstrous strength.

Garrick the Iron Maw tore through the iron doors as if they were paper, his grotesquely stretched jaw splitting wider than humanly possible, revealing jagged, metallic teeth. His skin was a fusion of flesh and metal, each limb plated with reinforced alloys that made him an unbreakable force.

Guards rushed in, rifles raised. Garrick laughed—a hideous, mechanical grind of metal against metal. The first volley of bullets struck his skin, ricocheting off like pebbles. Then he moved.

His jaws clamped down on the nearest soldier's arm, metal teeth sinking deep. With a sickening crunch, the limb was torn free, blood spraying in an arc. The man barely had time to scream before Garrick's fist caved in his skull.

"Bring me more steel!" he roared, lifting a full-grown man with one hand before slamming him through a wooden wall.

Flames erupted across Yuccavale. They moved faster than any ordinary fire—darting through alleyways, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. But it wasn't fire. It was him.

The Red Hound, a beast in human form, his body wrapped in ember-red fur that glowed like molten coal. His movements were erratic—one moment he stood on the church's bell tower, the next he was at street level, tearing a man's throat open with a swipe of his claws.

Guards swung their weapons in desperation, but he was too fast. Too inhuman.

A mother clutched her child, trying to flee toward the town's western exit. The Red Hound appeared before her in a blink. A single, charred claw traced along her cheek. She never even saw him move.

A gust of burning wind followed, and when it passed, only a pile of ash remained where they once stood. The Slaughter Continues…

Varn, the Plague Bringer turned the town's wells into death traps, his toxic mist seeping into the water supply. Those who drank began coughing up blackened blood within minutes.

Selene, the Phantom Blade flickered through the homes like a ghost, slitting throats before anyone even knew she was there.

Dreg, the Bone Reaver cut down the town's defenses with savage efficiency, his whip-like spine slicing through groups of soldiers in a single motion.

Scylla, the Mind Leech corrupted minds, forcing fathers to kill sons, lovers to betray each other. The town was not just burning—it was breaking from within.

And at the center of it all, Fletcher watched, his massive form rising above the carnage. His many eyes took in the slaughter, the suffering, the beautiful destruction of Yuccavale.

While Barry's room still dim, bathed in the soft glow of the dying fireplace. The scent of sweat and lingering passion clung to the air. Lilian lay draped over Barry's chest, her breath slow and steady, her body still trembling from the night before.

Barry's eyes snapped open. His senses flared—his hearing sharpening beyond human limits, his nose twitching as it picked up something unnatural. The distant scent of blood. Smoke. Something's wrong.

His muscles tensed, the primal instincts buried within him clawing their way to the surface. His heartbeat steadied into a hunter's rhythm, his body already preparing for a fight.

Lilian stirred as he shifted beneath her. "Mmm… what is it?" her voice was drowsy, heavy with exhaustion. She blinked up at him, her eyes hazy.

"I hear something," Barry muttered, his voice low, edged with urgency. "Something bad."

Lilian frowned, still half-asleep. "You sure?"

A distant scream cut through the silence of the night. She jolted awake.

Barry gently moved her off his chest, sitting up as the weight of the moment settled over him. Lilian, still trembling, reached for him. Her fingers brushed his scars, then his jaw, then his lips. "Be careful," she whispered, leaning in to press a lingering kiss against his mouth. He kissed her back, rough but brief. No time to savor it.

She rested her forehead against his for a fleeting second, eyes filled with concern. "Come back to me."

Barry exhaled through his nose. "Always."

Then he was moving. The cold night air bit at his skin as he stepped outside, but he barely felt it. The sounds of chaos—shouts, crashing wood, distant explosions—were clearer now. The acrid scent of burning flesh curled in his nostrils. His pulse quickened. Then, the shift began.

Bones cracked. Tendons snapped and reformed. His muscles stretched and swelled beneath his skin. Claws burst from his fingertips. His jaw extended, teeth lengthening into vicious fangs. A deep, guttural growl rumbled in his chest as thick fur spread over his body like wildfire.

By the time he hit the ground, he was no longer a man. Barry, the beast, sprinted toward the slaughter. Barry ran. As fast as he could.

His claws tore into the dirt, his massive frame weaving through the narrow village streets, past burning homes and the mutilated bodies of townsfolk. The acrid scent of charred flesh and spilled blood filled his lungs, mixing with the screams and gunfire that echoed through Yuccavale.

But he didn't stop. He had no time to grieve, no time to hesitate. Then, he saw it. The carnage.

Bodies hung from shattered buildings, their blood painting the cobblestone streets in thick, dark pools. The Hollow Man drifted silently through the town square, absorbing every sound—muting the horror into an eerie quiet. Vael, the Withered Witch, moved through the corpses, her skeletal fingers brushing against the wounded, draining their last breaths into nothing. The Red Hound was a blur of motion, carving through the CPG soldiers like they were nothing but cattle, their shredded remains falling in his wake. Barry's gaze snapped upward. And there he was. Fletcher.

The eldritch horror stood atop the ruined town hall, his form a grotesque nightmare of writhing flesh, eyes that did not belong, and tendrils shifting in and out of reality. His body was vast—an amalgamation of ancient horrors, a form that defied the very laws of existence. His elongated skull-like face twisted into something resembling a smile, his abyssal eyes locking onto Barry.

"You came," Fletcher's voice was a chorus of whispers and roars, layered upon itself like a thousand voices speaking as one. "Good. I was hoping to see the real you."

Barry didn't hesitate. He let go. His muscles bulged, his bones snapped and reformed, his fur darkening into an abyssal black. His frame expanded, growing beyond the size of any normal werewolf—his claws lengthening into weapons meant for war, his eyes burning with primal fury. His heartbeat slowed, his instincts sharpening, his thoughts fading into something purer. He was no longer Barry. He was the wolf.

With a deafening snarl, the monstrous black beast launched itself toward Fletcher, the earth cracking beneath his weight.

Fletcher's grin widened. "Yes… this time, I'll win."

The moment Barry's monstrous form launched through the air, Fletcher didn't flinch—he welcomed it.

The impact shook the ruined town hall as Barry's massive black claws slashed toward Fletcher's grotesque form. But Fletcher, his body twisting and shifting like liquid shadow, caught the strike mid-air with a mass of writhing tendrils. The town hall's rooftop crumbled beneath them as both beasts collided, snarling and roaring in a storm of claws, tendrils, and pure brutality.

Barry twisted his body, using the weight of his enlarged form to slam Fletcher into the rubble below. The eldritch abomination's body sunk into the ground like ink spilling across a page—only to reform instantly, his clawed hand shooting out and raking across Barry's side, slicing deep into his thick hide.

Barry howled in pain but answered with his own attack—lunging forward and sinking his massive fangs into Fletcher's shoulder. Black ichor gushed from the wound, sizzling against Barry's tongue like acid. Fletcher let out a distorted, inhuman laugh.

"You think biting me will help you, dog?" Fletcher hissed, his voice slithering into Barry's mind like a disease. "I am beyond flesh. Beyond pain."

Barry's response was simple—he bit harder. Fletcher screeched as Barry ripped a chunk of his unnatural flesh away, but the wound mended itself within seconds. A dozen new eyes blinked open across his exposed ribs, each one glowing with a hellish hunger.

Fletcher retaliated, his body mutating, shifting. His limbs elongated into bladed appendages, striking Barry with enough force to send the massive wolf crashing through a burning building.

Barry rolled, coughing up blood, but forced himself up.

"Still standing?" Fletcher mocked, stepping closer. "I expected more. Maybe you should've stayed in bed with that pathetic woman of yours. You could've died in her arms instead."

Barry growled, shaking dust from his fur. His golden eyes burned. "You talk too much," he snarled.

He pounced again—this time faster, more savage. He slammed into Fletcher's midsection, driving him backward through the remains of the town hall. The force sent both of them tumbling through walls and debris, their battle ripping through the heart of Yuccavale like a storm of destruction.

Fletcher grinned through the chaos, even as Barry clawed at his chest. "Yes, that's it! No more hiding behind your humanity, Barry! Show me the beast! Show me what you really are!"

Barry didn't need an invitation. With a deafening snarl, he grabbed Fletcher's head and slammed it into the ground with such force that the earth cracked beneath them. Before Fletcher could recover, Barry reared back and sank his claws deep into Fletcher's torso, ripping and tearing through eldritch flesh, ichor spraying across the ruins.

Fletcher let out a guttural, otherworldly roar. Then he exploded into a mass of shifting tendrils, wrapping around Barry like a monstrous serpent.

"You think you can win?" Fletcher's voice whispered from everywhere and nowhere. "You're nothing but an animal fighting against a god."

Barry growled, muscles tensing as Fletcher's tendrils tightened around him.

"Then let's see if gods can bleed."

With raw, primal fury, Barry flexed his monstrous strength, his claws glowing with raw energy as he tore Fletcher's tendrils apart, breaking free in a violent explosion of dark energy.

Fletcher barely had time to react before Barry lunged—his massive, clawed fist colliding with Fletcher's face, sending him flying through the air like a broken puppet. The eldritch horror crashed into the remains of a CPG checkpoint, impaling himself on jagged steel beams.

Barry stomped toward him, his breath ragged, his fur stained with blood. Fletcher coughed, black ichor spilling from his mouth, but even impaled, he grinned. "This… this is what I wanted," he rasped, laughing despite the damage. "Look at you now. The Big Bad Wolf. And here I thought you were trying to be a man."

Barry stood over him, eyes blazing. "I'm both."

And with that, he ripped Fletcher from the steel and slammed him back into the earth, ready to finish what had begun long ago.