All the exhaustion in Morty’s body got pushed away by the unsettling blue square in front of him.
Blinking several times didn’t make the thing go away. The words still floated directly in his field of vision, the text contrasting with the dim room.
He read it three more times and blinked again.
Swiveling his head made the blue thing move along with him, as if anchored to that specific part of his line of sight. He reached out, but there was no physical matter to it. His fingers passed through as if it were just air.
Maybe I just hit my head too hard.
Wait! Where is Kassur? Where am I?
He shifted in the bed, slowly becoming more aware of the room.
The bed was unmistakably medical, but very comfortable and clearly built to handle people several sizes bigger than him. It made him feel like a child. The adjustable frame was set so he wasn’t lying flat, but propped close to a sitting position. Reinforced rails tucked neatly down at the sides.
It wasn’t hard to notice what else the bed could do.
Folded flush into the frame were restraint cuffs, padded and segmented, designed to lock wrists and ankles in place if necessary. They were open now, unused, their clasps dormant, but unmistakably present once seen.
A thin blanket covered his legs, light enough that he could feel the cool air through it when he shifted. A quick look confirmed he was wearing only his underwear.
White bandaging wrapped his left arm from wrist to just below the elbow, snug but not tight. It pulled faintly when he moved.
To his right, a machine beeped softly. Thin green lines crawled steadily across the display, rising and falling in sharp peaks before flattening and starting over. Each pulse matched the slow, deliberate thud in his chest. A sensor clipped to one of his fingers fed his vitals to the machine.
There was a bigger and weirder machine to his left, and he had no idea what that one was for.
The room itself was larger than most hospital recovery bays. Not luxurious, but not as impersonal as most hospital rooms used to be. There was proper furniture. On the other side of the weird machine, there was a massive and very comfortable leather recliner. It faced the bed directly, close enough that whoever sat there wouldn’t have needed to raise their voice. It lay empty.
Next to the recliner, there was a cluttered side table.
Several books lay stacked and half-spread across its surface. Novels, by the look of them. Someone’s personal taste, left behind without concern for appearances.
The lights were dimmed, not off, not harsh. Enough to see and to rest. Curtains hung half-drawn over a window he couldn’t quite see from this angle, letting in a strip of gray daylight that cut across the floor.
It felt like a room meant to heal a body. And also a room meant to keep someone company while it happened.
Yet something tickled the back of his head. A sense of danger.
Morty swallowed and shifted slightly, the bandage on his arm tightening just enough to remind him where he was.
“Hello?” he asked out loud.
The voice of a man with an unplaceable accent echoed from everywhere yet nowhere, from the corners of the room and the depths of his skull. The words he understood; but it was as if they lacked all inflection, and he couldn’t hope to assign a meaning beyond literal to each one.
“Hello, user. Would you rather proceed with the initialization using a voice interface instead of a text interface?”
Morty stiffened as shivers ran down his spine.
In a place Morty couldn’t see, there was a great non-person something close to a part of himself that he couldn’t name, so close that it was borderline perverse.
He looked around.
He was still alone.
“What is going on?” Morty asked in a whisper.
The masculine voice came back, out of nowhere.
“We are starting your introduction to the overlay.”
Morty noticed the blue square remained in his field of vision, but as the voice spoke, the text inside of it changed to reflect what was being said.
“Most people prefer a voice assistant because of the intimacy it transmits. This voice can be customized later if you wish.”
Morty put his fingers to his ears, poking around, trying to find an earpiece that should be transmitting this voice. He found nothing.
“Are you in my head?”
“Not really. The overlay does have a bigger role working alongside the optical and auditory nerves, which allows the communication we are having right now. However, each cell on the user’s body carries the artificial chromosome responsible for keeping the overlay viable within the individual.”
Morty's mind screeched to a halt?
“Artificial chromosome?”
“Yes. All this info can be relayed to the user at any time. Be aware that all functions are hampered by the lack of a planetary grid. For now, it is advised to finish the introductory session.”
“Can you hear my thoughts?” the cat asked.
“No. Some upgrades can be acquired to allow the overlay to sync up with your neural synapses, and after a longer period of individual analysis, surface thoughts can be used to navigate the overlay options. But that isn’t a default function. Vocalization, or at least visual cues, are required for interaction with the overlay.
Morty licked his lips. His throat was dry
“Okay.”
“Perfect. For now, would you like the overlay to continue using voice, or should the rest of the introduction be in text?”
“Text, please.”
Morty felt that this was crazy enough without needing to keep listening to a voice in his head. Text at least was less outlandish.
“Mortimer. My name is Mortimer.”
“Sure,” he shrugged, looking around, trying to see if someone was going to come out, saying this was all a prank.
What should I call a voice in my head?
“Annoying.”
Morty decided to test it. And just looked at his hand, then made a thumb-up gesture.
“Hey, annoying,” Morty said, shrugging. This whole thing felt like a fever dream.
Morty obliged, and then the text asked him to pick a deactivation phrase. He went with: “fuck off, annoying.”
“This is crazy enough without you using the third person. So stick with the first.”
“You sure are.”
“What?” he almost shouted.
Before the text could reply, he heard a door opening.
A woman walked in. She was tall and muscular. A human with dirty blond hair cascading down to the middle of her back in thick waves. She wore a scowl and was talking to a few people wearing DAIR uniform, all bigger than her.
“I don’t know what to say, but your men are doing a crappy job,” she snapped, still not looking at Morty. “And even a blind person could see that a mile away,”
One of the people in the group finally noticed the movement at the bed.
“Hey! He’s awake,” the same person said.
The woman stopped mid-sentence.
Her entire demeanor changed.
The sharp edge in her shoulders softened, the scowl dissolving into something warm and practiced as she turned toward him. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler, pitched lower, as if the room itself demanded it.
“Oh — Hello there,” she said, stepping away from the small cluster behind her.
She sat down on the recliner with an ease and familiarity that told Morty this room was hers.
Up close, Morty could see that her willowy figure carried a quiet strength. She gave him a wink, combing her fingers through her hair and tying it up in a messy bun. Then her eyes flicked briefly to the heart monitor, then to the bandage on his arm, cataloguing details with professional ease.
“I’m sorry,” she added quickly. “We didn’t mean to disturb you. I came here to check how well you were recovering. So, tell me, how are you feeling?”
Morty blinked, still trying to catch up. “Uh. Alive?” he offered.
She smiled, genuine this time. “That’s a good start. I had to whisk you away from death’s pocket. She must hate me now. I’m so good at messing up her schedule.”
Behind her, the others lingered.
Three wore DAIR uniforms, heavy-duty jackets marked with the familiar insignia, their builds unmistakably of predators. They stood at ease but alert, eyes flicking between Morty, the equipment, and the woman as if waiting for a cue. One of them, a large ungulate with a squared jaw, looked distinctly out of place in a hospital corridor. Morty couldn’t place what kind of anthro he was.. Hybridization being very rare.
The fourth man was a bull with a very prominent beer gut. He wore no uniform at all.
His suit was immaculate, tailored to the point of arrogance, the kind of expensive fabric that never saw the inside of a field operation. He watched the exchange with thinly veiled impatience, fingers adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as if the entire scene were an inconvenience.
Morty felt like he had to know him. He was having a hard time pinning a name to the man, but he was familiar.
Wait, that one is Blythe. He's the Eastern Borough Undermayor. What is he doing here?
The woman noticed Morty’s gaze and followed it, then let out a quiet breath.
“Sorry,” she said again, glancing back at the group. “Bad timing. These figure-heads are all having hissy fits because of the state of the city.”
She made a wide gesture towards the entourage behind her.
“Are you guys here for an interview regarding what happened at the Stockyard?” Morty asked, breaking the ice.
She turned fully toward Morty and offered a hand. “They are. My name is Cassandra, by the way. I’m helping heal the worst injured since last night, while these people are doing their little squabbles.”
Morty squinted. Those individuals held high-ranking positions within the DAIR, as evidenced by the badges they wore and the patterns sewn on their shoulders. Yet, here they were acting a little off. As if not entirely there, or a bit distracted.
“I’m Agent Mortimer Roitman. Arrived from Central Borough last night to help with a case,” he said. “Most people call me Morty.”
“Well, Morty,” Cassandra said warmly, “you gave us all quite the scare.”
“I was scared. For a moment, I didn’t think I’d make it.”
He felt something in his chest clenching. Kassur.
“How did the whole thing end? I was there with a civilian. A jackal named Kassur? How is he? Did he come here?”
Cassandra didn’t answer right away. Her gaze flicked briefly to the door, then back to Morty. She straightened, her posture shifting from that of a physician to something colder.
“Gentlemen,” she said, “I will rejoin you outside.”
“We’re not finished,” the highest-ranking officer complained while taking a few steps closer. He was a tiger with patches of orange and black fur marred by grey streaks.
Stolen novel; please report.
“Yes,” Cassandra replied pleasantly. “You are.”
For a moment, it looked like he might argue. Another officer shifted, uneasy, eyes darting between Cassandra and the bed. Then Cassandra added, softly but with unmistakable weight:
“This is my ward. My patient. And unless you’d like to explain to the board why you overruled medical authority on record, you will step out.”
Silence.
Then, reluctantly, the officers moved. One nodded curtly and headed for the door. The Undermayor lingered last, his eyes lingering on Morty with open calculation, as if trying to memorize him.
“Time is running out, Cassandra. Perhaps he can shed more light on this.”
“Oh my. Are you honestly trying to teach me how to do my job?”
Undermayor Blythe flinched. “T-that’s not what I meant. I wouldn’t dream of doing that.”
Then he turned and left.
The door shut with a firm, final sound.
Did she really shoo away those guys?
Not trying to give away his intentions, he started paying more attention to her.
Cassandra exhaled once, slow and controlled, and turned back to Morty. The warmth returned to her face, carefully reassembled.
“I know you’re DAIR, but those guys suck sometimes,” she said with a conspiratorial lilt to it. “About your friend. The name doesn’t ring a bell, but was he with you?”
The tone was as casual as it could be. Morty felt everything in his body prickle as she presented only the faintest telltales of someone doing an information fishing expedition.
I can’t lie about everything. I have no idea what is going on. Let’s see how this goes.
“Yes. I’m on a case following a rogue predator. There must be some BOLO flyers on my coat.” He shifted in the chair,
He shifted again, careful not to overdo it, just enough to look uncomfortable rather than guarded.
“I’m still a little off,” Morty added casually. “Still a little foggy. Had to use two doses of stimulants in the field. So I might not be making a lot of sense.”
Cassandra smiled, but it was thinner this time. “Perfectly understandable. Did you do that because of the alpha?”
Varro? What the fuck did I miss?
Morty didn’t need a lot to make his expression worried. He leaned in, channeling his impatience to look like fear.
“The alpha?” he echoed, brows knitting faintly. “ You mean Varro? I didn’t see him there. Wasn’t he supposed to be by the docks?”
“Yes, it was quite a surprise to have him pop up there. Caused quite the uproar,” she said lightly. “Mooses are usually tall, but that one surely is something else. Making the DAIR run like headless chickens since last night.”
Her eyes stayed on his face, not unkind, but intent.
“If he did show up, I probably would have been already down.”
She nodded, shifting in the chair, tucking one leg beneath her for balance while the other moved restlessly, heel lifting and dropping in a slow, uneven beat.
“Will you tell me what happened then? I mean, the parts that you remember?”
He tried to formulate a food answer, but the confusing whirl of memories left Morty’s head swimming. It took longer than he cared to admit to steady himself.
“I boosted because things got messy,” the cat finally said, choosing each word carefully. “Too many bodies moving at once. Civilians panicking. I didn’t want to be the one lagging.”
“Hm,” Cassandra hummed. “And the civilian you mentioned earlier?”
Don’t make him interesting. Don’t make him interesting.
You brought him there. Don’t add shit to his plate.
Morty shifted again.
“Yes, I’m working a rogue predator case. The civilian was one of the leads and then I cleared him. After that, when the Eastern Precinct pulled the enforcers assigned to me, he agreed to act as my liaison.”
That was true.
Cassandra leaned back, studying him openly now. “You seem concerned.”
“Yes,” Morty replied. “He’s someone who was only there because he was helping me. So, his safety is my concern.”
Her mouth softened at that, just a fraction. “You care.”
Morty huffed a quiet breath. “I’m DAIR. It’s kind of in the job description.”
A beat passed. The heart monitor ticked on, steady, betraying nothing.
“And if this jackal,” Cassandra said slowly, “had crossed paths with an alpha predator in that chaos… what would you expect to find?”
Morty met her gaze at last. His expression was tired, earnest, threaded with something raw he didn’t bother hiding.
“I’d expect to be told he made it out alive.”
The room felt smaller after that.
Cassandra didn’t answer right away. Her fingers tapped once against the arm of the recliner, then stilled, closing her eyes and giving a long exhale, relaxing her whole body.
When she spoke again, her tone was measured, careful.
“I don’t buy that you went there just for that. For this case. Did you know there was an alpha hiding in the reservoir under the Public Market?”
Morty’s nose itched.
=================================
A young black cat was going back from school to the orphanage.
His clothes were not the best, and his shoes were too tight.
He missed his friend so much.
A shadow swallowed him.
A deep baritone voice cut through the cold, making him jump.
“What is such a young lad doing here, all by himself?”
“I’m just going home,” he said, turning and walking fast.
A huge hand clamped around his arm and held him in place.
The 8-foot-tall lizard leaned closer, drool dripping from his mouth.
“Why the hurry? It is a cold day, and I know the perfect place for you to call home.”
=================================
Burning.
The smell of acid that made him cough. A cough that lasted months.
Blood and air and freedom.
Screaming for what felt like hours until someone arrived.
Who would I be if I had been saved instead of having to save myself?
=================================
Morty steeled his face to stay neutral. Forced his shoulders to stay loose. He swallowed down the sour taste of memory and tried to sound like he didn’t care — like he wasn’t scared by the message that had popped up.
“I did not,” he scoffed. “I do love my life, thank you.”
‘Annoying’ had said that it would activate by itself in case of an emergency.
Cassandra’s eyebrows raised, and she squinted at Morty.
“I see…,” she said, dragging the words.
Morty let the silence sit for half a beat too long, then tilted his head. “You said you whisked me away from death’s pocket. Can you tell how long I was out? I do feel quite good.”
The woman had raised a hand and was chewing on a fingernail, studying him. She took a moment before answering
“One hour,” she replied. “I specialize in critical cases.”
Suddenly, Morty saw a white line surround Cassandra, highlighting her silhouette.
Then the line blinked red. The blue screen popped back up.
The recliner creaked softly as Cassandra leaned back into it, folding her hands loosely over her knee.
Morty immediately caught the subtle shift in posture.
Cassandra’s eyes flicked once to the door. Then to the heart monitor. Then back to him. She was deciding on how to proceed. And the blinking red outline framing her didn’t help his nerves.
Don’t let her finish. Disturb it!
“I can’t say how thankful I am,” he said, forcing a calm, tired smile. “I’ve used the stimulants in the field before, and they always left me feeling like crap. Whatever you did… honestly, I’m feeling better.”
Morty let his focus blur on purpose, eyelids drooping just a touch as his mouth curved into a lazy, unfocused half-smile. He shifted in the bed, movements a fraction slower than necessary, like someone pleasantly dulled at the edges.
“Excuse me,” he murmured, voice warm and a little loose. “Whatever they pumped me with… feels like I had a drink on an empty stomach.”
The woman paused and nodded, offering a gentle smile.
“Oh, good. I thought it wouldn’t work.”
“Huh? It sure did,” he drawled on the words. “I just hope I didn’t puke on your nice room here. How did you fix me, pretty sister?”
Was this too much?
Musk and pheromone-type predators were nasty.
They are one of the reasons the DAIR usually makes their enforcers carry sealed helmets in their cruisers. Some of them would make their targets groggy, easier to incapacitate. Not all would try that trick to devour someone. But stealing, that was something else.
Morty had seen and read about multiple fights where a smaller predator had the upperhand just because the opponent couldn’t think straight.
Under the clawing fear that he was going insane with the blue square texts, Morty kept his charade. Cassandra sighed and gave a whole-body stretch.
“Well, time to get busy again,”she said with a wink filled with mirth. “You honestly didn’t go to that place trying to find Varro, did you? I saw your uniform, you’re DAIR. They’ve been throwing everything they have at finding that big moose. A lot of good men and women are fighting by the river right now.”
Yes. I know. I have friends there!
“I was there trying to push some BOLO alerts,” Morty said instead. “I think I told you.”
“Oh… yeah. My bad,” she said, slipping back into her warmer demeanor. “Just making sure I heard you right.”
Morty grinned and nodded, following her lead.
Cassandra looked bored now, fingers drumming the arm of the recliner. The smirk on her face marked the moments she changed course. Morty couldn’t tell if she was that bad of a poker player or if his acting that good.
“Let me ask you something different,” she said casually. “When you used the field surge back there… did you experience anything unusual?”
She tilted her head, watching him from beneath her lashes. “Not pain. Not confusion. I mean… visual anomalies.”
That question felt loaded
“Like what?” Morty felt sweat bead along his spine. He slumped, keeping his breathing even. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Of course. A lot of stress. Chemicals. It can do things to the mind,” she smiled apologetically. “Some people report seeing distortions when they push it too far. Flashes. Afterimages. Geometric shapes that don’t quite belong to the environment.” Her smile softened. “Especially non-predators. Your nervous systems aren’t built for that kind of strain.”
Morty felt the warning like a pressure behind his eyes.
“Why?” he asked. It was aimed towards ‘Annoying’, but it also worked for Cassandra
Fuck me. None of this information makes any sense.
Trying not to react and instead forcing an expression as if he was thinking extra hard, Morty shrugged, letting his shoulders sag the way exhausted people do.
“I saw spots,” he said. “This time. And also some of the other times I had to use it.” He snorted softly. “Heck, I’m glad the first time was in a lab with a DAIR nurse teaching a class. Almost crapped my pants thinking I was having a stroke.”
All that was true. No reason to lie.
Cassandra hummed softly. She waited for more, and when nothing else was offered, she pressed on.
“No… patterns?” she asked. “People under heavy stimulant use sometimes report them. Shapes that linger. Lines. Flashes.”
Her gaze sharpened just a fraction. “Some describe it as a guide.”
Morty met her eyes and let a touch of irritation bleed through.
“Doc, if I had a hallucination that vivid, I wouldn’t be joking about being alive. I’d be asking for a psych consult.” He exhaled. “Might still need one when everything is done.”
Is she the reason I’m seeing this shit?
No. It can’t be.
I just met this woman, and I’ve seen glimpses of blue long before today. Most of the regulars experienced something like it when they used this.
Are there more people with this Overlay?
Morty swallowed, eyes following Cassandra’s back. Whatever game she was playing, he was now certain of one thing: She wasn’t asking out of curiosity.
“Should I be worried?” he asked with a quiet chuckle. “Am I going to have a brain aneurysm because of it?”
She gave him an unimpressed look. “You were having one when you came in. Several blood vessels ruptured under the strain you put your body under. There’s a reason stimulants are a last resort for regulars like you.”
“Oh.”
Cassandra was right.
And Morty had taken two doses.
Thinking back on it, he wasn’t expecting to survive when he decided to take the second one. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For saving me.”
Before Cassandra could say another word, the door slammed open.
Leo marched in. Juno trailed behind, both of them wearing rebreather masks sealed over their snouts.
The black cat, who had been coiled tight with tension until that moment, felt all his worries melting away. With Leo and Juno there, the room felt safer.
Before he could say anything, a white outline snapped around Leo’s massive frame.
Then it blinked red.
Morty winced and flicked his gaze to Juno.
A white outline also highlighted the hyena. This time, it blinked orange.
The words burned.
Up until now, he’d assumed Cassandra was the anomaly.
That the Overlay was flagging implants, enhancements, or something installed on her body. He’d grown up on stories about cyborgs, and scifi, all the impossible things geeks consider cool.
But Juno and Leo were also flagged.
The overlay kept throwing terms around with clinical indifference. Advanced cores, intermediary core. Morty hated that his brain wanted to make sense of the terms. Not because he understood them — he didn’t — but because they echoed things he’d heard his entire life.
Predators talked about their “tanks” all the time.
They would joke about filling the tank by having a meal. But it wasn’t always about that. Not just food. Not really.
“I’m running low.”
“Can’t heal these injuries for now, tank’s half-empty.”
“Give me ten minutes, I need to refill the tank.”
Morty had always known what they meant in practice — exhaustion that wasn’t only about muscles. Hunger that wasn’t about food. That deep, hollowed-out feeling some preds got after having to heal too fast, hitting too hard, regenerating too much.
Life force. Biological credit. Whatever word you slapped on it, it was a resource.
The Overlay was flagging him who was a predator.
Not just that. It was categorizing them.
Leo was flagged because he carried more. More mass, more capacity, because he was more dangerous. Juno was orange instead of red. He was not as big or strong as Leo.
Morty swallowed.
Cassandra’s outline was a deeper shade of red than Leo’s.
He didn’t know what multiple cores meant. He didn’t even know what an advanced core or intermediary core actually meant; he guessed it meant a difference in power.
It had to mean that. And that truth settled cold and heavy in his chest.
Somewhere deep beneath the fear, beneath the fever-dream glow of blue text, Morty realized something.
