Chapter 1: The Custom Order
The bell above the door jangled, a sound too thin and sharp for the dusty quiet of the street. Cody shouldered the door open, letting in a slab of late afternoon sunlight that cut across floorboards worn smooth by time.
“This is the place?” Lucas said, peering over Cody’s shoulder. “Looks like it sells depression and old man smells.”
“It sells unique gifts,” Cody countered, his grin not fading. “Mike’s unique. Ergo.”
“Mike’s not unique, he’s just weirdly polite,” Danny said, following them in. “But sure. Better than another video game.”
The air inside was thick and still, smelling of dried rosemary, old paper, and something else—a coppery tang, like a penny held on the tongue. Shelves crammed with curios lined the walls: twisted roots in glass boxes, feathers tied with crimson thread, jars of sediment that seemed to shift color if you stared too long.
“Welcome.”
The voice came from the gloom at the back. A man unfolded himself from a high stool behind a counter. He was neither old nor young; his hair was dark silver, his face smooth but etched with fine lines that suggested a lifetime of watching. His eyes, a pale, water-clear grey, settled on them with an unsettling directness. He wore a waistcoat the color of dried blood.
“Mr. Blackwood?” Cody asked, suddenly the de facto spokesman.
“Silas Blackwood. You are seeking a gift.” It wasn’t a question.
“For our friend,” Lucas said, his usual bravado dialed down a notch. “It’s his birthday. We want something… memorable.”
A slow smile touched Blackwood’s lips. “Memorable. A category I specialize in. This way, gentlemen.”
He turned and pushed through a velvet curtain, dark green and frayed at the hem. The boys exchanged a glance—a this is weird look—shrugged, and followed.
The back room was smaller, darker. Velvet drapes in deep burgundy swallowed the walls. The air hummed, a low-frequency vibration felt in the teeth. Shelves here held rows of glass jars, each illuminated as if by their own inner light. Powders swirled inside: molten gold, forest green, a blue so deep it was nearly black.
Lucas leaned close to one, squinting at the label. “Fox. Sly, Charismatic, 75% Mischief. What the actual hell?”
“A vulgar simplification,” Blackwood said, gliding to stand behind a long, polished mahogany counter. A large ledger lay open, filled with cramped, spidery handwriting. A single candle flickered in a tarnished silver holder, casting jumping shadows. “My products are for refinement. For… customization.”
“Customization of what?” Danny asked, leaning in to peer at a jar labeled Badger (Stubborn, Protective, 90% Territoriality).
“Of essence. Of nature.” Blackwood steepled his fingers. “Imagine your friend. His… qualities. His deficiencies. Now imagine you could adjust them. Highlight the desirable, soften the rough edges. A bespoke transformation.”
Cody barked a laugh. “You’re selling magic personality pills.”
“I am selling potential. In concentrated, ingestible form.” Blackwood’s calm was unbreakable. He didn’t seem offended. He seemed like a scientist explaining basic principles to children. “The process is collaborative. We design. I synthesize. The subject consumes.”
Cody spoke again. “You can’t be serious.”
“He’s not,” Lucas said. “But it’s a great bit. Come on, this is way better than a gift card. Let’s build a better Mike.”
“Treat it like a video game character creator,” Danny said, enthusiasm building. “But for Mikey.”
Blackwood opened the ledger, flipping past pages of notes. Cody’s eyes caught a fragment: Client #47: Wanted ‘submissive’ but got ‘needy’—complained. He blinked, and the man turned the page.
“Let us begin with a base,” Blackwood said, his voice a low hum that matched the room. “The animal matrix provides foundational traits. For your friend…” Those pale eyes swept over Mike, who stood passively under the appraisal. “Something loyal. Intelligent. Agile. Perhaps canine-based. But not threatening. A retriever lineage, maybe. Playful. Eager to please.”
“He’s already eager to please,” Cody said, and his tone wasn’t entirely joking.
“Then we amplify. We also temper. The passivity you mention—we can frame it as devoted loyalty. The quiet nature becomes watchful intelligence.” Blackwood pulled a clean sheet of parchment from beneath the counter. “Physical attributes?”
This was the part where the game fully seized them. Lucas jumped in. “Okay, keep the blue eyes. Definitely. They’re his best feature.”
“Agreed,” Danny nodded.
“Agreed,” Danny nodded. “But the hair’s got to go. That messy brown mop. Can we make it, like, cooler? More… majestic?”
“Majestic?” Lucas snorted. “He’s Mike, not a lion.”
“Wolf,” Cody said, the word dropping into the room with sudden certainty. He looked at a jar where a dust the color of weathered bark and autumn leaves seemed to swirl. “A brown wolf. Not some tame golden retriever. A wolf is loyal to its pack, right? But it’s also… wild. Cool. It’s got an edge.”
Blackwood’s pale eyes glinted in the candlelight. “An excellent selection. The lupus matrix provides a compelling blend of social cohesion and primal independence. The physical manifestations, however, are highly configurable.”
Lucas leaned on the counter, getting into it. “Okay, so ears. Definitely wolf ears. Pointy, mobile. Can he, like, control them? Twitch them when he’s listening?”
“Autonomic musculature can be integrated,” Blackwood said, his voice a dry rustle. “They would respond to his mood and focus. An ear flick for annoyance. A forward tilt for curiosity.”
“Sick,” Danny breathed. “And a tail. A big, bushy wolf tail. Same color as the hair—the fur, whatever.”
“Proportional to body size. It would require a modified coccyx and significant neural grafting for control and sensation. It would be, for all intents and purposes, a new limb. He would feel through it.”
The room felt suddenly warmer, the hum in the air more pronounced. Cody grinned, chasing the strange thrill. “What about the rest of the hair? Body hair, I mean. Is he gonna be, like… furry?”
Blackwood opened a drawer and produced a series of laminated charts that looked unsettlingly anatomical. “Hair density and distribution are separate variables. You can specify. A light pelt across the shoulders and down the spine? A full, soft undercoat for winter? Or merely aesthetic accents—whiskers, finer hair on the backs of the hands.”
Lucas pointed at the chart. “Keep the human smoothness. But the wolf stuff where it counts. Just the ears, the tail.”
“Facial structure?” Blackwood prompted.
“Keep his face,” Cody said quickly, a faintly possessive edge in his voice. “His face is good. Just… enhance the teeth. Canines. But not like, vampire long. Just sharp. Noticeable.”
“Dental modification is standard. The tongue?”
There was a beat of silence.
“The tongue?” Danny echoed.
“Texture, length, motility,” Blackwood said, as if discussing engine specs. “A canine tongue is equipped for different functions. Hydration, thermal regulation, social bonding. It would be softer. More pliable.”
“Would he… lick people?” Lucas asked, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face.
“The impulse would be instinctual. Suppressible with conscious effort, like the urge to scratch an itch. But yes, grooming behaviors could emerge.”
“Okay, that’s hilarious. Keep the tongue,” Lucas decreed.
Blackwood gave a slow, approving nod, making a note in his ledger. “We must also address the full spectrum of… apertures. The nose and ears will, of course, gain sensitivity. But there are other, more intimate, gateways. The gastrointestinal and reproductive biology requires harmonization with the new form.”
The hum in the room seemed to dial up a frequency.
“His asshole?” Lucas blurted, then laughed, a sharp, nervous sound. “You can customize that?”
“Most clients do,” Blackwood said, his tone as neutral as a doctor discussing sinus drainage. “The standard human model is… inelegant. Prone to complications. Most opt for a redesign. A more sensitive, self-lubricating mucosa. Very accommodating. It simplifies mating and waste expulsion for the new form.”
A stunned silence hung for a second, broken by Danny’s choked sputter. “You’re saying we can give Mike a magic butthole?”
“I’m saying you can specify a more efficient and pleasurable biological interface,” Blackwood corrected, but a ghost of something—amusement, maybe—flickered in his depthless eyes. “It’s a common upgrade.”
Cody felt a hysterical giggle rising in his chest. This was the most insane game they’d ever played. “Do it. Definitely. Upgrade the magic butthole.”
Blackwood gave a single, slow nod, as if Cody had requested a standard paint color. He noted it in the ledger with a flourish. “A prudent selection. Now, the physical shell is only the vessel. The true artistry is in the behavioral programming. The instinctual suite.” He looked up, the candle flame reflecting twin points of light in his eyes. “This is where we define the nature of your… gift.”
He produced another chart, this one a complex web of interconnected words and percentages. “We begin with core pack dynamics. Loyalty. A default setting for the lupus matrix, but its intensity is variable. Shall we set it high?”
“Obviously,” Cody said. “To us. The pack. He should be, like, obsessively loyal to us.” The words felt funny in his mouth, a game-piece moved on a board, but he pushed them out anyway.
“Define ‘obsessively.’ We have a spectrum. From reliable friend to… a being that would lie down on a highway if you told him to.” Blackwood’s tone was devoid of judgment. It was data.
Lucas whistled. “Whoa. Okay, maybe not highway-level. But like… he always chooses us first. Over anyone else. Ever.”
“Prioritization encoding. Noted.” Blackwood made a mark. “Clinginess. Separation anxiety. The vocal distress when the pack is absent.”
Danny grinned. “So if we all leave the room, he whines?”
“A soft whimper is the baseline. We can calibrate to full-blown howling. Destructive behavior is a potential side effect of high anxiety—chewing, digging.”
“Nah, keep the whimpering,” Cody decided. “The howling might be hard to explain to his mom.” They all laughed, a tight, bright sound in the hushed room.
“Now, vocalizations. Beyond distress calls. Contented sounds. Would you like him to purr?”
“Wolves don’t purr,” Lucas said.
“These can,” Blackwood replied simply. “A low, rumbling growl of pleasure when petted. When he’s happy.”
“Yeah, that’s a must,” Danny said, his eyes alight. “One hundred percent. He has to make happy noises.”
“Affectionate behavior. Physical expression. Licking, as mentioned. Nuzzling. The pressing of his head against your hands or legs to demand touch.”
“All of it,” Cody said, the game feeling more real by the second. “He’s kind of touch-starved anyway. This just… gives him an excuse.”
Blackwood said, “Scent fixation. His world will become olfactory. Your scents, the pack’s scents, will be his comfort. He may become agitated if they are washed away. He may… hoard clothing.”
“Ew,” Danny said, but he was still grinning. “Like, steal our dirty gym socks?”
“It is a common manifestation of bonded security.”
“That’s hilarious. Leave it in.”
“What about… crawling?” Lucas asked, quieter now.
“Quadrupedal movement will be more natural for the new skeletal alignment. He will likely default to it when relaxed or eager. It can be suppressed with conscious effort, but why would you want to? The design yearns for its intended geometry.”
They digested that. Mike, on all fours, padding across a carpet.
“Just… keep him kind,” Cody said finally, his voice firm. “However you wire all this weird wolf shit in there, the core… that’s Mike. He’s quiet. He’s passive. He’s the nicest guy we know. Don’t change that. Just… wolf it up a bit.”
Blackwood studied him for a long moment, then gave that slow, deliberate nod. “The foundation remains. The substrate of his consciousness is preserved. We are merely adding… accentuations. Instinctual overlays. The quiet kindness becomes loyal devotion. The passivity becomes contented submission. The niceness becomes a need to please.”
Blackwood’s quill scratched across the parchment, a dry, insect-like sound. “The need to please requires avenues for expression. We now define the behaviors. The postures of submission, for instance.”
“Postures?” Danny asked, biting his thumb to stifle another laugh.
“A lowered body. The presenting of the throat or belly. Rolling onto his back in your presence, especially after a perceived mistake. It’s a biochemical pacification ritual—it would flood his system with endorphins. For him, it would feel like relief. Like appeasing the pack alphas.” Blackwood looked at each of them, his gaze lingering on Cody. “You would be the alphas.”
Lucas mimed a dramatic shudder of power. “I could get used to that.”
“Then there is the oral fixation,” Blackwood continued, as if listing features on a luxury car. “The licking. We’ve touched on grooming. It would be a primary method of care and bonding. He would attempt to clean your hands, your faces. Your wounds, should you have any. The impulse would be strongest when he is anxious or when you return after an absence. His saliva will have mild healing and cleansing properties, so it is not without utility.”
“So if I eat a messy burger, he licks my fingers clean?” Danny said, grinning. “Useful.”
Lucas chuckled. “So if we fake-mad at him for eating the last pizza slice, he does the throat thing?”
“Precisely. It would be instinctive. He would likely initiate physical contact afterward to seek reassurance. A nuzzle. A press of his head against your stomach.”
“That’s kind of adorable,” Cody said, the possessive tone returning. He liked that image.
“Now, the oral fixation. The tongue is not merely for hydration. It is a primary tool for social bonding and hygiene. He will attempt to groom you. To lick sweat from your skin after exercise, clean dirt from a wound, or simply taste your salt as a comforting ritual.”
“He’s gonna lick me?” Lucas made a face, but his eyes were gleaming. “Like, my face?”
“Hands, arms, face. Wherever skin is exposed and the pack-scent is strongest. It is a sign of affection and status. You would be his pack. His world. Denying him this could cause confusion and anxiety.”
“Nah, let him lick,” Cody decided, as if choosing a topping. “It’s weird, but it’s part of the whole thing, right? Full immersion.”
“It also ties into the need for physical touch and intimacy. Canine models are contact sleepers. He would seek to cuddle, to pile. Sleeping alone would be psychologically distressing. He would likely try to sleep in your beds, or at the very least, on a pile of your discarded clothes.”
“What about showers?” Cody asked, the question out before he could think about why he was asking it.
Blackwood didn’t blink. “The pack shares all activities. He would not understand closed doors. Water is play. He would likely try to join you. Wrestling, chasing the spray. It would be a bonding exercise. Expect him to be perpetually damp if you allow it.”
The image was so absurd, so specific, that Lucas howled with laughter, doubling over the counter. “Oh my god, Mike trying to get in the shower with one of us. His big dumb wolf ears all wet and flopped over.”
“The sexual urges,” Blackwood said, cutting through the laughter, and the room snapped back to a strange, charged quiet. “They will be… rerouted. Mating instincts fuse with pack bonding. He will not seek a mate externally. His drives will express as a heightened need for physical affirmation from the pack. Touch. Praise. Close contact. The physical presentation during affectionate moments may become… pronounced.”
“Pronounced how?” Cody’s voice was tighter now.
“Erection is a common sign of submission and excitement in canids. It would not necessarily be a sexual proposition toward you, but a physiological response to dominant attention. To being petted, praised, or even lightly scolded. He would have little control over it. It would be an honest gauge of his emotional state.”
A heavy, thick silence hung for a three-count.
Then Lucas snorted. “You’re telling me if I scratch behind his ears, he pops a boner? As a greeting?”
“It is a sign of trust. Of yielding.” Blackwood’s expression was impassive. “Many clients find it clarifies the hierarchy.”
Danny wheezed, slapping the counter. “That’s the most messed-up thing I’ve ever heard. And we have to include it. It’s too funny. It’s perfect.”
Cody shook his head, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across his face. This had gone so far beyond a joke it had circled back to being hilarious. “Okay. Whatever. Include the… weird honest boners. Just make sure he’s, like… manageable. I don’t want him humping my leg.”
“Redirected impulse. The presenting behavior we discussed will be his primary outlet. That, and vigorous tail wagging.” Blackwood made another note. “Anything else?”
“Anything else?” Blackwood repeated, his quill poised.
Lucas leaned forward, his elbows on the polished wood, a conspiratorial grin twisting his mouth. “Okay, hypothetical. What if… what if he saw one of us naked? Like, walking out of the shower. Or, I don’t know, with morning wood. What’s the wolf-boy protocol then?”
Cody shook his head, a scoff caught in his throat. Danny’s eyebrows shot up, a silent oh shit, here we go.
Blackwood didn’t react to the crudeness. He considered the question with academic detachment. “As a bonded subordinate, his focus would be drawn to the source of the strongest pack scent. That would be the groin. The pheromones. It’s a central locus of social and hierarchical information for his kind of mind.”
“So he’d stare?” Lucas pressed, delight sparking in his eyes.
“He would be intrigued. He might nuzzle or lick there instinctively, as a grooming behavior and a sign of deference. To taste the scent, to clean it. It would be an act of service, of lowering himself.”
The room felt incredibly still, the candle flame not even flickering.
Lucas whistled, low and long. “No way. Okay. But what if… what if we offered him, like… a dick? To his mouth? Just to see what he’d do.”
“Lucas,” Cody said, but it was half-hearted, a placeholder for protest. He was listening too closely.
Blackwood’s pale eyes moved between them. “If the offering was presented as a command, or even as implied permission from an alpha, he would likely comply. Happily. His wiring would interpret it as a dual service: accepting a gift from a superior, and performing a grooming ritual that pleases the pack. He would probably wag his tail throughout. For him, it would be a profound affirmation of his place. Of his usefulness.”
A beat of silence hung, dense and strange.
Then Danny burst out laughing, a sharp, relieved sound that shattered the tension. “Holy crap. You’re saying we could get Mike to give us a blowjob as, like, a chore? And he’d be stoked about it?”
“He would find it deeply satisfying,” Blackwood affirmed, his voice that same dry, even tone. “A clear, tangible way to express his submission and earn approval. The taste, the act, the closeness—it would all register as positive reinforcement.”
Lucas howled, slapping his thigh. “That is the most fucked-up, hilarious thing I have ever heard! Oh my god. Can you imagine? Just patting his head after, like ‘good boy,’ and he’s beaming with those dumb wolf ears all perked up?”
Cody’s initial unease melted under the wave of absurdity. It was funny. It was so completely, utterly ridiculous that it looped back around to being a joke. They were just designing a character in a video game, one with the most insane, buggy mods ever conceived. None of this was real. It was a thought experiment with a weird old man in a creepy shop.
“We have to include that,” Cody said, a wide, genuine grin breaking across his face. “The full… service package. It’s part of the loyal wolf experience, right?”
“It is a common feature of deeply hierarchical bonds,” Blackwood said, making another note in his ledger. The quill scratched. Oral servicing: pack-affirmative, pleasure-adjacent, tail-wagging accompaniment.
Danny, wiping a laugh-tear from his eye, chimed in. “What about clothes? Is he gonna want to wear, like, jeans and a tee? Or is that gonna feel wrong?”
“Restrictive textiles will agitate him. They interfere with scent circulation, temperature regulation, and tactile connection. He will tolerate them if the pack insists—a simple pair of soft shorts, perhaps. But he will prefer nakedness.”
“So we get a naked wolf-boy friend,” Danny summarized, grinning. “Cool. Less laundry.”
Cody had been quiet, staring at a jar of silver powder that swirled like trapped mercury. His thoughts had drifted elsewhere. “You said he’d be lighter. The bone density thing. Would he be… easy to carry around?”
Blackwood’s pale eyes slid to him. “Significantly. The lupine frame is engineered for endurance, not bulk. He would be perhaps sixty-five percent of his current weight, distributed for easy handling.”
“And would he… like it?” Cody asked, the words softer. “If we picked him up. Or just, you know, pulled him into a lap or something.”
“It is the ultimate expression of pack bonding and dominant care. To be physically managed by the alpha. To be carried, restrained, held down—it would trigger a profound sense of security. A biochemical surrender. He would go limp. He might vocalize—that contented rumble. He would likely seek it out, presenting himself to be gathered up when tired or stressed.”
A slow, warm smile spread across Cody’s face, wider and more genuine than his usual surfer’s grin. The image was crystal clear: Mike, lighter and softer, curling up in his arms without a hint of protest, making that low, happy sound. It wasn’t just funny. It was… perfect. “Yeah,” he said, almost to himself. “Okay. That’s good.”
Blackwood placed the quill down with a soft, final tap. He steepled his fingers, the candlelight carving deep gullies of shadow beneath his eyes. “Very well. Let us summarize the construct.”
His voice shifted into a calm, recitative cadence, as if reading a spec sheet.
“Base matrix: North American timber wolf, male. Primary physical expression: pointed, mobile ears, a fully prehensile tail of proportional size, sharpened canines, and a textured tongue. Secondary sexual characteristics remain human in presentation but are functionally optimized. The underlying dermal structure is smoothed, with a light, velvety pelt limited to only the ears and tail, the rest of the body is smooth and soft. Bone density is reduced for a lighter frame. Eye color remains blue. Anal mucose is upgraded to self-lubricate, it's also extra sensitive and accomodates to any intrusion.”
Lucas snickered at the clinical phrasing. Danny bit his lip, shaking his head.
“Behavioral and instinctual programming,” Blackwood continued, his gaze moving over them. “Core drive: pack loyalty, prioritized to you three. High separation anxiety manifesting as vocal distress. Affectionate behaviors include nuzzling, licking for grooming and bonding, and a purr-like contentment vocalization. Sleeps in contact with pack members or their scent-marked items. Exhibits submissive postures especially when seeking reconciliation. Quadrupedal movement is a comfortable default. Erection is a frequent, involuntary sign of submissive excitement and pack-focused pleasure. The act of oral servicing is interpreted as a high-value, pack-affirming ritual, typically accompanied by enthusiastic tail movement. He will seek to be physically managed—carried, restrained—as it induces a biochemical state of secure surrender.”
Blackwood made the final notation. He closed the ledger with a soft thud that seemed to echo in the small room. “The construct is complete. The synthesis will take a moment.”
He turned and opened a small, polished cabinet behind him. From within, he retrieved a mortar and pestle made of dark, volcanic glass. One by one, he began selecting jars. A pinch of bark-brown wolf dust. A sprinkle of iridescent powder labeled Compliance. A droplet of oily liquid from a vial marked Scent-Fixation. He worked in silence, grinding the components with a rhythmic, crushing sound. The air grew thicker, charged with a scent like ozone and damp earth. Finally, he poured the mixture onto a small square of rice paper, folded it with precise, origami-like motions into a tight, swallowable packet, and sealed it with a drop of black wax.
He placed the small, oblong package on the counter between them. It looked innocuous, like something that might hold a single aspirin.
“One custom transformation elixir. Stable for seventy-two hours. Administration is oral. The process will begin within ten minutes of ingestion and will be mostly complete within six hours. Full neural integration may take up to forty-eight. There will be disorientation, and slight pain during the skeletal restructuring.”
“How much?” Cody asked, already pulling out his wallet.
“Two hundred and fifty dollars.”
Danny choked. “For a joke pill? Dude, that’s steep.”
“For a bespoke biological rewrite,” Blackwood corrected, his voice devoid of humor. “The joke, as you call it, is merely your interpretation of the product.”
They pooled their cash, counting out crumpled bills onto the velvet. It felt surreal, handing over real money for this. Blackwood swept the money into a drawer without counting it. His hand closed over the little packet, holding it out to Cody, who took it. The paper was warm.
They filed out of the back room, through the cluttered shop, and into the blinding, mundane afternoon sun. The door chimed softly behind them, cutting off the smell of herbs and mystery.
On the sidewalk, they stared at the packet in Cody’s hand.
Lucas burst out laughing, shoving Cody’s shoulder. “Oh my god. We just spent two hundred and fifty bucks on a magical roofie to turn Mike into our pet wolf-boy.”
“He’s gonna lose his mind when he opens it,” Danny wheezed, doubling over. “It’s probably just, like, crushed-up Tums and glitter in there. That old guy saw us coming from a mile away.”
Cody rolled the packet between his fingers, a slow smile spreading across his face. The weight felt significant. The warmth was fading, leaving it just paper. “We’ll give it to him tomorrow night. At his party. Tell him it’s some crazy imported Japanese energy vitamin.”
“He’ll believe that,” Lucas said, nodding. “Mike’s gullible like that.”
They started walking back towards their bikes, the absurdity of it all washing over them again in waves, their laughter loud and echoing in the quiet street. It was the funniest, most elaborate joke they had ever conceived. The image of Mike with ears, of him trying to lick a pizza box, of him fetching a TV remote—it was all hysterical. A private comedy that would be their secret forever.
The little packet sat heavy in Cody’s pocket. He patted it once, his grin unwavering. It was just a joke.
Of course it was.