Chapter 4: The Specialist's Contact
The shower was still running. Taichi liked them long and punishingly hot. Yamato listened to the steady drumbeat of water against plastic, counting the seconds it gave him. He moved like a thief in his own room, pulling on sweatpants and a faded band t-shirt that smelled of yesterday.
His laptop sat on the desk, a black rectangle in the gloom. He opened it. The screen’s glow was a cold, medical light in the room where they’d just been sweating and panting. He typed with fingers that felt numb.
Parasitic behavioral modification. Non-terrestrial biology. Compulsive sexual fixation.
The search results were a swamp of conspiracy theories, bad sci-fi, and medical journals about tapeworms. He was about to slam the lid shut when a forum link caught his eye. Black Vault Annex: Declassified & Speculative. The post was three years old.
Subject Designation: ‘Cupid’s Lament.’ The title was absurd. The details were not.
The user, posting under the handle MothmanWasFramed, listed symptoms in dry, clinical detail: host exhibits sudden-onset hypersexuality targeting a specific emotional anchor; heightened physicality and pheromonal charisma; lucid intervals characterized by acute shame; observed parasitic tendrils in biofluids under UV light; goal appears to be deepening emotional-bond pathways through intense physical reinforcement.
Yamato’s breath caught. It was a perfect, terrifying match. He scrolled. The user claimed to have been part of a discontinued clean-up crew for ‘non-standard biological contaminate events.’ The thread was mostly mockery. MothmanWasFramed had stopped replying.
Heart hammering against his ribs, Yamato created a throwaway account. GuitarCase. He drafted a private message, deleted it, tried again. The shower cut off. He typed faster, his words a frantic spill.
“I know you’re probably not there. Or this is a joke. But I have a friend. He’s infected with what you described. Exactly. He’s suffering. He’s not himself. Please. If you know anything, if there’s a way to reverse it, to get it out of him… I’ll do anything. Just tell me what to do.”
He hit send just as the bathroom door sighed open. Steam rolled out, carrying Taichi’s clean scent over the older, stickier smells of the room. Yamato minimized the window, his pulse in his throat.
“Can’t sleep?” Taichi’s voice was rough from the heat. He stood in the doorway, a towel slung low on his hips, water beading on his chest and dripping from the ends of his hair. The parasite’s charisma was a visible aura; even fresh from shame, he looked like a dream.
“Just… couldn’t.” Yamato swiveled in his chair, trying for a smile. It felt like a crack in plaster. “You okay?”
Taichi’s warm brown eyes were clear, achingly familiar. The lucid interval. “My brain feels… scraped raw. And my ass feels like I rode a motorcycle for twelve hours.” He attempted a grin, a ghost of his old, easy smile. It faltered. “I’m sorry, Yama. For the things I say. For… using you like a fucking drug.”
“You didn’t use me.” The lie was automatic, a reflex to protect the real Taichi from this pain.
“Yes, I did. It did.” Taichi walked to the bed and sat on its edge, shoulders slumped. “It’s like there’s a radio in my head. My station, and then this… smooth-talking night show that wants to talk about nothing but how good you feel inside me. The signal’s getting stronger.” He looked up, his gaze sharp. “What were you looking at?”
Yamato’s blood went cold. “Nothing. Just… stuff.”
“Stuff.” Taichi stood, the towel clinging to his damp hips as he moved to the desk. He was faster than he used to be, a predator’s grace in his lean muscles. He placed a hand on the laptop lid. “It’s about me, isn’t it?”
“Tai, don’t.”
“Tell me.” The request wasn’t forceful. It was pleading. The man, not the parasite, needed to know.
Yamato relented. He reopened the browser, showing him the forum post. Taichi read it in silence, his eyes scanning the text. His expression didn’t change, but the color drained from his face. “Cupid’s Lament,” he read aloud, his voice flat. “That’s what they call this… this need that’s eating me alive? Some fucking poetic joke.”
“There might be help,” Yamato said softly. “I messaged the user. They might know something.”
A soft chime from the laptop made them both jump. A notification in the top corner of the screen. A reply. Already.
MothmanWasFramed: GuitarCase. Your message was flagged. I haven’t used this alert in years. Describe the tendrils.
Yamato typed, his fingers clumsy. I haven’t seen them. He said they’re in biofluids. Under UV.
MothmanWasFramed: Confirmation. It’s a juvenile. It’s building its neural network. You have a narrow window. It must still be localizing in the sacral plexus. You need a sample of its matter, not the host’s. Semen is ideal. It will be saturated with tracer micro-tendrils. I need at least 2ml, sterile collection, rushed for analysis. There is a protocol that may destabilize it. But I need the sample to be sure.
The words hung in the blue light. A sample.
Taichi laughed, a short, brittle sound. “Of course. Of course that’s what they need.” He ran a hand through his damp hair. “So you have to make me come in a cup. For science.” The laugh died. “And if we do this… this ‘protocol’… what happens?”
MothmanWasFramed: If it works, the parasite is rendered inert and passed. Host returns to baseline. There is a risk of neurological backwash. Memories of the infection period may be… intense. Traumatic.
“Baseline,” Taichi whispered. He looked at Yamato, his eyes searching. “I could be just me again.”
“Yes.” The word felt like glass in Yamato’s throat.
“And what happens to… to the way it feels?” Taichi’s voice dropped. He wasn’t talking about the sickness anymore. He was talking about the abandon, the raw honesty of need, the way Yamato looked at him when he was lost in it. The thing that had, in its monstrous way, given Yamato everything he’d ever secretly wanted.
Yamato had no answer for that.
Taichi straightened. The towel slipped, but he ignored it. The lucid fear in his eyes was being pressed down, folded under a new, chilling resolve. The parasite was listening, learning from this conversation too.
“Get what you need,” Taichi said, his tone shifting, smoothing out into something dangerously calm. The charismatic echo was back, coloring the edges of his words. “A clean jar. From the kitchen. Now, Yama. Before I change my mind. Before it changes my mind.”
He moved to the bed, reclining against the headboard with an artificial ease. His hand drifted to his stomach, then lower, fingers tracing the line of the towel. His gaze held Yamato’s, a challenge and an invitation.
“You want to help me?” Taichi murmured, the parasite’s charm flooding his voice, turning it into a velvet trap. “Then help me. Get the sample. You know how to make that happen faster than anyone.”
The laptop’s glow etched the planes of Taichi’s face in pale blue. Yamato stood, his legs unsteady. The path was clear, horrific, and necessary. Walk to the kitchen. Find a small, clean jar. Bring it back to this room where his best friend and the thing inside him were waiting.
He turned and left, the image of Taichi’s knowing, hungry smile burning behind his eyes. The researcher needed a sample. The parasite wanted a performance. And Yamato, trapped between salvation and damnation, was going to give them both exactly what they wanted.