Apex Seed - Defunct

Apex Seed - Defunct

A late mutation gives you addictive fluids/pheromones. Clumsy evolution and sex ensue.

Chapter 1 by neo_kenka neo_kenka

[Author's Temporary Note: This story is currently, largely, all but completely, dead. Enjoy what's hear I suppose and, perhaps one day, await the re-upload without the game mechanics. :C ]

"Say what again?"

"You're producing inhuman levels of complex genetic structures that only barely resemble human pheromones. The samples I took yesterday seems to combine androstenone steroids with an androgen-like binding that has the characteristics of some derivative of lysergic acid diethylamide. It's prevalent in every byproduct of your body."

You blink. Devi sighs, and at last puts it in terms you can process. "You're secreting some kind of pheromone which has a chemical structure akin to LSD, potentially meaning that every secretion therein has properties that could be mildly psychedelic in nature, if consumed in sufficient quantities."

But she's wrong, because you still don't get it. Maybe it's because you dropped out of college years ago, which is how she left you in the dust until now, or perhaps it was because you never worth a damn in any science course. Either way, your blank expression frustrates her into grabbing your head and shaking it while she spells it out for you. "You're exuding sex from every orifice and pore, and exposing people to it at high concentrations might cause them to trip balls!"

You're Derek Peck, a 27-year-old file clerk for a prestigious law firm in Manhattan, one that doesn't think much of your personal prestige. Well, to be precise, you WERE 27... your birthday was yesterday, marked by a Friday at the office that started off normally (being treated like a maggot in the festering corpse of an independent New York law firm) but escalated with weirdly nice, arguably flirtatious treatment from some co-workers... of course, among them was Bill from the supply room, and that was nothing new, but this time even a few of your female co-workers swung by, bringing you coffee and chatting you up. They all used your birthday as the inspiration behind this shift in behavior, despite never seeming to acknowledge or care about it any of the last three years you've worked there. By the end of the day you were riding the subway home with a stupid grin on your face. It was perhaps one of the best adult birthdays you'd ever had, but the tranquility that brought was shattered by Devi Waltz.

Devi was your high school friend turned distant neighbor in the apartment building you both lived in since college, but you'd never know it since she seldom gave you the time of day... let alone knocked furiously on your door and proceed to rampage through your apartment, as she did last night. She had waved some crazy contraption at you, muttered about biochemical output, and proceeded to take bits and pieces of refuse and liquids from your every room. You were confused, but you didn't object; you didn't have any plans anyways. Your parents live in western New York, your friends are all assholes, and Devi was a brilliant, beautiful woman. She was a lesbian, as you dejectedly confirmed back in high school when she shot you down, but the that only mildly ruined the image of a cute, smart girl exploring your apartment.

Remembering all of this served as a fine distraction as she plucked a single black hair from your head, adding to her collection of vials and trash she was apparently stealing from you, and proceeded to ignore your complaints as she swabbed you with cotton balls. She was a swarthy-skinned blur, this half-Indian, half-German princess of science, and she vanished as abruptly as she had appeared in only four minutes. You didn't get any explanations, and you knew Devi enough to not bother chasing after them. Your lonely birthday came to its end, and you were sure that would be the strangest thing to happen in a year of wage-slave mediocrity.

Only now it was Saturday, and she had dragged you out of your bed and into her "lab" (her living room, which was insultingly more spacious than yours) to advise you about your "condition".

"I have a few theories, though most rely on fringe biological and anatomical theories of mutation and the human genome... but for now, mitochondrial DNA tests are impossible with my equipment. I'm going to submit the samples to my company for further analysis, but you need to execute care from now on." You're alarmed, of course. Sure, you only understand every third word she says, but it sounds like something is wrong with you. But she cuts off your latest demand for an explanation with the verdict. "Until we know what we're dealing with, you must avoid any and all contact with women."

"W-what? Why?!" Your indignation was not very justifiable: you haven't had a steady relationship in three years, and haven't gotten laid at all in two. Prostitutes tempt you more every day, or they would if you were barely staying alive on your measly budget. You were in no position to quench the metaphorical "thirst" with literal starvation.

Devi doesn't seem to know that, however, because she furrows her cute little brows and takes on as authoritative a tone as she can manage. "Just being around you might cause behavioral changes that are unnatural and unethical... at least in women who would react to such pheromones," she adds with something akin to pride. Gay, gay pride. "The same goes for men who would find you attractive, though whether or not that's a temptation is..."

Devi glances at you over her glasses for a few seconds too long. "They're not!" you assure her. She pouts in that sexy, exasperating way you still remember.

"Based on what you told me about yesterday, it's clear that just being around them might be problematic. Being in a large and ventilated space likely reduced its effects... presuming they're not permanent. But you should use whatever vacation time you have to skip work for now. You can't risk physical contact with anyone." When you give her a confused look, perhaps not for the reasons she's thinking, she explains. "Your secretions - from your spit to natural oils to sweat to urine - are all contaminated too... and your semen has a dosage a magnitude greater per microgram. They're actually bound to your sperm, making each reproductive cell a direct and potent delivery system for... whatever this does at such high concentrations."

You try to make sense of it... this crazy claim. But somehow, it makes sense to you... it feels like the truth. You look down at your boxers - she gave you no time to get dressed - with a curious glance. Maybe you were already being affected. After all, yesterday you were feeling particularly randy, having to rub one out on waking up... and once again during lunch... and when you got home... and after she lef- "Wait, what? When the Hell did you steal... test my jizz?!"

"You had samples in tissues your trash can... many of them. The topmost ones registered positive for the unusual pheromone."

You slump in your chair, absorbing the information and trying to not think too hard about Devi going through the mountain of soiled tissues in your bedroom trash can. You're secreting some kind of dangerous drug. It's odd, thinking of your sweat and spit as some kind of LSD... and if you were sweating LSD, then apparently you were cumming heroin. You've got a hunch that those chemicals aren't actually related, but the metaphor was good enough for you.

But this was all just guesswork without actually testing the stuff. Which, naturally, leads you to wonder: what WOULD happen? Maybe it's your science friend, or the news that you have trippy super jizz, or the fact that you've never felt hornier in all your life, and are only feeling hornier as you stare at her... MAN she's gorgeous. Well. Whatever the reason, you find yourself oddly excited in this melancholic phase of your life. For once in the last half-decade of you easing into a life of safe patterns, you're finally eager to... experiment.

But who are you going to "experiment" on?

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