The Chameleon Loop

Homo Venatorus Definition Act of 2165

Supreme court ruling concerning Venatorus v. The People, 513 U.S. 208 132 (2165).

Consequently former human beings, whose Venatorus genes activate, must submit all complaints and amendments through their own representation within the military unit designated as the ‘Hunter Corps’. Should this unit ever be altered or dissolved beyond this purpose then Congress (House and Senate inclusive) would be obligated to provide Homo Venatorus with adequate representation.

The kill team slogged through the labyrinth’s corridors, stopping with the mechanical repetition of a bike chain. Not that Nox minded, dying fifteen times in a row had left him rattled, on edge. With too little sanity spread across too much marble. After that carnival of carnage, diffusing deadly traps soothed his brainstem, whispering the sweet nothing of methodical repetition. Walk twenty two paces, disarm tripwire or triggerstone, repeat ad infinitum. Nox’s therapy enhanced senses combined with the mages’ buffs and his previous experience turned fatal traps into a midnight stroll. Whatever specific mRNA inside his 10ml of therapy was doing wonders for his senses, allowing him to see without the aid of a glow stone. He’d even caught glimpses of the wyverns leaping from their distant roosts, plummeting into the dark labyrinth and returning. Often beating their wings furiously to lift their fallen prey to waiting mouths.

I’ve counted at least ten of those wyverns… How long can we avoid them? Thought Nox.

‘Not long enough, you’ll have to fight them eventually.’ Answered Miasma with glee.

The voice had continued chiming in whenever the situation allowed for a churlish quip. This is awful. If they ever make me president, I'm gonna donate a few trillion dollars to schizophrenia research. Thought Nox, drawing a cock-and-balls on the trigger stone to another pitfall trap. Before subsequently advancing twenty two paces down the marble hallway. The dungeon was beautiful in its own way, despite the danger.

White marble –polished to a reflective gleam– seemed to glow with power, a byproduct of the party’s glow stones. Creating the illusion of traversing an icy palace from the age of myth. Starkly reminding everyone that temporary housing units called TEMPERs awaited their return. One more example of sapien ‘generocity’ that Sergeant Jimenez reminded him to be grateful of. Jimenez, I wish you and all of your shitty platoon had been dragged in here with us. At least then I could have looted your body. Thought Nox, fingers clenching the goblin’s shortsword.

A bellow sounded from Nox’s right, louder than the minotaur’s first cry. Dust fell from the wall's flat top, sprinkling his nose with ancient irritation. He glanced at his watch, noting another hour had passed.

It’s getting closer. Although, bellowing every hour seems a bit extra. Maybe I should call you the Diva-taur.

Memory of being torn apart five times shook any humor from his mind. Making Nox shudder. His thighs tingled, recalling the minotaur’s axe cleaving through their bones. Focus Nox! The central building was their only hope of survival. So his mission was clear. Get to the center, find a weapon, ambush and kill the minotaur. Simple, in theory. In practice he had to memorize every triggerstone, tripwire, turn and fork in the labyrinth. A task that left him with zero mental availability to consider fear, thinking about the minotaur was pointless. If he died, then he would come back…

Nox’s stomach knotted, and he leaned forward as his body viscerally rejected that thought, gagging on the concept of enduring four more immolations.

“You alright?” Asked Jamal, concerned by Nox’s sudden illness.

“Yep,” Groaned Nox, waiving a hand at Jamal, “Just need a second– blleeeehhh–.” Nox dry heaved.

Jesus shook his head, checking his watch before calling back to the kill team. “Alright, we’re ten hours in, time to take a break. Unload and break out some rations.” He ordered.

The E rankers like Nora lit up with joy, happily dropping their backpacks after the monotonous march. Taylor’s face was amongst the eager, plopping onto his buttocks and laying there happily. Mary-sue and Jamal seemed pristine as if their C ranking made them immune to fatigue. Though that might have been a side effect of Mary-sue’s bright acrylic nails. Which remained intact despite her C ranker strength, giving the impression of ease.

“I’m fine, I can keep go–”

“Nox, I mean this in the nicest way possible,” Began Jesus, “Shut up and rest your huevos.”

His face was emotionless, deadly serious, and Nox wondered if Jesus would physically stop him–

“Don’t even think about it nino.” Warned Jesus, reading Nox’s face with the experience of a father.

“Fine…” Muttered Nox, removing his backpack and leaning against a nearby wall.

His back slid down the polished marble, efficiently sitting him down. Jesus was right, he was exhausted. The constant state of hyper-vigilance and demonic-quipping had left him more frayed than dying. He shivered, feeling his body’s heightened senses without the constant distraction of solving the dungeon. Every small ache, minor pain, and every ounce of nausea rose to his forebrain. It felt like he had been crushed by a steamroller, revived, drawn and quartered then had his limbs reattached. To top it off, his heart was racing, a byproduct of the gene therapy stimulating his muscles, like cocaine. Or at least, what he assumed cocaine felt like, he’d never been rich enough to sample any, even before being drafted. Ashley found a space beside him, slapping a cheese tube across his face.

“Ouch.” Said Nox, feigning injury.

“Don’t make me tell mom a cheese stick is what killed you.” Answered Ashley, digging into her preserved jalapeno burger.

Nox snorted. Appreciating her joke more than he could ever explain. The cheese tube was lukewarm, but delightfully savory, and her small kindness split his heart. Torn between wanting to reassure Ash that he would be fine because he had come from the future, and not wanting to sound like he escaped an asylum. A hand waved two MRE biscuits in front of his face, and he looked up to see Nora’s big eyes smiling at him. Without her coke-bottle glasses she was rather cute, in a thiccc way. Or maybe it was the glistening marble backdrop that made her more attractive, since she never appeared this way in the TEMPER unit they shared.

“Oh, thanks Nora.” Said Nox, wondering when she had stopped wearing her glasses.

Homo Venatorus was a new species, and the exact process of evolution had yet to be isolated. But one thing was certain, mana, the new electromagnetic wave, played a major role. With higher mana concentrations having unusual effects on activated hunters. Nox accepted the bread brick ‘biscuits’ and spread the cheese over them, crunching into them in silence. Contrary to public opinion, MREs were rather good, being both salty and savory. With plenty of umami from the cheese to make them delicious. They were sometimes tough to eat, but the gene therapy was still enhancing his strength. If he really wanted to, Nox probably could have gnawed on sandstone to get some extra roughage.

“Ash, we’re going to make it home.” Said Nox, raising his free pinky finger towards her.

She frowned at it for a moment. Then her face lit up with an epiphany and she wrapped her pinky around his.

“You better, it would be a shame to die in here, seeing as how you’re still a virgin.” She said with a smile.

Nox nearly blew half-chewed chunks of cheesy MRE biscuits across the dungeon, spluttering at the jab. Nora squawked in surprise, making Ashley giggle. Even Taylor who was sitting ten feet away cracked a smile at the outburst, no doubt tucking away that tidbit of mockery away for a later date.

“Am not!” Coughed Nox.

“Oh yeah? Who was your first?” Said Ashley.

They continued chatting and snacking for an hour, enough time for the diviners to sweep the dungeon ahead. Most creatures gave them a wide berth, or were distantly isolated in colonies of some sort, from a goblin village made of wyvern bones, to treehouses carved into mycelium the size of skyscrapers, although those were distant, and seemed to exude a fog of spores.

The other mages to recast their spells all save Mary-sue, who remained in a trance-like state, somehow manipulating ambient mana with her talent. Most of the kill team divided into their sub-cliques, each group of two or three breaking off to enjoy their meals. A common occurrence, since they were all draftees and heralded from different hunting camps, or in the case of Jesus and Jamal, military bases. The Hunter Corps divided homo venatorus according to state and county needs, with a strong preference to keep activated hunters relatively close to their sapien homes. Not that it mattered, hunters had no access to the internet or phones, and even those with neuralink were forcibly disconnected, if the Corps didn’t surgically remove the link. Something about mana causing hallucinations and schizophrenia, which Nox realized was a well reasoned concern. A metropolis like Los Angeles would have larger and more spread out hunting camps, while a smaller city like Sacramento would have smaller and fewer camps, often situated in temporary housing near airfields. Since the Corps’ mandate involved closing gates and protecting Homo Sapiens, they provided free deployment for all hunters, often airlifting higher ranked hunters to distant or pressing gates. Some hunters even preferred to deploy via parachute drops, though E rankers were generally stuck in the back seats of humvee convoys.

Foreign countries weren’t so lucky though. Without the native aerospace industry required to collect and ferry kill teams to dungeons many countries saw mass casualties with each new portal. International conflict had effectively ceased, with mutual defense becoming a global buzzword and international mercenary contracts becoming the twenty second century’s preferred method of soft power.

Which America –inventors of the Venatorus Gene Therapy– used to dominate the entire world, resurging from it’s fallen empire status to become a global empire once more. Therapy was exported across the world, with allies and trade partners receiving regular shipments. E ranked therapy hunters were pathetically weak when compared to dungeon creatures or fully activated blood hunters, but fifty therapy hunters could often triage a few gates, slaying any escaping monsters until a kill team of blood hunters could be summoned. Not to mention, the therapy kits only required refrigeration to stay effective for several months, meaning third world governments could purchase and stockpile therapy kits for instant deployment. A tactic that became globally implemented. For example, Taiwan only maintained three kill teams of mixed ranks, less than a hundred blood hunters to protect a population of roughly twenty four million citizens. An impossible task, but one made manageable by distributing therapy kits to local SWAT teams or military bases when a dungeon gate appeared, essentially manufacturing a pop-up kill team.

Though dozens of sparsely populated countries, such as Afghanistan and Kazakhstan, had already been overrun, with their populations forced into a handful of the largest cities. Fortresses that now militarized their entire populations. Millions had died, with some doomsayers claiming a billion casualties in the decade since the first gate opened. Humanity was losing the dungeon war, and losing it quickly.

A growl from Jesus caught Nox’s attention, tuning him into Jesus, Jamal, and Mary-sue’s impromptu meeting. The trio had walked a hundred yards away from the other members of the kill team, a dangerous distance considering the lethality of the dungeon. But well within Nox’s drug-heightened senses. No one else seemed to hear Jesus’ odd vocalization, piquing Nox’s interest. Doubly so since the veteran C ranker generally lived up to his namesake. Hearing the man growl was an experience that Nox had never considered to be possible, similar to waking up on a bed of four leaf clovers.

“That’s impossible!” Grumbled Jesus, “We’d all be deep fried and sauteed in garlic if it was.”

Mary-sue crossed her arms, tapping her acrylic nails against her biceps. “I’m positive, this is at least an A ranked dungeon. But Jesus! This is a labyrinth, with a minotaur in it. That myth is well over two thousand years old! If we found Jesus Christ in a desert dungeon I would be less worried!” Snapped Mary-sue.

Ain't nobody seen the boss! Nox keep sayin' it's a minotaur, but look at him all jittery! We all seen them therapy hunters take too much juice.” Answered Jamal.

“I’ve seen it.” Said Mary-sue.

Her proclamation silenced the men more completely than gunshots to the jaw.

“Listen, the mana here is thicker than any A ranked gate I’ve been dragged through. Did you see Nora take off her glasses? She’s legally blind, 20 / 200 vision, yet she took them off a few hours in…” Said Mary-sue.

“Mana sickness? Mary-sue you’re being hysterical! We’ve only been here a half day, if what you’re saying is true this isn’t an A ranked dungeon, it’s beyond S.” Hissed Jesus.

“Exactly Jesus, can’t you feel it? My scrying sucks donkey dicks, it’s so bad that the Corps wouldn’t even rank it, but I found the minotaur.” Mary-sue leaned in close, nearly kissing her peers. “I should not be able to find my way out of a wet paper bag. I don’t have that much power, but my vision showed me the whole dungeon, and the wyverns. The kid’s been spot on with everything. I doubt he could be more accurate if he activated a prophecy talent and saw the future. Ah,” Said Mary-sue, rubbing her temples.

“A prophecy talent? You think he’s the sap spy?” Asked Jesus.

“Naw fam, why turn a poodle when there are wolves in da streets.” Said Jamal.

“Hmm, I’ve been on a few raids with his mom and dad, but last I heard, Grey Hawke got left behind during a raid and Elizabeth Hawke caught a bad case of mana cancer. Hard to see him turning, but I would understand him trying to get better treatment for her.” Said Mary-sue.

“Mmmm…” Said Jesus, nodding his head, “Ashley mentioned her younger siblings getting dragged off to a training camp, their only ninos, uh, twelve I think, so the Corps is busy conditioning them.” Finished Jesus, referencing the Hunter Corps re-education camps, where fistfights were daily exercise, and other academic pursuits didn’t progress past ten times ten.

“We’ll find the traitor later, we got bigger problems right now. This mana’s so thick in here I’ve started rejecting it, pushing it away from the party! Everyone except for Nox is already sick, we have a few hours before mana-cancer starts crippling the therapy hunters. You and I might be able to last a couple of days but…” Said Mary-sue.

Jamal and Jesus traded looks, then they flexed their hands, exchanging frowns as their limbs moved. Homo Venatorus was phylogenetically characterized as having bodies able to process mana, but just like humans and water, too much mana would drown them. It would start by overloading your abilities, giving the stamina to march for ten hours without rest, or increase your ability to heal and fight, but then Aetheric Lithogenesis would set in. A high-faluting sapien name for mana cancer, which occured when the mana inside your body began to crystallize. If one were lucky, microscopic mana crystals would form in the blood and shred every artery, a quick death and relatively painless.

For the unlucky everyone else, mana crystals would form macroscopically. Often growing out of existing orifices, such as the nose, mouth, ears and in Elizabeth Hawke’s case, the eyes. Though the Corps had been sure to include pictures of mana crystals growing out of the eyes, urethra, and anus. Providing a hunter version of ‘STD awareness’ class. Corps bureaucrats said they found it the most effective way to teach drafted –uncooperative– hunters about the dangers of excessive mana.

All told, mana cancer was considered a rare occurrence for E rankers raiding E ranked gates, but a common sight for C rankers who sometimes raided B and A gates. Jamal and Jesus nodded to each other, forming their hands into fists.

“Rock, Paper, Scissors.” They said.

Jamal threw paper, Jesus scissors.

“Awwww, you’re too good at reading me Jesus.” Grumbled Jamal, drawing his Mbar.

“Fine, I got this one.” Said Jesus, drawing his own Mbar.

The mana reinforced combat knife was thick, manufactured from the highest grade steels and tested to the nines. Each blade bore the diamond and spherical imprints of repeated hardness tests, and they reportedly x-rayed and ultrasonically scanned each knife before and after mana enhancement. All these steps guaranteed the highest quality and performance of any edged weapon in the entire world.

Jesus snapped the blade with two fingers, like it was a used popsicle stick.

Jamal, Jesus and Mary-sue echoed a single word in unison.

“Fuck.”