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"No one goes in there except me. Nobody. Got it?" The security guard nodded dumbly as Simon Anderson, financial administrator at the London Neurological Research Hospital slammed the door shut and locked it. Anderson was bewildered. Two senior members of staff, brilliant professional women, had willingly transformed themselves into ditzy bimbos. First Dr Chalmers, who could currently be found escorting the world's richest men in Las Vegas, then her friend Dr Nayleigh who had at least annotated the work before her transformation into a blowjob machine the day before. With two academic heavyweights gone, Anderson was going to have to start reviewing budgets, reallocating resources, making money available for hiring... If he had hair, he would have been tearing it out. In his office, he fumed. These fucking women, these bitches... Sarah Nayleigh's personnel file sat open on his desk, and he looked at her plain face with contempt. On his monitor was a photo of her taken b...

"Ughh," you sighed, picking yourself up off the floor. You'd tripped while carrying a tray of blood samples, and now scarlet drops covered you and shards of glass were embedded in your hand. "Jesus, I guess I'd better get cleaned up and tested." You turned to look at your boss Caroline, who stared back in horror, then ran for the door. It was already locked. "No, let me out!" she shouted at the ceiling. "I've not had any contact, no particle exposure! It's just him! Let me out!" Caroline sank to the floor, her vivid black hair hanging in front of her face as she sobbed. You'd only been at Ashford Labs a few weeks, cataloguing blood types of samples that were delivered each day. Low level work, sure, and you didn't really know what Ashford were working on, but jobs were scarce. Now you looked in horror as the glass walls of the lab were covered by metal plates and the room fogged with gas. You slipped into unconsciousness. ...

In a Los Angeles mansion, expensively and tastefully furnished, there was a small, infrequently used room. The room contained a bed, a toilet and sink, and a light. It had no windows. It more resembled a cell than anything a wealthy person might want to own. On the bed lay a man. He was short, less than five feet tall, and weak looking. His arms and legs were like twigs, his stomach sunken. Though his skin was unweathered and smooth, he bore the curious face of an old man on a young body. His hair was dark and unkempt, thinning severely. He woke and sat up, feet dangling off the modest mattress. He scratched idly at his chest under the loose t-shirt he was wearing and went to the heavy, windowless door. He tried to pull it, but it didn't budge. It wouldn't push either. At the sink he splashed some water on his face, and returned to the bed. He waited in silence. Hours later, the noise of a lock unfastening came from the door, and on powered hinges it opened. A woman's voice...