The next day, they gathered around the fireplace as ordered. The mood was different. The terror of the night before had been metabolized into a sharp, focused gravity. Maya sat among them, not separate. Her eyes were clear, though shadowed with the memory of her long internal exile. She listened.
"Gather around," Wolfen said, not as a command, but as the opening of a grim lecture. He stood before the hearth, the fire casting his face in sharp relief. "It's time you understood the house you were born in."
He let the silence stretch, forcing them to lean into it.
"The Architects are an organization. Their origin is a black hole. No one knows who created the first one, or why. Their stated purpose is the 'betterment of the world' through forced evolution. They see the collapse not as an end, but as a… necessary pruning. A global lab accident that gave them unlimited test subjects."
He picked up a charred stick from the hearth, drawing in the ash on the stone. "The virus that started it all—the Thantos Virus. It has three known strains."
He drew a crude 'I'. "Type One: The baseline. This is what makes the shamblers, the screamers, the classic zombie. Cellular degradation, neural rewrite, hunger drive. The dead end."
He drew a 'II' next to it. "Type Two: The sculptor. This is their tool. This strain doesn't just destroy; it rewrites. It allows for the merging of DNA—human, animal, synthetic. This is what they use to create hybrids. It's the chisel they used on all of you."
Finally, he drew a 'III'. "Type Three: The wild card. The theorist strain. It doesn't create stable forms; it mutates. It spawns new, unpredictable viral offshoots. It's the source of the more… exotic horrors. The things that break the rules of known biology. They fear it and covet it in equal measure."
He tossed the stick back into the fire. "Now, the products. The hybrids." He pointed at Maya. "There are two broad categories. Omegas—like Maya. Capable of profound physical metamorphosis. They often display animalistic traits, heightened senses, and a power that is… elemental. Primal. Their transformation is a weapon, but it often comes with a cost to stability."
He looked around at the others. "And Alphas. What they sound like. Command variants. Enhanced intellect, powerful telepathic or telekinetic abilities, an aura of control that can influence other hybrids. They are the lieutenants, the field commanders. The strongest of the Alphas are forces of nature who lead entire hives or control vast territories." His gaze swept over them. "None of you are Alphas. Be thankful. That target is even bigger."
He tapped his own chest. "And then there's me. I am not a hybrid. I am a Metahuman. A human being who, through means I didn't ask for, gained hybrid-like abilities without the viral integration. A fluke. An original. This makes me… difficult for them to categorize. An annoyance."
He moved to the logistics they'd craved. "Practicalities. Hybrids have a slowed, or in some cases, halted aging process. Your metabolic needs are reduced; you can go weeks without food if you have to. You are, for all intents and purposes, biological engines built for endurance."
"Now, their hierarchy. Their cult of the mask." He held up a finger. "Basic Architects wear white. Grunts. Technicians. The ones who mop the floors and prep the needles."
A second finger. "Superiors wear grey. Lab overseers. Project managers. The one you fought, Eva, was likely a Superior. They run the facilities, design the experiments."
A third finger, his voice dropping. "Primes wear dark grey. These are not subjects, but elevated Architects. They are either promoted Superiors, or… they are created by turning a suitable high-value subject into one of them. A fate worse than being a test subject. They are the true believers, the high priests of this mad science. The squad that came for you, Eva, acted on intel that you were a rogue Prime. A monumental clerical error that almost got you killed."
A fourth finger. "Absolutes wear black. I have met one. They are to Primes what a tsunami is to a wave. Their power is vast, their authority near-absolute within the structure. They initiate world-spanning projects. They are the architects of the Architects."
He clenched his fist, his golden eyes growing distant. "I was created by Absolute-Five. A renegade. One who saw the organization as a cancer, not a cure. He believed the only way to burn it down was to create a weapon it could not control. A weapon that operated on principles older than their science. He made me. Then, they found him and erased him. I am his last, malfunctioning grenade."
He let the weight of his origin story hang in the smoky air. "Their entire system is geared towards one thing: ranking us. Cataloging power. Determining which of their creations is the 'fittest.' They have a whole bloody scoring system. The bounty on my head, the hit on Eva—it's all part of their endless, sick competition to find the ultimate lifeform."
He looked at each of them. "Any questions?"
Eva was the first to speak, her voice quiet. "You said they turn people into Primes. What does that process involve?"
Wolfen's smile was thin and mirthless. "It involves breaking everything that makes a person a person, and rebuilding them around a single, fanatical core belief: that the Architects' work is holy. It is the total annihilation of the self, replaced by dogma. It is why being mistaken for one is such an insult."
He leaned back, the lecture apparently over. He had given them the map to their own hell. The names of their jailers, the blueprint of their cages, and the reason for the bounty on their heads. They were no longer just running. They were studying their enemy. And in Wolfen's grim curriculum, knowledge was the first, and most dangerous, weapon.