June 16th, 1983
Confirmed incident report:
The first Erebus Research Facility personnel has been compromised.
Cause: Azathoth.
Victim: Arlo Cromwell.
Wren stared in horror at the thing standing before her.
Arlo
No—
Not Arlo.
Not her husband.
She refused to believe that was him.
His new legs continued to grow, stretching unnaturally as bone and flesh twisted into shape with soft, sickening pops. His arms lengthened next, growing thinner, too thin, until they looked less like human limbs and more like dangling branches. His neck stretched with them, vertebrae cracking one by one as his head lolled forward, hanging at an impossible angle.
He kept growing.
Another foot.
Then another.
By the time it stopped, the thing wearing Arlo's face stood nearly eight feet tall.
Wren's breath hitched in her throat.
Her body screamed at her to stay down, to curl up, to pray she would wake up in her bed and find all of this gone.
But she forced herself to stand.
Her injured hand throbbed violently, blood still dripping from the ruined stump where her finger had been. Her knees shook so badly she thought they might give out beneath her.
"It's just a dream…" she whispered to herself, voice trembling. "No. No, you're not Arlo. You're just a monster wearing his face."
The thing tilted its upside-down head and stared at her.
Then, in that same awful voice, it asked again—
"Am I beautiful… Wren?"
Wren froze.
Her eyes widened.
A fresh wave of tears welled up as terror and grief crashed together in her chest.
"Don't say my name!" she screamed.
She turned and bolted from the room.
The corridor outside blurred around her as she ran, one hand pressed uselessly against her bleeding finger, her breathing ragged and uneven. Every instinct in her body was drowning in panic. Every step felt clumsy, desperate, wrong.
Behind her, she heard movement.
Slow.
Heavy.
Measured.
That thing was following her.
"Wren…" it called, its voice dragging her name out in a way that made her stomach twist. "Do you want to be beautiful with me?"
For a split second, her body locked up.
The words hit something deep inside her skull, like a hook catching behind her thoughts. Her vision swam. A cold shiver ran through her from head to toe.
But she forced herself forward again.
No.
That thing was not Arlo.
It couldn't be.
It had to be wearing him.
Using him.
Imitating him.
Because the alternative—
that her husband was still somehow in there—
was far too horrible to bear.
"Wren. Wren. Wren. Wren."
Arlo's voice followed her through the hallway, repeating her name over and over in that same slow, broken tone.
Wren clapped her hands over her ears as she ran, but it didn't help.
The voice still reached her.
It slithered through the metal corridors, through the humming lights, through the pounding of her own heartbeat.
She kept running anyway, tears blurring her vision.
Please.
Someone.
Anyone.
Someone to tell her this was a dream.
Someone to tell her she was hallucinating.
That the cocoon, the blackout, the voice in her head—none of it was real.
That she was just losing her mind.
Someone to tell her that thing wasn't Arlo, her Arlo
As she rounded the next corner, she slammed straight into someone and nearly collapsed.
"Wren—?"
Nicholas caught her before she hit the floor, his expression shifting instantly as he saw her face.
"Wren, are you okay?" he asked, alarmed. Then his gaze dropped to her hand. "Your finger—"
"It's Arlo…" Wren choked out, tears spilling freely now. "It's Arlo…"
Before Nicholas could respond, he saw it.
A long, pale finger slowly curled around the edge of the hallway corner behind her.
Its nail scraped against the wall with a sharp, grating sound.
Then came the rest.
That stretched, disgusting neck bent into view, hanging at a sick angle as Arlo's upside-down head slowly emerged from around the corner. His face was still wearing that awful smile, blood dried dark around his mouth, his eyes fixed entirely on Wren.
"Wren…" he said again.
Nicholas moved instantly.
He yanked Wren behind him with one arm and drew his gun with the other, raising it toward the thing in a single smooth motion.
"Get behind me," Nicholas said, his voice turning cold.
He didn't hesitate.
He pulled the trigger.
The gunshot cracked through the hallway, deafening in the confined space. The bullet tore into Arlo's stomach—
—or what used to be his stomach.
A thick, black, tar-like substance spilled out instead of blood. It oozed slowly at first, then dripped onto the floor with heavy, wet plops.
The moment it touched the ground—
it bubbled.
Hissed.
Like something alive.
Arlo's body twitched.
"It hurts…" he murmured.
His head tilted further, that unnatural angle somehow worsening as his upside-down face locked onto Wren.
"Wren… he's hurting me?"
Wren's heart shattered.
For just a second—
it sounded like him.
Then Arlo moved.
Too fast.
His elongated arm lashed out toward Nicholas, fingers stretched into something claw-like.
Nicholas reacted instantly, throwing himself backward. The claws sliced through the air inches from his face, close enough for him to feel it.
"It hurts," Arlo whimpered again.
Nicholas fired a second shot.
The bullet struck his arm.
More of that black substance burst free, spilling down his limb in thick streams, dripping and bubbling where it hit the floor.
But Arlo didn't slow down.
If anything—
he smiled wider.
In a blur of motion, he lunged forward and grabbed Nicholas by the head.
"Shit—!"
Before Nicholas could react, he was lifted and slammed violently into the wall.
The impact echoed down the corridor.
His grip on the gun broke as it clattered across the floor, skidding out of reach.
Nicholas gasped, the air ripped from his lungs as pain exploded through his body. He tried to move—tried to push himself up—but his limbs wouldn't respond fast enough.
Arlo let him drop.
Then slowly—
deliberately—
he turned his attention back to Wren.
"Wren…" he said softly.
His eyes locked onto hers.
Unblinking.
Wrong.
"Let's be beautiful together."
Tears poured from Wren's eyes as she stumbled toward Nicholas's gun.
Her hands shook violently as she picked it up.
For a moment, it felt heavier than it should have.
Arlo turned toward her.
"Wren?" he asked.
His elongated fingers twitched, poised to strike.
Wren raised the gun with trembling arms, the barrel aimed directly at his face.
Her vision blurred.
Her breathing broke.
"I'm sorry," she choked out.
Then she pulled the trigger.
The shot rang through the hallway.
Arlo's head snapped back as the bullet tore through him, and his body collapsed to the floor in a twisted heap.
For a few horrible seconds, the monster convulsed.
Its limbs twitched.
Its spine jerked.
That thick black substance bubbled from the wound as dark steam began to rise from his body, hissing into the air like something being burned away.
Then, slowly, the distortion receded.
His stretched limbs shrank back to normal.
His neck shortened.
The horrible wrongness of his body unraveled piece by piece until there was nothing left of the creature at all.
Only Arlo remained.
His legs were gone again.
He was human.
Wren stared at him, frozen, the gun slipping in her bloody hand.
Arlo looked up at her.
For the first time since the transformation, there was clarity in his eyes.
Recognition.
Love.
Pain.
"Wren…" he whispered.
Her whole body trembled.
"I love you."
Then the strength left him.
His head slumped to the side, and his body went still on the floor.
Wren dropped to her knees.
A broken sound escaped her throat as the truth finally crushed whatever hope she had left.
It wasn't a hallucination.
It wasn't a nightmare.
It wasn't an imposter wearing her husband's face.
Arlo had been changed.
Twisted.
Turned into something inhuman.
And she had killed him.
June 16th, 1983
Confirmed Incident Report
First successful termination of an Azathoth-created organism recorded.
Agents Responsible: Wren Cromwell, Nicholas Graves
Agent Fatalities: Arlo Cromwell
Hostile Designation: Codename — The Reacher