Claude von Herringberg hated his name—a hideous christening, he thought—yet his influential family ensured he retained his surname, despite the schoolyard bullying it attracted. Those days were long behind him now. He walked a concrete corridor lined with cages, each holding a female subject; nothing more to him.
As head of the facility, his extensive past collaborations had taught him the value of cooperation. Yet this new group—six females—presented a worthwhile challenge; their inherent uppitiness, he knew, guaranteed them enemies, whether they realized it or not.
The worst enemy, he mused, wasn't the immediate attacker but the one nursing a slow burn of revenge. He'd found promising partners for this particular study. A tall, black-haired Austrian man, he'd lost his family as a teenager, using his inheritance to surpass his bullies and perhaps achieve a form of immortality—not vampiric, but a life of endless wealth and longevity.
Plain-looking and socially awkward, he'd never had a wife or even a serious girlfriend; thus, his studies had become an obsession. Professionally, he was detached, cool, and efficient.
His facility generated income by selling subjects to their enemies, allowing him to observe their interactions under controlled conditions. This provided him with data, a testing ground for his theories, satisfaction for his clients, and lucrative profits; such opportunities didn't come cheap.
One of his men handed him a list of drugs, detailing their inventory and potential effectiveness on the new subjects. He glared at the list in his hands.
His man then handed him a clipboard detailing the available drugs and their dosages: xylazine (1-2 mg/kg), (20mg/ml, 100mg/ml, 200mg/ml); lofentanil (0.01µg/15 kg q24h), (0.05µg/ml, 0.1µg/ml); sufentanil (1µg/kg q24h), (15µg/ml, 30µg/ml); acetorphine (1.3 µg/kg q24h), (50µg/ml); carfentanil (0.2µg/kg q24h), (1µg/ml); detomidine (0.15mg/kg), (10mg/ml); romifidine (400µg/kg q6h), (10 mg/ml); acepromazine (0.22mg/kg), (10 mg/ml); butorphanol (0.4 mg/kg,q4h), (10mg/ml); tiletamine (4-5 mg/kg), (50 mg/ml); etorphine (0.2µg/kg q24h), (2.25 mg/ml); azaperone (0.4 mg/kg), (40mg/ml); dexmedetomidine (0.03mg/kg), (0.1 mg/ml, 0.5 mg/ml); meperidine (10 mg/kg), (100 mg/ml); nalbuphine (3 mg/kg q3h), (300 mg/ml); pentazocine lactate (3 mg/kg q4h), (300 mg/ml); chlorpromazine (1-2 mg/kg q12h), (100mg/ml); medetomidine (50-100 µg/kg), (1 mg/ml, 5mg/ml); thiopental (250-400 mg bolus to induce anesthesia, followed by 50-70mg q15min to maintain anesthesia), (2.5%, 5%, 10% solutions); pentobarbital (100-500mg), (2.5%, 5%, 10% solutions); and remimazolam (300 mg q15min), (20mg/ml). Administration methods included IV, IM, SC, oral, rectal, nasogastric feeding, tablets, capsules, suppositories, rectal gel, rectal foam, vaginal foam, liquid for nasogastric feeding, dermal patches, and sublingual strips.
He began planning drug cocktails for each subject. For the first subject, identified by the number 789610 and possessing the "rage gene," he prescribed tiletamine, acetorphine, pentazocine, a rage blocker, and romifidine, stating that this would keep her heavily sedated most of the time.
He dictated his prescription, emphasizing clinical efficiency: "First week, I want her GCS awareness below ten. She can watch, see something, but be utterly drugged, limp, and unable to form coherent thought. Her memory will record everything anyway."
His man nodded, jotting down the orders on his tablet; he was merely transcribing, not considering the subjects as sentient beings. They had legally protected themselves using a new law allowing doctors to hold supernatural beings under Section 12, Subsection 65, involuntarily.
His inventiveness led him to devise entirely new diagnoses to justify keeping subjects in involuntary confinement. He created treatment plans, sedative regimens, and prognoses—all fabricated, lacking any medical basis.
However, with the limited official study of the supernatural, diagnostic criteria were nonexistent, allowing him to freely diagnose and "treat" whatever afflictions he perceived. His next subject, a woman placed in a cage that prevented her from sitting, was shorn, naked, and forced to crawl on the dirty floor.
Perfect, he thought; an "energy witch" believing herself superior. That wouldn't last. He would administer ketamine, chlorpromazine, meperidine, and detomidine, rendering her confused and helpless.
After a few days, implanted earpieces would begin her "lessons," further breaking her spirit. Soon, she would crawl to him, licking his shoes for attention, a worthless creature ripe for his manipulation and control.
The werewolves, he decided, would serve him in their natural forms; no need for them to pretend to be human. Once broken and rebuilt, they would become his. The two vampires, while useful, needed significant guidance and drugs. Ketamine, fentanyl, and acepromazine laced with LSD would manipulate their minds, breaking their spirits before he "rescued" them.
In his cold, clinical voice, he dictated his plans for each subject, overseeing 400 women in the facility; 134 were already broken, a slow but steady process. Six had committed suicide—a regrettable loss—but he had many more to work with. The steady stream of income from renting his subjects was substantial.
There was a high demand for them, even from government agents who had attempted to renegotiate a deal with subject 789610. He hadn't yet agreed; his schedule was full. Even the "energy witch," 826810, was surprisingly popular. Despite his unpleasant name, he had never had it so good.
He wasn't originally a medical doctor; his first profession was bookkeeping for several morally lax companies with wealthy clients. These companies offered lucrative bonuses for correctly handling accounts—or, as he put it, "cooking the books."
However, when these companies were exposed and subsequently failed, he was forced to leave. This experience fueled his personal animosity towards 789610—a number he used to dehumanize her, reducing her to nothing more than a target. He'd studied psychology, psychopathology, and supernatural minds, encountering the concept of rage-fueled powers.
Possessing a sharp mind and lacking morals, he believed that individuals with abnormal DNA, such as the six-stranded DNA of his subject, should be treated as animals. He resented the lax laws that allowed such individuals to prosper, forming organizations and accumulating wealth.
He envisioned a future where these laws were reinstated with stricter regulations, preventing these "animals" from using money or requiring them to have human owners. He was morally bankrupt, with no hope of redemption. As times changed, he obtained a degree in supernatural medicine, despite having never practiced.
This allowed him to prescribe drugs, make diagnoses, and involuntarily detain patients. 789610's file listed numerous issues: sociopathy, atypical DNA, a warped mind, uncontrollable rage, indecent behavior, animalistic traits (purring, vocalizations), and anatomical quirks.
His first procedure would be the enucleation of her pheromone glands, located on her neck and wrists, preventing her from distracting enemies with scents. Once she was medicated, he would interrogate her for various clients. If she died, he could simply revive her, rendering the consequences inconsequential.
This old fabric factory in Utah, acquired through foreclosure, was converted into one of his nine facilities across the states. He operated without a board, an official money trail, or any oversight beyond his loyal crew. Years of studying resistance attacks revealed predictable patterns: targets were often arrogant and left easily traceable clues.
He, however, operated differently. The facility's extensive solar panel array eliminated the need to purchase or pilfer energy; the factory's location and height made it ideal for such an installation, and he obtained the necessary permits. This disguised the facility as just another private energy source, a common sight given rising gas and wood prices.
Furthermore, the lack of traffic—no cars, no people—masked the extensive network of underground tunnels connecting the facility to nearby old mines. Most operations took place in these tunnels, minimizing activity in the factory itself, which primarily served as an energy maintenance and storage center.
The tunnels' depth prevented satellite detection, and their minimal documentation, meticulously concealed, further ensured secrecy. Any potentially discovered tunnel entrances were cleverly disguised as collapsed, deterring even adventurous cave explorers.
He also strategically flooded social media with information about alternative locations to divert attention from his tunnels, proactively managing any potential threats posed by curious explorers. His methods were exceptionally cunning.
789610, formerly known as Mimi Salvatore or Springcove, was the leader and founder of the resistance. Here, however, she was just another number, and he was determined to break her.
He knew resistance would continue, but the "American Sweetheart" title left a bitter taste in his mouth. How could anyone bestow such a title on this creature? She barely resembled a human; an animal lurked beneath the surface, and it was time the world saw her true, rage-less self.
826810, or Mariella Salvatore, the energy witch and savior, would become nothing more than a pathetic creature licking his boots for attention. No more high-and-mighty savior at parties offering safe havens; she would be exactly what he molded her to be, though he wasn't yet sure of his ultimate goal with her.
He saw her as an animal too—a cat in heat, disgustingly feral—and he wanted to break her, change her, make her see herself as an ugly, worthless creature, dependent on him and his attention. Not sexual gratification or seduction, but simply the chance of him glancing at her would be the highlight of her day.
Perfect. He was a cruel, twisted man, and he wasn't alone. The world was an ugly place, and men like him made it uglier.
545411 and 000111—the wolves. Their transformation would be easy; once his therapy concluded, they'd remember nothing of their human forms. They would be animals, loyal pets, obeying his every whim with a snap of his fingers. Whether ripping apart congressmen or submitting to lusty werewolf males, they would serve him alone, utterly animalistic.
The thought of those mutts ever daring to take human form again sent a fresh shiver of hate through him. No more. They would soon receive numbers and, later, appropriately canine names, completing their transformation.
Next, 121212 and 131313—the vampire "bitches"—would become his arm candy at various parties and events. They would worship, seduce, and have sex with him, showering him with compliments. He might even learn to please them, but first, they too would be broken, reduced to mere playthings with no purpose beyond their devotion and obedience.
He regarded them coldly as the men prepared them for their new function. This facility housed the most morally ruthless individuals, perfectly suited for the task. It would be perfect, so perfectly his. The time had also come to teach someone a lesson about manipulating him. He, and he alone, was the manipulator.
His rounds continued, but his mind remained focused on six pressing matters. These represented a significant challenge. He paused by a cage containing three succubi—desperate, tall, naked females pleading for male attention.
Wrinkling his nose at their musky scent, he said in a clinical, cold voice, "Could you please hose those down? They reek. Try to reduce the smell somehow; this isn't a brothel. There's no need to smell like whores."
One of the men nodded, approached a nearby wall, unhooked a hose, and directed it into the cell. Another man opened a valve. Cold water hit the succubi; the men were merciless, hosing them down until the cold rendered them unable to rise. They had fallen, slick from the water.
He nodded, satisfied, and moved on, considering selling the creatures. However, he also recognized the potential of succubus bodily fluids—cerebrospinal fluid and pancreatic enzymes in particular—for human medicine. He was supplying these fluids to his partners, for a fee, of course.
In his twisted mind, this was also a contribution to humanity. He needed the money; maintaining hundreds of females wasn't cheap. They needed food and had to remain productive. Some were carnivores, requiring animal products. He knew where to obtain inexpensive animal protein meant for predators—fur farms, for instance.
He wasn't feeding them luxury beef, but rather dried animal protein soaked in water, or dog kibble, sometimes even kibble for zoo carnivores, all soaked in water laced with carefully selected drugs to maintain the creatures' mental state.
In his work, morals were a hindrance; the big picture was paramount. The fate of humanity depended on men like him—men with the guts to do what was necessary to ensure human dominance, to prevent the world from falling into supernatural chaos.
His worldview was as twisted as his morals, yet he saw his path as righteous. Supernatural beings, in his view, possessed few rights but immense responsibilities, and he was not alone in this belief. Humanity remained terrified of the powerful and different; redemption was nonexistent. As long as men like von Herringberg existed, this anti-supernatural racism would flourish.
No amount of resistance or press exposure would significantly help, as such men were adept at manipulating public opinion against the supernatural, exploiting the perceived threat. The ugly truth was that stupidity amplified in groups; humanity, when it came to manipulating opinions about the supernatural, behaved like a herd easily swayed, reducing the status of these beings from citizens to animals.
He waited for the day when the new additions to The Human Act—laws concerning supernatural beings—would pass. Then, as a doctor, he could seize any of their assets—like 789610—for himself, simply by charging exorbitant fees for their treatment.
However, the time wasn't right yet; too many pro-supernatural congressmen existed, and the president himself was too friendly with this particular supernatural being and her associates. He would have to wait for the perfect moment, when his people were in the right positions.