FSE

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Making a difference. How could a sentence that short entail so much hard work? Be the change you want to see in the world. Easier said than done; only in the sense that it is a short-syllabic sentence. But Michael found there was truly nothing easy about being the change or making a difference.

When his general lack of interest in high school barred him from any doctorate degrees- Michael always believed that doctors of both the medicinal and psychological kind were the most helpful that one could be- he had turned his attention toward journalism. Maybe he could at least uncover wrongs and eventually, with enough social pressure, make a right out of them. But when his career prospects dwindled into a potential career as tabloid writer, Michael decided to take matters into his own two hands.

And what better way to put your face out there than to declare yourself an enemy of a faceless megacorporation. Sure, the chain of command had to end somewhere, but after so many acquisitions, rebranding, re-rebranding, relocation and subsequent re-re-branding, who could even keep track of the web of company hierarchies anymore?

"We triumph when the hero seeks to destroy the one ring to rule them all, but do not spot the irony of our own chains, enslaved by corporations so vast that we lose track of who is working for whom. And to which means? Are we not the people? How can we possibly call it a free market when one company alone stands as the executive over our food, fashion, entertainment, yes, even our jobs? It's an illusion. A shadow on the wall. They call it a free market, because you're free to believe it. But that's the thing about lies. You can only believe them, but that doesn't make them true."

Perhaps he laid it on a little thick there, but Michael was already running on five cups of coffee and the words stumbled out onto the page at a breakneck speed. Even if the metaphors were a little cheesy, the fact remained the same. Who was the head of Golding Inc?

Private yachts custom-built for sums so ridiculously large Michael had lost track of the amount of digits. Their commissioner? Redacted.

Stretches of land, non-military, tropical islands, all of which inaccessible on Google Earth, if not completely taken off the grid. Some islands, Michael had discovered, were last marked on maps way back from the 1970s. Entire island chains? Redacted.

Michael chewed on the rubber end of his pencil, adding another scribble to his pinboard on the wall. It was a gorgeously mess of assembled receipts, theories, copies and classified materials- some of which he had personally fished out of dumpsters.

The centrepiece was Golding Inc. Founded. . . well, who could say for certain? The official company website reported some sun-tanned American Dream of Willard Golding and Sons getting lucky during the gold rush. The entire story though was dripping with so much cheese it seemed orchestrated for nothing but the tabloids. Michael knew that the name was not its original, but actually the name of some poor business they forced into bankruptcy and acquired back in the 60s or so. Its original name? A mystery. Michael was sure the clues were on the wall here somewhere, that there was some connection he had not yet made. At this point, he was starting to run low on red thread.

That's when he heard two firm knocks on his door and the envelope came into his possession. Unmarked. No name. Even a later inspection revealed that there were no fingerprints; only the message scrawled in beautiful blue ink.

"1218 Simmons Drive. Midnight. Information for your eyes only."

Michael poked his head out the door, but the corridor was empty, aside from Miss Peregrin's cat guarding the stairway up to the old lady's door. He was a nasty old thing, hissing like a sputtering faucet.

"You're lucky I'm a cat person." Michael shut the door and inspected the letter further. Who was it from? Had he finally found a whistle that was ready to blow? Or had he struck a nerve with the corporation? The letter ended up pinned right at the top of his wall.

--

His sister, Becca, was the only one who was informed of his plan and location. He gave her a call a few hours before he headed out and shared the address he had received.

"It's an old, abandoned construction site. Couldn't be more romantic."

"Hm, maybe you should bring some scented candles."

"I'm bringing my gun."

". . . Those don't produce the sexy smoke, Michael, unless you are now a private eye."

"That's just investigative journalism with a more specific target audience. So am I sexy now if I shoot my gun?"

"You know what? You deserve what's coming for ya."

"Why, do you know?"

"Nope. But I hope it's bad, because you deserve it. Anyway, tell me all about it when you're done. And don't shoot your only whistleblower by accident?"

Click.

The gun. Michael did not, in fact, like carrying it around or even having it in the house. It did not exactly make him feel any safer, but it made him more confident. His backpack had his notebooks, both physical and digital, and a flashlight. He took out the latter and began to explore.

His car was the only one parked out front. Michael briefly considered if he had been pranked, but in this day and age, nobody could be bothered to prank a journalist. Too harmless or too much effort or both.

But where was his elusive contact?

He shone a beam of light through the empty halls of the large structure, highlighting some graffiti, a few rats scurrying about. He headed further inside; perhaps his contact left another riddle on the walls or on paper. When he had ventured well enough into the site, there was a voice behind him.

"Good evening, mister Langdon."

Michael spun around so suddenly that he almost tripped over his own feet. Standing between him and the outside was a huge man, perhaps well into his 50s, but with a mean case of old-man strength. He looked ridiculous in his fine business suit, his large hands folded together before him. A thin smile rested on his lips, his eyes scrutinizing the young man with a curious intellect.

"So you are the blogger making ripples, hm?"

"Journalist. And I think they're waves, no?" Michael said and glanced about.

"Don't worry, we are alone. I'm not here to threaten you, mister Langdon, otherwise you would know." His voice was cold and deep, coarse like rock. "How has your career as a journalist been treating you?"

"Led me this far, has it not? I think I have a nose for trouble."

The man chuckled softly, that smile thin like a sharp cut.

"That you do, Mister Langdon, that you do. You have acquired quite the formidable skills, but do not present the most. . . impressive resume. Breaking and entering?"

"It was an open container; not my fault if someone does not shred company secrets. If a badger can get in, so can I, perfectly legal."

"It was not a jab at your exploits, mister Langdon. I am here to make you an offer, propel your curriculum to a pedestal it deserves to stand on. Don't let your talents go to waste writing for your socialist blog."

It was at that point that Michael decided that he had definitely hit gold as well as a corporation's nerve. Jackpot.

"I must let you know, I am very stubborn and quite happy with my current job prospects."

"And I believe you, Mister Langdon. I see much of myself in you."

"Do you know?"

He chuckled.

"I do admit, you've got me beat on youth, but what I see in the both of us is ambition. You want to rise to the top of your field, even your field is taking down targets much larger than yourself. You like having that power."

"Careful now, sir, journalism does not deal with presumptions and you presume to know a lot of me."

"Am I wrong?"

Michael bit his tongue. Then, the man reached into his suit pocket- for a moment, Michael's hand hovered over the gun tucked into his jeans- and produced a business card that seemed miniature in his overly large hands.

"We can make good use of ambitions such as your own. Think on it, Mister Langdon, but know this. We are not so different, you and I, and you'll come to see the truth of it."

The card itself was in a matte black with only the letters shiny in gold.

"So who is it you're working for?" Michael asked, twirling the card between his fingers," Golding Inc.

The man had the last laugh before he left.

"That, mister Langdon, is a conversation for another time. Give me a call when you have made up your mind."

--

When Michael dialled his sister's phone number, his hands were shaking so hard he could barely hold the grip on his phone.

"Becca?"

"Who's this?"

"Who do you think?"

"Hmmm. . . Michael's evil kidnapper?"

"I mean, if you're eager to pay a ransom, you can always send me money."

"Eh, I just don't think he's worth the price."

"Give it another month or two, because right now I must be sitting on a hoard of info worth gold. I'm onto something. Something big. The guy at the construction site? He was some fancy fart in a suit. Golding Inc. They caught my scent and they're trying to buy my silence with a lucrative job."

Michael felt cold sweat running down his pores just thinking about it.

"What kind of job?"

"I don't know and I don't care. Whatever it is, hrrrr, my best bet would be covering up their dirty work."

"Oh no, Anakin, you're becoming the very thing you sought to destroy."

He licked his lips and blinked. The long day had his eyes strain in exhaustion. He loosened the tie around his neck. His entire body was shaking. He could be winning the Pulitzer Prize! A shiver ran down his back. The engine roared. Even his throat felt dry.

"Rrrrrr. . . I REALLY want to get to the bottom of this!"

"What's that noise?"

"Don't worry, Becca, hrrr, I'm just really excited!"

"Drive safe, okay?"

"Hrrrrr, yesss."

". . .Michael?"

But his pulse was already going rapid fire. His fingers were sweaty. Oh yes, he was on a verge of a breakthrough. Sure, that Golding guy acted all confident, but the fact that they had sent him at all sent all the messages that Michael had hoped to instil. Fear.

He rolled his shoulders, taking in a sharp breath. Too much caffeine and too much excitement and stress. Perhaps he had to pull over for a moment. The steering wheel was glistening with sweat from his handprints. His leg was restless. A knot in his stomach made him feel sick. The car came to a stop and Michael squeezed the wheel firmly. He licked his lips, his dry lips. Rarely, if_ever,_ had he felt so alive.

The first thing he wanted to do once he got home was take a shower. Already in the car, he started recording a draft for his next report for his website- how dare they call it a blog?- but found himself breathing too ragged to properly channel his thoughts. He could feel the sweat pouring down his skin and he shivered. Was it delight? But then he shivered again, the goosebumps sensitive, then painful as if he had slapped a sunburn on his lower back.

Michael managed to pull into his parking lot, barely in a condition to open his car's door when he fell straight onto the pavement.

"Hrraaagh!"

The cold shiver was not running along his skin, but it was pulsing through his veins like ice. Something tore on his way out of the car, his leg caught on his seatbelt, or so he thought. It was like he was drunk on revelry alone, were it not for the pain.

His phone! Weakly, he reached for his pockets, his breathing ragged like a beast, snarling through clenched teeth. No phone. Where did it go? Had he been poisoned?

The next wave of pain racked through him so that he screamed. It was a twisted noise, a voice that Michael did not recognize as his own. His body shook and shivered, but he managed to find the strength in his limbs to bring his knees beneath his belly. He felt a cold touch on his skin, brushing along his leg.

When he tried to stand, he got caught on his seatbelt somehow. Was it his leg? Michael squinted through his blurred vision and spotted something huge, something dark snaking its way across the seatbelt. He squinted again, tears running down his cheeks, not of fear or sadness, but just an excess that blurred his vision.

What he saw was a lengthy muscle of ebony scale and fins, thinning into a dextrous tip that branched into a delicate tailfin. The seatbelt had ensnared it like a trap. Michael stumbled back, aghast, feeling the tug both along his leg (no, his spine?) and the cutting grip of the belt around the fins. He fell, barely catching his fall with his elbows. It wasn't possible! He shivered and so too did the tail twitch.

"No. . . No no no no!"

He gripped the large thing, pulling, shaking, the alien sensation in this appendage sending signals into his brain. It were feelings of touch, of pain, but only the most subtle modicum of control. It twitched again, coaxing a gasp out of the man. He pressed his feet up against the car, giving himself a firm push. The car creaked and bent and, finally after enough strain and wriggling, the tailfin loosened itself and the huge appendage slipped free.

Only then, when he had backed away from the car in horrified confusion did Michael notice just how much was different. His throat, so dry at this point that it was sore, hacked his breaths into snarls if he breathed too quickly. He squeezed his fingers against his throat, swallowing hard, but it did little to ease the pain.

Somewhere he heard a dog barking. A light came on in a nearby apartment. Quickly now, he had to get off the streets! His jeans were torn in places, but the belt was sturdy enough that it kept it in place. But his car. . . parts of the metal were bent and clawed. Clawed?

The red marks on the ground. . . the bloodied fingernails that clung to the asphalt. Grimacing, Michael stared down at his hands; his fingers were adorned with sharp claws and had gained notorious length, the digits of the same bruised dark colour as that. . . thing that was swaying behind his back. It twitched, he shivered and felt sick. Even his shoes had torn open at the front, his biggest toe on his right foot a scaled talon.

Up the stairs, just two flights of stairs, he could make it without too much of a racket, right? Michael did not remember racing up the staircase. His heartbeat kept his senses distracted, his entire body feeling alien. Like an onion peeling back a layer. Only once he twisted the knob on his door did he realize his mistake. The key was still in the ignition.

Michael sunk down against his door, swearing silently to himself. The tail was lengthier than his legs, but curled up at his feet neatly. There was a pit in his stomach and he grimaced. The saliva in his mouth had begun to taste coppery and he spat a red slime onto his doormat. The doormat! Suddenly, his hopes were reignited and his hand, much larger and the fingers far less dextrous than he liked, slipped beneath the coarse mat until he felt the tiny metal key on his fingertips.

--

Michael collapsed inside, wheezing on his hands and knees. Streaks of saliva were oozing from his open mouth, thick beads of sweat having drenched whatever shreds of clothing remained on him. The pain at this point was a steady companion. He could feel it like cancer beneath his skin. Now that he was inside, he saw the metamorphosis happen before his very own eyes. The mirror, smashed with shards scattered on the floor before him, showed a pale shadow of his former self. Blood ran down his chin. A tooth loosened and he spat it out with a grimace. His tongue ran over the gap, already pricking itself on a sharp protrusion splitting his gum. Michael tried not to sob, leaning his back against the wall, shivering, one hand clasped around his mouth.

Where was his phone? If he was to die here, he at least had to record what was happening. I should call an ambulance. Why did I get rid of my landline. . . maybe I should talk to the neighbours- Michael's right leg began to shake, then spasm, then it lashed out on its own followed by a dull crack. He did not know what was worse. The immediate flash of paralysing pain that burned up his leg or the gross, continuous crunching of bone. He bit down onto his hand until he could taste the bite mark. Walking was out of the window, then.

Not even his toe, or talon, could manage to wiggle. It had gone dull completely and only when he realized how little he could feel beneath his knee did Michael get afraid.

He liked being in control. He liked being his own boss. He was in charge of his own actions. Golding Inc- the thought was a cruel joke- was supposed to cower before his investigative brilliance. But whatever was happening to him, whatever was going to happen to him, was far beyond his own control. And nothing terrified him more.

So when he heard the treacherous clicking of his own lock, Michael stared at his adversary with a grim hatred. The man, the same man as before, let himself into Michael's apartment, his car and house keys in his hand.

"My, my, you left quite a mess downstairs, didn't you?" That smile was still on his lips. "Don't worry, we'll take care of the car; make up a story that you someone broke in and stole some documents, your radio, whatever you want."

". . . What did you do?" The words were barely audible. Michael grimaced, a coldness seeping along his skin. He was so light-headed that he just wanted to pass out, but he kept his gaze wearily upon the intruder.

"I told you. We are not too different, you and I." There was an odd flicker in his eyes.

The man strode closer towards Michael, but only glanced at the many papers on the wall.

"Impressive. They told me you were bright, but how did you even find half of these? No wonder HDR was so interested in you."

Michael spat another tooth, concealing it in his hand. His cheeks were bloated from the injuries and it was getting harder to speak.

"Stoph. You win. If you want to kill me, just get it over with."

The main raised a curious brow and knelt down before him.

"Kill you? That would be a waste of talent. And. . ." he batted Michael's hand away from his mouth, squeezing his cheeks to force him to open wide. His hands, Michael realized, were cold as ice. "Hmph, what a mess. We can take you to the clinic, track your recovery."

Michael spat blood at him.

"Mhh. I'll take that as a no." He rose, his fingers tracing onto the decorative Rolex on his arm. "Surely you must have questions, no?"

Michael gritted his teeth; his jaw cracked, somewhere near his ear, as if he had bitten onto a rock.

"We love your ambition, Mister Langdon. And ambition always goes hand in hand with a lust for power."

Michael fell onto his side, his mouth wide open. His skin split, peeling off of his chin in rags. Bone crunched his face out of shape, contorting his jaw outward. He screamed.

"But this hunger comes at a cost, Mister Langdon. And the price you have already paid. You're a predator that has caught the scent of greed. Of control. Of power."

His tongue flicked from his dry, scaled lips, a sharp row of teeth splintering the crude humanoid molars that he had left. His snout bloated from a guttural, bestial snarl.

"And it has consumed you, Mister Langdon. But you must understand."

The man squatted down beside Michael, or whatever humanity was left in the misshapen draconid creature writhing in a pool of blood and shreds of clothing. His eyes were still wide open, staring at the man in fear and yet, perhaps it was his journalistic instincts, curiosity.

"This is not a curse or punishment. You embraced this as much as you'll wish to deny it. This fate is one of your own design."

He clicked the Rolex on his wrist and the mirage of his shape disappeared. Before Michael, still in that same bulky suit, stood a creature with skin of rugged green scales. Even wings spanned across his back.

"Welcome to Golding Incorporated, Mister Langdon. You may need more help getting accustomed to your new shape and, well, I would have wished to take you to our infirmary, but. . ." he wiped the smear of blood off his cheek," I suppose you did not like the offer."

Michael tried to stand, his legs regaining their strength, but they faltered as soon as he put any weight on them. He collapsed, hissing- even his vocal cords were no longer his to master. The ebony dragon thing hissed. It was all he had re-learnt to do so far.

"Mister Langdon, DON'T do anything rash. Think of your sister."

Becca! Did they have her hooks in her as well? Michael tried to shout and curse at him, but his tongue tripped over itself, too long and slick to be of any use. No wonder this man dragon had spoken with such an accent.

"My advice? Take it slow and rest. Your body needs it or you'll only hurt yourself. You'll need to be eating soon. Something raw. My suggestion? Sushi. We'll be in touch."

The dragon clicked his Rolex and his shape shimmered; suddenly, he was back to being the same awkwardly, bulky human in his 50s, smiling that thin reptilian smile. On his way out the door, he paused for a moment.

"Oh, no wings for you yet, Cadette. That privilege is earned."

And then, he closed the door as silently as he had opened it and left Michael to his fate.

A dragon! Michael's head was spinning; he still felt sick. There were odd sensations all over, needling and prickling him, new frills along his cheeks, arms, spine, tail, good heavens, a tail. . .

"Kchirghhygh"

He didn't even know what he was trying to say anymore, but whatever it was, it didn't work. Michael dragged himself towards his living room, propping himself up into a crawl. His tail wobbled off-balance, his calves ACHING. Even breathing hurt.

The mirror next to his balcony was a beacon of morbid curiosity. Michael could no longer recognize the monster in the reflection. The skin that was all raven black scales. Two large horns curved along his head, his ears frills that flicked and shivered when he picked up sounds as distant as car horns down the street, a few more short nubs of ivory grown along his jaw. It was then that he decided he had seen enough and instead hauled himself up onto his couch.

At least pillows were still a resort of infinite comfort and a welcome respite for his overworked senses and body. Before he fell into a descent of nightmares, Michael knew that the next day would be the hardest of his life. He growled in his sleep. This story, he decided, was far from over.