No More Evidence
Posted on Thu Feb 19th, 2026 @ 10:23pm by Josiah Martin
1,254 words; about a 6 minute read
Mission:
Episode 7: Pathogens and Contagions
Location: Xavier Mansion
Timeline: March 3, 1992
Joey didn’t look back when Alaric’s portal spat him onto the mansion lawn. No joke about the service, no joke about anything. He couldn’t summon it right now. If he tried, he might break.
So he didn’t look back.
And he stayed a rat-man.
The night air hit fur instead of skin, and that felt easier. Cleaner. Simpler. Rats didn’t explain. Rats didn’t think. They just moved.
Or so he pretended.
The grass bent under his weight as he crossed it, claws sinking in with steady pressure. His tail dragged low and heavy behind him. The fur along his shoulders and arms had dried stiff, tacky where ichor had matted it down. Vampire ash clung in grey streaks across his forearms and muzzle.
He could smell it. Not blood.Not anymore.
Just the metallic rot of whatever vampires turned into when they stopped being anything at all.
It coated his teeth.
To the rat, it smelled like food.
He mounted the porch steps slowly. Each board creaked under his weight. It ought to have felt familiar and ordinary.
It didn’t.
The house lights glowed slow and steady through the windows. Nothing here knew what had happened under the Cyclone. Nothing here smelled of splintered wood and burnt bone.
Good.
He slipped in through the side entrance rather than the foyer. Habit. Less explanation that way. No curious youngsters he couldn’t deal with right now. The hallway floor felt cool against the pads of his feet.
He was leaving faint prints.
He tracked them without looking down.
Shower.
Just get to the shower.
He was breathing too fast. Not panicked. Not out of control. Just wound tight — like an eagle recovering after a dive.
He shouldn’t have stayed shifted this long.
He knew better.
If he tried to turn back now—
He could feel it hovering at the edge of his awareness. The exhaustion. The bone-deep, coma-like crash waiting like the canyon drop at Navajo Bridge.
He made it down the corridor to the shower room, claws clicking faintly against tile. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
Red eyes.
Matted fur.
Dark streaks across his body.
He held the stare for half a second.
Then looked away.
Under the Cyclone, it had been noise and instinct and movement. Clear. Tail grabbed. Momentum used. First one gone.
Then the second one had laughed.
Like it was all just a game.
That was when something had slid into place.
He hadn’t hesitated. He hadn’t thought about doctrines, or commandments, or morality, or whether fangs counted as human. He had launched.
He remembered the feel of bone under his claws.
He pushed that memory down so hard it felt physical — like swallowing bile.
He sniffed reflexively.
Empty.
This wasn’t the team showers. It was one of the student ones. The kids were in bed.
Empty was good.
He stepped into the stall and twisted the knob all the way to hot. Scalding. It wouldn’t matter through the fur anyway.
The water ran grey first. Then darker. Then nearly black.
He watched it spiral toward the drain and disappear.
Gone.
No.
Not gone.
He needed to scrub.
The water flattened the fur against his muscle, turning the dried ichor slick again. For a moment it looked like blood.
It wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t.
It still looked like it. It still felt like it.
He reached blindly and grabbed the first bottle he found.
Human shampoo.
Pine-scented.
Desmond’s.
He stared at it a moment. “Probably oughta invest in flea and tick,” he muttered hoarsely. “Extra degreasing power.”
He tried to snort.
The sound echoed wrong in the tile.
No one laughed.
No one groaned.
No perfectly manicured eyebrow lifted.
No prissy city girl told him that was disgusting.
The steam swallowed the words and gave nothing back.
He squeezed far too much into his paw and worked it into his forearm, scrubbing until suds built thick and white against dark fur.
Still there.
He hooked his claws into the fur at his chest and dragged downward, careful not to cut himself, but not gentle either. The friction burned. The foam turned grey, then dark.
“Guess that’s what I get for not springing for the fancy brand,” he murmured faintly.
Silence.
Again.
He could almost hear how he’d say it if someone else were there — lighter, faster, eyebrows up, careful where your eyes land.
The rhythm was wrong without something to bounce off of.
So he scrubbed harder instead.
Between the claws.
Under the claws.
He pried at the base of one, convinced something was lodged there — something dried and dark the water couldn’t reach.
Nothing.
He scraped anyway.
He pressed his forearm flat against the tile and dragged downward, using the grout to scour the fur.
“Come off,” he muttered.
The suds ran clean now.
He could see that.
Clear water streamed down his wrists.
Still didn’t feel clean.
He dragged both hands through the fur along his jawline, then up over his ears, scraping at the inner ridges.
“Off.”
He reached for the bottle again and hesitated. “Maybe dog shampoo,” he murmured, voice thinning. “The kind that says deep clean. Extra dirt. Suitable for outdoor use.”
Silence.
No grin.
No one to wrinkle their nose.
No one to say you’re not a dog, Joey.
He let the bottle drop back into the rack.
He leaned closer to the tile and stared at his reflection in the metal faucet — distorted, red-eyed, fur slicked down to a lean silhouette.
He lifted one arm slowly.
Examined it.
No black goo.
No ash.
Nothing.
Just fur.
Then why did it still feel like it was on him?
His breathing sped up again without him noticing.
He scrubbed his chest again, slower now. Methodical. Pecs. Ribs. Abdomen.
He remembered the second one laughing.
Laughing until the sound cut off abruptly.
He pressed both hands flat against the tile and bowed his head under the spray. The water poured between his shoulders.
He could still feel it.
Not on the fur.
Under it.
He scraped once more at his forearm, harder than before. A thin red line traced where claw nicked skin.
He froze.
Watched the bead form.
Watched it dilute instantly under the spray.
Watched it wash away easily.
Of course it did.
He exhaled slowly.
“Enough,” he muttered.
The fur lay clean now. Just wet and dark, plastered close to his body. No more streaks. No more residue. No more evidence.
Still didn’t feel clean.
The drain swallowed everything without comment.
Small miracles, he supposed.
He stayed under the spray longer than necessary.
Just in case.
Just to be sure.
Without a fight to burn it off, the adrenaline was running out now. The sharpness keeping him upright was fraying along the edges. His shoulders sagged. His tail twitched once. Then stilled.
If he shifted now—
The bones would snap back.
The fur would withdraw.
The weight would land all at once.
He braced one hand against the tile. “One more minute,” he muttered.
He wasn’t sure whether he was talking to himself or the other shape.
Maybe both.
The water ran clear.
He was clean.
He didn’t feel it.
But he was.
And he still hadn’t turned back.
Not yet.
He wasn’t ready to find out what happened when the claws were gone and nothing was left to hide behind but skin.
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