Resident Evil: The Dead Must Breed (Zombie/Monster Evolutions Fanfic)

Chapter 54: Chapter 54+55: Deadbeat Mutt

A/N: To make up for the lost updates, enjoy the double length Chapter.

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The slide ended with a jarring, metallic crash that echoed down the ductwork, dumping them onto a flat section of galvanized plating. Alex took full, unapologetic advantage of the abrupt stop, burying his Cerberus snout straight into the plush, warm cushion of Rebecca’s denim-clad ass, soaking in the glorious friction of her thicc thighs clamping around his face.

God damn, her ass is like a pair of high-density memory foam pillows.

"Ugh! Get your ugly, perverted snout off my ass!" Rebecca groaned, her face pressed against the dusty metal floor. She violently kicked her combat boots back, shoving his heavy hound head away with her heel before shimmying forward.

Alex let out a thoroughly fake, disappointed chuff, watching her bare, smooth thighs work as she scrambled toward the exit grate.

With a frustrated yell, Rebecca brought her boot up and kicked the rusted ventilation cover right off its frame. The metal grate gave way with a loud CLANG, tumbling into the room below. She crawled through the opening on all fours, her bare midriff and exposed legs dusting off as she dropped lightly onto her feet.

Alex wiggled his bulk through behind her, landing on the floor with a soft patter of claws.

The environment was completely different from the dingy, pipe-cluttered factory above. They were standing in a wide, pristine corporate lobby lined with sterile white paneling and polished gray linoleum. Glowing fluorescent light strips hummed softly overhead, illuminating a massive, high-end reception desk. Directly behind the counter, painted in bold, unmistakable red and white, was a towering Umbrella Corporation logo.

Rebecca stood in the middle of the hall, her hands resting on her hips as her mouth drifted open in sheer, unadulterated disbelief.

"Are you kidding me...?" she whispered, turning in a slow circle to take in the sprawling, high-tech space. "Umbrella built a whole subterranean facility here too? The Management Training Facility was already a massive secret complex, but this... this looks like an actual, high-tier research station! What the hell else is this company hiding under the Arklay Mountains?!"

She marched over to the sleek reception desk, her boots clicking against the spotless floor. A few open physical folders and clipboard memos sat beside an idle, glowing monitor. She snatched up a heavy file stamped with red security clearance seals, flipping through the pages with rapid, practiced efficiency.

"NEST..." she read aloud, her brow furrowing under the brim of her cowboy hat. "Sector 1... primary viral synthesis and environmental testing..."

Alex didn’t give a shit about corporate paperwork. He trotted past the front desk, his heavy paws carrying him straight toward a reinforced titanium blast door at the far end of the lobby. He turned back, cocked his scarred head, and let out a loud, authoritative BARK!, tossing his snout backward to motion for her to get her thicc ass moving.

Rebecca lowered the clipboard, squinting at the two-hundred-pound mutant hound with heavy suspicion.

"Don’t tell me you know your way around this place too," she said, setting the folder down. "You know you are never beating the allegations of being James Marcus’s personal mutt, right?"

Alex let out an offended huff, blowing a puff of hot air through his black nostrils, and immediately started walking down the main corridor without waiting for her approval.

"Hey! Wait up!" Rebecca called out, unholstering her Berret.

She adjusted the straps of the heavy pump-action shotgun and the bulky, six-shot grenade launcher slung across her back, falling into step right behind him.

She didn’t even notice that her lower back had completely stopped straining. Carrying forty pounds of heavy military hardware and steel firearms should have had an eighteen-year-old medic groaning in agony, but her spine felt completely weightless, her core effortlessly stabilizing the massive arsenal with every fluid step.

The floor of the B.O.W. testing chamber looked like an explosion in a formaldehyde factory.

Shattered glass cylinders littered the linoleum, empty cages with snapped iron bars lined the back walls, and suspended from the ceiling were massive, yellowed tubes containing the floating, pickled remains of half-formed abominations.

Rebecca stood in the center of Dr. James Marcus’s private office, leaning her bare, denim-clad ass against the edge of a heavy steel examination table. She had her Beretta held loosely in her right hand, while her back effortlessly supported the weight of a pump-action shotgun and a bulky six-shot grenade launcher.

Over the past forty-five minutes, Ghosty had guided her through the subterranean site like a dark, four-legged tour guide. They’d blasted through zombified lab technicians, turned leaping mutant monkeys into airborne clouds of red meat, and even put a few scaly Hunters into early retirement.

Surprisingly, Rebecca wasn’t even shaking.

Her mind felt unnaturally sharp, her body felt lighter than air, and her lower back—which should have been screaming under forty pounds of heavy military iron—didn’t hurt at all. Carrying a walking armory in a pair of slutty denim hot pants had never felt so effortless.

I guess my body is just built different, she thought, casually kicking a stray zombie finger out of her path.

As they walked through the facility, they had passed the human testing sector. The physical files scattered on the desks revealed that Umbrella had been kidnapping vagrants, death-row inmates, and homeless people off the streets of Raccoon City, pumping them full of bio-sludge just to see how fast their skin rotted off. Absolute scumbags, the lot of them.

Now, she was flipping through Marcus’s personal research binder, dusting off yellowed, coffee-stained pages while Ghosty rested his heavy, armored Cerberus chin right on the steel desk beside her.

"Give me some space, pervert," Rebecca swatted at his furry ears, though her hand lingered to give him a brief scratch. "I can’t read with you breathing your weirdly floral-scented breath all over the evidence."

Ghosty let out a needy, pathetic chuff, but stayed put, his milky eyes staring at the paper with alarming literacy.

She skimmed past damaged, mold-eaten entries on gross bug B.O.W.s called Plague Crawlers, skipped over notes on those jumping Eliminator monkeys, and ignored a section about giant spiders that spit acid.

Then, she hit a thick section stamped in faded red ink: PROJECT: CERBERUS (MA-39 / MA-129).

"Oh, look," Rebecca muttered, tapping the paper with her barrel. "Your official birth certificate."

She began reading through the broad biological report.

The file detailed how Umbrella had injected pure t-Virus strains into Doberman Pinschers to create cheap urban attack hounds. However, Marcus’s notes categorized the project as a total failure.

According to the general behavioral logs, the virus wiped out over sixty percent of the host’s brain capacity. The infected dogs turned into brainless, pathfinding-glitched shufflers that couldn’t follow basic strategic orders and possessed less intelligence than a dead brick.

Near the bottom of the page, a casual, off-hand research note summarized the broader systemic effects of the pathogen:

Note: General cellular necrosis across non-essential biological systems. Subjects demonstrate total deactivation of reproductive functions and a complete absence of mating or territorial-mating behaviors. All cellular energy is strictly redirected toward necrotic motor drive and biomass consumption.

Rebecca stopped reading.

She slowly turned her head.

Ghosty was sitting on his hind legs next to the desk, panting happily with his tongue hanging out. Protruding aggressively from his patchy, rotted fur was a massive, purplish-grey, concrete-hard eight-inch monster-schmeat, throbbing with dark veins and dripping a steady, thick stream of clear pre-cum straight onto Dr. Marcus’s mahogany floorboards.

She looked down at the official report: "Complete absence of mating behaviors."

She looked back at the dog: A two-hundred-pound hellhound with an erection the size of a baseball bat, currently staring at her bare thighs with absolute, unapologetic lust.

Complete absence of mating behaviors my absolute ass!

This motherfucking dog had tit-fucked her until she screamed, throat-fucked her with his split tongue, and turned into a ten-inch scaly lizard that stretched her pussy so deep his dick made a visible, hard bulge under her bare midriff!

"Did you read this, Ghosty?" Rebecca asked, her voice dripping with pure, unadulterated sarcasm as she pointed at the document. "According to Umbrella’s top virologists, your dick isn’t even supposed to work."

Ghosty let out a loud, proud BARK!, his heavy tail thumping against a steel filing cabinet like a sledgehammer. He gave his hips a subtle, shameless twitch, flexing his massive monster-cock as if to personally insult Dr. Marcus’s life’s work.

Rebecca pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long, exhausted groan.

Nothing about this mutt added up.

He was double the size of a standard Cerberus dog. He possessed enough brainpower to solve facility puzzles, scale walls, and use a Jesus statue like a Louisville Slugger. And instead of his lower systems rotting away like the files said, his reproductive organs were basically the most indestructible, biologically active piece of biological hardware in the entire Arklay forest.

If he’s not a normal Cerberus, then what the hell is he?!

Her medical curiosity, mixed with sheer, bewildered frustration, completely took over.

She began frantically shuffling through the remaining pages of the binder, her fingers tearing through damaged, water-logged paper as she looked for any entry that explained multi-species mutation, extreme intelligence, or why her dog possessed a hyper-drive sex addiction.

"There’s gotta be an explanation..." she babbled to herself, flipping past ruined diagrams of mutated plant roots and chemical formulas. "Where is the rest of the genetic data?!"

Rebecca’s fingers trembled as she flipped to the next page of the damp, leather-bound binder.

PROJECT: HUNTER ALPHA (MA-121) - GENETIC INTEGRATION & TISSUE REJECTION LOGS

The header sat at the top of the page in bold, clinical typeface. Right below it was a detailed, hand-drawn biological schematic. It was a cross-section diagram of a developing embryo, heavily annotated with injection sites, viral markers, and chromosomal sequencing charts.

She scanned the opening paragraph, her eyes moving quickly across the faded ink.

The Hunter Alpha wasn’t just a mutated reptile. It wasn’t a lab-grown chimera spliced together in a petri dish.

It was a human fetus.

Umbrella virologists had taken living human embryos—unborn babies—and aggressively injected them with reptilian DNA during the first trimester. The t-Virus was introduced immediately afterward to act as a biological bonding agent. The virus forcefully bypassed natural genetic rejection, splicing the foreign lizard code directly into the developing human cells, overwriting the host’s biology to create a bipedal, intelligent, lethally efficient apex predator.

Rebecca’s stomach churned violently.

"They used pregnant women..." she whispered, her voice completely hollowing out. "They actually... kidnapped pregnant women off the streets and used their unborn babies for this?"

Her hands clenched around the edges of the binder, her knuckles turning bone-white.

The clinical notes were sickeningly sterile and detached. There was zero mention of the mothers. Zero acknowledgment of the lives destroyed, the trauma inflicted, or the sheer, unfathomable evil of the procedure. The pages only contained raw data. Success rates. Mortality percentages. Optimal genetic fusion windows.

"These bastards," she hissed, her jaw locking tight. "These absolute, unredeemable monsters."

Alex watched her from the side of the desk, sitting on his rotted hindquarters.

Honestly, she has a point, he thought, casually scratching his patchy neck with a hind paw. Umbrella’s business model is so comically evil it defies basic logistics. Who the hell greenlights injecting iguana juice into pregnant women just to make a really fast lizard? No wonder this entire company gets nuked by the government.

Ghosty let out a soft, sympathetic whine, nudging her bare thigh with his scarred, wet nose.

Rebecca didn’t even look down at him. Her eyes were completely glued to the page, her mind racing a million miles an hour.

And then, slowly, a very different thought began to creep into her head.

A cold, creeping realization started at the base of her skull and spread like absolute ice water through her veins.

The Hunter Alpha wasn’t just a reptile. It wasn’t just a biological weapon.

It was part human.

Her gaze drifted down to the genetic breakdown chart at the bottom of the page. The pie graph showed the exact chromosomal distribution of the MA-121 project: 60% Human DNA. 30% Reptilian Genome. 10% Viral Integrations.

Sixty percent.

More than half.

Rebecca’s breathing quickened, her chest rising and falling rapidly under her orange crop top.

If it’s mostly human... and the t-Virus acts as a universal genetic bonding agent...

Her left hand moved slowly, almost unconsciously, dropping down to press flat against her bare lower belly.

Beneath the smooth, pale skin of her midriff, right above the waistband of her denim hot pants, was a firm, slightly distended curve. Inside her uterus, at this exact second, was easily a liter of his raw genetic material. The massive, knot-swollen load he had pumped into her earlier was thick, warm, and stubbornly refusing to drain out of her body.

What if...

No.

No no no.

"That’s not... that’s not biologically possible," she muttered aloud, shaking her head frantically. "Cross-species fertilization doesn’t work like that. The chromosomes wouldn’t match. The cell structures are fundamentally incompatible. It’s basic high school biology."

But even as she spoke the words into the empty office, her eyes drifted right back to the horrific Umbrella diagram.

The t-Virus had made them compatible. It had taken a human embryo and successfully fused it with reptilian DNA without triggering a catastrophic cellular rejection. It completely rewrote the fundamental, foundational rules of biology.

If the virus can do that in a test tube... what is stopping it from making his mutant sperm perfectly compatible with my eggs?!

Her mouth went bone dry.

"No. That’s... that’s insane," she whispered, taking a shaky step backward. "That’s not how reproduction works. Just because he has a giant lizard dick doesn’t mean his swimmers can actually fertilize a human!"

Ghosty tilted his heavy head to the side, his ears flopping over as he let out a soft, questioning chuff.

Rebecca completely ignored him, her mind rapidly spiraling down a terrifying, deeply practical rabbit hole.

When was my last period?

She stared at the ceiling, frantically trying to remember her cycle. The S.T.A.R.S. training schedule over the last month had been absolutely brutal. Long days at the firing range, late nights studying medical textbooks. She had been way too exhausted to keep track of her calendar.

Okay, think. We went out for drinks for Barry’s birthday on the fourth. I was cramping then. So that means...

Her stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Oh my god.

She did the math in her head again just to be sure, but the numbers were agonizingly clear. If her cycle was regular—and it was always annoyingly punctual—she was exactly on day fourteen.

She was right in the middle of ovulation.

Peak fertility. Her body was literally rolling out a biological red carpet, completely primed and ready to catch whatever managed to make it up her cervical canal.

It was the absolute worst possible time in the entire month to have a literal liter of hyper-active, virally-enhanced mutant semen sitting deep inside her womb.

"Okay. Okay, calm down," she said aloud, her voice trembling as she began to hyperventilate. "You’re panicking over nothing. You’re just stressed. You survived a train crash and fought giant bugs, so your adrenaline is just making you paranoid. That’s all."

But her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped the binder.

What if I actually get pregnant?

The thought settled into her mind like a two-ton lead weight.

Her knees buckled. She staggered backward and practically collapsed into Dr. Marcus’s expensive leather executive chair. The cold leather squeaked against her bare thighs, and the heavy, wet squelch of her loaded panties pressing into the cushion sent a fresh wave of mortification straight to her face.

What am I supposed to do? Go back to Raccoon City? Show up at the S.T.A.R.S. precinct in three months with a massive baby bump and ask Captain Marini for maternity leave because I got raw-dogged by an Umbrella bio-weapon?!

She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.

"This is insane. This is completely insane."

Ghosty trotted over and sat down right in front of the chair. He rested his heavy, armored chin on her bare knee, looking up at her with big, innocent milky eyes while his warm breath puffed against her thigh.

Alex was thoroughly enjoying the front-row seat to her existential crisis. He knew the System’s Progenitor Panacea buff was actively upgrading her cellular structure, not knocking her up. But watching this eighteen-year-old virgin genius desperately try to apply real-world family planning logistics to a multiverse gacha system was peak entertainment.

She peeked through her fingers, glaring down at him.

"Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?" she asked quietly, her voice cracking.

He blinked at her, let out a happy little squeak, and wagged his tail.

Rebecca let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, dragging her hands down her flushed face.

If I get pregnant... what do I even do?

She could take early medical leave. Claim she took a heavy blow to the abdomen during the Arklay Mountains mission and needed time to recover. That would buy her a few months away from the precinct.

But then what?

Christmas.

Oh god. Christmas.

Her parents always expected her home for the holidays. Her mom, her dad, her younger brother. The whole family crammed into their tiny, suburban living room in Raccoon City, opening presents, drinking hot cocoa, and arguing over what movie to watch.

She’d be entering her second trimester by then.

There would be absolutely no hiding it. Her orange crop top would be riding halfway up her massive belly.

How am I supposed to explain this to my parents?!

Her mother’s face flashed vividly in her mind. Disappointed. Heartbroken.

Rebecca, how could you? You’re an eighteen-year-old prodigy. You graduated college at sixteen. You’re not even married! Who is the father?

Her father would be infinitely worse. Quiet. Stern. The kind of crushing, heavy silence that cut deeper than any screaming lecture.

We raised you better than this, Rebecca.

"They’re strict Catholics," she whispered into the empty room, tears of pure, overwhelming stress pricking the corners of her eyes. "They’re... they’re not going to understand this. They’re going to disown me."

She could already see the aftermath. The tight-lipped, excruciating family dinners. The whispered conversations when they thought she was in the bathroom. The nosy neighbors gossiping over the fence.

That Chambers girl. Too smart for her own good. Joined the police force and immediately got herself knocked up by some deadbeat on her first assignment. What a shame.

And it wasn’t like she could just casually correct the record.

Oh, don’t worry, Mom! I’m not a delinquent. The father isn’t a deadbeat cop. He’s actually a two-hundred-pound rotting dog that can magically transform into a giant scaly lizard with a ten-inch ribbed dick! Also, sometimes he’s a giant bat! Totally normal! Pass the cranberry sauce!

Her chest tightened so hard she could barely draw a breath.

And even if she survived the utter, soul-crushing family humiliation... then what?

She’d be a single mother. Eighteen years old. Raising... raising what, exactly?

What are they even going to look like?!

Her hyper-active imagination conjured a gallery of absolute nightmares. Tiny, green, scaly babies with glowing yellow eyes tearing through her apartment. Puppies with massive scorpion tails crawling on the ceiling. Bat-winged toddlers flapping around the living room and screeching at the television.

What if they keep changing forms like he does?! What if I’m breastfeeding a normal-looking baby and it suddenly sprouts scythe-claws and shreds my tits?!

She let out a breathless, borderline manic laugh, staring blankly at the Umbrella logo on the wall.

"How am I supposed to raise them?!" she rambled, gesturing wildly at the room. "Do I send them to public school? Can you imagine the parent-teacher conferences?! ’Sorry Mrs. Johnson, my son ate the class hamster because he’s a biological killing machine.’ Do I have to homeschool them? Do I keep them locked in the basement with a pile of raw steaks?!"

Ghosty whined again, pawing at her denim shorts to get her attention.

She looked down at him, her expression trapped somewhere between absolute panic and total, exhausted resignation.

"And what about you, huh?" she asked, poking his armored snout with her index finger. "What are you going to do? You can’t exactly get a job at the local grocery store, can you?"

He tilted his head, giving her a dopey, confused look.

"Right. Exactly," she muttered, slumping back into the leather chair. "So I’m the sole breadwinner. Great. I’ll be working sixty-hour weeks at the S.T.A.R.S. office—assuming Captain Marini doesn’t fire me for fraternizing with a bio-weapon—while you stay home and... what? Watch daytime soap operas? Chew on the sofa cushions? Chase the mailman and actually eat him?!"

She rubbed her temples in a desperate attempt to stave off a massive migraine.

"Can you even cook? Because if I’m coming home exhausted after a twelve-hour shift, I swear to god, if you expect me to make dinner while you’ve been sitting on your furry ass all day—"

Ghosty leaned forward and delivered a long, sloppy lick right up her cheek, leaving a trail of sweet-smelling saliva across her skin.

Rebecca pulled back, glaring at him with watery eyes.

"Don’t try to cute your way out of this! You’re the one who pumped me full of mutant baby-batter! You’re taking responsibility for this mess!"

Taking responsibility.

The phrase hung in the cold, stagnant air of the laboratory.

Her eyes widened slightly.

"Wait. Are we... are we getting married?"

The question slipped out of her mouth before her brain could deploy the emergency brakes.

She stared at the mutant dog.

The mutant dog stared back. His massive, purple erection was still fully deployed, twitching happily against the floorboards.

"I mean... I guess you can’t exactly run off to buy a pack of cigarettes and never come back," she muttered, her voice dropping into a distant, hollow tone. "You follow me everywhere. You’re basically... you’re stuck with me."

The sheer, monumental absurdity of the situation crashed down on her all at once.

I am literally sitting in a secret underground Umbrella laboratory, covered in zombie gore, talking about marrying a fucking dog.

"Where would we even live?" she continued, her practical brain completely refusing to shut off the logistical nightmare. "I can’t bring you back to my apartment in the city. My landlord is super strict. Pets aren’t allowed. And even if they were, you’re not exactly subtle. You’re a seven-foot monster half the time!"

She pictured the scene perfectly. Trying to sneak a two-hundred-pound hellhound up three flights of stairs. The landlord knocking on the door to ask why the apartment smells like rotting meat and expensive cologne, only to get decapitated by a scythe-claw.

Yeah, city living is definitely off the table.

"We’d have to move somewhere remote," she deduced, staring blankly at a row of preserved mutant fetuses in glass jars. "Out in the woods. Somewhere deep in the mountains where no one would ask questions."

Her mind painted the picture with horrifying clarity.

A small, rustic log cabin in the middle of nowhere. Just her, Ghosty, and however many shape-shifting mutant babies she ended up pushing out of her ruined pelvis.

Is he my pet? Is he my... husband? Do I make him sleep at the foot of the bed or next to me on the pillows?

She looked at him again.

"What are you even going to eat out there? Normal dog food? Kibble? Or do you need me to hunt deer for you? Am I going to have to drag dead hikers back to the cabin just to keep you fed?"

Ghosty’s tail wagged furiously at the mention of food.

"That’s not an answer!" she yelled, throwing her hands up.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her cowboy boots on the edge of the chair, and buried her face in her arms.

"This is insane. This is completely, totally insane."

Ghosty stood up, resting his front paws lightly on the edge of the leather chair. He pressed his scarred, rotted muzzle directly into her short brown hair, letting out a deep, comforting purr that vibrated right through her chest. His thick tongue lapped gently at her earlobe.

"Stop licking me," she mumbled into her knees, though she made absolutely no effort to push him away. "You’re the reason my life is over."

He licked her cheek again, his succubus scent glands pumping out waves of petrichor and rich musk, actively working to lower her cortisol levels and flood her brain with trust hormones.

For a long moment, she just sat there, curled up in the chair of the man who engineered the apocalypse, while a massive mutant hound affectionately nuzzled her head.

And then, slowly, her brain found a brand-new angle to panic over.

What if it’s not just one baby?

Her head shot up, her eyes wide with fresh horror.

"Oh my god. What if it’s a litter?"

Dogs had litters. Six, seven, sometimes eight puppies at a time. Reptiles laid massive clutches of eggs.

What if I’m pregnant with eight mutant zombie bat-dog-lizard hybrids at the same time?!

Her hands flew back down to her stomach, pressing against the swollen knot of his fluids.

"I can’t... I can’t even afford daycare for one normal kid on a rookie cop’s salary! How am I supposed to raise eight?!"

She looked at Ghosty, her expression wild and frantic.

"Do you have any idea how much diapers cost?! Or formula?! Or—or baby gates?! I’d need to completely baby-proof the entire cabin! How do you baby-proof a house for kids that can climb vertical walls and turn invisible?!"

Ghosty chuffed, resting his heavy head on her lap.

"Don’t chuff at me! This is serious!"

She slumped back against the chair, her head thunking heavily against the leather headrest.

"I’m eighteen," she whispered to the ceiling. "I’m eighteen years old. I was supposed to have a career. I was supposed to save lives. Maybe meet someone nice. Get married in a beautiful white dress in a church. Have a totally normal, boring family."

She laughed bitterly, a dry, pathetic sound.

"But no. Instead, I’m sitting in a bio-weapons lab wearing slutty denim shorts, completely filled to the brim with mutant jizz, wondering if I’m going to give birth to a clutch of scorpion-tailed eggs."

Ghosty shifted his weight, his warm, furnace-like body pressing firmly against her legs. His steady, rhythmic breathing was strangely grounding in the freezing laboratory.

She stared at the ceiling for a long time.

And then, quietly, the magical combination of her absolute physical exhaustion, the hormonal cocktail of his succubus pheromones, and the lingering afterglow of her massive orgasms finally broke through her panic.

"What if..." she murmured softly, her hand absently dropping to stroke the soft fur behind his armored ears. "What if they’re not monsters?"

She kept her palm resting flat against her warm belly.

"What if they’re... I don’t know. What if they’re sweet? What if they’re smart, just like you?"

Ghosty’s tail wagged slowly, a gentle thump-thump against the desk.

"I mean... you’re a mutant. You’re literally classified as a biological weapon. But you’re not... you’re not evil."

She scratched his head, tracing the thick, chitinous armor plates along his neck.

"You’re a disgusting, perverted menace who has absolutely zero respect for my personal boundaries. But... you’ve kept me alive. You’ve protected me from everything in this forest."

Her voice softened, a faint, deeply embarrassed blush creeping across her cheeks.

"If... if they’re like you... maybe it wouldn’t be so bad."

She sat there in the quiet lab, letting the absurd, deeply domestic thought settle into her brain. She imagined a tiny, green, scaly puppy sitting on a rug by the fireplace.

And then, her rational brain violently rebooted.

She realized exactly what she was saying.

Her face turned a scorching, nuclear shade of scarlet.

"Wait. Wait!"

She forcefully shoved Ghosty’s head off her lap and scrambled out of the chair as if it had suddenly caught fire.

"WHAT AM I DOING?!" she shrieked, grabbing the edges of her cowboy hat and pulling it down in pure, unadulterated shame. "I’m sitting here planning a rustic woodland wedding and debating baby names with a dog! I have lost my mind! I have actually lost my mind!"

Ghosty tilted his head, his tail wagging innocently.

"Don’t look at me like that! This is entirely your fault!" She pointed an accusing finger straight at his snout. "You and your... your stupid, giant, vibrating ten-inch lizard dick! You did this to my brain!"

Bark!

"I don’t care if you’re proud of it! You’ve ruined my life!"

She spun around, pacing frantically back and forth across the linoleum, her boots clicking sharply.

"I’m not pregnant. I’m not. This is just... it’s just stress! And extreme paranoia! And way too much time trapped underground with a horny mutant!"

She stopped pacing, pressing both hands hard against her burning cheeks.

"I’m fine. Everything is totally fine. I’m just going to... to finish this mission. Escort you out of here. Go home. Take a pregnancy test. And when it comes back negative, I am going to shoot you right in the leg!"

Ghosty wagged his tail even harder, completely unthreatened.

"Stop wagging! I’m completely serious!"

She grabbed the leather binder off the desk and slammed it shut with a loud crack.

"Come on. We’re leaving. Right now. We need to find the exit before I have a complete psychological breakdown."

She marched toward the laboratory door, her face still burning with embarrassment, determined to regain some shred of her professional dignity.

Ghosty trotted eagerly after her, the massive, purple, eight-inch erection still swinging proudly and heavily between his legs.

Rebecca glanced back, saw it bouncing with every step, and let out a furious groan.

"And PUT THAT AWAY!"

[To be continued]

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