Crossdressing To Survive An Apocalypse [BL]

Prisitsky sat up slowly, wincing as pain rippled through his weakened body. His muscles felt like they had been wrung dry, but his mind—his mind was surging with adrenaline. His gaze locked onto the strange, tree-like creature circling the small figure standing before him.

Skyy.

Prisitsky didn't know him well, but that hardly mattered now. His focus was entirely on the creature—the impossible anomaly moving with eerie familiarity.

Slowly, he swung his legs over the edge of the cot, the cold floor shocking his bare feet. The moment he shifted, the creature stopped. Its wooden body tensed for a fraction of a second, its bark-textured head tilting toward him.

And then it met his gaze.

A tremor ran through Prisitsky's exhausted frame. That look. That recognition.

He inhaled sharply, his ribs protesting the movement. "This thing…"

He forced himself to kneel, his movements stiff but urgent. The creature didn't back away. If anything, it leaned in slightly, as if waiting.

Prisitsky hesitated, his fingers hovering just above its bark-like exterior. He could feel warmth radiating from it, unnatural for something that should be nothing more than a mutated husk of wood.

Then, realization struck.

His fingers pressed against the creature's side, feeling the ridges and grooves—familiar ridges. Familiar grooves. His breath caught in his throat.

"This was inside me," he whispered, horror and fascination twining together in his voice.

Skyy's brows furrowed. "What?"

Prisitsky looked up sharply, his dark eyes blazing with an intensity that made Skyy shift uncomfortably. "This thing… it was in me."

Skyy's lips parted, his eyes darting between the creature and Prisitsky. "Is that—bad?"

Prisitsky exhaled a shaky breath. "That depends on what it is." He swallowed hard, his mind racing. "And how the hell it got out."

His fingers clenched involuntarily, and the creature's body trembled in response—not from fear, but from something else. Sentience. Understanding.

He had to know more.

"Skyy," Prisitsky said, his voice tight, "I need to take a sample."

Skyy tensed. "You're not going to hurt it, right?"

Prisitsky's eyes darted back to the creature. It wasn't resisting. It wasn't afraid. If anything, it was offering itself.

"I won't," he promised.

Skyy hesitated for only a moment before nodding.

The tree-dog remained motionless as Prisitsky reached for his scalpel, his fingers trembling slightly—not from weakness, but from sheer anticipation. The instant he made the incision, the bark parted easily, a thin strand peeling away like flesh. The creature didn't react. Instead, the cut sealed itself within seconds, as though nothing had happened.

Prisitsky's breath hitched. "That's… not normal."

Skyy gave him a dry look. "Nothing is normal anymore."

Before Prisitsky could respond, the door burst open, and Chen stormed in, his face dark with worry.

"Skyy—"

"I'm fine," Skyy cut him off before he could launch into a tirade. "Seriously."

Chen's sharp gaze flickered to Prisitsky, then to the creature, his expression hardening. "We'll talk about this later." He grabbed Skyy's arm and pulled him toward the door.

Skyy glanced back at Prisitsky. "Let me know what you find." Then he was gone, leaving Prisitsky alone with the creature and the tissue sample.

His exhaustion no longer mattered.

Prisitsky clutched the small glass vial in his trembling fingers, his grip weak but desperate. His legs felt like splintered twigs beneath him, his breath ragged as he forced himself upright. The weight of exhaustion pressed against his skull, his body screaming for rest—but he couldn't stop now.

He staggered forward, his thin frame barely holding him up. The hallway blurred around him, shadows twisting at the edges of his vision. He braced himself against the cold wall, his fingers leaving faint smudges of sweat against the concrete. The distance to the lab felt insurmountable, an endless stretch of space between him and the answers he needed.

But he made it. Somehow.

The door banged open as he stumbled inside, nearly collapsing against the workstation. His breath came in ragged gasps, his pulse hammering against his ribs. He clutched the vial to his chest like a lifeline, barely managing to unscrew the cap with shaking fingers.

The bark sample landed on the glass slide with a barely audible tap. Prisitsky fumbled to adjust the microscope, his vision swimming as he peered through the lens.

And then he saw it.

His breath hitched. His fingers twitched against the table.

Under the microscope, the fibrous structure of the bark pulsed—moved—like something alive. Prisitsky's stomach twisted violently, a sickening wave of realization crashing over him. This wasn't just mutated wood. This wasn't just infected tissue.

This was a living system.

Web-like strands curled and uncurled as if breathing, stretching and contracting in ways no plant should. The fibers wove together like sinew, forming structures eerily similar to nerve endings. Prisitsky's shaking hand adjusted the magnification, his heart slamming against his ribs as he zoomed in further.

Inside the fibers, buried deep in the structure, he saw it.

The virus.

But it wasn't like the virus he had studied before. This strain hadn't just spread like a disease—it had adapted, reshaped itself, evolved into something new.

Prisitsky's blood ran cold.

This wasn't just an infection anymore.

It was a new form of life.

His breath came in short, uneven bursts, his chest tightening as the magnitude of what he was seeing sank in. His hands clenched against the table, his fingernails digging into the metal. He wanted to look away, to stop, to breathe—but he couldn't.

This was inside him. This had been inside him.

His mind spun, fragmented thoughts clashing against each other. If this thing had grown inside him, what did that make him? How much of this thing was still lingering in his blood, his cells, his mind?

His vision swayed. He forced himself to keep looking, his breath shallow, his body barely holding itself together.

This… this could be the key to everything.

Or the beginning of something far, far worse.

His heart pounded.

His breath caught as he focused the lens.

The original virus.

But this—this wasn't the same strain that had turned the world into a nightmare. This was something different. It had mutated, evolved, formed its own nervous system—its own biological cells.

It wasn't just an infection anymore.

It was a life form.

Prisitsky leaned back, his hands shaking against the table.

This could change everything.

"This… this might be it," he whispered, his voice raw with realization.

A cure.

Or the beginning of something far worse.