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</div></div><br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">Pain seared through Daxon Ripley's abdomen like a red-hot branding iron, his mind conceding to the torment, unable to bring a single thought or utterance to completion. Without meaning to his body curled into something fetal, something primeval and all the while the pain burned and radiated into his bones. He lay on the side of Ian's bed, body aching, cheeks burning with the flush of fever and the beast that was gestating inside of him.<br/>
<br/>
He would have cried to the heavens for mercy, but there was no strength in his voice. Just a whisper. His breath quivered in short, quick gasps every time he inhaled, his lungs having no choice but to painfully and rigidly take in what felt like the chilled air that surrounded him. Dax couldn't seem to stop shaking either. Sometimes it was violent, other times subtle. Every time he'd get close to finding sleep, a new spell of violent shaking would force him to a near conscious state.<br/>
<br/>
If Dax wasn't shivering, he was puking up his guts. Ian had awoken, and after coming to terms with his error in judgement he headed to the bathroom to grab something useful to reduce Dax's fever, which was now 105 ° F. Crushed or solid, the Tylenol that were unceremoniously forced past Dax's chattering teeth by Ian's fingers and Dax choked and groaned in protest with the water chaser. Somewhere between his mouth and his stomach they began to disagree, and in his stomach they started the rejection process.<br/>
<br/>
Ian was in the process of taking a shower when it occurred, but all that could be seen of Dax was his crouched form in the semi-darkness, his stomach muscles violently contracting so hard, that at one point it looked as though he were throwing up his liquefied organs. The bulk of the vomit completely missed the wastebasket and landed on the floor next to Ian's bed. When he was done, Dax's head was pounding.<br/>
<br/>
It felt like nails were being driven into his skull, his head case in the process of being refurbished for the snake he was becoming. His broken leg he'd suffered during the bike crash had healed completely, as though he'd ever suffered from the collision at the bike park with his bestie. If it were any consolation, Dax didn't remember a damn thing about being attacked at his apartment, or Ian bashing in Mr. Rogers skull and possibly ending his life forever.<br/>
<br/>
In a moment of lucidity, Dax's fever addled brain allowed him to mutter something that was pretty clear. <b>"I'm fucked."</b> he slurred, his tongue feeling thick and foreign, <i>or was it his teeth?</i></span><br/><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><br/>
...the fuck?</span></i><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><br/>
Something sharp was embedded in the roof of his mouth when he stuck his tongue there, but a painful wave of cramps doubled him over and made him cry out in pain.<br/>
</span><br/><i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">“You're going to be fine. You better be fine,” Ian snarled out as he watched Daxon's body convulse with the spasms.</span></i><br/><b><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"></span></b><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><b>"Ahhh, fuck. Ohhh hurrrtsssss..whatsss wrong with meeee?"</b> his blue eyes stared blurrily at Ian for a second or two, before they finally fluttered closed and the tension in his muscles faded. Dax merely passed out from the pain.<br/>
<br/>
Drifting in and out of unconsciousness Dax woke up seventy-two hours later, his transformation complete. The man responsible for his being that way was a silent witness when Daxon Ripley's eyes opened for the very first time.  The normal color of his eyes were a deep oceanic blue, but staring back at Ian were eyes of frosty ice. The irises were slitted and unblinking.<br/>
<br/>
There were colors in his vision that weren't there before, and when he turned his gaze in Ian's direction, Dax could see a man-shaped reddish blob from the heat signature his blood was making. When Dax tried to speak his mouth felt it was stuffed with cotton. His tongue changed and it was forked, seeking the air around him for something substantial to consume.<br/>
<br/>
Dax was starving, hungry from the first moment of his new existence.</span><br/><b><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"></span></b><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><b>"Ssssooo hungry."</b> he released an open-mouthed yawn that revealed the tips of his fangs.<br/>
<br/>
Dax probably didn't know that he was strong enough to bench press a car now, but would find that out in due time. It was fortunate that Ian predicted that Dax's need for sustenance would be at an all time high by the time he woke up after all of the changes to his body. The collection of seven fat guinea pigs Ian had arranged for was quickly sought out in the bedroom by his heat sensing organs.<br/>
<br/>
Instinct outweighed experience or the lack thereof. The guinea pigs responded like prey animals, so Dax dispatched and consumed them one by one like a six-foot tall Pac-Man. The feeding took the edge off  his increased hunger a little and gave his irises a chance to normalize from that of a snake, to a normal human shape. Hopefully Ian had something more substantial and long-lasting in mind to feed Dax, and provide some answers about his sudden change.</span><br/><b><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"></span></b><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff"><b>"Dude? I just ate seven guinea pigs. I...ate...them. What the fuck is wrong with me??" </b>Dax asked, a horrified expression on his face as his gaze met Ian's.</span>