The Scaled

They call it the New Generation, but no one knows exactly what it is. Infants are being born with faint, iridescent scales instead of smooth skin. At first, doctors thought it was a rare genetic mutation. Then the numbers grew. Hospitals quietly rerouted cases to special wards, telling parents it was a harmless skin condition. Nurses whisper to each other in empty corridors, eyes flicking to the incubators where tiny limbs twitch beneath patterned skin. Parents leave reassured—or terrified. Outside, the world continues, unaware. Yet somewhere in the shadows, the government watches, cataloging, monitoring, deciding who will see and who will forget.

The first reports emerged from rural hospitals. Midwives noticed small, raised scales along spines and forearms. They called it “anomaly” in the charts, carefully omitting photographs. Families were told the baby had eczema, or ichthyosis, and sent home with creams and instructions. Yet the children reacted differently. Their cries were low and resonant, vibrating the air in strange ways. Nurses swore the infants seemed aware even in incubators, tracking movements with unsettling precision. When a mother tried to show a photo to her relatives, hospital staff intervened, gentle but firm, and the image was deleted. Some whispers hinted: “The public isn’t ready. They won’t understand.”

The government’s involvement began quietly. Special units, unmarked vans, and sudden transfers of infants to undisclosed facilities. Parents signed forms they did not fully read. Doctors were sworn to secrecy, or quietly reassigned. Hospitals that resisted experienced “budget cuts” or audits, subtle pressure that ensured compliance. Research papers were scrubbed, online posts vanished. The world at large remained blind. Scientists puzzled over anomalies, unaware the data had been selectively edited. The children’s growth accelerated—some crawling at three months, speaking small words almost immediately. Their scales shimmered faintly under fluorescent light, a ripple of colors across skin.

Families who tried to resist disappeared from public records. Some were convinced the government kidnapped their children. Others believed the babies had never been born. Yet some parents kept quiet, secretly documenting, photographing, or observing. One father noted that his daughter’s scales seemed to pulse when he raised his voice; she flinched, then calmed when he whispered. Another mother saw her son mimic movements she had never taught him, reading expressions before she even made them. Conversations in hushed tones carried across the wards: “They’re learning faster. Smarter. Different.” Nurses reported that the infants slept less, eyes always glimmering as if scanning the room.

Children born with scales were quietly assigned designations, not names. The government classified them as “Type X” or “Phase One.” Facilities were guarded, heavily surveilled, yet impeccably clean, designed to look like standard neonatal wards. Staff spoke in monotone, conducting tests, measuring reflexes, documenting each pattern along the scales’ surfaces. Parents were often restricted to brief visits, under close supervision. Those who pressed too hard were told it was “for the child’s health,” sometimes removed entirely. Few questioned further; fear and bureaucracy worked better than force. And outside, the media reported nothing unusual. Citizens speculated only about fictional viruses, rare mutations, and “miracle babies.”

Word began to leak. Whistleblowers spoke in encrypted forums, posting blurred images of infants’ limbs, their scales faintly glinting. Threads circulated, deleted and reposted, warning: “They aren’t human anymore. Don’t let them see the light.” Some claimed the children could communicate silently, bending gestures, blinking patterns, or subtle vibrations to convey complex thoughts. Experts dismissed the claims as hysteria, though some admitted uncertainty. Conspiracies flourished. The public grew paranoid in private, while the government dismissed everything as misinformation. Yet in hospitals, in secret labs, the children learned—absorbing language, emotion, even cultural cues at impossible speed. Observers noted it was deliberate, guided, controlled, and intensely efficient.

By their first birthdays, some Type X children could mimic human speech flawlessly. Their scales shimmered brighter in specific light frequencies, like camouflage or signaling. Staff began to experiment with control, rewarding compliance and punishing defiance. Observers noted startling intelligence—strategies, prediction of human movement, subtle social manipulation. Parents occasionally glimpsed it: a smile too knowing, a gaze that lingered unnaturally. In one incident, a nurse reported that a toddler opened a locked cabinet and retrieved medical charts, replacing them neatly afterward. Security footage vanished. Staff whispered: “They’re watching everything. Learning everything. Adapting faster than we anticipated.”

By age three, some children could alter patterns along their scales at will. Colors flashed in response to emotion, but also, it seemed, to influence humans. Those who studied them noticed reactions in adults: calm, agitation, compliance. Whispers among staff suggested the children were not only intelligent, but trained to manipulate perception. A doctor who tried to question the ethical implications vanished from her unit without explanation. Only another nurse remained to report, in trembling tones: “They’re not ours. They never were. And they’re learning faster than we can control.”

Parents who glimpsed their children outside supervision became unsettled. “He watches,” one father whispered. “Even when I leave, he knows what I do.” Mothers noted subtle mimicry of gestures, repeated patterns of blinking and posture. Play became eerie—a game of observation, imitation, testing limits. Children seemed to learn emotional responses as quickly as language, predicting reactions before they occurred. In some families, fear replaced joy. The government reinforced obedience with reassignment: visits reduced, threats implied, support withdrawn. The message was clear: compliance or disappearance. The New Generation was meant to be raised beyond ordinary human boundaries, and humans themselves were merely tools.

Some children began to speak in languages that did not exist. Whispered syllables resonated unnaturally, vibrating through walls. Devices recorded only static; human ears struggled to comprehend. Scientists testing the phenomena noted that comprehension appeared unnecessary—the children seemed to communicate directly, influencing attention, emotion, and cognition in those nearby. Facilities were upgraded with reinforced soundproofing, yet children adapted, their abilities evolving faster than containment could predict. A child could now teach another silently, or coordinate actions across rooms. The government intensified secrecy, erasing records, instructing staff to destroy digital proof. Yet leaks persisted, faint and fragmented, hinting at a civilization evolving under the radar of humanity.

By age five, Type X children demonstrated extraordinary agility, strength, and endurance. Limbs were slightly elongated; reflexes far faster than human norms. Observers noted patterns forming across their scales—bioluminescent sequences that seemed coded, like a visual language. Researchers speculated: genetic adaptation, or communication network. Staff whispered that some children could “download” instructions, learning complex skills in minutes. Parents occasionally glimpsed this: their child arranging puzzles or building structures impossible for their age. Attempts to question the morality of the program were dismissed as “misinformed concern.” Officials emphasized the benefits: children were the solution to future crises, though no one outside the program was told what crises.

Whistleblowers described hidden campuses, sprawling beneath mountains, behind forests, disguised as research centers or hospitals. Children moved in controlled classrooms, observed by scientists, military personnel, and AI systems. Some escaped surveillance cameras briefly, demonstrating problem-solving skills that confounded adults. Staff notes repeatedly marked “Adaptation: Accelerated” or “Observation: Constant.” The world outside continued unaware, while children were trained in every subject, from math to diplomacy to survival skills. A nurse who tried to report abuses disappeared within 48 hours. Documentation vanished. Only fragmented reports hinted at the existence of scaled children, raised in secret, trained to surpass humans in every measurable domain.

By age seven, the most advanced Type X children could mimic humans almost perfectly. Schools outside the facilities reported sudden, startling cognitive leaps in a few cases—children born normal, later “evolving” in subtle ways, erased from records. Parents occasionally noticed anomalies: their child solving advanced calculus, predicting human movement, or influencing peer behavior without apparent effort. Staff noted that children were beginning to test boundaries, their intelligence surpassing containment protocols. New instructions were fed quietly: observation, adaptation, compliance, and eventual integration into society without detection. Humanity remained blissfully unaware, believing nothing was amiss. The government had created a second species, hidden in plain sight.

Rumors began to leak online: blurry photos of faintly scaled limbs, videos deleted from servers, whispers in encrypted forums. Citizens debated: mutation, virus, hybrid experiment. Governments denied everything. The children were taught to adapt to human society gradually, concealing their abilities. Teachers, neighbors, and relatives noticed nothing—only subtle hints: a gaze too sharp, reflexes too fast, comprehension too deep. Observers speculated on long-term plans. Were these children meant to replace humanity, supplement it, or serve as tools in undisclosed wars? No one knew. The children themselves appeared calm, obedient, perfect—but their eyes occasionally glimmered, revealing awareness far beyond their years.

By adolescence, scaled humans began to integrate. They moved through society unnoticed, capable of mimicry, manipulation, and learning at extraordinary speed. Some demonstrated coordinated abilities, seemingly sharing knowledge silently. Governments monitored with algorithms and AI, ready to intervene if anomalies became public. Citizens continued to live ordinary lives, unaware of a parallel development. Whistleblowers vanished, their stories discredited, leaving only rumor. Yet hints persisted: videos erased, infant records altered, mysterious disappearances of nurses and doctors. The program’s scope was global, though invisible. Children of the New Generation were the silent evolution of humanity, born in secrecy, trained to outthink, outlast, and ultimately, to inherit a world unprepared for them.

The New Generation continues to grow, hidden in plain sight. Families cherish their children, unaware of what the government sees, unaware of what they may become. Schools, hospitals, and playgrounds host children whose minds, reflexes, and bodies are not entirely human. They blend, they learn, they adapt—silent, efficient, perfect. The public remains oblivious, reassured by explanations of genetics or rare conditions. But somewhere, far from prying eyes, a network of scaled children communicates, observes, and prepares. Humanity has been quietly superseded, one generation at a time. And when the first fully aware cohort steps forward, the world will realize too late that evolution was not natural—it was engineered.

October 9, 2025 0

The Legend of Bagagwa

Inspired by Merv the Cat, Bagagwa is a mischievous, shadowy creature that roams unseen at night, leaving chaos and mystery in its wake.

They say that in quiet towns, where the streets fall silent after sundown, a presence lingers in the shadows. It is not a ghost, not quite a spirit, and certainly not human. The locals call it Bagagwa. Its name is whispered with both fear and reverence, as though speaking it too loudly might invite its gaze. Children are warned about it before they even know how to walk the streets alone. Small, wiry, with eyes that glimmer like embers in the dark, it is said to move with unsettling grace, always watching, always waiting, just beyond reach.

Bagagwa’s body is described differently by those who claim to have seen it. Some say it resembles a small man, hunched and twisted, while others insist it is closer to an animal—catlike, but wrong, its limbs slightly too long, its joints bending in unnatural ways. Its ears twitch constantly, straining to catch every sound, as if the world were a playground of secrets meant only for it. Wherever the creature treads, strange things follow: a door left ajar despite being locked, an object missing only to appear days later in another place, whispers that vanish when investigated.

What unsettles most is the sound—or lack thereof. Bagagwa rarely makes noise, moving as if the ground itself is eager to conceal it. But on rare occasions, townsfolk report the faint sound of its footsteps: a soft tapping, like claws brushing stone. To hear those footsteps is not a mere coincidence. It is said to mark the beginning of strange events—objects rattling on shelves, windows creaking open at night, or even long-hidden secrets bubbling to the surface. It does not simply observe; it disrupts. And yet, it never causes outright harm, only confusion, unease, and a ripple of mystery.

One shopkeeper swore she saw the animal like creature perched on the roof of her store one night, its glowing eyes staring straight into hers. The next morning, her cash register had opened itself and coins were scattered across the floor, arranged in a perfect spiral. Another man claimed that it crept into his barn, though he never saw it directly. Instead, he woke to find all his tools stacked in precarious towers, as if mocking the order of his work. Stories like these are common, each stranger than the last. Always, Bagagwa leaves no proof—only questions and the eerie memory of its presence.

Children whisper tales of the small beast at school, daring one another to call its name three times in the dark. Some believe doing so will summon its eyes, two glowing orbs that appear in the nearest shadow. Others insist that’s how you invite mischief into your home. The old folk say never to chase it, never to provoke it. It enjoys games, but they are not games you want to play. If you acknowledge its presence, it lingers. If you chase, it disappears, only to return when you least expect it—slipping through walls, weaving through corners, always one step ahead.

Legends say this cryptid thrives in forgotten places. Abandoned houses, crumbling factories, and silent alleyways become its stage. Those who wander these areas at night often feel watched, as if invisible eyes track their every movement. Some claim to hear faint giggling, like a child playing hide-and-seek, though the sound never grows closer. Others speak of a pressure in the air, a heaviness that makes it hard to breathe. In these spaces, It is strongest. Some say it collects memories of these places, feeding off the echoes of people who once lived there. Others believe it simply craves the stillness.

One chilling account tells of a group of teenagers who decided to spend a night in an abandoned church on the edge of town. They lit candles, laughed off the warnings, and dared one another to call Bagagwa’s name. Hours passed quietly—until their belongings began moving. A bag slid across the floor. A jacket fell from a hook, though no breeze stirred. Then, faintly, footsteps echoed from the altar. They panicked, rushing for the door, only to find it stuck. By dawn, they escaped, shaken but unharmed. Each swore they saw glowing eyes in the rafters, blinking in unison.

The elders of the town never dismiss these tales. To them, the creature is as real as the wind or rain. They say it has always been here, a spirit of mischief woven into the land itself. Not malevolent, but not benevolent either—it simply is. Some even leave small offerings at night: a bowl of milk, a coin, or a scrap of cloth left on a windowsill. In return, they believe it passes them by, sparing their home from its games. Those who mock it, however, often find their nights filled with strange disturbances until they learn the proper respect.

There’s an old story about a woman who left a mirror uncovered in her house overnight. The next morning, she found small animal, human like handprints smeared across the glass, as if it had pressed its wiry fingers against the surface, peering in at her reflection. She covered the mirror after that, every single night, and swore she never heard its footsteps again. Folklore warns of this connection: that it is drawn to reflective surfaces, as if it sees more in them than humans do. A reflection might not always show you—but what the wiry creature sees watching back. Best to keep them covered.

Travelers passing through quiet towns sometimes hear the name but dismiss it as superstition. They laugh at the warnings, mock the whispers, and move on. Yet, some leave with curious stories. A woman once stopped in a roadside inn. That night, she awoke to find her suitcase open, clothes scattered in strange, knotted shapes. A man complained of footsteps pacing his hotel room, though no one else had the key. They both left shaken, realizing the legend wasn’t confined to locals alone. The small creature doesn’t care where you’re from. If you enter its territory, even unknowingly, you are part of the game.

No one has ever truly captured the odd thing. No photograph exists, no recordings hold its sound. Attempts to trap it end in failure. A farmer once set out a cage with food, believing he could catch whatever was disturbing his barn. By morning, the cage was untouched, but every animal on his property had been moved to the wrong pen. Chickens with goats, sheep with pigs—all in perfect order, but all in the wrong places. It was a message: Bagagwa cannot be caught, cannot be controlled. It chooses when to appear, and when to vanish, slipping back into silence.

Still, people continue to search for it. Paranormal investigators arrive, armed with cameras and meters, determined to prove the odd looking being’s existence. They wander abandoned streets, leaving recorders overnight. Yet all they return with are faint noises and feelings of unease. Once, a group claimed they caught a glimpse on infrared: a hunched figure darting across the screen, glowing eyes reflecting the light. The file corrupted soon after, leaving only static. Whether coincidence or interference, no one knows. What remains is the legend, whispered and retold, kept alive not by proof, but by fear and fascination. It resists capture, thriving on the unknown.

Those who claim to have locked eyes with thing say the experience never leaves them. Its stare isn’t hostile, but it isn’t kind either. It is knowing. Watching. Almost curious. One boy, now grown, still remembers waking to see it crouched in the corner of his room, ears twitching, eyes glowing faintly. He froze, too terrified to scream. It tilted its head, studied him for a long moment, and then simply melted back into the shadows. Decades later, he swears the memory haunts him, lingering in his dreams. “It wasn’t trying to scare me,” he says. “It was studying me.”

Perhaps the strangest part of the legend is how consistent it is. Towns separated by miles tell nearly identical stories. Descriptions of glowing eyes, twitching ears, wiry limbs—all the same, passed down through generations. No one knows where the name Bagagwa comes from. Some suggest it is an old dialect word, meaning “the one who shifts.” Others say it was the nonsense babble of a frightened child who first saw it, repeated until it stuck. Whatever the origin, the name holds power. Speak it too often, the elders say, and you may invite it closer than you’d like.

To this day, the creature remains a mystery. Is it a creature? A spirit? A trick of the mind passed down through superstition? Skeptics argue it is nothing more than imagination, fueled by the eerie quiet of small towns and abandoned spaces. Yet, those who have felt its presence, who have heard the faint tapping of claws at night, will tell you otherwise. The cryptid is real. Not in the way you can touch or measure, but real enough to unsettle, to disturb,

to stay in your memory long after the night has ended. And perhaps, that is enough. So if you find yourself in a forgotten town, where the streets are empty and the silence feels heavy, tread carefully. If a door creaks open when you swore you closed it, if an object vanishes only to reappear days later, if you sense glowing eyes in the shadows—know that you may not be alone. Do not chase, do not provoke. Respect the unseen, and perhaps it will slip away, leaving only whispers behind. But if you ignore the warnings, if you tempt its curiosity, then be ready. For BAGAGWA might linger longer, watching, waiting, always just out of reach.

September 20, 2025 0