"Find anything good?" your mother asks when you rejoin her. You smile, showing off the fangs.
"John! I hope you washed those."
"Uh... 'eh, 'ure," you say. It's hard to talk around them. " 'esides, 'ey were 'ust 'ifteen cents."
-----
The fangs are fun for a while--you get a kick out of scaring Briana with them--but after a while they start to make your jaws hurt. You try to take them out, but they're wedged in there pretty good. Pulling on them just makes them hurt worse. You gulp down a couple of painkillers and lie down. Maybe they'll loosen up by morning.
At midnight, you wake up.
Everything feels differently. You can hear things, distant things, as crisply as if they were in the room with you. You can see perfectly, although the lights are off. Your sense of smell has sharpened.
You run your tongue over the fangs. They don't feel like cheap plastic anymore.
You get out of bed. Somehow, whatever has changed your senses has changed your mind, too. Mostly, it's keeping your calm, ready to accept what's happening without freaking out. You're still John, but you have access to a new suite of instincts, and somehow you know that if you listen to them, you'll be safe. More than that--you'll thrive.
Your instincts tell you to try out your new fangs. Fortunately, you know that you can to a lot more with them than just make holes in people. You can feed on them, sure, or you can turn them into thralls, slaves with little will of their own, either temporarily or for as long as you want. You can even make more creatures like you.
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