Brandon Whyte was not exactly known for being the most friendly of men on most days.
At 55 he was even then barely grown up from the 18 year old jock that made life hell for anyone who even slightly did not fit in with the status quo. If it wasn't muscle he used, it was his position in the social hierarchy - even then he came from just the right family to make crossing him ill advised. He had been an auburn haired, icy blue eyed stud, and heaven help anyone who didn't fall for his "charms".
And as of now, he was already known for his obsession with attempting to maintain his life of plenty and strength. His hair started to fail and go grey? Use hair restoration therapy and hair color restoration to make it seem like nothing had even happened. His face started showing the wear and tear of time and the wrinkles one might expect from a man in his fifties? A bit of therapy here, some plastic surgery there, and while he couldn't completely restore himself, he still looked miles better than a vicious man like him had any right to be.
If there was any thriving argument against the rich somehow "creating jobs" it was Brandon Whyte. Unless one counted the plastic surgeons and steroid manufacturers kept in business by Brandon's need to look and feel as strong and vital as he ever was. And it was that last one it seemed that finally landed him a consequence he couldn't just pay off or force to run out of town.
On that fateful morning he got the bad news from his doctor that he was diagnosed with cancer, on account of steroid abuse. If Brandon had been patient with the drugs they might have given him the same results at reduced risk. But Brandon being Brandon, he had not. Taking the letter letting him know about it in one hand, the large, muscular 55 year old crumpled it up in one hand and took a seat in front of his TV set. He saw in its reflection his scowling grimace, his build, and the tank top and shorts he retrieved the news in.
It was what he couldn't see that was killing him now. Brandon was fitter, stronger than ninety percent of the blithering beached whales (as far as he called them) he did business with. He shouldn't be having to deal with something like this! But it seemed like he had to face the music. He didn't get where he was today, with stable, unassailable finances, by ignoring reality and charging ahead. He knew he needed to somehow get himself up out of the grip of cancer.
Not even thinking about the possibility of false positives, Brandon started toward his laptop. He started looking through the internet for something, anything that could let him get out of this. He didn't care if it was a bit dubious. He needed a quick fix. He demanded a quick fix! Brandon Whyte was as far as the people knew the embodiment of strong, fruitful living. He couldn't become a cancer patient! He would wither away...
And that was more than what Brandon could accept.
Then he saw it in the evening news about a week ago. Some scientist coming forward with an experimental treatment that supposedly could cure cancer. His eyes widened, his pulse quickened. He clicked on the news. It was very, very local. And he was pleased by the fact it was barely about 10 minutes from his San Francisco high rise apartment. A grin creased Brandon's face. He was going to need to give this doctor a call, experimental project be damned!
Though there was something odd about the man's name.
Doctor Walter Jannes. Jannes...Jannes...did Brandon pay that guy for something before? He knew that name from somewhere, but for the life of him he couldn't remember where. Maybe it was an old buddy from high school? Wouldn't that be something. Brandon gets this kind of bad news, and then it turns out one of his old friends from high school got into some nerdy shit and developed it enough to save his fucking life!
Brandon decided to head out asap, getting dressed in a white dress shirt and pants, business casual, for the day out. He needed to go and pay this doctor's lab a visit. He didn't even remember as he passed by some of his old high school yearbooks laying in his closet on the way out that Jannes was a quiet, nerdy and quite gay young man who Brandon had made quite a bad impression on. The bully was now unbeknownst to him coming begging back to his victim for help.
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Dr. Jannes was rather surprised when he saw Brandon Whyte again. The living embodiment of asshole jock had become the living embodiment of everything wrong with corporate America. He had just been cleaning up his office that evening when Brandon Whyte pulled up and approached him about his research. As the issue came out, an idea started to spin around in Walter's head.
The experimental treatment worked by reversing the biological clock, but the side effects could be unpredictable.
Some of the test subjects saw phenotypical changes, others saw mental changes along with it, all the way toward outright orientation flip. Walter, being a responsible scientist, was not so consumed by need for revenge that he was willing to subject his old high school nemesis to the luck of the draw, at least initially. But as Brandon talked and talked, and included the offer of money, Walter thought about the dire straights he and his husband were involved in.
They needed money, and a lot of it. And the pay from Walter's experiments and job at the lab just weren't cutting it.
He decided, he was going to go through with it, even though his better nature was telling him not to do so. Even as he shook hands with his old aggressor, Walter wondered what in all Brandon was consigning himself to. Sure it would regress him and make him younger and more vital over time, but what else was going to happen? The effects were too varied and dangerous. Jannes decided to hand Brandon a book to write down everything that happened.
Brandon scoffed at the idea however and as soon as Walter - hands shaking with trepidation - gave him a vial and an injector, the scientist started to head back out toward his car and thus, his ride home. At what price this time was Brandon going to get his vaunted vitality and youthfulness...?