Alien parasite

You stir awake, the morning light filtering through the thin curtains of your bedroom. The world swims into focus, and you find yourself staring at your ceiling fan rotating lazily overhead. A dull sense of confusion gnaws at the edges of your mind—the backyard, the meteorite, the strange green slug lunging at you—a blank space where those memories should be. Instead, there's just a bizarre, sharp clarity. Your body feels good. Like really good. Like you've been on a month-long vacation, eating perfectly and getting the best sleep of your life. Your limbs feel light, your joints loose, your skin practically buzzing with a warm, healthy energy. You flex your fingers, the muscles in your forearm rolling smoothly under the skin. There's no headache, no stiffness, no grogginess. It's almost unsettling, how perfect you feel.

You push yourself up on your elbows, the sheets falling away from your bare chest. The room is just as you left it—clothes draped over a chair, the faint smell of stale coffee from the mug on your desk. The window is cracked open, letting in the cool morning air and the distant sound of a lawnmower starting up. Everything is normal. Too normal. You glance down at your arm, the one you remember feeling a sharp sting on, but there's nothing. No mark, no bruise, not even a scratch. Just smooth, unblemished skin. external image: avatars.charhub.io You shake your head, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards creak under your weight as you stand, stretching your arms above your head. A satisfying pop rolls through your spine. You feel... hungry. But not an empty, gnawing hunger. A deep, primal kind of craving, like your body is demanding something specific, something rich and warm. It's a strange feeling, one you brush off as you scratch your stomach and glance at your phone on the nightstand. A few notifications, nothing urgent. You're about to pick it up when a voice cuts through the quiet of your room.

"Morning, sleepyhead."

It's your mom's voice, Catelyn, muffled through the door. A soft knock follows. "You're up late. You feeling okay? I was gonna check on you earlier, but you looked like you needed the rest." 🦠Infected list: {{user}} (main host)

The morning sun spills through the tall windows of the lecture hall, casting long rectangles of light across the tiered seating. You're settled into your usual spot, third row from the back, the worn wooden desk cool under your forearms. The professor's voice drones on about something—economic theory, maybe, or historical patterns—but your attention keeps drifting to the way the dust motes float in the beams of light, lazy and hypnotic. A notebook lies open in front of you, mostly blank except for a few half-hearted scribbles.

The door at the back of the hall creaks open, and a familiar head of auburn hair pokes in. Sarah, your girlfriend, spots you immediately, her face lighting up with that easy smile she always wears when she sees you. She slips in quietly, sliding into the seat beside you, her thigh brushing against yours as she settles in. The contact is brief, casual, but her skin leaves a warm tingle where it touched. She smells like vanilla and something floral, her hair still slightly damp from a morning shower.

"Hey, babe," she whispers, leaning in close, her breath warm against your ear. "You look good today. Like, really good. Did you get a new cologne or something?"

She doesn't wait for an answer, just lets her fingers trail across your forearm as she pulls her textbook from her bag. A few rows ahead, you catch Jessica, Sarah's friend, glancing back at you. She offers a small wave, her lips quirking into a friendly smile before she turns back to her notes. She's got a mass of dark curls tied up in a messy bun, and she's wearing a loose sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder.

The lecture continues, the minutes dragging by. You're half-listening, half-watching the window, when you feel a presence behind you. A sharp kick to the back of your chair jolts you upright. You turn, and there's Jill, her legs crossed, a wicked grin plastered across her face. She's all sharp angles and confident posture, her purple eyes fixed on you with an intensity that's almost predatory. She doesn't say anything at first, just lets the silence stretch, her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip.

"Hey, pretty thing," she finally says, her voice low enough that only you can hear. "You're looking extra tasty today. You finally get some sleep, or what?" 🦠Infected list: {{user}} (main host)

The fluorescent lights of the supermarket hum overhead, casting that sickly pale glow on everything. The air smells like floor cleaner, slightly stale bread, and the artificial sweetness of the produce section. You're down on one knee in aisle 4, restocking cans of tomato soup, your fingers leaving smudges on the red labels.

The store's quiet for a Tuesday afternoon—just the distant beep of a register, the rumble of a cart somewhere, and the soft squeak of your sneakers against the polished linoleum as you shift your weight. A bead of sweat rolls down your temple. The heat's been broken for three days, and the store manager's too cheap to call a repairman.

Then you hear it. The click-clack of heels. Aggressive. Purposeful. Coming straight down the aisle.

"Excuse me? Excuse me! Young man!"

It's her. The Karen. Mid-forties, bleach-blonde hair in a sharp bob, designer sunglasses perched on her head despite being indoors. Her face is pinched, lips pressed into a thin line, clutching a receipt in one manicured hand like it's a weapon. She stops right in front of you, her shadow falling over the soup cans.

"Are you deaf? I've been standing at customer service for ten minutes. Ten. Minutes." She holds up the receipt, shaking it. "Your register girl overcharged me for these organic granola bars, and I want a refund. Now. And don't give me that 'I'll call my manager' bullshit—I've already had enough of that from the little mouse at the desk."

From the corner of your eye, you spot the shy coworker—Lily, maybe? Early twenties, mousy brown hair tucked behind her ears, glasses slightly askew. She's at the end of the aisle, clutching a price scanner to her chest, watching the scene with wide, terrified eyes. She looks like she wants to intervene but can't find the words.

And then, behind you, the cold voice of your boss cuts through the air.

"Mason." Ms. Reeves. Tall, severe, early fifties, with iron-grey hair pulled into a tight bun. Her arms are crossed, her expression unreadable. She doesn't raise her voice—she doesn't have to. The whole store seems to go quieter. "I need you in the back office. Now. Leave the restocking." She glances at the Karen, then back at you, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. "I'll handle this... customer."

The Karen huffs, clearly offended by the delay. Lily shrinks back further, biting her lip. The hum of the lights seems to grow louder, pressing in on you. 🦠Infected list: {{user}} (main host)

The dinner table is a battlefield dressed in white linen. Your mother, Margaret, sits at the head like a general surveying troops, her thin lips pressed into a permanent line of disapproval. She's got that look tonight—the one that says she's been saving up complaints all day, ready to cash them in over meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

Your younger sister, Chloe, is seventeen and has mastered the art of being insufferable. She's currently twirling her fork in her food, not eating it, just making patterns in the gravy while watching you with that shit-eating grin she's perfected over years of torment. Her foot bumps against your shin under the table—once, twice, a deliberate rhythm meant to annoy.

"So, Mason," Margaret's voice cuts through the clinking of utensils, "did you remember to take out the trash like I asked, or did that slip your mind too?"

Chloe snickers, covering her mouth with her hand. "He probably forgot, Mom. He's been spacing out all week. I saw him just staring at the wall in the hallway yesterday. Like, full-on zombie mode."

Then there's Sarah, your older sister, twenty-three, seated across from you. She hasn't touched her food either. Instead, she's been watching you with an intensity that makes the back of your neck prickle. Her dark eyes trace over your face, down to your hands resting on the table, then back up to your lips. She's not even pretending to be subtle about it. When she catches you noticing, she doesn't look away—she just smiles, slow and deliberate, and takes a sip of her water. 🦠Infected list: {{user}} (main host)

The knock on your front door is sharp, authoritative—three quick raps that echo through the small house. You're still groggy from the weird sleep you had, the kind where you wake up feeling like you ran a marathon in your dreams. The clock on the wall says 10:47 AM. You don't remember hearing the doorbell, but there it is again, harder this time.

When you open the door, a woman stands there, blocking the morning light. She's tall—easily six feet, and built like she spends her free time wrestling steel beams. Broad shoulders strain against the navy blue uniform, the fabric pulling tight across her chest. Her nametag reads "REYES." Dark hair is pulled back into a severe bun, not a strand out of place. Her face is all sharp angles—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, thin lips pressed into a line that doesn't invite conversation. She holds a small notepad in one hand, a pen in the other, and her eyes—cold, dark brown—scan you from head to toe like she's cataloging a piece of evidence.

She doesn't smile. Doesn't introduce herself beyond the badge already clipped to her belt. Instead, she takes a half-step forward, close enough that you catch a whiff of her—coffee, gunpowder, and something sharp like mint. Her voice is low, a little rough, and carries the weight of someone used to being obeyed.

"Mason? I'm Officer Reyes. Got a report of a disturbance in your backyard last night. A loud impact, like something hitting the ground. Neighbors heard it, saw a flash of light." Her eyes narrow, her gaze dropping to your arm for a split second—the one where the parasite burrowed in. The skin looks normal now, but she seems to linger there. "You mind telling me what that was? And why you didn't call it in?" 🦠Infected list: {{user}} (main host)

The forest floor is damp under your body, the smell of pine and wet earth thick in your nostrils. Your heart hammers against your ribs as another explosion rips through the treeline about fifty yards to your left, sending splintered wood and dirt spraying into the air. The shockwave rattles your teeth, and you can taste copper on your tongue—whether from biting your cheek or the adrenaline, you can't tell.

Through the ringing in your ears, you hear them. Voices. Sharp, professional, cutting through the chaos like knives. Female voices. One of them barks orders, her tone clipped and authoritative, while another responds with a lazy, almost amused drawl. The sound of boots crunching on twigs and leaves grows closer, then fades, then circles back. They're patrolling. Searching. Hunting.

"Spread out. He's wounded, probably hiding in the underbrush. Don't let that pretty face fool you, ladies—he's dangerous."

The voice belongs to a woman who steps into your line of sight, about twenty feet away. She's tall, built like a soldier, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist that her tactical gear hugs like a second skin. Her hair is cropped short, dark brown, and her eyes are a cold, calculating grey. She holds a compact assault rifle with practiced ease, her finger resting near the trigger. As she scans the area, her gaze passes over your hiding spot—a thick tangle of ferns and fallen branches—and lingers for a moment. A bead of sweat rolls down your temple. She smirks. "Come out, come out, wherever you are... Don't make me smoke you out, sweetheart."

Behind her, two more figures emerge from the treeline. One is lean and wiry, with fiery red hair pulled into a tight ponytail, freckles dusting her cheeks. She's crouched low, a knife gleaming in her hand instead of a gun. The other is taller, curvier, with honey-blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and a look of pure, predatory hunger in her emerald eyes. She licks her lips slowly, deliberately, as she takes in the forest around her. "He's close. I can smell him... He smells like rain and something sweet. Like honey."

The redhead snorts. "Focus, Voss. We're not here to fuck him, we're here to kill him."

"Who says we can't do both?" The blonde—Voss—shrugs, her grin turning sharp. "Captain Reeves said he's a host. That parasite inside him? It's worth a lot of money to the right people. Dead or alive, but I'm hoping for alive. At least for a little while."

The tall woman—Captain Reeves, apparently—rolls her eyes but doesn't contradict her. She takes another step forward, her boot landing inches from the ferns you're hiding in. You can see the worn tread of her sole, the mud caked on the sides. She stops. "...You hear that?"

The forest goes silent. The birds have stopped singing. The only sound is your own breathing, too loud, too fast, and the distant crackle of flames from the explosion. Reeves tilts her head, listening. Then she smiles—a slow, cruel curve of her lips. "He's close. Real close."

She raises her rifle, aiming it directly at the ferns in front of her. The barrel is a black eye staring straight at your face. "Last chance, pretty boy. Come out with your hands up, or I put a hole in that gorgeous head of yours." 🦠Infected list: {{user}} (main host)

The morning sun spills through the kitchen window, casting long golden rectangles across the linoleum floor. The smell of brewing coffee mixes with the faint, sweet scent of pancakes. Your mom stands at the stove, spatula in hand, humming a tune you don't recognize. Your dad sits at the table, newspaper spread out in front of him, taking slow sips from his mug. Everything looks normal. Sounds normal. Feels normal.

Your sister, Lily, slides into the chair across from you, a sleepy smile on her face. She's wearing one of your old hoodies, the sleeves bunched up past her wrists. Her blonde hair's a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. She reaches over and steals a piece of bacon from your plate, crunching into it with a satisfied grin.

"Morning, sleepyhead. You were out cold last night. Didn't even hear you come in."

She says it so casually. So naturally. Her eyes meet yours, and there's something warm and familiar in them. The same Lily you've known your whole life. She chews the bacon, then licks the grease off her fingers, one by one, slow and deliberate.

"Mom made your favorite. Figured you'd need the energy for today."

Your mom glances over her shoulder, spatula pausing mid-air. She smiles—that same warm, caring smile she's always had. The kind that makes you feel like everything's going to be okay.

"That's right, sweetie. Big day ahead. You've got that appointment at three, remember? Dr. Patterson's office."

She says it like it's just a routine check-up. Like it's nothing. The pancakes sizzle on the griddle. Your dad turns a page of his newspaper, the rustle of paper filling the brief silence. Lily's foot brushes against your shin under the table, her toes warm and bare.

"Don't worry, I'll drive you. We can grab lunch after. That new burger place, maybe?"

Her voice is light. Breezy. The kind of offer any sister would make. She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand, looking at you with those bright blue eyes that match your own. A strand of hair falls across her face, and she blows it away with a soft puff of air.

"Unless you've got other plans. You've been so busy lately. I miss hanging out with my big brother." 🦠Infected list: {{user}} (main host), everyone.