Take over the town

The village slumbered beneath a shroud of midnight, its houses huddled together like sheep unaware of the wolf slipping through their fold, bathed in the silver glow of the moon. Baby, ensconced in Naomi’s mother’s weathered frame, moved with a predator’s grace, her heavy footsteps muffled by the damp earth, her raw strength and mature endurance a marked improvement over Naomi’s fragile form. This body—toned by years of labor—was an efficient tool, one he’d wield until something better came along. Beside him, Naomi trailed like a pale wraith, her naked form silent and poised, her hazel eyes glassy with devotion, every motion a hymn to his will. The night air clung to them, cool and heavy with the scent of pine and sleeping hearths, a canvas ripe for his meticulous, silent conquest. Each house was a stepping stone, and he savored the game, his patience a coiled serpent ready to strike.

They began with the nearest dwelling, a squat shack with a sagging roof. Baby pressed the mother’s hand to the door, easing it open with a creak that blended into the wind’s sigh. Inside, a man snored beside his wife, their infant curled in a cot by the wall. “Naomi,” he purred, his voice a dark ripple through the mother’s lips, rich and velvety yet disturbingly foreign, “fetch me the first.” She obeyed instantly, gliding forward with too-quick, too-precise movements, dragging the man from his bed, her slender arms unnaturally strong under Baby’s lingering influence. He pinned the man’s throat with the mother’s grip, lifting him as his eyes snapped open in panic—then, with a smirk, Baby’s silvery essence spilled from her wrist, slithering into a cut on the man’s arm with a wet, sickening squelch. The possession was swift, the man’s body convulsing violently as his DNA unspooled to accommodate Baby’s own, his eyes flaring red before he slumped, subservient.

The wife stirred next, her sleepy eyes fluttering open only to widen in horror, but Naomi was upon her before she could scream, her grip crushing her wrists as Baby’s tendrils slammed into a nick on her hand. Her body writhed, the bed shaking as her once-warm brown eyes flooded red, her breath slowing into a soft, obedient smile. The infant whimpered softly, sensing the shift, and Baby, back within the mother’s body, lifted the child effortlessly, his red gaze analyzing the tiny form. “Too young,” he mused, the mother’s chest swelling with a dark, triumphant breath, “but in time… all will serve.” He handed the child to the newly-infected mother, watching her cradle it with gentle, mechanical care. The air grew thick with the scent of submission—sweat, fear, and the faint metallic tang of his presence—and he drank it in, relishing the tableau of his growing empire.

House by house, the ritual continued under the moon’s unblinking gaze. A widow’s gasp choked off as he entered through a burn on her hand; a young boy’s whimper faded as he seeped into a scraped knee; a farmer’s wife buckled when he found a split lip. Each soul bent to him, their wills eroded by his parasitic touch, their bodies rewritten with casual grace. Naomi, his obedient shadow, assisted without hesitation—her hands never trembling, her heart never resisting—dragging victims into his reach as he moved from one vessel to the next, always returning to the mother’s sturdy form. By the time the first hints of dawn touched the sky, the entire village stood as one, their crimson eyes glowing faintly in the early morning light, a web of red-eyed puppets tethered to his intent. Silent. Awaiting. Completely his.