The Purple-Haired Home Invader

You must be the chosen one. The words rang in Mars's ears, the absurdity of the situation not yet fully dawning on her consciousness, but those words in particular digging in and taking root. _The chosen one? Chosen for what? _In a clearer, more lucid frame of mind Mars would be asking herself why she was even entertaining that any of this was real, let alone what she was possibly chosen for.

The fact that she hadn't even taken full note of the being standing before her would be, in hindsight, a sign that things were seriously wrong. So she might as well make note of it before it slipped her mind again.

First of all, Mars needed to stop calling the stranger a "figure," or "being." "Stranger" worked well enough, especially given that the figure -- er, stranger -- was obviously human. Okay, maybe "obviously" was a bit much, but Mars was at least comfortable calling the newcomer human. At first.

The stranger was female, and sitting on the floor opposite Mars. For a moment Mars was less focused on the fact that her home was being invaded and more on the woman's appearance. There was no denying that Mars had a body that could only be described as "aggressively voluptuous," but this stranger... she was somehow operating on a level above that. The stranger was, in a sense, a parody of womanhood, possessed of an enormous pair of tits that were so large they comfortably rested in her lap as she sat cross-legged on the floor. Somewhere in the back of Mars's head she was calculating the woman's size in comparison to her own, and decided that a single one of the woman's boobs was the size of Mars's entire chest. The woman appeared to have wide hips, as well as the hint (as Mars couldn't see much of it) of an enormous butt. Once Mars was able to deal with the woman's proportions she took note of her other features: purple hair -- naturally purple, weirdly enough -- framed her face, complemented by a pair of thick black glasses. Her skin was light brown, lighter than Mars's. Her eyes were, strangely, violet, and focused on Mars.

Mars was a little annoyed that the stranger was wearing more clothes than her. That felt weird -- what kind of pervert arrived fully dressed? Assuming the stranger was a pervert, which was Mars's inclination toward nearly everyone. The stranger was wearing a plain, dark grey t-shirt that revealed an ample amount of cleavage, under an unbuttoned flannel shirt. The woman wore a pair of black jeans and worn, scuffed boots. Completing the ensemble was a Russian winter hat.

"'Sup?" the stranger asked, breaking Mars's stupefaction. "I'm Reese. Nice to meet ya, Chosen One."

As if in a cartoon, Mars shook her head to regain lucidity. "Chosen one?"

"Uh, yeah." The stranger -- Reese -- cocked her head to the side, which somehow made her gargantuan breasts wobble. "That's what you are."

"Oh, I'm not --" Mars paused. "I'm not the Chosen One. You must be confused."

Reese crinkled her nose as she made a look of annoyance. "C'mon. Humility is dumb. You're the Chosen One, and we've got work to do."

"Dude, I'm not the Chosen One. I'm a barista."

"Cool, so you can make me some coffee. I've been up all night and I'm fuckin' worn out, man."

"I am not making coffee for a figment of my imagination."

"C'mon, Mars, that's weak."

"Fine, I'll make some coff -- wait. How do you know my name?"

Punctuating each word with a hand motion, Reese said, "Chosen. One. You. Are."

Mars rolled her eyes. There was something diabolically mundane about this whole affair, and that was fucking terrifying. She let out a long, annoyed sigh. "Ugh. Fine. I was gonna make coffee anyway, but I guess you can have some."

"Gee, thank you for the hospitality," Reese mocked.

"Do you mind if I get dressed first?"

"Kinda?"

"...fine."

Reese smiled. "Thank you!"