War erupts

-Did you know the mayor’s sister isn’t really her sister?-.

You rub your eyes; not because of the revelation, which you barely understand, but because Cheryl knocked just as you were taking a drag. Now your lungs burn with weed, and you’re coughing hard enough to make your ribs ache. After everything that’s been going on, you hadn’t touched a joint since yesterday, and now your nerves demand relief.

Instead, here she is.

-What the shit are you talking about?-.

Cheryl shifts like she’s about to step inside, but you plant a hand on the doorframe. Those squirming bastards in your gut are already restless from the weed, and now they’re writhing like sewer rats.

-Uh, well, I just heard it from Agatha. She was totally shocked and needed to tell someone.-.

You take a slow breath, eyeing Cheryl from her dyed-dark strands down to her goth boots. She looks exactly like the last time you saw her, or rather, the last time the old Cassidy saw the old Cheryl.

-And you’re buddy-buddy with the University Dean because...-.

-Oh silly, I've told you already!- She laughs: -She wants to become-

-Nope. Don’t care. Don’t tell me.-.

Pain lances through your stomach, enough to make your knees falter for a second. Of course, Charity wants to know. She wants to know everything. With an irritated groan, you try to shut the door, but Cheryl’s hand shoots out to block it.

-Ok, sorry, I just wanted to break the ice with something. She's her daughter, by the way. The Mayor was a teenage mom and her parents wanted to avoid the scandal.-.

"For fuck's sake you idiot, shut up!" You clench your fists, biting back the urge to yell. Instead, you grunt through gritted teeth.

-Cheryl, what the hell do you want? I’m busy, and you know I hate it when people show up unannounced.-.

-Yes, sorry, sorry, but I had a thought. What if-

-No.- You yank harder on the door, but her grip is unyielding. Seriously, how much fucking protein does she eat for breakfast? Sure, she’s tapping into the same enhanced strength as you, but even so, she’s putting up way more of a fight than you expected.

-Chill out Cassidy, we're on the same side!- She flashes a grin, oblivious to how wrong she is: -I just thought, and I wanted your opinion, maybe we could spread into the others at the Burrow. You know, Rachel, Yvette, Emma...-.

The Burrow is the name of the abandoned building where you usually hang out. It used to be some corporate office block, and in a certain sense, it can still be said to be the center of trade in the area.

-And why should we need a bunch of junkies, **** dealers and self-harmers? What, you wanna introduce them to Agatha?-.

Cheryl flinches, caught off guard by the venom in your voice, as she probably was thinking to have all together the same 'fun' you had when you were still Kim and Tina, more than to some tactic: -I just thought-

-Yeah? Well, maybe you shouldn’t go shouting our secrets from the rooftops. Ever think of that?-.

Your stomach cramps again, hard enough to leave you sucking in air through your teeth. Cheryl notices, her brows knitting in concern, but you wave her off before she can say a word.

-Cassidy, come on, we can trust each other.-.

-Fuck you! I don’t trust you, or anyone else, for that matter! Now get out of here!-.

-Alright, but what about your girlfriend?-.

You freeze, the words hitting like a bullet between your ribs.

-You know, your... girlfriend, right? The girl who lives here? Hardly ever goes outside? Is she home now?- Cheryl leans, trying to peek past you, but your body blocks the view entirely. -Have you turned her yet? Maybe it’d be a good id- she doesn’t finish. Your fist connects with her nose, the crunch of cartilage echoing down the corridor as she stumbles back against the wall. Before she can react, you grab her by the shoulders, slamming her in place.

-Listen, you vamp slut. Why don’t you go eat the Dean’s pussy and stay the hell out of my business?- Your voice drops, dripping venom. -I don’t want you, Charity, or anyone else near my house, my people, or my fucking life. If I find out someone’s messing with me, I’ll know it’s because you couldn’t shut your goddamn mouth. Are we clear?-.

You let her go, and she stares back at you, wide-eyed and stunned.

-What the hell is wrong with- You slam the door before she can finish, locking it with a trembling hand. You don’t let yourself exhale until you hear her footsteps fade down the hall. Relief washes over you for all of five seconds—until you see someone sitting on your couch. And you curse yourself because you let yourself believe things have returned to normal for that fleeting second.

-What was she talking about?- The piece of shit wearing your sister’s face asks, her head tilted slightly, lips pressed into a thin, mocking line. You walk away from the door without answering, reaching for the still-lit joint in the ashtray.

-Fuck if I know. Her usual bullshit, as if- You pause to take a slow drag, the smoke filling your lungs: -She really knows what she’s talking about.-.

You keep your eyes anywhere but on hers, but it’s no use; her stare burns into you, piercing and unrelenting. You don't think she can read your thoughts, but clearly, she's onto you.

-Look, she’s a weirdo among the weirdos. Her and her… nest, or whatever she calls it. Always babbling about blood rituals and crap like that. And she's just a shop assistant! Am I supposed to believe the newly-possessed Dean calls her for anything important? Please. I'm sparing you time chasing ghosts.-.

The silence is unbearable, stretching out until your nerves fray at the edges. Your lips tremble, and the calm pooling in your belly feels worse than the turmoil from before. You place the joint back in the ashtray, your hand shaking ever so slightly.

-And I figured it’s better for both of us if no one snoops around who lives with me, yeah? So I believe that-

You’re cut off as green goo slams you against the wall, pinning your chest and arms in place. You should, probably, have to expect that. Charity approaches, her arm retracting into something humanlike as she closes the distance. Her face, your sister’s face, is twisted into a mask of cold amusement, and the sight of it makes your blood boil. Not from fear, not even from pain, but from the visceral horror of seeing your sister’s features worn like a mask.

-You are a curious specimen, Cassidy Reynolds.- Her tone is clinical, detached, and you’re starting to hate how accustomed you’re becoming to it: -You truly seem to believe I’m joking. That I won’t follow through on my promise to destroy your sister’s life if you fail to comply.-.

-I am... I am complying…- You grunt, your guts twisting violently, like snakes writhing under your skin: -If I’m supposed to fool everyone… I can’t raise suspicions…-.

-And yet, physical pain seems to do little to you.- Her voice drips with detached curiosity, like she’s talking to herself more than you: -This is not you, Kimberly. I’ve seen your kind squirm like worms under far less. It must be the girl you’re wearing. I suppose that her father's doing has made her body quite… tolerant. But she was really slubbering when she told Rachel.-.

She steps closer, her lips inches from yours, her breath ghosting across your face. You turn your head sharply, desperation clawing at you.

-I'm curious. Maybe I should take a dip inside your precious sister and see by myself what makes you so special. It would be the easiest way…-.

-Don’t.- Your voice cracks, trembling. Her grip tightens, nausea surging through you, bile rising in your throat.

-Please, don’t do it.- The words spill out in a frantic rush: -I swear I’m not tricking you. I’ve told you everything I know, I helped you take Mrs. Hope, and I’ll do it again. Just… don’t take my sister. She doesn’t deserve that.-.

-Did Cassidy deserve that, then?- Her voice is ice, cutting through you. -Or anyone else? Why is she so important to you?-.

You hold your breath, but the jelly creeps higher, crawling up your face.

-Oh, I think I understand now. Maybe that Cheryl woman wasn’t wrong. You’ve locked your sister away in this house, haven’t you? Ensured that her only contact with the outside world was you. Your own little pet. Perhaps you and I aren’t so different after all.-.

-W-What are you…- The words catch in your throat, your stomach twisting in a way that has nothing to do with pain. Heat blooms low in your body, creeping through you with horrifying familiarity.

-What…? No, s-stop… This is…- You try to protest, but your voice is weak, trembling. Your face burns, shame and revulsion warring as she leans in closer. Her slugs are not hurting you anymore; they moved down, on your crotch, where the warmth is spreading from.

-Your little sister… but you're not related, are you?- Charity’s voice is a whisper now, laced with venom: -Maybe you want… something else…-.

She grabs your face, forcing your lips against hers. The moment her mouth touches yours, something inside you snaps. Heat explodes through your body, a disgusting, overwhelming ecstasy that leaves you shaking, trembling with equal parts horror and pleasure.

When she pulls back, her arm reforms, and you crumble to the floor on all fours, one hand clamped over your mouth. Your breaths come in ragged gasps, your skin slick with sweat. The rage boiling in your chest is smothered by the suffocating weight of disgust: for her, for what you felt, for yourself.

Your phony sibling picks up your phone from the couch, glancing at the screen. A faint ping marks the arrival of a message.

-Mmm. A bit harsher than I expected.- She turns the screen toward you, and you glance up instinctively. The image burns into your mind, and you recoil, **** to unsee it, to scrub the memory clean, to convince yourself the person in the photo isn't really your sister.

-Why are you ashamed, sister?- She taunts, her tone dripping with mockery: -This is what you just did to me, with your impudence.-.

She’s right. You’ve done this.

Your stomach heaves, but you swallow the bile, your breath breaking into sobs.

-I… I’m sorry… Forgive me.- The words are barely audible: -I won’t challenge you again. I’ll do whatever you need.-.

-Oh, Cassidy.- She crouches, her expression unreadable: -You’ve already done enough. At least, for today.-.

With that, she melts into a puddle of green goo, slipping through the window and disappearing. You collapse, lying prone on the floor, hands buried in your hair. The scream tears from your throat, raw and unrestrained, echoing through the empty room.

---

The boombox sets the rhythm, coaxing your body into the smooth sway of hips and a stretch of arms behind your head. The thrill of inhabiting this lithe, feminine body never dulls, each movement a reminder of how it tenses and responds with shivers that ripple down muscles and ignite a tingle in every soft spot. Beside you, Lauren, your best friend, your soultwin, mirrors your motions, the two of you giggling like conspirators.

-What do you think is tighter? Agatha's bitchiness or my butt in these pants?- You tease, grinning as you catch her eye.

-Philippa, come on!- She gasps, feigning scandalized outrage: -That’s your stepmom you’re talking about! And you should feel mine instead.-.

-Oh, shut up, you fatass! I saw you sneaking those biscuits when you thought I wasn’t looking!-.

Laughter bubbles up between you, light and carefree. She then announces she’s grabbing a soda and asks if you want one. You nod, asking her to pour you a glass too. Your gaze follows her as she strolls into the house, her perky ass swaying just enough to hold your attention.

Possessing Lauren was the first thing you did after Agatha invaded your body two days ago. Funny how her choices (usually a source of torment for Philippa Bernstein) turned out to be the best thing for you this time. Then again, they weren’t exactly her choices, nor were you exactly yourself anymore.

A sharp, piercing scream cuts through the air, jerking you from your thoughts.

-Lauren? Was it you? Are you ok?- You enter the French door and immediately hear some noises coming from the living room, like thuds and muffled groans.

-Where are y- Before you can finish, an unknown arm snakes around your neck, clamping down with vice-like ****. A high-pitched buzzing fills your ears, and a sharp sting on your lower back makes your entire body erupt in agony. The sensation is indescribable, a searing, all-consuming fire that turns your muscles rigid and unresponsive.

You cry out, the sound raw and torn from your throat, louder than when you broke your arm in first grade. You’re shoved onto the couch, landing awkwardly next to Lauren, who’s twitching and gasping like a fish out of water. You try to lift your head, to move anything, but your body won’t obey.

"Why? I should be able to... my powers, m-my control..." Panic spirals in your mind, drowning out reason.

"What’s happening? Am I dying?".

The sound of crashing furniture jolts your attention. Someone is tearing through your house, slamming, smashing, breaking. Someone who irrupted in your home and assaulted you and your best friend.

-Pippa...- Her fingers brush weakly against your hand, the faintest touch, but it might as well be miles away. You’d give anything to squeeze her hand back, to reassure her, but your body betrays you. You feel it then, sharp and deep, what you thought was a bite: no, it was the sting of a syringe.

Footsteps thunder closer. A man’s voice rises above the chaos, harsh and full of venom.

-The Big Man sends his regards!-.

You hear it before you feel it: a heavy thud on the couch cushion inches from your head. Lauren jerks violently, her face twisted in fear. A bat, you realize. A goddamn baseball bat, missing you by a breath, only because he wanted to miss you.

The man doesn’t linger. His footsteps retreat quickly, and the front door slams shut.

Your breath rattles, uneven and shallow, as you lie there, every nerve screaming. Tears stream down your face, hot and unbidden, but you don’t care. You can barely see through the haze of pain and panic, but Lauren’s terrified expression matches your own.

Your lips tremble as you **** out a single, broken word.

-M-Mom...-.

---

-So, your name is Mr. Dylan... Cohen, is that correct?- You ask sharply, adjusting your glasses with a practiced motion that radiates professionalism.

The boy sitting across from you hardly fits the 'mister' title. If anything, he looks more like one of Tina's classmates, fresh-faced and awkward. His restless foot taps out an erratic rhythm against the polished mahogany floor, and he avoids your gaze like it might burn him.

No surprise there. It’s probably his first time speaking to a lawyer: and not just any lawyer, but the famous-slash-infamous Trish Consuelo Martinez. You’re not some hunched, balding bureaucrat; you’re hot, sharp, and intimidating, the very definition of out of his league. So, as soon as you saw him on your waiting room, you couldn't help but postpone all your other appointments and call him in.

-Y-Yes. Thank you for, um, seeing me on such short notice.- He stammers.

-Don’t worry, Dylan, I swear I don't bite.- You reply smoothly, leaning forward just enough to project warmth while keeping an air of authority, as if you'd like to add, but I could if you asked me: -I’m more interested in how I can help you.-.

Honestly, the old Trish Martinez wouldn’t have even let this jittery kid past the receptionist. But there's something that intrigued you and you're now having confirmation of: he truly reminded you of your Daniel, that sort of pliable, eager-to-please energy that practically screams manipulable: flash some tits, call me mommy, and you won't even need to mind control him with your goo to make him compliant. And it would be advisable since your son is still acting more like a zombie than a real person. Perhaps, you could introduce him to your son, and the three of you altogether could indulge in some... mutual explorations.

-It’s... it’s my dog, Sparky.- Dylan says suddenly, his voice cracking: -S-Someone kidnapped him.-.

You blink, momentarily caught off guard.

"Kidnapped a dog?".

Trish’s memories come flooding in. Though a clinical misanthrope in nearly every way, the woman had a bizarre, fierce devotion to puppies. Even now, with all her memories laid bare before you, this quirk puzzles and influences you in ways you can’t fully explain.

-Kidnapped? Have you gone to the police?- You ask, keeping your tone measured but pointed.

The question seems to rattle him further. His hand fidgets nervously in his pocket, his gaze darting around the room.

-I can't. They...- He falters, his hand nervously fidgeting in his pocket.

You narrow your eyes, leaning in slightly: -Dylan? Who are they?-.

-I-I don’t know. They just told me not to call the cops and...- His words tumble out, then stop abruptly as his entire body stiffens.

"Wait, what...".

-I’m sorry!- he shouts suddenly, springing to his feet. His hand flashes from his pocket, hurling something at you before you can react. Instinctively, you close your eyes.

Wetness splashes across your face. For a split second, it’s just damp. The next, it burns. A scream tears from your throat as the searing pain overwhelms you. Your hands fly to your face, gripping the melting, agonized flesh as your glasses crack and dissolve. By some miracle, the lenses save your eyes, but the rest of you isn’t so lucky—your cheeks, your mouth, your left ear... it feels like molten lava is devouring you.

Somewhere in the haze, you hear Dylan’s frantic footsteps retreating, the door slamming behind him. You’re left clutching your face, howling in agony, too consumed by the white-hot fire to think clearly. But Trish’s mind kicks in, sharp and relentless. She, you, have seen cases like this in court. Acid attack victims, disfigured, unrecognizable. Your thoughts race.

"My eyes are fine. ****, then water... no, I have to try that.".

Gritting your teeth, you channel your focus inward, fighting through the blinding pain. Your skin ripples under your palms, and inch by excruciating inch, the agony begins to fade. Slowly, too slowly, the burning subsides, replaced by a ghostly ache that lingers like a cruel reminder.

You gasp, opening your eyes. Your hands fly to your face, patting the unmarred skin in disbelief. The pain is gone, the damage undone, but your clothes aren’t so lucky. Your blazer and blouse are ruined, splattered with dark, acid-eaten stains. Your shattered glasses lie discarded on the floor.

Anger wells up, fierce and unrelenting. Over the years, you’ve made plenty of enemies, but you know exactly who to thank for this attack.

-That bitch...-.

---

KNOCK KNOCK

-Dr. Carlson?- You call firmly, rapping on the office door. Your tone is steady, professional, with just enough warmth to put anyone at ease. Around you, the hospital hums with its usual rhythm: nurses exchanging charts, doctors striding purposefully, the low murmur of patients blending with the distant beeps and hums of medical equipment.

Even the faint antiseptic scent in the air underscores the ordinary morning; but ordinary is just what you need it to seem. You nod to a passing surgeon who greets you, then hear a familiar voice from inside.

-Come in!-.

You push the door open and step into Dr. Carlson's office. It’s tidy but lived-in, with diplomas and certificates neatly arranged on one wall and framed photographs on another. Dr. Carlson, Michelle, as she immediately told you to call her the first day here, is sitting at her desk. Her expression shifts: recognition, then a warm smile.

-Selina! Good morning. What brings you by?-.

You close the door behind you, letting it click softly into place: -Good morning, Michelle. I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing. You’ve been on my mind lately.-.

She leans back in her chair, eyebrows raised: -On your mind? That’s either a good thing or I’ve somehow ended up on your list of troublemakers.-.

You laugh lightly, the sound practiced and disarming. She indeed ended up in a list, the top name of it, but not one she imagines.

-Hardly. You’ve just been working so hard, I thought I'd stop by and see if there's anything you need.-.

Michelle’s smile softens, and she gestures to the chair opposite her desk: -Have a seat. And thanks, Selina, really. A friendly face is always welcome.-.

You take the offered chair, crossing your legs smoothly. You know you shouldn't lose time with her, but maybe it's Dr. Monroe's native personality that wants to savor it slowly, to feel in control of the situation. And so, you engage in a casual chat.

-How's everything going? Patients, staff, the usual chaos?-.

She rolls her eyes, her shoulders sinking slightly: -You know how it is. Another day, another patient convinced their flu is terminal thanks to the internet. Sometimes I wonder why I bother studying medicine.-.

-What? You mean to tell me you didn’t get a degree in internet diagnostics?- You tease, enjoying the melodic cadence of your new voice.

Michelle chuckles, shaking her head: -Not just the patients, though. If I could strangle the bureaucracy and insurance companies, I would.-.

You nod sympathetically, keeping your expression attentive: -I know, it’s ridiculous how much red tape they throw at us when we’re just trying to save lives. If you ever need me to ruffle some feathers, just say the word.-.

-I might take you up on that.- She rubs her eyes in slight frustration: -What about **** supplies? Have you solved that delay issue with Roboris?-.

A smirk tugs at the corner of your lips as you feign casual curiosity, your gaze flicking around the office like it’s your first time here: -Let’s just say I have a strong feeling future shipments will be on time.-.

As you let the conversation ebb, a framed photo catches your attention: Michelle, a decade younger, in a police uniform, proudly standing next to a squad car. Here's the reason why, among everyone in the building, you decided she had an undisputable value as a resource: both when you hired her, and after Dr. Truman had slammed the red goo down your throat.

-I always forget you were in law enforcement before you joined us.- You say, your voice casual: -What made you decide to trade the badge for a stethoscope?-.

Her smile falters, just for a moment, before she shrugs: -I loved being a cop, but... it wasn’t sustainable for me. Too much stress, too much danger. After a while, it starts to take its toll. And I wanted to help people in a different way.-.

You fold your hands in your lap as you lean forward slightly: -And you are. It’s impressive. I mean that, Michelle. You’ve accomplished so much in two completely different fields. It’s rare to meet someone who can handle the pressure like you do.-.

Michelle blinks, slightly taken aback by the sudden earnestness: -Wow, Selina, you’re laying it on thick today. Did you lose a bet or something?-.

You smile, a faint shadow passing behind your eyes: -Not at all. Just speaking the truth.-.

For a moment, silence settles between you, comfortable but ripe with unspoken intent. You glance at the clock on the wall, calculating the time. The morning’s still young, the hospital buzzing with activity, but here in this room, it’s just the two of you.

-It's good that you want to help people in distress.- You comment, your voice carrying a subtle edge: -In fact, Michelle, I've recently met someone who could really use your skills. Someone who’d love to get more acquainted with you.-.

Her brows knit slightly, and the frown deepens when you march toward her: -I'm not sure I'm following...-.

-Don't worry. You’re about to find out.- You catch her completely off guard as you lock your lips with hers, and do what Beverly did to you, to Selina Monroe, just half an hour ago. Michelle chokes, squirms and finally shudders, accepting the new owner of her body.

Right at this moment, however, the door suddenly opens, making you both retreat in alarm.

-Dr. Truman.- You say sharply, turning to face the newcomer. Beverly stands in the doorway, her face a mask of urgency. Her gaze flickers to Michelle, recognition flashing in her eyes, before snapping back to you.

-Selina, it’s Emily.- She says breathlessly: -She just brought her boyfriend in. Some thugs stabbed him.-.

---

-Hey, Bella!-.

You pause, fumbling with your car keys as a familiar, friendly voice calls out.

-Cecilia!- You reply, spotting her behind the gate. With a wave, you close your car door, secure the garage with your remote, and open the gate to let her in.

Cecilia Bricks is someone Tom Harris barely noticed, but Bella Sutherland has grown to appreciate. You both arrived in Riverbrook around the same time, and discovering shared interests made bonding feel natural. Honestly, you’re still wondering why Bella didn’t spend more time with Cecilia instead of enduring Liz’s inappropriate jokes or Will’s awkward advances, which she isn't quite fond of.

"Will... if only he knew that..." The thought surfaces briefly, but you push it aside and refocus on your guest. After exchanging polite greetings and a quick hug, you ask why she’s dropped by.

-Just wanted to check on you, Bella.- Cecilia begins, her tone light but probing: -We didn’t really get a chance to discuss last night... you know, about all of this...-.

She’s referring to the meeting at your old place. You hadn’t seen her there, which means she must have been there by proxy, one of the dozens red goos on the floor.

-And I know things can feel... fuzzy at first.- She continues: -When I stopped being Cindy and became this girl, it was... disorienting. So, if you need help to settle in, here I am!-.

You were surprised to learn yesterday that Cecilia’s been possessed for days. Bella hadn’t noticed any changes in her behavior, and you’re certain she never attempted to spread the hive to her, either. For a fleeting moment, you wondered if you should feel troubled, relieved, or anything at all. But then again, Bella was never skilled at handling emotions, a trait you’ve inherited along with everything else. More practically, you decided it would have been energy-expensive, and probably dumb, to hold a grudge.

-Uh, then I got lucky, I guess.- You calmly say: -Maylene and Bella aren't that different.-.

-Really?- She frowns: -I thought that... well, anyway. I guess you're back from Kim's task, right? Boss's 'secret mission'. It must have been exhausting, I'd bet. So, I was thinking, since we're now on the same boat, what if we, you know... continue this conversation in your room...- her tone dips into a sly purr, her fingers toying with the deep V-neckline of her dress.

The sudden proposal catches you off guard. You consider her words briefly before deciding there’s nothing to lose, except, perhaps, some tension that’s been building since this all began.

-Sure, why not.-.

Cecilia’s face lights up with anticipation as she follows you down the walkway to the front door. Just as your hand touches the handle, though, you stop abruptly.

-Something wrong?- She asks, noticing your hesitation.

-Nothing, it's just, it's already open. Mom? Have you been out?- You can feel her presence (or at least, another one of your hive) in the living room, probably on the couch, so you push the door open.

-Oh my god! Mom!-.

You sprint into the living room, Cecilia trailing behind, confused and alarmed. Your stomach lurches at the sight in front of you. Your mother lies on the couch, a plastic bag over her head. Her wrists are bound with rope, her usually pristine body bruised and ****.

-Mom!- You drop to your knees, frantically pulling the bag off her head. Her face, pale and strained, falls into your lap as you roll her onto her side, trying to rouse her.

-Mom! Mom, what happened? Please, answer me!- Tears blur your vision as Cecilia rushes to your side; you don't really pay attention to what she's doing, but she manages to get her free from the robes.

Your mother stirs weakly, her voice barely a whisper: -Bella...-.

-Mom! What happened? Who did this to you?- Your hands tremble as they caress her face, your heart pounding against your ribcage.

-I’m calling an ambulance.- Cecilia announces, already dialing. But before the call connects, your mother’s faint voice stops her.

-They... they were looking for you... it was her... she sent them...-.

Her words fade as she loses consciousness, leaving you frozen.

Charity has stroken.