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“Is that really necessary?”
You watch the body spasming over the grass with equal parts detachment, disinterest, and distaste.
Of course, having been stuck with this guy for a couple weeks already, you know you aren’t going to get an answer until after the screams stop.
3… 2… 1…
Blissful silence takes over the isolated clearing of the forest, and for a brief moment, you think you remember what peace feels like.
The illusion is shattered as the skeletal body laying before you suddenly seizes, a loud gasp filling the air before it turns into a soft giggle.
A newly formed set of thick brows, golden-toothed smile, and eye-gouging array of clothing is plenty to tell you the transformation is complete - if the sound of his voice wasn’t enough to clue you in on its own.
“Aw, homeslice, you know I’m just having fun! If ya keep askin’ I’m gonna start thinkin’ you have some memory problems all up in that cute lil head of yours…”
He pouts at you from the ground, looking expertly concerned, to which you roll your eyes and step away from him.
“Funny you say that, Fresh, because I could’ve sworn I told you to knock it off with the torture.”
The parasite raises from the forest floor with a shrug and a cheeky grin, brushing off blades of grass with practiced ease. This is, after all, usually the favored locale for your activities from universe to universe. He’s quickly becoming a shocking expert in green stain removal.
“Didja though? I don’t recall.” Fresh chuckles as he slides on his trademark sunglasses, and the snark has you reminded of the numerous times this damned virus has been reassigned between agents.
One can only wonder why.
“You and I both know you recall perfectly well,” you sneer at him, kicking your foot at the ground.
But even with that said, you also both know he isn’t going to make this conversation easy on you.
“It makes the process inefficient,” you remind him with a clipped tone, “adding an extra thirty minutes to something that takes forty to start with.”
The bastard, unshockingly, just stares at you with a broadening grin.
“What can I say, broski? It takes time to stay this funky fresh,” he pops his jacket at you and wiggles his brows, “and it’s important for a guy like me to be maximum cool.”
To this, you respond by dropping your hand to the device holstered at your waist, giving the body-snatcher a pointed glare. An average person wouldn’t have caught the way he begins to sweat, but your eyes are trained for this.
“I’d care a lot less if it weren’t for the fact that your baseline forty is already twenty minutes longer than your counterparts’ standard rates, lab rat.”
You are, admittedly, a lot harsher with your current charge than is totally necessary, and harsher still than you’ve been with previous creatures you’ve worked with, but…
“I-” He starts to speak, frowning now, but you cut him off.
“Need I remind you, Fresh, that your failure means putting both of our asses on the line?”
More his than yours, of course. They had said he’d be eliminated entirely, but you’d still get demerits - something that infuriated you even when it was your fault, so forget mercy if it was somebody else’s.
“Yeah,” he finally breathes out after a second, reaching up to scratch at the back of his head, “yeah, I know, the head honchos go mad postal if the quota isn’t met…”
He’s staring down at his feet now, hands sliding into his jacket pockets and shuffling awkwardly as though apologetic.
In a twisted way, the sight impresses you. After a while, the skill the parasites all showed for imitating emotion stopped being sickening and more just… Impossibly realistic. Almost frighteningly so, if you thought about it, so you make a point of overlooking it.
“Then why bother putting your puppets through extra grief? I sincerely don’t see your logic.”
Fresh is silent as he tilts his head at you, before he hunches over and tosses his head to the side - giving off a contemplative air.
You cross your arms, stubbornly tapping your foot. You really don’t have all day for his antics - neither of you do.
“Well, cuz,” he sighs and returns his dread-inducing stare to you, “not to get wicked unfresh on you or anything, but I don’t think the bosses plan on keeping me around anyway.”
“So?”
“So! Might as well wig out and get some radically slaptastic fun going, don’tcha think?”
The parasite’s grin is back, and his hands have popped out of his jacket in the most overly enthusiastic jazzhands you’ve ever seen - context be damned.
If you weren’t already sure you hated him, this probably would’ve sealed the deal.
“Torturing people. Refusing to directly inhabit anything except whichever skeleton we come across first. That’s fun to you?”
You neglect to bring up the fact that he, just like the rest of his kind, isn’t supposed to be able to feel entertained, much less outright enjoy himself. You don’t bother bringing up the fact that they're not supposed to have preferred body types, either.
That information concerns you enough without you having to voice it.
“Yup!” His grin tames down into a lopsided smirk despite the sheer enthusiasm in his voice, and he tosses a hand out to you.
It’s only your training that keeps the shiver from running down your spine, and even then it still nearly manages to escape your control.
Nearly.
“C’mon, don’t you know it’s rude to keep a pal hangin’? Like you said, chief,” the sunglasses slip down his stolen nasal ridge as he leans down to level his head with yours, “we’re runnin’ out of time to kill.”
As you’re met with the darkened sockets of his host, you can’t resist letting your hand drift back over to your sidearm. The stiff skeletal smile that graces his skull does nothing to counter the chill in his voice, and your blood runs cold.
Your next immediate reaction is to slap his hand away, and with more force than necessary.
The parasite only laughs, twirling around with a shrug and sprinting in the direction of the nearest town.
“Last one there’s a rotten egg!”
You stand there, stunned, fingers tracing the electrical symbol carved into your weapon’s safety mechanism.
And then, you’re running desperately to try to catch up to his longer legs.
“What the fuck, Fresh?! We’re supposed to be teleporting!”
There’s poof of color, a boop to your nose, and another poof that has him standing even further away from you than when you started moving.
“Ah-ah, extra running for the lame lingo! You know my censor doesn’t work on you!”
You can hear his snickering and sing-song tone even with the distance, and you feel yourself becoming fully enraged. The following expletives that come pouring out of your mouth are only natural.
It’s easy, when he’s acting up like this, to forget how dangerous Fresh can be - and how dangerous he often is.
It’s not too hard either, really, to bury down the fear he makes you feel from time to time - it’s just part of the job, you think - you were trained to handle situations with things like him from day one.
It is, however, a lot more difficult to forget the sheer terror of them - the ones that overlook everything.
So, why then, you must ask yourself…
When the damn thing refuses to listen to you half the time, when it drags out infection after infection, taunting you with its choices in fashion, slang, humor, and personality alike…
What keeps you from letting them know the virus they made you responsible for is defective?