The scent of chamomile tea and the low hum of her laptop were Elara’s usual companions on a Tuesday night. Rain slicked the city streets outside her third-floor apartment window, the distant sound of traffic a comforting, rhythmic hush. She was trying to focus on the revisions for a client’s brochure, the glow of the screen illuminating her face in the otherwise dim room.
Elara’s fingers, usually nimble on the keyboard, stilled. She twisted a long strand of her dark auburn hair, a habit when she was deep in thought. The color was rich, like polished mahogany with fiery undertones, and it cascaded past her shoulders in soft waves. Her vibrant green eyes, typically sparkling with life and ideas, were narrowed in concentration at the design layout. She sighed, a plush lower lip caught gently between her teeth. She was slender, but not without curves that softened her frame. Her casual cotton t-shirt, old and beloved, stretched just enough across her full C-cup breasts to hint at their roundness, a fact she was mostly oblivious to in the comfort of her own home. She shifted in her chair, the movement pulling the fabric taut over her chest for a moment before settling again. Her small waist curved into a soft, rounded ass, comfortably settled into the worn cushion of her office chair.
A sudden, sharp jerk of her right hand sent her mug skittering across the desk. Hot chamomile tea sloshed over the side, pooling near her keyboard. “Shit,” Elara muttered, snatching the mug back and grabbing for the wad of napkins she kept nearby. Her heart gave a surprised little thump. Clumsy. She must be more tired than she thought. The client had been particularly demanding with this project. She dabbed at the spill, a frown etching itself between her brows. The tea had thankfully missed the laptop itself, but her notes were now a soggy mess.
She pushed back from the desk, standing to stretch. The movement felt good, her spine unkinking. Her apartment was small but cozy, filled with books, plants, and the comfortable clutter of a life lived within its walls. She glanced at her reflection in the dark screen of her television: the fall of her auburn hair, the green of her eyes looking shadowed in the dim light. Her lips, full and usually quick to smile, were pressed into a thin line of lingering annoyance at the spill. She decided a fresh cup of tea was in order, maybe something stronger. Peppermint, perhaps, to wake her up a little.
Back at her desk a few minutes later, armed with a new mug, Elara tried to refocus. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, then began to type. The new campaign slogan needs to pop, maybe a bolder font… Then, her fingers flew, a blur of motion, completely independent of her conscious thought. XqZ7#@bn KkLPpPpP! The string of gibberish glowed on the screen. Elara stared. Her hands recoiled from the keyboard as if it were hot. “What the…?” She deleted the nonsensical characters, her brow furrowed. That was… weird. Really weird. Had her hand spasmed? Maybe she’d hit a strange combination of keys. Stress, definitely stress. She Flexed her fingers, rotating her wrists. They felt perfectly normal. Just tired. She took a deep breath, dismissing it as a fluke, a brain fart translated through her fingertips.
She tried again, slowly this time, carefully forming the words for her client notes. For a few minutes, everything was normal. The familiar click-clack of keys, the focused energy of work. Then, as she reached for her mouse, her leg shot out from under the desk, foot connecting sharply with the wooden leg of the table. The impact wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but it jolted her, rattling the new mug of tea precariously. Elara froze. That wasn’t a simple twitch. Her leg had moved, decisively, with a strange, puppeteered quality. She rubbed her shin, a cold knot forming in her stomach. This wasn’t just fatigue. This was… something else. A faint tingling sensation started under her skin, like a thousand tiny ants marching just beneath the surface, an almost imperceptible electrical current. It began in her fingertips, crawled up her arms, a strange, alien hum. She rubbed her arms, trying to dispel the feeling, but it lingered, unsettling and persistent.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of her composure. She pushed her chair back abruptly, the wheels scraping on the wooden floor. She needed to move, to walk it off. As she stood, her head snapped to the left, her gaze fixing on a framed print on the far wall – a muted abstract landscape she’d always found calming. Now, her eyes were locked onto it, unblinking. She tried to turn away, to look at something else, anything else, but her neck muscles were rigid, unresponsive to her will. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. For five, ten, fifteen agonizing seconds, she stared, a prisoner in her own body. Then, just as suddenly, the tension released. Her head sagged forward, and she could move again, gasping. “Okay, Elara,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Okay, what the hell is going on?” Was she having a stroke? A seizure? The thought sent a fresh wave of fear through her. The tingling was stronger now, a distinct vibration under her skin, focused in her hands and forearms. She looked down at them, half-expecting to see them glowing.
She backed away from her desk, towards the relative safety of her worn, comfortable sofa. She sank into its depths, pulling a cushion to her chest, trying to regulate her breathing. The apartment, usually her sanctuary, suddenly felt… exposed. Watched. She closed her eyes, trying to rationalize. A pinched nerve? Some bizarre neurological symptom brought on by stress and too much caffeine? She’d call her doctor in the morning. Yes, that was the sensible thing to do.
Then, her left hand, resting limply on her lap, twitched. Slowly, with a horrifying, deliberate smoothness, it began to lift. Elara watched it, her breath caught in her throat, a silent scream building inside her. Her mind yelled, No! Stop! but her arm didn’t obey. It was like watching a separate entity, something alien inhabiting her skin. The hand, her hand, drifted upwards, palm open. It moved over the soft fabric of her t-shirt, a ghostly caress across her stomach. Each incremental movement was a fresh stab of terror. She tried to pull it back, to fight it, her other hand reaching to grab it, but her muscles locked, refusing her command. It was a silent, desperate battle waged within her own body, and she was losing. Her fingers, guided by that unseen force, brushed against the underside of her right breast. The fabric was thin, and she could feel the warmth of her own skin beneath, the soft curve of her flesh. A jolt, not of pain, but of something deeply, terrifyingly wrong, shot through her. Her hand didn’t stop. It slid further up, her own fingertips tracing the swell of her breast with a light, exploratory pressure. She could feel the gentle give of her flesh, the shape of herself beneath her shirt. Her nipple, already tight from the cold fear, pulsed with a sudden, unwanted sensitivity at the proximity of the touch, even through the cotton. A choked whimper escaped her lips. Then, the alien will controlling her moved her other hand. It rose, mirroring the first, and joined its partner. Both her hands now rested on her own breasts, cupping them with a gentleness that was somehow more violating than a rougher touch would have been. They applied a light, teasing pressure, kneading softly. A confusing, sickening shiver traced its way down her spine, a bizarre counterpoint to the pure terror gripping her. Her body, betrayer, registered the touch, the pressure, the warmth of her own hands in a way that was wholly separate from her horrified mind. Her breath hitched. With a surge of adrenaline born of sheer panic, Elara thrashed. She threw her entire body into the effort, a guttural cry ripping from her throat. For a moment, the invisible bonds held, her hands still pressing against her breasts. Then, with a final, convulsive jerk, she wrenched them free. Her hands fell limply into her lap, trembling violently. She stared at them, panting, tears welling in her green eyes. They looked like her hands, felt like her hands, but they had just been piloted by something else, something that had touched her intimately, against her will. The skin of her breasts tingled where her fingers had been, a phantom sensation that made her feel dirty, invaded. The room was silent save for her ragged breathing and the incessant drumming of rain against the window. A cold dread, absolute and profound, settled over her. This wasn't a medical issue. This was something else. Something targeted. As if in answer to her unspoken horror, her laptop screen, which had gone dark with inactivity, suddenly flickered to life. Bright white text appeared against the black background, stark and chillingly clear.
WE FEEL YOU, ELARA. AND SOON, YOU'LL FEEL US.
