The dreaded boredom arrived in time, although in a form different to the one I had anticipated. Turned out that my current supply of nutrients combined with a need to shield myself from the violent ultraviolet rays resulted in a mind numbingly slow production of carapace, so much so, I had to come up with a different way to propagate myself throughout the surrounding territory.

Taking root seemed to do the trick, sharp pyramids burrowing through the ground, with the same regrettably mediocre speed. I needed something faster, something that equaled the spread of the skin-like goo that I produced earlier, coupled with the protective capabilities of my carapace.

My immediate thought was to synthesize a small layer of the armor on top of the much more vulnerable muck, my brilliant idea crashing headfirst into the harsh conditions of reality.

Exact reasons escape me to this day, but at that time, what I later came to call my 'sprawl', refused to integrate with the carapace, resulting in a very thin layer of resistant cells, that all but refused to propagate on its own, all the while being just as tedious to synthesize.

Fucking brilliant.

Hard coping with wasted resources by swearing revenge on the dreaded solar object and whatever deity was responsible for creating it, my mind turned to pursue other avenues, a particularly helpful tidbit of information appearing in my mind's eye.

In particularly harsh conditions, bacteria, among other organisms, were able to produce spores, the living part of the cell falling into a state of deep sleep, hardening the cell wall in an attempt to wait out the unfavorable conditions.

I wasn't sure how I'd do it, but it was worth a shot, right?

My alien biology came in clutch once more, translating my intent into biochemical reactions, parts of the hardened carapace cracking to reveal it slowly spreading outwards, forming a bulbous sack of retractable armor. The goo-like sprawl poured into the space behind the carefully crafted barrier, shifting and changing to turn into a form easily carried by wind.

It wasn't yet time to test the effectiveness of these spores mind you, the midday sun would make quick work of my means of propagation. With nothing to occupy my mind with I turned my gaze to a piece of me spreading through the capillaries of one most unfortunate horse, and I did so at the most opportune time, it seemed.

My little antigen seemed to have managed to pass through the blood–brain barrier, giving me a very handy access to this creature's occipital lobe. Before I proceed any further, I gave the creature's brain a careful look over, juggling my surprisingly thorough memory in an attempt to find any matching information. Unfortunately, my non-alien goo self wasn't a fan of animal neurology. Fortunately, however, I had to do a presentation on the adverse effects alcohol has on the human body, mostly the central nervous system, around the time of tenth grade, which was surprisingly easy to remember, courtesy of my current state.

Comparing said image from long ago to what a piece of me was currently relaying to me, I had found an alarming amount of similarities. First things first, the general shape and volume were strangely similar, down to the position and shape of the lobes. Either this was a very smart horse, or something was terribly amiss. Because up to that point everything was going stellar.

I ordered the pathogen to tap into the animal's occipital lobe, allowing me to see the world for what felt to be the first time. The animal blinked, stars popping into its vision as the parasite rerouted the signal, connecting my network of neurons to that of the animal.

I thought I was prepared for everything, how could I not? After turning into a sentient mass of aggressive bacterial parasites, capable of scientifically dubious feats of metabolism, I was more than sure than nothing in the whole wide world would have surprised me.

But it seemed God wasn't done punishing me for my sins.

Because instead of finding this unfortunate horse going through its daily routine, you know, galloping through the fields, manning the plow, doing whatever normal horses do in their daily lives, I witnessed something completely uncharacteristic for a regular farm animal.

The stallion stood in what looked to be a fairly regular bathroom, although it accounted for the animal's stature. His right hoof was currently hidden behind the opened door of a wall-mounted cabinet, rummaging for something. His other hoof was placed in the bathroom sink, a steady flow of clear water turning different shades of pink as it disappeared down the drain.

Before I could even begin to rationalize what I was seeing, the stallion yanked a small tube with a leaf logo printed on its cover, opening the tube with his mouth, all the while raising his other hoof from below the water. Black spikes peppered the length of his fetlock, the familiar carapace-like material easily breaching the skin. The stallion shifted his weight as he leaned on the sink, squeezing the tube in his mouth to pour what I assumed to be medicine onto his other hoof, bringing it closer to tend to his injured limb.

As soon as his limbs came within touching distance the spikes shifted, jutting out ever so slightly to puncture his other leg, retreating as the poor creature recoiled from the unexpected attack, losing his balance and falling backwards. I was grateful not to have bothered to tap into his Lobus temporalis as the stallion hit the back of his head on the tile floor, no doubt cracking his skull.

It was why I was surprised when the opposite happened.

In a split second between the animal plummeting to the floor and his skull kissing its structural integrity goodbye, the parasite within him activated, sensing the drastic state of things. His dermis was all but annihilated as the parasite hardened that layer of skin, the hair falling out at the place of the impact. A lighter, less resistant, but nonetheless formidable form of carapace formed instead of the normal skin layer, all but negating the possibility of a hemorrhage.

Still, the bones of his skull were destined to take the brunt of the floor's merciless attack, leaving the animal's fate more or less unchanged. At least, I thought so at the time.

The parasite redirected its efforts inwards, reinforcing the bones with the same material I used to fossilize the apple trees, albeit a less dense variation of it. The downside of this development made itself apparent as the reinforcement spread to a good portion of the creature's head, its right side all but covered in the carapace-like material.

Yes, even the eye socket.

Pain receptors flared all over the stallion's head as it collided with the tile floor, the creature confused as none of them were coming from the back of his head. He stood as upright as he could, wobbling slightly as he took a look in the mirror to assess the damage. His disturbingly human expression morphed into one of horror as the same black spikes burst from underneath the skin of his head, his mouth opening in a silent scream as the coat and mane fell off, only to give way to razor sharp splinters. The right half of his vision turned blurry one moment, only to go black the next.

I cut the signal at that moment.

The only reason I hadn't emptied my stomach at that moment, was the lack of the organ. The haunting image burned itself into my memory, my current state all but guaranteeing I was never going to forget it. It wasn't particularly hard not to.

I vividly pictured the black splinters rending the flesh of that poor creature, a frightening similarity to a nightmare of mine shaking me to my core. Was it just a nightmare, or something more? If I was responsible for what was happening to that horse, who's to say I wasn't to blame for what happened to me in that vision? From whose point of view had I witnessed it? A man, suffering from a disease he can't possibly understand, or a pathogen, intent on spreading as far and wide as possible?

In a desperate search for answers, I accessed the creature's temporal lobe, a rush of sights and smells, sounds and concepts, hopes and dreams streamed into my neural network, almost drowning me in the waterfall of information. It was a surreal experience, watching someone's life pass from their perspective, acutely aware you're not the one experiencing these events. His name was Braeburn, if my translation was to be believed, a hardworking and honest apple farmer just trying to live his life to the fullest, doing what he loved. I filtered out most of the information, skimming through what the neural network considered to be the 'highlights' of his life.

His arrival to the relatively small town of Appleloosa, the brief scuffle with the buffaloes some eight years ago, his brave cousin and her friends butting in to resolve the conflict peacefully. The day he met the mare of his dreams, their first kiss. The day he made it top seller of apple products in the town, so on and so forth. I choked back tears as I recollected my own memories, my time spent in isolation giving me ample time to reminisce.

All that I remembered, all the thoughts and experiences, good and bad, looked eerily similar to what I had just experienced. Ruling out simple coincidence, I came to a stomach churning conclusion.

Was I the real me?

Was I that lone student, sitting in front of an LCD monitor late at night, trying to finish his studies only to be whisked away by the forces that be and reduced to a clump of self-aware cells? Or was I that parasite, the continuously evolving ecosystem that infected that student, adding him into its no doubt extensive memory bank, or simply assuming the last consciousness that it assimilated?

Who, what was the real me?

If I still had a brain, I would've most certainly had an aneurysm.

Even if I was the pathogen, and the student persona was just a leftover from my latest meal, what did it change? I was still stuck as a weird ass alien goo, on a weird ass alien planet with talking horses, and I still needed to get my shit straight if I wanted to survive the blisteringly hot days that were to come. Additionally, the student really was just a quick fix, how come I'm not convincing myself that I'm Braeburn all of a sudden? I searched for information regarding the stallion, only to find it neatly stashed in a cluster of neurons, separated from my 'main consciousness' by around a dozen of safety mechanisms, ones that hurt like a bitch when I tried to mix the stallion's memories with my own, or do something else I wasn't supposed to.

It wasn't the best rationalization, sure, but it was something to hold onto.

And I really needed that something, even If that something was hard coping by trying to find meaning in things that were completely alien to me.

Identity crisis momentarily averted, my mind wandered onto another topic. Should I feel any remorse towards this clearly sapient creature? It wasn't a topic I thought would surface so soon, but if I was to continue, I had to clear some things, if only for my own sanity.

Was it bad hurting others? Well, duh, a five year old would give you the same answer. This answer was backed by most laws written in civilized societies, 'do unto others' and all that jazz. In a normal, everyday life, you'd get odd looks by saying something on the contrary, and that's the best case scenario.

My situation, however, was far from normal.

My options were as follows. Either a): I become a bleeding heart humanitarian and spare the poor creatures of this earth, remaining a slowly-spreading goo for the rest of my existence, or at the very least until the authorities find the grove of tree-spikes, and a mutilated body of a local farmer.

Or b): I come to terms with my situation, do whatever is needed, anticipate an intervention by building up a solid defense, and then... Well, ideally find a way to be human again, but at the very least secure my continued existence.

Yeah, I'm going with the second option. Tough luck, Braeburn.

Resurfacing from the deep dive into my own musings, I found myself pondering what to do next. Braeburn was in a stable condition, despite his looks, the parasite not too keen on letting its host die. That meant he was going to go to the hospital, a place with many, many people, all with less than stellar immune systems and/or health conditions.

A veritable breeding ground for diseases.

If only I could fit a spore cluster into each of his lungs....

Braeburn hobbled out of the bathroom, his head spinning, the right side of his head going up in flames. He had to go to the hospital, get a doctor to fix him. One of the unicorns, they were practically miracle workers, or so he'd heard. An image of a one-eyed horror flashed in his mind's eye. No, not like this. He couldn't go out like this.

The stallion yanked an blanket off the top of his bed, wrapping his head and shoulders in the velvet fabric. It hurt like tartarus.

"Find a hospital. Get a doctor. Fix the farm." He mumbled, shambling down the stairs and out of the front door, sharp spikes easily puncturing the thin fabric.

Author's Note

And another one

So far it's been incredibly fun to write, hope it's just as fun to read.