Pain!
Lino jolted awake from a nightmare, his head searing as though pierced by needles.
His vision swam in a blur, his consciousness fractured into jagged, kaleidoscopic shards.
Half-dazed, he tried to rise from bed, but numb limbs kept him frozen in place.
Forcing his eyes open, Lino strained to lift an arm, pressing hard against his temples, desperate to anchor his wandering mind back into his body.
"I… I'm not dead yet?"
Instinctively, his hand went to his chest.
Cloth. Thin fabric covering skin.
Not the shredded mess of flesh he'd expected. No caved-in ribcage, no splattered blood.
What he felt was warm, living skin.
Relief washed over him as he realized he was still alive. He let out a long breath, forcing his stiff body to climb down from the bed.
The world around him was silent. Moonlight streamed through the window, laying a silvery sheen across the floor.
He scanned the unfamiliar room, eyes clouded with confusion.
Why am I here?!
He struggled to piece together his memories, searching for an answer.
Shards of the past surged back, stabbing through his mind in quick succession.
A narrow, suffocating corridor. Cold air. The stillness of the night.
His own figure—fully armed, automatic rifle at the ready, every muscle taut in anticipation of danger.
Danger far worse than beasts.
Suddenly!
From the shadows lunged a creature clad in chitinous armor, its vertebrae jutting grotesquely from its back.
An Alien.
Its jaws hissed open, spraying a jet of corrosive acid that melted his rifle in an instant.
Lino, even under ambush, grew colder, steadier. Tossing aside the ruined gun, he drew a tactical blade from his waist.
One explosive swing of muscle and steel—clean, merciless—the Alien's neck snapped, head severed.
Bending low, he watched the creature writhe in its death throes, face blank, unreadable.
He was about to finish it off when—out of the corner of his vision—something small, silent, leapt.
A Facehugger.
The parasite shot forward like a spring, latching onto him in the split second he'd let down his guard.
That was the last image burned into his mind before darkness claimed him.
"Back then… did I really get facehugged?" Lino muttered, touching his chest again.
He had fought Aliens, yes, but he wasn't born of their world.
He came from the Celestial Empire, carrying the lonely brand of "orphan."
His life had been dull, cold, selfish—until, on a whim, he did the only good deed of his life: helping an old granny (a notorious scammer, no less) across the street against a red light.
A truck barreled through, smashing him into the air.
When he woke, his soul had crossed over into the Alien universe, inhabiting the body of a mercenary—one who worked for the galaxy's most infamous company: Weyland Corp.
He had adapted quickly to his new role. Killing came easily. He assumed his life would end with a bullet, one way or another.
But Weyland, in its arrogance, captured Aliens aboard a starship, built a base, and began studying those perfect killing machines.
Inevitably, they broke free. The research station became a slaughterhouse.
Lino had been sent on cleanup duty.
And his final memory there—was of that Facehugger.
Exhaling slowly, Lino forced his mind back to the present.
He studied the room again: an outdated computer, scattered books, a lamp tethered by a cord.
Old things. Familiar things.
Things from the 21st century.
But the Alien world was already well into the 22nd-century colonial age—antiques like these didn't exist there.
Lino blinked, mind reeling.
"I… came back?"
From the Alien world, back to his own?
His eyes darted to a calendar on the wall.
The large print read: 20XX.
He really was back.
After all, in the Alien universe, humanity hadn't even begun lunar colonization in the early 21st century.
He stared at the calendar, wordless, emotions twisted in knots.
If he had stayed in that world, parasitized by the Facehugger, his fate would've been unspeakable.
Once matured, a chestburster tore through bone and flesh in a single, excruciating moment. He'd seen it happen before: arteries snapped like threads, muscle churned into pulp, ribs crushed to splinters.
He shuddered.
But if he had crossed back, then that horror was no longer his fate.
Perhaps, in that world, he had already died.
Shaking his head, he exhaled.
"Peter?"
The sudden call of a woman's voice rose from downstairs.
"Peter, you still haven't finished your essay? And if you don't eat your banana bread soon, your uncle's going to polish it off!"
"…?"
Lino froze.
This wasn't the Celestial Empire.
A bad feeling knotted in his chest as he rushed to the mirror.
Staring back was a stranger: pale Caucasian skin, a young face with hazel eyes and sandy-brown hair.
Not his face.
And then—like a floodgate bursting—memories that weren't his own surged into his mind.
When at last he could breathe again, he touched the mirror, fingers brushing his new features.
He hadn't gone back.
He had crossed once more—this time into the world of American comics.
He was now Peter Parker.
Spider-Man.
He wasn't much of a comics fan, but even he knew that name.
A superhero?
His expression twisted.
A selfish, cold-blooded bastard like him? A hero? Impossible.
He was meant to live by the blade, die by the bullet—that was his destiny.
"Peter! Don't make me come up there!"
The voice downstairs grew sharper.
"I'm coming, Aunt May," Lino answered, drawing on Peter's memories.
Since he was here, he'd adapt. He composed himself and headed down.
Aunt May was carrying a tray. Seeing him, her brows softened as she turned to her husband.
"Our bright boy has been burning the midnight oil again."
Uncle Ben pushed up his glasses. "Sometimes he's just like his father—losing himself in his own world. Not necessarily a bad thing… Say, can I have another slice of this banana bread?"
Lino's chest tightened.
Peter hadn't been bitten by the spider yet. Which meant Uncle Ben was still alive.
He paused, silently mourning the man's fate, before sitting casually at the table.
"Smack!"
Aunt May slapped Ben's reaching hand. "That's for Peter. Bananas are rich in potassium—I read in a homeopathy book that potassium helps with allergies."
"Allergies?"
Uncle Ben blinked. "Peter, allergic to what? I don't remember."
"Environmental allergies. Isn't Peter socially anxious? He has trouble fitting in at school."
"Uh…"
Ben fell silent.
What kind of pseudoscience is that?!
Lino reached for a slice, curious about Aunt May's "dark cuisine."
But suddenly
Agony.
A stabbing pain seared through his chest. His throat burned, nausea twisting his nerves.
"Ugh!"
It spread fast—swelling, writhing beneath his skin. Something moving inside him.
Panic hit him like a tidal wave.
Impossible!
He had crossed into Peter Parker's body—so why was the Alien embryo still there?!
Was this the system's doing?
Or something else entirely?!
"Peter, are you alright?" Aunt May asked, alarmed at his face.
"I'm fine. Sorry—I just remembered something."
Forcing a smile, Lino shook his head and hurried upstairs.
At the table, Aunt May and Uncle Ben exchanged puzzled glances.
Aunt May set the tray down, worry clouding her eyes.