The camera came to life with a low whir. A man stepped into view—tall, wiry, tired, and deliberate in every move, like he'd done this a thousand times before. He looked mid-forties, maybe older, but carried himself with the kind of quiet intensity that comes from chasing truths most people run from.
His face was hard to read, etched with fatigue. Something in his eyes flickered between obsession and wonder.
The badge clipped to his coat caught a sliver of light:
Dr. Karim Armstrong
Director, Xenophyte Parasite Research Division
"Hello, Kael," he said, voice steady and sure. "It's your father. Today, I've decided to record a final video for you, my son. I want to tell you everything I've been—even if you don't believe me."
He gestured to a sealed glass tank behind him, inside which pulsed a bioluminescent organism, twitching ever so slightly.
"This is a specimen of Xenophyte Variant X-3. We call it a parasite. It's an evolutionary anomaly—capable of adapting to human physiology at unprecedented speed, mutating DNA, and granting extraordinary abilities."
He sat back in a large chair, popped a lollipop into his mouth, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"Where should I begin?" he murmured, resting his chin in his hands. "Alright, I know."
He stared at the camera.
"Earth was getting weak," he began. "Scientifically. Militarily. Technologically. Physically."
He sighed.
"Ever since we discovered other life forms out there, we realized how vulnerable we were. Our snooping drew unwanted visitors. Alien attacks struck different parts of the planet. Our weapons were useless. They were smarter, stronger, and terrifyingly efficient."
He stopped to open a bag of chips and shoved a handful into his mouth.
"We knew we had to act," he said, chewing. "So a global summit was held—presidents from around the world gathered. The discussion lasted two weeks before a decision was made."
He tapped his tablet and grumbled something under his breath.
"Four suggestions were put forward. President Jonathan Bottom of the U.S. proposed building a spaceship to negotiate peace with alien civilizations and offer reparations. That went terribly. Our envoys were slaughtered. We know because their body cams recorded everything. It was… gory."
He finished the chips and continued.
"Next, Giovanni Immobile of Italy suggested relocating to another planet—Mars. But our luck was rotten. The next day, intel came in: the dreaded Corrokites had taken over. A savage race. No chance of survival."
"Then came Amelia Maxwell of New Zealand. She proposed ramping up weapons development. But budgets lagged, and time wasn't on our side. That plan was scrapped too."
He cracked open a fizzy drink and belched.
"The final suggestion came from President Osita Obi-Chukwu of Nigeria. He proposed using spacecraft to search for life forms that could enhance human abilities."
He scratched his forehead.
"There was a lot of debate, but it was eventually accepted."
His face grew serious as he pushed his glasses up, revealing piercing blue eyes.
"What most people don't know," he said, "is that this parasite wasn't found on Earth."
He tapped a command into his tablet. A rotating 3D hologram of a cratered asteroid appeared.
"I was part of the multidisciplinary team aboard the I.S.S. Aegis—our deep-orbit survey mission launched four years ago. We were sent to investigate anomalies on Asteroid K-217."
He paused.
"What we found wasn't just extraordinary—it was a miracle. It behaved intelligently, reacting to stimuli. The Xenophyte organism was embedded in the rock—dormant until exposed to chemical compounds."
His voice tightened.
"We didn't just observe it. It responded to us. Not like a virus or bacteria… but like something aware."
He walked slowly toward the specimen tank, its glow intensifying.
"We brought samples back under strict quarantine. This lab, this division… exists because of what we discovered out there."
He hesitated, then spoke with careful gravity.
"There was one trial—the most extraordinary, and the most dangerous."
A classified file loaded onscreen: Omega Trial 7A-F. Dr. Karim's fingers hovered above it.
"This test diverged from all others. The host was a convicted serial killer, chosen for his psychological profile and physical resilience."
He exhaled slowly.
"The Xenophyte didn't just adapt. It activated something we hadn't seen before—a fusion with the host's central nervous system that triggered combustion at a cellular level."
Footage rolled. The subject stood in an isolation chamber. His body trembled—and then ignited. Controlled fire arced along his limbs, dancing but never burning him.
"He became a conduit," Karim explained. "For an energy source unknown to biophysics. The flames didn't harm him. They obeyed him."
"But," he continued darkly, "so did his instincts. The parasite didn't just enhance biology—it amplified his desire for chaos."
Security protocols went into full lockdown.
"We terminated the host after 86 hours of containment. Lethal injection wasn't just protocol—it was a necessity."
A long beat. Dr. Karim turned back to the camera.
"We learned that Xenophyte symbiosis can unlock elemental control. But in the wrong host, fire isn't just a power—it's an omen."
"After that discovery, everything changed. The Xenophyte Parasites weren't isolated anomalies. They were part of something larger… a network scattered across meteorite fragments and planetary veins."
Onscreen: elite recovery teams in exo-suits, hauling sealed canisters of glowing organisms from alien wreckage.
"We had no choice. Science became strategy. Xenophyte integration moved from lab trials to military deployment."
"Project VANGUARD was born—a covert initiative to inject modified Xenophytes into elite soldiers. The results? Phenomenal. Enhanced speed, psychological abilities, elemental control. Enough to hold the front against invasions."
"But humanity needed more than warriors—it needed defenders. That's when the idea of XENO FORCE emerged."
Dr. Karim turned, revealing holograms of young recruits—high school students across the globe, volunteering for the next generation.
"They underwent rigorous physical, psychological, and ethical training. No shortcuts. Only the most dedicated earned the bond."
On screen: teens lifting weights, navigating digital obstacle courses, sparring with trainers.
Their final rite: Xenophyte assimilation. Not a punishment. A partnership.
"You don't take a Xenophyte," Karim said. "You earn its respect. And once you do—it unlocks what's already buried inside you."
"Abilities emerged based on personality and genetic affinity: some gained sonic propulsion, others manipulated gravity. A rare few could phase through solid matter."
"They said I was the risk," he murmured. "Lead scientist. Original researcher. The one who first interfaced with the Xenophyte. They feared I would spill secrets… that I might snitch to our enemies."
He glanced out a tiny window, the world beyond blurred by layers of biosecurity glass.
"So they locked me in. No courtroom. No vote. Just house arrest with a lab extension and endless protocols. They told me I was too valuable—that my work had to continue, but only under surveillance. Only under control."
His voice cracked—not with rage, but something colder. Regret.
"I haven't seen my wife in four years. My son… You were twelve when they came for me. You must be sixteen now. I've not spoken to you since my arrest. You may even hate me."
The monitor flickered. A faded photo appeared: a boy frowning in a school uniform, sketchpad in hand, sci-fi ships drawn in the corners.
"I wasn't there for you," Dr. Armstrong whispered. "Even when I was around, my focus was always on the research—research now feeding the government's war machine."
A long pause. He placed both hands on the desk.
"They've turned my knowledge into a weapon. They're creating heroes. But they forget the cost of the origin."
He suddenly smashed a beaker on the floor in anger.
"They used me. Caged me here so they could fulfill their bloody ambitions, forgetting that I'm human—with feelings and emotions."
He took a deep breath, walked to the fridge, and returned with another bag of chips. He tried to open it, but tore the bag, spilling its contents.
He stared at the chips scattered on the ground, his face blank.
"I'm dying," he said, his eyes dark with pain.
"I just found out," he continued. "Stage 5 prostate cancer. I only have a week."
He stared into the lens—tired but clear.
"I just want to say that I'm sorry. That I never stopped loving you and your mother. And that I've missed you."
"That is why I've left something for you. A gift. A way to help. My apology."
A trembling breath.
"Goodbye, son."
He reached up and switched off the screen.
It goes completely blank.