Hunted, pt I

The flickering neon lights of Prism City cast jagged shadows across the Sprawl, their fractured glow barely reaching the crumbling corners of the industrial zone. Angie tightened the straps of her jacket, pulling the hood lower over her head to hide her neon blue hair. The sun had set hours ago, and the streets were quieter than usual. Too quiet.

Her feline ears twitched, every sound amplified by the oppressive silence. She’d finished a job earlier, a quick exchange of information that went smoothly, and she was making her way back home. The Sprawl was her territory, or so she thought. She knew every back alley, every shortcut through the maze of broken-down factories and dilapidated warehouses. It was where she thrived. But tonight, something felt off.

The stench of rust and oil hung heavy in the air, but underneath it, there was something else—something metallic, something wet. She paused, her sharp eyes scanning the dimly lit alley ahead. Her claws, usually retracted, flexed beneath her gloves as a feeling of unease settled into her chest.

A scrape of metal against concrete. She froze.

The sound was subtle, but her heightened senses picked it up like a gunshot. Slowly, Angie turned her head to the side, eyes narrowing as she strained to see into the gloom. There, just beyond the reach of the streetlight’s dim glow, something moved. A shadow slinking along the wall, hunched and low, like a predator stalking its prey.

Stalker.

She had heard about these creatures, mutated remnants of what were once human, infected with HMV-1 and left to rot in the Sprawl’s forgotten corners. Most people wouldn’t survive an encounter with one, but Angie wasn’t most people.

Her muscles tensed as she calculated her options. She could hear it now—the soft padding of its feet against the ground, the scrape of claws against the walls as it crept closer. It was following her, tracking her, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It’s getting too close.

Angie darted down a narrow side street, her footsteps silent as she moved with the grace and speed of her feline heritage. She could hear the creature picking up pace behind her, the rhythm of its breathing becoming more erratic, hungry. Her heart pounded in her chest as she reached for her plasma pistol, fingers tightening around the grip. Just as she rounded another corner, she felt a sharp tug at the back of her jacket—claws catching the fabric. She spun around, raising the pistol to fire, but the stalker was faster. It lunged at her with a growl, its maw wide, revealing rows of jagged teeth dripping with saliva. She fired, the plasma round searing through the air, but it only grazed the creature's shoulder. It howled in pain, but that didn’t stop it.

Before she could react, the stalker’s claws raked across her arm, tearing through her sleeve and into her skin. Pain shot through her like fire. She gasped, stumbling backward as blood seeped from the wound, hot and sticky. The creature’s red eyes gleamed in the dark, its mouth curling into a grotesque grin as it closed in for the kill. But Angie wasn’t going down without a fight. She gritted her teeth, ignoring the pain as she slashed at the creature with her own claws, catching it across the face. It yelped and recoiled, giving her just enough time to pull the trigger again.

This time, the plasma bolt hit true. The stalker staggered, its body collapsing in a heap of twitching limbs. For a moment, all Angie could do was stand there, panting, her hand trembling as her grip on the pistol loosened. She watched as the creature twitched one last time before going still, the glow of its eyes fading.

But the damage had already been done.

Angie winced, looking down at her arm. The wound was deep, and the blood flowing from it was thick and dark. A sinking feeling settled in her gut. She’d heard rumours about what happened to people who got scratched or bitten by stalkers—about the virus that ran through their veins, waiting for the chance to take over a new host.

She pressed her hand against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but it was no use. Her vision blurred for a moment, dizziness washing over her like a wave. She stumbled back against the wall, sliding down to sit on the cold pavement. The world around her began to spin, but only for a second. The sharpness of her senses returned, and she forced herself to breathe, the pain slowly dulling. I’ll live, she thought, grimacing as she ripped part of her sleeve off to bandage her arm. There was no sign of immediate sickness. The infection, if it took hold, would take time—days, maybe more—before she felt its effects.

That didn’t make her feel any better. She'd have to lay low and pray she wasn’t turning into a monster herself.

Pushing herself up, she cast one last glance at the dead stalker, its eyes still open, but vacant. Angie clenched her fists, pulling her hood tighter over her head. She wouldn’t let this break her.

A few days later, as she sat in front of her livestream rig, her audience chatting away in the corner of her vision, the first hint of something wrong appeared. A slight ache in her jaw. Then, a sharper pain, as if her teeth were rearranging themselves. She pressed her tongue against one of her canines and winced. It was sharper.

"Something wrong, Angie?" one of her viewers asked in chat, noticing the grimace on her face.

She blinked, forced a smile, and leaned closer to the camera. "Nothing I can't handle," she replied smoothly. But deep down, she knew it had begun.

The virus had woken up.