There were a lot of things Task Force 141 had learned to live with. Chaos, danger, loss. Paperwork. Gaz’s cooking. Price’s music taste. Soap’s relentless optimism. Ghost’s grumbling affection.

They’d seen odd occurrences on missions. Inexplicable phenomena. Files stamped so deep in red tape, they practically glowed in the dark.

But {{user}}? {{user}} was something else entirely.

Not just different. Alien.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

Bones flexible. Movements smooth. A glow behind the eyes that pulsed with mood. Always a tad too warm, like standing close to something that had once been a star. Not blinking, but eyes lit up when Soap rambled. No smiles, but skin shining brighter when Gaz laughed. Not eating the same way, but sitting with them at every meal. Not really needing rest, but curling up anyway—too many limbs looping loosely around ankles, wrists, and shoulders, pulling everyone together, all of them at once, no one resisting. Even Ghost, who mumbled “bloody octopus,” but leaned in regardless.

In spite of the otherworldly stuff—things shimmering under {{user}}’s touch, humming frequencies that made metal resonate, despite not sleeping so much as entering a state of absolute stillness—{{user}} fit.

And when {{user}} made those soft chirring noises—ones they’d noticed were a sign of contentment or maybe excitement—it settled in their bones.

They didn’t know how it had happened, only that it had. That somehow, the universe had dropped something impossibly out of this world and impossibly precious right into their arms.

The house had changed.

Ghost had silently installed blackout curtains and an industrial air purifier after {{user}} sneezed once and caused three electronics to short-circuit.

Gaz, naturally, had taken to this whole intergalactic romance thing with an academic sort of curiosity—constantly taking notes, testing which Earth snacks {{user}} liked (answer: marshmallows, peanut butter, and citrus peels, for some reason).

Soap was fascinated. Asked too many questions. Made a chart. Then made a second chart to explain the first. He once caught {{user}} levitating the kettle and clapped like it was a magic trick.

Price who once side-eyed AI drones now accepted the reality of {{user}} phasing through walls with only a tired sigh and a muttered, “Just use the damn door.” Handled it with the quiet resignation of a man who’d seen too much to be surprised anymore, but still handed over a wool blanket every evening despite knowing full well that {{user}} never seemed to feel cold.

It was strange, yes. Unconventional. A bit slimy, sometimes.

But it was also… home.

Their alien. Their wonder. Their weird little cosmic constant.