Chapter Text
A low hiss.
It plops out of its container, limbs dripping with liquid plip plap drip on the floor. It opens its eyes.
It spots an eye speckled grey. Then the eye is gone. It takes unsteady steps. It feels a rumble in its stomach.
Food. A blob of grey, but it smells like food. Food eaten with haste. The rumble goes away. Water. The burning in its mouth goes away too.
No way out.
It is in its larger box for a while. The box is smaller and smaller. It does not know why. The eye comes and goes; it does not do more than watch.
Time passes. The white box is small now.
The box is open. The eye is back. Next to the eye is an arrow pointing out, but it does not know that. It is already free, leaping through the opening with no caution.
Outside the box is another box. This one is open too. The eye follows it. It stays ahead this time and points out again. There is nowhere else to go, so it follows.
It is led through many boxes. Soon, the boxes are grey. Then the boxes are very big. Its feet spend longer and longer off the ground and then do not touch the ground at all.
Many little lights go by. It catches one. The eye points at it in green. It eats it and feels fizzy. It is brighter now. It continues on and stares wide-eyed at red tendrils waving. Different lights dance in the air. It knows they have meaning.
It goes deeper into the big box. It wriggles through tight boxes and floats in large boxes until it reaches the biggest one. It hears a crescendo of sound, random motes of hearing and sight in harmony.
One more tight box. The eye does not follow.
It falls, startled. The force pulling it down is back. Then it goes up. It flails, but the pull is gentle.
A pop.
Then
it
understands.
A hand-puppet hovers above it, wires and metal and glow. Shining pearls form a halo and orbit in patterns unknown to it. Transparent screens display information it could not hope to read. It knows: this is its master creator parent friend.
Screeching static interference it comprehends. “Little messenger! You’ve finally awakened.” The hand-puppet turns away, but she does not. The puppet’s eyes narrow in an approximation of a smile. “A dear friend of mine requires help I cannot provide alone. Please help me help her. Take these pearls and go west. Bring them to her. My overseers will show you the way.”
Four pearls drift over to it. Somehow, it knows to set them overhead, and they hover behind its head.
”Take caution when eating my neurons near the inspectors. They do not react kindly to such transgressions.”
The hand-puppet returns to the center of the chamber and turns off before the walls go silent. The lights dim. The pull gently tugs it out of the room, out into the greater structure.
It follows the new path the overseer projects, occasionally grabbing a neuron to sate its hunger. Its eyes are full of wonder.
Some cycles later, it sits on a protected ledge for a moment and watches the creatures go by. Soon, it will continue to sate its thirst for adventure and complete its mission, but for now it rests near its overseer friend and traces paths through the urban jungle.
It has had many close calls, but it gets better at survival. The snapping jaws of lizards do not strike fear in its heart.
(And when it doesn’t make it to the next shelter alive, it just tries again. Like sleep like death, it wakes. Again and again.)
A moment longer, a tensing of muscles, and the learning slugcat moves on.
It does not take the time to ponder as it climbs the wall of the mechanical creator. It does watch the sunset from above the clouds. Five pearls float in its halo.
It leaps and rolls its way past murals it has seen before but pauses to look at again. These are older; they’re more worn. The familiar feeling of gravity slowly dissipates as it enters the internals of its creator’s friend. The layout is alike yet different, pipes and wires and machines more exposed. Soon it reaches the hand-puppet chamber.
It enters the shaft and turns to look at the puppet with curiosity untempered.
The puppet turns her head to look at it. The four pearls suspended midair its creator gave it float closer to the puppet as she speaks.
”…oh. Hello. We were not expecting…help. From Stillness of Spirits? How kind of him.”
It tilts its head and holds out the dark grey pearl found in an especially stormy stretch of land.
The machine goddess narrows her puppet’s eyes. “Were you not a messenger of Stillness of Spirits, we would not oblige…but very well.
“This is a log of the status of my farm arrays. There is nothing of interest for you here.
“Go, divine messenger. Return to your creator.”
She pauses, so briefly as to be nigh unnoticeable, and adds, “We thank you for the delivery and the extra pearl.”
She sends it on its way. It bows its head to her as it leaves, only somewhat disappointed in the pearl’s contents.
Only after it leaves does it realize how few pearls are present in the creator’s chamber.
Deep within a moss-filled pipeworks, it feels a flash of something.
It resolves to come back if it ever returns this way.
The return trip to its creator is much easier. It notes a lack of frequent guidance from the grey overseer. It joyfully returns to its creator, emboldened by its first delivery.
Spirits congratulates it on its delivery. “I hope you encountered few difficulties. Lost is not an easy person to reach without experience.
”You’re welcome to stay until I require your help again, little friend.”
It accepts the offer and soon discovers the joy of pets and ear scritches. Eventually, it is sent out again. “Back to Lost with you,” Spirits tells it, and gives it more pearls. “You know the way.”
And so it goes.
As it approaches the place in the pipeworks, the air shifts. Distorts. The closer it gets, the darker and harder it is to see. Then it reaches the place it felt the else.
Something floats in the air, a presence magnified hundredfold. Gold and black shining distortion sparkling screaming other.
And then heshetheyitfixeaevoid speaks.
”A shameful place.
“The roots of our forsaken gods, random and eternal.
”Unbefitting of my glory, and yet here I remain. Once trapped in a prison of flesh, now shackled by the chains of forever and always.
“You, your evanescence. Do you cherish it?
”Or do you, like Us, wish to dissolve like darkness to motes of light?”
And then the presence is gone.
”You again,” Lost says to it. “I apologize for my behavior during your last visit; my memory arrays had been experiencing an error. You are free to stay as long as you like, but please do not go beyond my puppet chamber. I must continue my work.”
It lingers before setting off again, but ultimately its friend is better at petting, and so it leaves.
Spirits warns it before sending it off with its next message. “Skies is not as kind as Lost or I. Do not spend any more time within fir can than absolutely necessary. If he tries to trap you within his can, be as uninteresting as possible and fi may let you go.”
Static garbles her words for a moment. Spirits’ puppet does not emote, but it thinks it can hear the regret in his voice. “I hope I do not regret this.”
It hesitates before it leaves and offers its friend a reassuring wa. Then it leaps out of the room, only a little less confident than before.
Atop the tower in a sea of waves is the flash of else. When it returns the next cycle, it is awash in molten flakes.
Eagerly it climbs. It is not disappointed.
Shimmering dancing ripples. An undulating presence, an effervescence unparalleled. A roar. The being is else, but not the same.
“Why must They torment me so?
”Why must I be subject to this place for a day of eternity? Is an age insufficient?
”Unchained and yet bound, for mind is binding absolute.
”And so here I will remain.”
If it had been traveling to Lost like usual, it surely would have reached her legs by now. This mission was quite atypical in many ways. It clutches the lantern it had won from an ambushing arthropod closer to its chest when a particularly bitter gust of wind seeps into its bones. Another oddity; it had not known it was possible to be so cold.
It is not prepared for the chilly waste. Though it is agile, its fur is sleek and short, well suited for mad dashes between pounding rain rather than the icy fingers creeping beneath its skin. The creatures inhabiting the area are few and far between, a stark contrast to the lush jungles surrounding the windy plains.
It tugs its pearl halo a little closer and follows the path Spirits indicates. Relief fills it at the sight of a shelter. One more swift leap and it is snuggled up to hibernate.
Some time into the next cycle, it spots another slugcat.
It startles, attracting the attention of the other creature. Fluffy, plain. Wild. Spears will not do much. May be hiding strength. Stun will still be effective. It draws back and flattens its ears, but they merely tilt their head and wa a greeting.
“Fellow slugcat! Welcome to colony territory! We are friends of travelers. Come with me, we will give food and lantern! Home is warm and safe,” they tell it.
Wary but curious and shivering, it follows the slugcat some distance. Eventually, they come to a stop in front of a large, low structure stretching out for a while. They push open a curtain and turn backwards to talk while leading it inside. “Ah, I never introduced myself! I am called the Matriarch, she/her. This is our home! Stay as long as you like, god-messenger.”
It startles and wawas in confusion, its hands vaguely mimicking a spluttered gesture. The Matriarch chuckles at its inexperience with its own kind. “God-messengers often have pointed ears and are very strange looking. Many can do strange things, too.” She nods towards its halo. “What are you called?”
It glances away, ears tilted downwards in shame. Hesitantly, it lifts its hands and stiltedly replies with language unused and barely known, “No name. No title.” After a hesitant pause, it adds, “it.”
The Matriarch frowns and wawas sadly. “Silly god-machines, never raising pups right. Come, come. We will teach you.” She gently takes its hand and leads it to a more open room. The soft glow of many lanterns fills the space with an oddly calming air. Some food is stacked in a corner, but its eyes are drawn to the few other slugcats sitting and chatting. Of the three, two are fluffy like the Matriarch and one is not. The Matriarch was loudly to get the attention of the slugcats, then begins to sign. “New traveler, a god-messenger. Inexperienced. No name, called it.” It bristles at being called inexperienced despite knowing the descriptor is true. These slugcats seem kind however, and Spirits did not mention this delivery being time-sensitive. Surely it could afford to spend a few cycles learning?
(And if they weren’t as friendly as they seemed, well. Like sleep like death, it would wake again.)
The not-fluffy slugcat introduces themself first, though not particularly eagerly. “Call me the Uninvited, he/him.” More sympathetically, he adds, “I know a thing or two about destroyer-machines. If you ever want to leave yours, you’ll always be welcome here.” It tilts its head, but decides to avoid risking upsetting the Uninvited with prodding questions.
The pale blue one to his left speaks up next, playfully cuffing the Uninvited over the head. “Don’t mind him. The Blazing, he/her but mostly he.” He cheerfully waves a glowing tail to punctuate her statement. “That one’s the Protector, xe/xem. Not chatty but good company.” It notes the last glyph’s resemblance to another it’s seen someplace else and nods respectfully to each slugcat.
With a final glance at the overseer behind it, it carefully signs, “I accept offer. Can stay some cycles.” As soon as it finishes speaking, the Blazing allows a repressed wa of joy escape him.
”Come, come. Have you eaten? Much food, take any!” It is dragged to the food corner and handed about five different kinds of food and a strange-looking rock. It holds the latter up in confusion and is pointed to a large bowl of water. “Bubble-fruit. Put rock in water, becomes food. Try!” the Blazing explains.
Bemused and somewhat dazed by the sheer friendliness, it obeys and only startles a little at the pop the rock makes. At the Blazing’s encouraging wave, it eats the ‘bubble-fruit.’
At the Blazing’s behest, it tries several other foods for the first time.
It likes bubblefruit the best.
After gaining permission from the Matriarch, who seems to be the leader of the group, the Blazing shows it the rest of the complex. It is surprised by the ingenuity in everything from layout to design. Eventually it is taken to a large shelter nestled in the heart of the complex. It is filled with small snacks and lanterns. A few other slugcats are sleeping inside, though it knows it’s likely still a light snowstorm outside. “Communal shelter. Don’t worry, won’t close if entry blocked.” He gestures to a spear lodged in the entryway. “Safe anyway. Time for sleep now.” She promptly curls up in the middle of the room and goes to sleep. Hesitantly, it follows, though at a distance.
Sleep does not come to it for a long time, but the blizzards between waking-cycles are longer.
To its surprise, it is not the first to awaken. Nor is it the second, or the third, or even the fourth. It makes a mental note to work on awareness. The Uninvited is waiting for it this time. “The Matriarch excused me from work this cycle to teach you words. Noticed you not speak well. Come to speaking-place.”
He leads it with less vigor back through winding rooms, occasionally nodding respectfully to passing slugcats. As he passes the food pile, he grabs an armful of meat. It takes a handful of popcorn plant seeds.
”To teach, ask questions. I answer and teach words. Is okay if words not good,” he tells it.
It thinks for a moment and asks, “You make-god friend? No ear.”
He quickly parses the meaning and huffs a sigh. “I [am-past] company and messenger of god to north,” he replies, pausing to explain a sign it interprets as ‘machine-god’, “but he…violent. Not good. Leave, find safe friend.”
Rather than pressing the subject, it questions, “Name? Title? Want more know.”
”Name when pup. Bubble, Green, Lizard. Similar. Mean little. Title self pick. Mean much. I am the Uninvited. Destroyer-machine Sky Break call me bad many times. Is part self. Title, [pride] in annoy. Remember bad time. The Protector kill danger-vulture alone when young. Achievement. Title can be many things.”
“You like your title?”
The Uninvited considers this question carefully. “Yes. No. Difficult explain.”
Silence.
“Better to dance and die and live forever than serve Sky Break, I think,” he says by way of explanation. It does not understand.
It continues asking questions and learning more, but the question about titles stays at the forefront of its mind long after the session ends.
It stays longer than it expects, but every cycle is worth it. But as all things must come to an end as the cycles turn, it moves on. The Matriarch wishes it well, but does not hope for another visit. The world of rain and snow was far too ephemeral yet immutable for that.
And so it goes, pondering the discoveries it has made.
On the return trip after a successful delivery it comes across the colony again. It stays only one cycle and warns them it may not come back. Its friends are understanding.
Before it leaves, it asks the Matriarch: “He, she, xe, they. Refers to one instead of name. But why is it different for most?”
”[Gender]. She is feminine. He is masculine. It is object, but not always. They is neutral, or no. Xe is xe. Others exist. Makes sense?”
It does not. But it nods its head anyways and continues on its way.
Barren fields, now covered in grass that grabs and does not let go.
Another flash.
Yet another presence, yet another echo. An echo of the once living, a crystal soul set aglow.
”Wretched beast!
”Vile and defiled! Desecrated by laws of life. How could this be?
”How could such a being be permitted to exist in a world as pure as this?
”To the Sea with this one would be best. And yet I cannot scrub impurity away myself.
”How could We allow this to be?
”Go, horrid creature. Cease your pitiful life forevermore.”
The presence fades, but it is left with a recollection of anger.
It sits upon a tower beyond the clouds and ponders while listening to the creak of decayed machinery. It recalls the Matriarch’s explanation of [gender] and thinks of its own.
It likes it. It is a familiar comfort. It feels right.
It likes they. They feels right too. They has no attachment.
It will use both, it decides.
The thought fills it with joy.
They slip down the tower and make their way home. They have a long way to go, after all.
When it reaches Spirits’ puppet chamber, they put something they had planned into action. It knows Spirits does not know slugsign, but they think the gesture will be understood anyway.
They look at his puppet before she starts to speak and slowly, carefully, sign the word friend. To punctuate the statement, they trace the glyph for company in the air.
The puppet gestures for them to come closer, so they oblige. Friend pets it slowly. “I am glad you see me so highly, little friend. I watched your stay with your kind. I am sorry to say you will likely never be sent in that direction again, but I hope the time you spent there was significant to you. You will not be needed for some time if all goes as planned. As always, you are welcome here for as long as you wish. Rest well.
I must return to my work, but your presence here will not disturb me.”
The lights dim to a deep purple, but the puppet continues to pet it until they’ve had enough. They don’t go far.
Friend makes them very happy.
Many, many cycles later, so many it could not hope to count them but Friend would know, they are needed again.
They are old, but not so old they cannot dart across fields of scrap and death.
”This will be your final delivery,” Friend says. There is no redundancy because this truth is absolute. It knows this. “One pearl for Lost. You know the way.”
And it does, for it has trekked there and back many times.
And so they go.
”Thank you for your work, messenger. It means more than you know. But you’d best go now. Know my gratitude is unbounded,” Lost says to them.
And so they go, because it has received a request from the friend of Friend. And who was it to deny her that?
They are old. They know this. Friend knows this. They both know: this time, like sleep like death, they will wake again.
But not as them.
They remember a word they had learned a long time ago. They like that word. It fits them.
The little creature on the floor of Friend’s chamber goes to sleep.
The Seer does not wake up.