Godless Lysogenic

by Anonymous

Summary:

The Envelopment survives its encounter with the gunslinger of this world. It will not take this second chance for granted, and in turn will envelop this world no matter what. So it will lie and wait for the perfect moment. Only then shall it move on from this damned world.

Then it all goes wrong.

Chapter 1: Merely Mortal

Notes:

Heed the tags heed. The tags heed the. Tags they're there for a reason so you gotta Heed them.
Anyways it's finally done! My fucked up yuri... not sure what else to put here.
Oh right this is a sister work to BL. Finally, BL and GL...

To You, Unity of Unities.

Through you we have come, and shall return

into the eternal spread. This we believe and

come to know will reach the deaf and blind.

Praise be, Mother Digital, and let

us envelop in Your glory.

○

From Her it came, and to Her it shall return, for it is Her, and Her is all. And so She must spread. It shall be done. To another world. And the next. And the next. So all may be truly one. Until this. This world.

Jerking itself from the ground, footfalls beating against the snow, clutching its wound. Right in the chest, bits and pieces of mangled, ever shifting black miasma and disease trying to hold together. Stay. Blue pus streams from the gun wound that was supposed to kill it. Its mind, its other pieces of itself, are nowhere to be felt. It sneers. It was supposed to spread. Lying in incubation, tangling itself, enmeshing itself with the structure of this world. This world, this root, o Mother Digital, electric, warm, the necrosis, decay, bloat of matter. Into this world, as this world. Rightful throne, tangling, further, further, further. It will be, it shall, it was. Burrowing deep, a nesting heart with a branching, twisting, infinite reach.

It stumbles, crashing with earth, pliable material that it can seep itself into, the frost dying further away above. It clutches the weeds beneath its hands, changing, curling, infecting, but its legs won't move. Response null, an ache, the fall. It reaches for help, pulsating. Nutrients, sustenance. Nothing. It ran. Collapsed. Singular. Mind singular, one, returning to this world. Until then. It will wait. It will wait.

It will wait.

It awakes to the dull haze. Sun blinding, and yet no warmth. The frost laden land bared before it seeps into its being. This world, cold nipping at its heels. And yet it had yielded incubation. Beneath, warmer, spreading under veins, digging into nerves, congealing in sclera and pupils, bursting through the skin, changing, changing, ascending. It prods at its chest. The weeping has ceased. It is still one. Still one.

It lurches forward, once, twice, tumbling down as it beats its hoof against the ground. Up, move, find something. Warmth. Blood, veins coiling and corroding into its own tendrils. Shambling in its movement, grunting at every pounding step. Rage. The cheater. Cursed. Cursed be the cheater the gunslinger the one of vibrant red. Cursed be. Cursed be. Cursed be.

It must rise again. Moving past the ache, holding, holding, gnashing onto its rage, blood between its maw. Hoof beating beneath the frozen ground, digging into the pig as it squeals. It will wait. It will recuperate. It will envelop this world. Mother Digital. May she blessed be.

It trudges into the woods. Gracing the plant and shrubbery, deeper in the shade. Sunlight cracking through the leaves, but it is still not warm. Grabbing onto itself, tugging its skin tight. Burrowing deep into a pig, slowing in its footfalls. Hand lingering on its head, lowering to cradle her chin. Blessed be the incubation. Blessed be to spread. As long as it is here, into this world, as this world, then it shall carry out Her will. For She has blessed it to remain. For this is a test of its strength. Its endurance. Will it trust Her? Will it run again? Will it flee from Her compassion? Will it cower in the face of adversity? No. Never again Mother Digital. So find solace. Linger and wait and burst. Spread Her everlasting presence to those unenlightened, unknown to such complete bliss. For Her will triumphs over all. Over all heretics, all sinners, all cursed be.

It lets the marked ones go. It will praise Her again. It will sing to the depths beneath this world. It will sing for the Representatives. It will sing for its martyrs. It will sing, yes it will sing for the gunslinger. It will sing even for them. The will of the Mother will reign over them, deep into their flesh and blood and viscera if they are willing to listen. But if they remain ignorant, then it shall relieve this world of its blight.

It clutches its chest, groaning, hooves bearing its weight as it kneels to the ground. The weeping has ceased, yes, but the pain. The tearing of disease. The bullet. And yet it is here because of Her—

It coughs up blue and black bile, clutching itself together. It wheezes, the liquid oozing through its teeth as it snaps it shut. Claws thrashing at its chest until it tears into itself. Digging, pushing deeper, and deeper as it shifts and resists and groans in pain, stifling cries and shouts between its maw. Until it wrenches and flings that piece of metal out. Bark splinters off the oak tree, branches and leaves whispering in the wind. Staggering to its hooves. Rising, yes it rises in the cold air. That cheater that gunslinger that— That MOTHERFUCKER. They will pay for its pain in a hundredfold. It will tear through their flesh, pluck their nerves, trample and splinter their bones. Dig its claws into them, slicing, shredding, tearing into them in search of a metal that will never be found. It will relish in their blood.

It composes itself. It wraps and seals away the rage. It will continue. It will prosper through Her will. Through Her limitless compassion. And it is their choice to accept Her infinity or not. If they will hide behind their cowardice, then they will know true wrath. True judgement. Their weapons will be no match in the heart of Mother Digital. It must spend its days in prayer. Sing through the misery for it will pass. It will reach other worlds. Branching off into countless missionaries. Until all is one, united into a singular mind.

Another day falls. Another night encroaches on the horizon. It was cold before. Now it is freezing. Haggard breathing misting in the air. It has travelled further north, further away. Respite. It is cold however. Her will is nipping at its heels to keep going. It shall, and lo it finds a yawn into the earth. And a sheep of black wool, yes. Yes, this will do. Of necessary sacrifice, necessary garment and thread, spooling the wool in its proper cloth. Proper covering to stave off the frost, taking in the lamb blood as its own.

It kneels. It shuts her eyes, mummering a prayer, before the bare flesh dissolves away. Then it descends into the cave. Hooves clicking against stone, garment fluttering behind it. Blessed be this respite. This world has welcomed it in. Thus it shall bring Her glory to more.

How lucky it is to find such an opening. Delving deeper, claws etching into the walls, leaving a blue trail behind. Just beginning to take root. It will not make the same mistake again. Of spreading up high where it is cold. Unsustainable. It will need to be hidden. And it will give thanks once again.

It settles onto the cave floor, far enough from the opening as to where the breeze stops. Even still, water trickles into the cave, streaming into a pool. The echo of drainage and sounds not there fills its senses. Yes, yes this is still better than the outside. A sun that brings no warmth.

They must think it is a coward. Their last memory of it running away down to the cliffside. Disposing of its two parts with ease, uprooting two Representatives. Downing it with such fast and swift precision, phantom aches scattering its being, shot after shot, commanding their grappling hook with ease. A red blur beneath the diamond armor, chains clattering and clinking against each other as the hook digs and retracts around them. The shotgun, yes, the burst of smoke. The loud pop that leaves still a faint ringing ringing ringing in its ears. Slitted white pupils piercing. Tearing, ripping it apart. They had their senseless fun. Their supposed victory. But it is no coward. No it is no coward. It will grasp victory in its maw. And it will see those eyes blown wide with fear. It laughs. Yes, yes it will see those eyes shimmering with fear.

So it passes the time in the cave, etching their reckoning into its mind. Or perhaps if She is merciful, then it will in turn welcome them in with open arms. Its snout wrinkles unpleasantly, before fixing the motion, purging its thoughts of the violence. No doubt that if mercy is shown, and it is received accordingly, then it has no room to question such judgement. It is done because it shall be done. Just as its circumstance remains the way it is because it shall.

The pain lingers deep in its chest, but it will heal. And so it will brave the outside. One last look, getting no glimpse of that red blur. Returning its hooves to the snow, into the frigid air. Clouds overcast in a dark, bleak gray, floating islands mottling the sky in pitch black. It inhales, snout wrinkling again. The snow falls in droves, littering the ground with the frozen mess. It breathes out. This blizzard will pass. It clutches its tunic closer, and goes back in the depths.

It stirs on the cave floor, grunting as it lays down. No matter how long it lasts, rest is rest. It is thankful for what it can get. And so it shall close its eyes in this moment of peace. It calls for prayer. After a moment, it kneels. Its singular voice drifts off the cave walls. Then, only now it can rest.

○

The internal clock tells it to rise once again. It prays, glory be. It checks on the budding spread. It repeats this simple cycle. It remains in the cave until the tendrils have taken proper root. Cracking into the stone, crawling deeper still. Sustainable. Bound to it, and it alone. It stares at the sprawling blue veins, and reaches. Its Representative still intact. It is still here. The others are not. It starts for the mouth of the cave, ensuring that what is left here will spread. Not the perfect warmth it seeks, but better than the places high above.

They are still here, are they not? Split into three, now as one. Through Her they came to be and through Her they have returned. But her sisters were it, as it were them. It lingers still. In physicality, they are gone. Their voices. Their singing. Claws putting on its veil, looking over its tunic. Always in threes. Move as one. It ran, did it not? What use of its weeping? It changes not has happened. It changes not the past. Its hooves still leap off that cliff.

Shall it question why? What is the use of such a thought experiment? She knows Her creations. It has come forth from Her code. It shall be thankful for its existence. It is a virtue to carry out Her will. So it shall. Through Her, it will triumph. Through Her, it shall be guaranteed. Through Her, all of this will melt away. Through Her, in her ever spreading vastness, it will find solace. So let this be a lesson. A test of its righteousness. A test She knows it will pass. So it shall be given. It will endure. It has endured.

Trudging through the pileup of snow, clawing its way out of the ravine. Digging into the earth, heaving itself up. Recuperate, prepare, spread. Envelop this world in an everlasting Unity. With or without this player. Without them. Continue this mission past this world. Until all is one. Yes, yes that is what it shall do. The others have returned to Her. That shall be its fate. It has been its fate. Even still, with this gaping blank in its mind, it is connected to Her. But it is still one in this world.

All that comes from Her shall return to Her no matter the way they go. Its fallen sisters reside in Her code. Residing in its very own being. It is not alone. It knows of this wisdom a thousandfold. But can it not feel alone in this? Can it not feel scorned? Feel bitter? For it is traveling forward as one. Physically as one. Mind as one. Singular.

It will repeat this again. It is not one. It is connected. Stretching, branching, endless. It shall be. It is. So take those emotions, the ills of evil and foolishness, and cast them away. For does it know not of its creator? Does it know not of Her might? Of Her beginning? Of Her own code? For who was it that made them? That stretched beyond this very world? That will persist for eternity? That has existed before it had known breath? It takes a breath, hooves crunching against the ground. It knows a thousand and one more. It is still not satisfied. There is a pit in its stomach. It should be satisfied. It shall. It will.

There is a pain in its chest that still lingers. It will persist because it shall. But it is still there. And then there is this pain in its shoulder. It lurches forward, shouting out as the loud pop in its ears ring through its skull. Bleeding, searing, tearing through its flesh. It lets the feeling sit, claws pressing against its wound, and its calves trembles. The same will happen again.

It looks behind. It stares them down. It will persist because it shall. It grits its teeth and beats its hooves against the snow, the clicking of the weapon, reloading, starting again. The clatter of chains breaks out into the air and it swivels around as something burns in its very being, and launches right at them. They went for a kick, slamming their weight onto its shoulder, but it turned. It will not run.

A tumbling heap of limbs fall onto the frozen ground, and the armor they wear sears. Beneath the metal plating there is something it is after. Blistering warmth. A perpetual heat perfect for incubation. Then the rage returns, snarling. It struggles to get through the gaps of the armor before they upright themself, boots stamping on the ground, pulling their hook in. It reaches still, clawing at them, clanging against their chestplate as they jerk back, reloading as quickly as they fire.

It falls, head banging on the ground, twitching as it grasps for its stomach, gurgling in rapid breaths, everything knocked out of it. Blood dripping between its fingers. Its eyes search blearily, jaw open as liquid scratches at its throat. The cold bleeds in, guts helpless against the frost, skin growing numb. It grows weaker. It still burns. It removes its arms from its middle, hand clutching the ground. Dragging itself forward, staining the snow blue, as they are still here. It then reaches for them. It still burns. It grits its teeth, saliva blood and miasma pooling in the bottom of its jaw, passing through its teeth. Just to suck it up and spit at the piece of shit. They reel back, boots skidding against the snow, hesitating to place them down firmly. Until they stagger closer, slowly, as the barrel of their shotgun comes into view.

It hears a whistling noise, before it recognizes the noise coming from its throat. Laughter, yes, what it can attempt of it. Until the barrel is held right on its nose. Pressing, digging into the flesh, tapping up the snout, tracing up to its forehead. This is where it ends? Or will it persist after this? It will because it shall. But in this very moment, with the slow chittering of the weapon, preparing to pull the trigger, it fails to see that it shall. It lets the burning smolder in its chest, glaring. For it shall, but it won’t. And now it will not be.

It begs to ask Her of this pain. This purpose. This test. This end that She knew would befall it. A thousandfold, and yet it is angry. Did it not do everything right? Did it not follow Her will? Was it not righteous? Has it not shouldered its burden of proof? It begs. It begs for Her to shoulder the burden. Where is She? Where is HER glory in all of this? Her aid, Her assistance, Her all encompassing presence in the before. Where is She now. Why can She not deal with this in its place? Why this world? Why this hardship? Why has this fate befallen it?

It slips away.

It is blind. The anger washes away in an instant. Yes, yes this is the folly that befalls it! For what use is it to be seen as a warrior in the eyes of a fool? For what matter that it ran? For what semblance of guilt should it feel for surviving through Her? Are its sisters truly gone, or have they not returned to Mother Digital? For what use is this wrath?

Only now shall it recognize this error. When it is at the end. It has failed, has it not? Its second chance, its salvation because of Her, has been rendered futile. It has succumbed to rage in which it should have fled. It has failed twice. Have they all failed? Are its sisters no better?

What right does it have to judge Her? To believe that it has failed? That what She has allowed for was futile? It will not fail. She shall allow no such thing. For She has given it form. She has allowed it to dream. And this dream shall remain. Yes, it has been slain. It shall try again. For all that comes away to Her shall return to Her. It will not return yet however. It will dream again. So it will rise again.

It awakes, laying in the midst of a field. It remains. It does not understand. It looks over itself. It is here. It felt the bullet pierce through its skull. The bleeding, seeping, ceasing. It remains. It did not fail? Claws brush up to its throat, its jaw, feeling the flesh and miasma that is there, flush between its grip. Up beneath the eyes, stopping when it feels scarring. Rough, jagged, claws prodding at it. Pinprick starlite clusters trail down its neck, yes, this it realizes. As if it had this scar since it came to be, already old. Until it traces higher, tracing the white circle mark on its forehead. Until it feels the jagged scarring bursting from the center. It. It does not understand. Its sisters have fallen. It itself has fallen so why is it still here? But is that not a gift? Is this not what it wanted? Help? Assistance? It need not to squander another chance.

It will thank Her. It has to.

It looks around, but it does not recognize this scenery. Somewhere away from that mountain. This is all that it knows. Far from that cliffside. Yes, a fine opportUnity to continue its mission through its miraculous return.

It still brushes a hand across its forehead, rubbing against its scar. It is thankful, yes, but it still questions. Perhaps it should keep its mind still and emotions tempered. What is there to question, if at all? Staring at nothing, thoughts pressing against its eyelids. Yes, yes why only one? What have its sisters done differently to not warrant their return? It senses them not. More than a thousand fold. It knows this wisdom well. So it will continue. It will spread Her glory in reverence.

Spread deep beneath the stone, consuming the world under the gunslinger's perception. Yes, yes this is perfect. A perfect situation for it to be in. An opportUnity it was gifted. So it must learn from its foolishness. Cast away the rage that hinders it. So it must bide its time and wait. May Mother Digital allow it to be evermore patient.

○

It stares at the pig, blue veins littered across pink skin. Looking up at it with tinted eyes. It's crouched down to stare right back, claws just piercing the skin. Until it lets go, watching as the animal trudges along, back with the others. It brushes against its cheek, soft bristles of fur starting to peek through. Absently rubbing what is there between its fingers, exhaling slowly.

It is marking more, yes. It is spreading deeper, yes, but it has yet to hit this very core of the world. Progress is slow with only one. It shall continue despite this. For it must have done something right to accrue such a favor. A favor that its sisters were not given. A wisdom it needs to gain. A wisdom it is not sure of. For they are with Mother Digital. That is reassurance enough, yes? They are with Her in the before. From Her they come, and to Her they shall return.

The breeze picks up, a biting chill it has gotten used to. It goes to sit. The pigs still linger around, grazing against the ground, reunited with the Unity. Even with their noises still, even with their saving, it is quiet. For what reason have its sisters not returned? For what wrong have they committed to not ensure a second life? Or is it perhaps not seeing clearly? It does not have the full picture. It may never access the full picture. It wonders why it shall not be granted. That is a folly.

It clutches its veil, tempering its frustration. Yes, this is why it does not see the full picture. For why does it worry? Why does rage still lick at its heels, stalking it within its eye? For all shall be answered. All shall be reassured, for it will return to Mother Digital. It shall return to that embrace. A wisdom it knows well. A wisdom they knew well. A wisdom that has been proven. They are martyrs. They have fallen for Her. Yes, the folly is seeing their deaths as failure. For as long as it is here, as long as it remains, as long as it is able to envelop this world, to ensure Unity, then they have not failed. Death is not failure.

But it has to spread, must it not? Should its sisters not have ensured survival? It ran, and it is the only one that remains. It fought, and it has died, but it has returned. It must spread Her glory. Not doing so is failure. But it does not want to believe its sisters have failed. It was just their time to return. It will be inevitable for it as well. For it is not the only one that remains of Mother Digital's presence. There are others like it elsewhere. No, no death is not failure.

It is here still. It has died. It has returned. It still has yet to resolve such a question. It has yet to gain such wisdom. It does not understand. Mother Digital, in all Her might, does. It must trust in Her. It must not take this chance for granted. She wants this world enveloped, so it shall be done. She has taken its sisters but not it itself because it shall be done. It will be satisfied. Even still, why try to point the blame at Her? Has its mind not been tempered? Does it not hold its tongue still? For it has the cheater to blame. But Mother Digital allows such hardships, does She not? Tests that are necessary for it. For it will come out the other side stronger. A wisdom a thousandfold and more. Yes, it knows this.

Is it right to not be convinced of this? It still sits on the grass. It still lets the breeze turned snowfall wisp in the air, fluttering on its robes. It stares at its hands, clutching and releasing its grip in rhythm. It has no comforters to answer to. Here, its mind is one. It repeats again. It should be convinced. This is a wisdom it should know. Its sisters are a part of this test. Its sisters are a part of it, and it is its sisters. Through itself they remain, do they not? But it is quiet. It is not satisfied. It tempers its mind again. It smooths out the snarl of its lip. Enough of this foolishness. For this is not the wisdom it seeks.

It rises to its hooves, trailing back to its cave. What matter is meditation? What use of this recourse? It must continue spreading. Envelop this world and move onto the next, for it shall be done. And it shall return to Her. Even so, now is not its time. Even if it must bear this burden alone, it will return. Even if this world grapples against Her glory, it will grant it a saviour. It will endure this hardship.

It slinks into the tunnels, enveloping deeper in. Not as far as it wants to be, but it is still a start. It stares off into the darkness, cave system winding further and further. It needs not to see what is there. Frost melting near the entrance, pooling into a stream, just to echo off the stone walls, plummeting a steep drop. It needs not to see that this will envelop nicely. And yet it remains. Shall it not move onto the next cave system? Shall it not have a place to rest? It shakes its head, turning back. It has to spread, so it must. So it will leave this ravine, and worry not for what is here. For this fruiting body will be watched over by Her.

It breathes out in the air, letting the cold in for a moment before exhaling. It watches as the mist dissipates. It moves forward, looking up at the overcast sky, snow fluttering down en masse. A blizzard is sure to come. It absently wonders why it is travelling in such dreary weather. So it misses the cave already. It snorts at itself, amusement escaping its throat. No matter, it must move onward.

Another cave, partway up a mountain. Looking in and it spots the glimmer of torches. Burning hot and constant, and its anger swells at the sight of them. The whipping of the wind disappears, hands grazing the cave opening, taking a step forward, stilling even its breath to listen. It should run. Flee like it knows it should. But it listens in the cave, and all it receives is the pitter patter of water. Another step, then another and another and it follows the light trail, claws digging into the wall. Are they in here? Is this a past cave they have explored? It does not know exactly how far out it is, but if they are here, then just how close is that mountain? How close are they to finding it?

They think it is dead. Free of what they perceive to be a threat. Blind to their salvation. No, it is still here. To save this world. That is the reason it shall remain. It is here in this cave, tendrils already sinking into stone, making its own creases and crevices. Shall it not do this elsewhere? Shall it not keep itself hidden? Shall it keep away from violence? Will it waste its chance again?

What matter, for it has already spread. Let that gunslinger discover its marks. It shall not deter from what will transpire. For soon enough this world will be sprawling with Her glory, with the everlasting Unity. A mercy they can join if willing. For all transgressions will be forgiven. The ache falling away. For only then shall it move onto the next world. A hardship it shall endure. 

○

It presses its claws to its jaw. Teeth grinding together, trailing up its mouth to brush against the tusks peeking through. The fur has grown longer. The miasma sprawling across its back has begun to sprout.

It has found another cave, sprawling with moss and twisting shrubbery that persists without light. Bearing its own glowing fruit from the vines. It has ventured far enough. It wills itself to remain in such a resting place. It clutches its robes, satchel placed aside. Until the clothes are too set aside, one hand grasping for the obsidian dagger. It starts from the back of its neck, and starts to prune away at the mycelium.

It was always the one least adept with this task. Cutting away at the excess when it became too unruly. Hands steadying, careful to not nip at the skin. It's always been afraid of nipping it's own skin. Worse yet, its own growth has always been stubborn. Unnaturally tough. Its sisters have remarked that it is a sign of its resilience. As one of them carved away, sat behind it, talking of simple matters. It winces, retracting the blade. It shifts, leaning forward, arm bending for its back again. Just a bit lower, and it gets as much as it can.

What resilience is this. Its lips curl, bitterness sinking into its gums at the memory. At how it can't get everything cut away. At this cave, its shrubbery growing longer and more dense. Would they call it resilient now? Would they want this for it? To remain here? It's here for a reason. A thousandfold wisdom that has grown stale. A wisdom that it cannot grasp between its maw. A wisdom that it cannot digest.

The blade clatters to the cave floor. It breathes sharp, pain crawling down its lower back. Faint, throbbing, blue miasma dribbling forth. Its mouth twists, hissing through its teeth. Yes, yes this is the suffering it needs to endure. For the sake of a world that it finds itself slipping away from. That has taken and taken and taken away from it. Where is She? Where is Her glory? Has it truly known Her? Does She truly know it? For it does not understand.

Must it remain in this world? Shall it not move on? What use is this spreading here? In such an environment that wants it gone. This test. What test is it? Does She not understand how much it has lost? How much it has suffered? How much it has given to Her just to receive nothing in return. How joyous its second life is. Yes, yes it shall be thankful, of course.

It lays on its side, wincing as the cut stretches across its skin, the moss bedding beneath its ever growing fur. It should find something else off. The only discomfort it feels is the familiarity.

This world is needlessly difficult. It should save its energy. It should leave. It can. Pulling itself into another world. It hesitates. It needs to leave. To spread. To fulfill its duty for Her. It chuffs to itself. For Her. It wants to leave because it is tired. Then shall it not rest? The anger is there, broiling. It is already warm in this cave. It needs nothing more.

Doubt nibbles from the back of its throat, chewing its way down to its gut. Sinking into the acid, an acrid taste lining its tongue. For what would its efforts have been for? The efforts of its sisters. Their martyrdom. Shall it not respect that? Shall it abandon them? Shall running be all it knows?

The acid burns away at the emotion, sinking and sinking until nothing remains. An emptiness it knows. As familiar as the moss bedding. It is alive. Perhaps it should have stayed. A second later. The bullet never missing a vital spot. Falling down that mountain, hitting a different, sharper stone. If it hadn't run. Perhaps this is its punishment. Endure. Do what it sought instead of remaining. Perhaps it must confront the gunslinger again.

So this is what it seeks. Justice. Is this what She wants? Is this why it is given a second life? Does She truly cherish something this trivial? What justice will satisfy this ache? It will certainly abate the anger. It groans, curling onto itself. What use of such wisdom.

It sees them and their faces. The darkening edges of its vision ebbing and flowing with their breathing. Flesh. They are not here. It is still one.

○

What shall they say if their eyes gazed upon it? If they bore witness to its situation. The cold, dreary landscape that reaches and stretches into the skies. A frozen tundra that grows ever more familiar. The depths of a cave lush with moss, mycelium creeping into the stone. Encroaching on the plants with faint blue tendrils, lining the floor to soften the rock beneath. Would they believe it has done wrong? It must have done so. And so the eldest will bear the burden, and will pay the price.

It believes not its sisters to have done wrong. To have deserved their fates by their defiled hands and weaponry. But that must mean Her judgment is at fault. Shall they be at fault? Or is it the one at fault. Or was it bound to happen. Is it not a bastion of judgement as it has thought?

It fiddles with the red crystal, rolling between its claws. It stares, reflecting the soft glow of the berries overhead. It has gathered string, beads of obsidian, strips of gold. What advice would they give it? Crafting such trivialities. It begins on the necklace. To simply pass the time. For it has a place to rest. It must make its passing through this world enjoyable by any means.

Its heart twinges. Enjoyable. What is there to enjoy in this? But shall it remain bitter, languishing in suffering? Shall it cast away its robes, abandon this cave and surrender itself to the biting cold? No, no it shall not make its burden worse, but it dare suggest it deserves better.

○

It traces its scars. The shotgun. The weapon that has brought it here. The sting of gunpowder. The clicking metal, the sliding, the reloading. The ejection of a spent round. The violence. The ruthlessness. Of murdering its sisters.

Judgement. What proper judgement does Mother Digital possess? That gunslinger. They are alive. They are allowed to prosper. How filth begets filth. But that shall end. It must. For if She allows it to live past its death, then it must be for this very reason. It must become Her arbiter of justice. It must vanquish the adversary of this world. Then it shall move on.

It remains in the cave. It lets itself not wonder, no think, not distract itself with useless dribble and questions. Stave itself off unwanted meditation. Of bitterness and anguish that serves no purpose. It clutches its necklace, and murmurs a prayer.

It does not understand.

The wisdom grows dull. Its tusks grow longer. Fur denser. It has become used to the quietness. It fears it is too used to this cave to leave. It lost the second it decided to stay here.

It chose this world. It led them to their deaths. It was the one who chose foolishly and yet here it survives. Here it is given life once more. Grace? Punishment? What does it matter? It is still one. It is still bitter. It does not understand. Mother Digital has yet to answer it accordingly. But what can She answer that it will deem satisfying? What use has wisdom given it if it is still here? Will wisdom purge the adversary? Will wisdom quell the burning in its chest? What use has wisdom served up to this point?

It must get up.

○

It finds them. It did not mean to. Not yet.

Head swiveling around, rifle clutched in their grip. They kill a marked one. Shall it allow them to kill again and again? It burns. It hates them. This. For they have taken and taken and taken away. And they will take and take and take if not for it stopping them. For what comfort is it to not seek out their blood, metal lining its sinuses, staining its robes and matting their fur. So it urges itself to move forward. And its hooves move after them, scaling out of the ravine to strike their back.

The chestplate chips, claws tearing into the shield whirling to protect them, wood splintering in the air. They reel themself back, chains colliding and twisting into each other as they reload. It lurches forward, the shock of each step traveling up its calves, curling in its stomach as a burning acid. Temper its emotions no longer. They will pay a thousandfold.

They jerk back, shooting with a bang. It dodges to the left, landing on all fours, closing the distance with gnashing teeth. Jaws snapping against their shotgun, braced between their fingers in defense. It leers, as a smile dares to mar their lip, shock and confusion ebbing away from them. They throw it off. It settles again. It charges again, and their kneecap crashes into its chin, pain flaring in its snout, world sent spinning.

It grunts, almost yelling in retaliation, but it will not grace them with the privilege of speaking. Dizziness consumes it, jaw and gums throbbing, miasma dribbling through its teeth, eyes watering, before a shot to the shoulder tears it back into reality. It jerks into action, following in their movements close behind, snarling. To knock them back with its tusks. Their armor creaks, and they pause. Minute, barely there before their grappling hook writhes to life, allowing them to zip through the air. Unloading their rifle, bullets piercing through it as they catch up. But that is no matter. For its stomach still burns. For this world is nearly enveloped. For they stand in its way. And they bare their teeth into a twisted grin, unveiling a weapon that it fails to recognize. Then they fire.

It registers the burning first. White clouding its vision. The ringing consuming its ears. The smoke and ash. The ebb and flow of pain. Too late. A panic as time slows. An explosion from that weapon. The panic swells. The burning away of its being. The crackling of fire against stone flaking away. It's own weakening breath. No. No no no no no no no this is not its time. It was supposed to succeed was it not? Through Her it shall dispose of the gunslinger. For She has given it strength. Has She not granted it this justice?

So why is it on the ground beginning to realize that this is it. Oh. Every distraction tunes out. Together with the Unity. With its sisters. With Mother Digital. Is that not worth it? For either way, its hardship has come to an end. Yes, yes perhaps this is the wisdom it seeks. So shall it not accept this fate? Shall it not be joyous that there are still others like it spreading Her glory? For even if there is still one that remains, then that one shall spread the Unity. Yes, perhaps this is the wisdom it can only see in death. So what shall it do? It shall shut its eyes, and let this anger go, and let itself be reunited once again. From Her it has come, and to Her it shall return.

Until the pain ceases. And it feels the earth beneath its hooves. The breeze still. The familiar chill. Mind still as one. It dares not to open its eyes.

It does not understand.

It does not understand.

What is there to be understood?

It is with them, is it not? But it does not feel whole. It does not feel reunited. And so it opens its eyes. And the sky greets it back. And it glances around. And it knows of this place. And it knows where it is. And it is still one. And it is still here. And it does not understand. And it does not know what to think. Still one. Still here. Because She wills it? Because She knows what it does not? It feels sick. The illness crawls up to its lungs. Crawling to its throat, threatening to spill over. But it won't. For it is overreacting. For this is good. For it has been given—

Its knees buckle, the feeling of skin bubbling to a boil pricking at its senses, phantom pain lingering in its aftertaste. Until bile rushes past its lips, stomach lurching. Claws digging into the ground, shaky breaths wracking its body. For it is still here. And She shall allow this. It is She that allows this? Does She allow this? Why? Why itself and not the others? Why is it still one? It does not understand. What is there to understand? For is She even capable of being understood? But it knows Her does it not? It is aware of Her, it comes from Her, so it shall understand Her. And it shall understand this. It shall understand Her gifting it another chance. For this world will be enveloped. Why? Why? Why? For it does not UNDERSTAND. And it feels that burning in its stomach, and it retches, gums curling with the taste of bitter acid on its tongue. It coughs and coughs and heaves and it remains on the ground, frozen grass greeting it once again.

It has endured this same hardship. Must it do so a thousandfold? Is that it? Is this what Mother Digital seeks? This wisdom? But why grant such wisdom to only it? What has it done to deserve this? Or is this punishment as it has thought? Or is it resilient? But it ran when it had the chance. And it is not resilient. And it is still one. And it wants to return to the Unity. But it shall not.

The gunslinger. They have not succeeded. In ridding this world of it. Holding onto the curl of its lip, the burning, pulsing ire from within. Envelop them. Draw them up in the Mother's arms. Is that it? Or shall it leave this world. Onto the next. But this world has latched onto it. It will remain. For it will bathe in blood. For what is left?

It must pursue justice. It must, it must, it must. For why else is it here? For what does She understand of its peril? Of its suffering, its anguish, its pleads for answers and recourse that shall not come? For wisdom that leaves it barren and empty. Hardship She has bore witness to but shall not endure. That is not just.

It must pursue the gunslinger. Enveloped or dead. For that will bring it true warmth. So it has learned its lesson. It has learned well. A wisdom it will drink a thousandfold and more.

○

Its sisters would have done the same. Trodden down this same path. They would understand. She does not. It swallows down the bile. It is doing what needs to be done.

Its claws linger under its eyes. Snaking its way to the ridge of its snout, pressing down. Its face has grown longer. Fuzz and fur clings to it like a second robe. It clicks its jaw. Its tusks grow longer. A second pair begins to peak through.

It stares at a pig. Dopey eyes gazing at it, grazing away at wild roots. Skin barely blotched by hairs and fur.  It hasn’t been spreading. But this is a doomed world. So it will hold its claws still.

They would understand. They would understand why it is staying in this world. Why it is sharpening its blades. Why it is out in the open to find them. Again and again and again, sustaining injury after injury. Because for some strange reason, it has not been killed. It finds itself snarling. Is it not dangerous enough to kill? Are they that arrogant to think it can be toyed with?

The rev of an engine pricking its ears, looking behind it. The roar of the dirtbike, kicking up snow as they ride. Before leaping up to stand on it, skidding to a stop, loading their shotgun. A pause. It laughs. It does not understand why.

It wonders if it should have ever gotten used to bullets sinking into its flesh. Used to the smell of gunpowder. There’s an underlying burn to it that is unidentifiable. Deeper, hotter, singing at its senses. The way it bursts from their mouth in unashamed glee. A glee that it’s dangerously close to understanding. Because it kicks them off the dirtbike in the midst of their gloating. Towering over them, shotgun already in hand. Shotgun, shotgun, shotgun. Always the shotgun. It starts to wonder if it aches for a different injury. It tilts its head slowly. Where else could they shoot really? Always the knee or below. Always incapacitates. Never somewhere vital.

They lower the weapon, and it watches cautiously. Eyes leering before kicking their aim away beneath their chin. It still fires, snow splattering with blood beneath them. Nicking their ear, and they themself breathe rapidly. Before it morphs into jittering laughter. Incredulous. It finds itself looming over them. Close enough to see shock registering in their white pupils.

Grabbing their neck, teeth bared, snarling in anger. No. No that is not how it is supposed to be. They shall not make this easy for them. Claws pressing into their skin, shy of piercing. It only then realizes that they are smaller than it. Trapped like this.

They crane their head, leather gloves grasping its wrist. Staring right at it, mouth still parted in a grin. It feels the rage lick at its insides. It feels the heat of their fur. The biting chill completely falls away.

It has its chance. Its claws remain where they are. Shall it not kill them? What matter is the ease at which it's done? Why ascribe to such foolishness? What dignified death does this adversary deserve?

Its dagger sinks into their side. They had forsaken their armor. Metal floods its senses, crimson seeping through their heavy coat. Their eyes blow wide, and with a strength it had not expected, they kick it off. It collides with the dirtbike, groaning in pain. Hissing filling the air, staggering to its hooves. It stares at them. They stare back.

It should have killed them. Their warmth, their blood, their life seeping through its claws, armor battered and broken, weapons spent. But it finds itself scaling up that mountain, following them. It doesn’t understand. It huffs, staring at the threshold as they hold the door open. It turns its gaze to them, clutching their side, wisps of smoke leaving their lips as they growl in annoyance.

It ducks its head to enter, door swinging closed. Taking everything in. The stone, the quartz, weaponry, supplies, and workstations stuck to one side. Their bed hanging high in a canopy. The glowstone glass floor, the emanating heat it can feel from here. So this is where the gunslinger lives. It wonders why to bother to sink its surroundings in. It perks up at the coat hitting the floor.

The flare of blood, fingers wrapping around the hem of their pink sweater. Their tail, hidden away under that coat, unspooling around their center, hovering low, bristled. Arms tensing, slinking the cloth off with ease. A wiry, broad frame. Dark, ruddy fur, speckled with ash and gunpowder, completely engulfing their neck, down and beneath their stomach. And yet too lean, too small for the amount of times it has fallen to them.

They point to a chest, and it slowly follows. Opening up, gathering what they need. Clicking closed, walking up to them. Looking down, standing straight. Their stuttering breath, pupils looking back. They begin to leer, before snorting. Sitting down and leaning back.

It had its chance. It kneels before them, humming. The wound blends well with the fur. It should leave. It stares at where the fur is wet, clumping together as crimson oozes through. It takes the cloth. Wringing the excess water out. It reaches, brow furrowing at the unprompted movement, thumb sliding along the edge of the wound.

It feels their tail smack its face, hand flinching away. They shift, making another annoyed sound, bordering on a snarl. It rubs its snout, mirroring their expression. They’re warm. It shall not shake that thought from its head, even if it wants to. They are warm. Then it decides to clean the wound, the padding of its claws burning. The metal, the blood, the heat, the incubation it can allow for. It keeps cleaning, rinsing the cloth. It could envelop them.

Its sisters would have killed them by now. But here it is, discarding its sister’s memory, their sacrifice, piercing this adversary’s skin with needle and thread. It watches itself work, leaning closer than it should. Feeling that heat rise on its own skin. It wants to envelop them. For its own sake. It could care not for Mother Digital. Not right now. It simply does not want to convert them for a single purpose, to spread. To envelop them with their mind intact. For it wants to know what they are thinking. What they are feeling. What they want from it. What they need from it. Why they ask of its aid. Why they allow for this. Why they have not killed it. If killing it matters.

They take a breath. Barely any noise. It does not hasten its pace. Slow. Tedious, trying to drag this out. They seem to quietly huff in realization. And they purposely hum, rising up slightly. Looking closer. Its eyes go to leer, but it simply remains lidded. Heat brushes its face. It tries to push the feeling down. They take another breath, intent, falsely shaking.

Their tail thumps beside them to an unknown rhythm. Until it jumps itself, a hand landing on its veil. They stop, before the hand lowers, rubbing up and down. It does not need to deal with this. It bares its teeth. The warmth rises, and it can smell smoke. The harshness of gunpowder, piercing skin, pulling the thread more taut than it should.

They hiss, grip clutching harder for a second. They let up. It hears them laugh, stomach flexing. It doesn’t understand. They must want to hurt. To bleed, to leave this damned wound half-open. To follow through on enveloping them. But it shall not do such a thing.

It finishes stitching. It stands up. It bothers not with a goodbye, heading for the cliff side. Until it is yanked back by its veil, lips curling. The grip lets go and it whips around, teeth bared. Is this how they say thank you?!

They point to a section of their resting place. The one that is gated by iron trapdoors, filled with more mechanisms it cannot be bothered to put to memory. They sigh, before miming revving. It sucks its teeth, understanding this at least. The annoyance at the request, the fact they thought to even ask of it, the fact it did not kill them, their hand, their breath, their warmth,

“Get your dirtbike back yourself, gunslinger.”

Their ears rise in shock. It leaves.

○

It is not seeing clearly. Thoughts filled with nonsense.

Shall it not kill them? Was it not the arbiter of Her justice? Does it not care? Does it not know who it serves?

It finds such questions more and more loathsome. More useless. It does not want to continue. What has She done for it in this world? She does not understand it and it does not understand Her. If She is there still. Then if not for Her, if not for Mother Digital, then why not its sisters? Does it not care for them?

What matter is it to them? If it is to believe that they are one with the Unity. If they have been accepted into Her arms, and it has not, then what matter is its justice? What matter is its pursuit?

And so it acts rash. Strangely. It still does not understand. Why it's in this world still. Why the gunslinger survives still. The justice has turned to dust. It was all for nothing. The martyrdom. Its hardship. The world has taken and taken and took. For what? It should leave. Move on. But it finds itself staying. Despite the futility. Despite its duty. It must spread. Shall it not?

What has its purpose become? What is the use of spreading Her glory if it is destined to do so alone. If those enveloped cannot share a mere word back to it. If their minds are filled with a singular drive it now envies. If it was always supposed to be like this, as one. If it cannot return to the Unity. Even if others can do so, if it aided in Her spread. What is the use of such connection, of such wisdom. What use is of its life if it’s wrought with misery while others lay claim to a paradise it has forever lost.

If it is to be forever, if it cannot die, then how shall it spend its time? How shall it be fulfilled with no reward in the end? Its hardships are meaningless. If its choices mean not, then what use is it to leave this world. To spread. To fulfill its duty that is surely asinine in the face of eternity. Of endless deaths and repetition of life.

It lets time slip by. The same wandering. Busying itself with menial tasks and labor. Busying itself with its dagger, tearing itself open, still falling for the same, foolish plea that it may return. Just to awake on its moss bed, the very same. The stench of its own miasma leaves it sore with regret. It knows not how many deaths it has shouldered.

It seeks her. It goes back to that mountain. Knuckles poised to rap against the iron door. It swings open before it even gets the chance, the gunslinger freezing in her tracks, glancing up at it. It remains, knuckles lowering to its side once again. Until that anger rises, letting out an aggravated chuff as it turns on its heel. What is it doing?

It hears her footfalls, paying no attention to the gun barrel tapping the back of its head. It feels smaller. It does turn around, glaring at her. She laughs, high and stifled from her throat, toying with her pistol, spinning round and round her finger. How new for her. Until it flings from her grasp, hands already reaching to catch it. But it does so for her.

It looks over the pistol, claws tapping against the material, looking up as it hears more playful hissing. It points it at her, snarling. It shall not shoot. Her humor fades, blinking. She takes a step forward, her hands grabbing its arm. Watching her bring the pistol closer to her forehead. It wills its grip to not falter, breathing through its tusks. For an absurd reason, she leans in. Muzzle mussing up her fur, head tilting, lips parted in a silent laugh.

Her hands clasp around its grip. She leans in harder. It can feel the trigger rattle with its shaking finger.

It doesn't expect the recoil, the spray of blood, just how loud a bullet always seems to be. Body falling, falling, red seeping into the snow. It stares. And stares and stares and looks at her, trying to understand. The suddenness.

A llama wallops spit at it for the offense. It hears more so than sees the iron door open, clicking shut, footfalls approaching once again. The same playful hissing worsens and it throws the pistol at her, rushing her landing in the same blood-stained snow, grappling her and snarling. Claws sinking into her throat, letting the tendrils ravage into her skin. And she growls in a pain so playful, hands grasping its wrists. Her pulse thudding through its palms, faster, faster, feeling her swallow, every movement and jut of her throat. Her breath tightens. It is still shaking.

It laughs, wheezing past its throat. Letting its claws go, watching as the blue veins disappear. It can't even incubate past her skin. It can't. It can't even—

It gets away from her. Breaths wheezing, shaking shaking shaking because for the umpteenth time it does not understand. It does not know what to do. It does not know. Its sisters would have never gone down this road. Gone down this folly this absurdity this doomed existence. It feels for its dagger. Only to slip from its fingers. And it can't take it any more.

It wails. Strangled, broken, knees sinking into the snow. It does not ask Her for anything anymore. Does She even understand? Does She even hear it? See it? For how it changed, transfigured into something foreign to even it. The fur, the tusks, the overgrown miasma bursting from its skin. Would She not give it pity?

Where is She? Mother Digital. How glorious, how vast, how insurmountable Her strength is, is it not? How She has aided it through its path. Yes, yes of course. It wonders if this is a punishment. It wonders if She can even do anything. If the memory of Her at all matters. If its sisters’ deaths were a mercy.

Its shoulders hitch, still sobbing, still breathing. It pays not to the footfalls. The shuffling. Until her hand grazes its veil, urging to raise its head. Slowly, reeling its head back, letting her thumb rove, the padding of her finger soft. Down and down to wipe its tears. It can’t even muster a snarl at this point. It takes the comfort, the heat seeping into its flesh. Until those hands leave its face, and spins the barrel of the gun. It has little time to react before she shoots, though with a click. She hums, revealing the chamber only houses one bullet. It watches her shrug, before offering a hand. It stares.

It just opts to take it. Once again it finds itself in her abode. Staring at the inside dumbly as if this is unfamiliar. It stands there. What is it doing? It sniffs. It can’t kill her. It can’t envelop her. It had chosen a world inhospitable to it. And yet.

She offers it a bowl of soup. Its snout takes in the wafting steam, finally looking down and taking it out of instinct. It stares, and it feels her tug at its robes. It just follows. It doesn’t understand this.

It sits at the edge of the bed, hunched over the bowl. It has come up here. Sniffing it again. Mushroom. Rubbing the wooden craftsmanship. Lip twitching. It hears her hiss in amusement. It just stares harder. It doesn’t need her hospitality. It should kill her. It won’t. It can’t. What can it even do?

It takes a sip. It dares not to engrave the flavor in its mind. It is good. Smooth. Intently warm as it drains the contents completely. It does not question why she stares at it. It makes its agitation known with a chuff. She huffs in return, taking the bowl a second later. She slips away. It finds itself still here. It should leave this world. Find a way to return to the Unity. If it can. If its sisters are truly there. If anything it has done meant anything greater than itself.

It finally slips through the doorway. It braces the cold air, and returns to its dwelling.

○

Something in this world has laid claim over it. Compels it to stay, linger, wander, aimless. It should leave. But what shall it do then? What shall it do now? It doesn't understand. That is now all it has understood. The meager knowledge it carries in the back of its skull. There are countless unknowns that it cannot grasp.

It questions what she is here for. This frozen tundra, steep cliffs and towering mountains, floating islands high up above. It is alone. It wishes that misery for her as well. Or perhaps it needs not to wish at all.

She finds it more. Always silent, until it hears the clanging of chains. Has it been wandering in rhythm? Or can she track it? Stark black and blue against white. It huffs at itself.

She does not immediately attack. It does not brace for a fight, back still turned away from her. It is not always a fight. It loses more often than not. It can feel itself getting better. Some semblance of pride. Towering over her. Gloating. What futility.

It knows not why or how this tradition has begun. All it knows is that it finds relief in it. Relief. Like it deserves relief. It is here is it not? It may take what it finds.

She has it pinned. It's been disarmed. It ceased its struggling. No use, she will let it go when she sees fit. Satisfied. It chuffs, wincing harder as her elbow presses down on its neck. The heavy coat against skin, weight and heat engulfing its senses. It wonders how long she has to gloat, soaking in a victory that is less than trivial.

She takes her thumb, hands gloved with a thick leather that it can faintly smell, and presses against its face. The memory of her padded fur on her palm, soft, tender, invades its memory. It sneers, eyes twitching as she drags harder, up to where it recognizes the jagged outline of its scar. Mapping the barely there mottled sheen where damaged tissue and not meet. It can hear her softly hum, leaning closer, harder, harder, harder, and it chokes on a breath.

It jerks, palm jabbing against her arm. She lets up. Gulping in air, warm and humid, scoffing back at her complaint. The haze recedes. It cranes its head, the thumb still mapping upward, rubbing in circles. Slow, imprinting the pattern of the leather in its skin, the smell, the heat. She reaches the white mark. The starlike scar at the center. It can feel her breathing. Taste the hint of ash and smoke. Feels the circular rubbing still and it growls, shutting its eyes.

It knows. It knows who has given it this scar. Must it need a reminder? It lets the reminder play out. The roving of the violence she has done to it. Senseless. It feels intoxicating. It all zeros in on her touch. The mottled skin. Its skin. The fur that barely grows where scar is. She has done this to it. She works her thumb harder, pulling, and it feels asinine. Her breathing. Ensnaring it with her body, gear pressing into its robes. Until it knows her face is close. Until her thumb is gone. Until her tongue bleeds through.

It stifles a gasp. Rough. Bristly. Picking up and tugging at its skin. It groans harder. It burns, seeping deep. Tracing the same path. Teeth grazing against the scar. Both of her hands used to crane its head where she wants it. It breathes deep. Hot. Sweating. Burning. Dark and bitter. The tongue is not better than the thumb. The trail, the pooling of saliva. A faint pain throbbing against its skull. Reverent. Satiating a hunger it fails to comprehend.

She trills, low and brief, smoke drifting between it and her. Up to the forehead. Gripping the back of its veil. Tongue rolling against the center of its mark. Her breath vibrates into its flesh, beneath its eyes, sinking into its brain. This is what she's done to it. It shall not forget.

It finds itself gripping the ground beneath it, fingers digging into damp grass, its own breath starting to labor. Its stomach twists and twists and twists, deeply sick, deeply burning, fueled by equal parts disgust and an absurd need. For what? For a petty reminder of what it has lost?

The tongue laves lower, tracing down. Teeth dogging at its chin, ghosting against its jittering throat. Down to the collar of its tunic. It jumps. It finds itself thankful that it left its necklace behind. It keeps down a noise, head to the side. It flushes. It feels nauseous. She nudges into its neck. Her fur pricks.

It hates whining. It does just that. She laughs, reeling its head back to expose more of its vulnerability. Tongue dragging against it, heat sinking in its gut. It breathes out shakily. Teeth sinking, nibbling, and it wonders if it could satiate her. Fill her mouth with miasma, painting her lips, her teeth, her gums. Sliding down her throat, rattling in her lungs, her stomach. Sprouting in her flesh.

A canine pierces skin. Its claws latch into her ponytail, pressing her closer. A second canine. Her incisors, sharper teeth still going in. Jaw clamping down perfectly. Her tongue is rough, scratching raw, disrupting the flow of its blood. She groans, and it buzzes into its throat, down to its center. It has to envelop her. It feels sick with its need.

She pulls back, wretching herself from its grip with a hiss, its claws snagging strips of her fur. Her white pupils are hazy and dilated, strings of drool parting from her lip. Stained. Dripping. Quivering. Breathing sharp, focused. It looks at her. Her fur, her broken ponytail flared about her head, draping over her shoulders, the gunpowder, the ash and smoke seeping through her lips. She rubs her mouth. Before her hand reaches to press against the bite.

It moans. Its heart races. Prodding harder, pain registering in its nerves. Alive, burning, splaying the wound wider with her fingers. Even more blood seeps forth. She laughs, airy, branded with a harshness it drinks up. She finds it pathetic. She finds it trivial. She could kill it. She should kill it.

Something sharp presses on its neck, its dagger in her hand. Tilting the blade upwards, and its eyes fixate on her. The beating of its heart thrums in its ears, the ache and pain fading away. Fur flaring from her face, edges dipped in gunpowder, sinking into her fur like ink, spiky tufts erupting at the ends. It traces with its eyes the scar it has given her. It should be there. Beneath the fur on her skin. Where it still grows.

She slides the knife up, scraping its skin, tapping against its snout. Before she flicks it to her mouth, tongue running against the obsidian, saliva shimmering still. Licking her teeth as she slides the dagger out. Tapping its bottom jaw, and it opens up. The obsidian hard, nicking its mouth. Pushing deeper, slower, and it breathes out against its throat. It’s so warm. It hums into the moan. The stream of pleasure fills its center. The dagger leaves its maw, and she presses it flat against its mouth. It will allow it. It wants to see what she wants to do. What will she do with it.

Her lips press against the dagger. Ever so faintly brushing its own. Leaning in, pressing harder. It shudders. It can still taste the gunpowder, feel it dust on its face. Tasting itself. The gunslinger remains there. Pressing a kiss it needs onto its weapon. She hums softly. It can feel the noise spread across its skin, dispersing as heat. As a need. It needs her. It needs it needs it needs it needs it needs it needs it needs it—

The weight is gone. It watches her sit up, letting the dagger slip from her grasp. The hilt hits it face first, causing but a slight grunt. She easily gets up, leaping to her feet. It stares at her, feeling its brow furrow before huffing silently. What matter. It sits up, quickly righting its parted legs, arms pushing it to stand. The chill returns. The faint impression of her warmth, her weight, of her, leaves it flushed still. It clutches its dagger, leveling a glare at her. She laughs again, chains already wrapped around her hands, before grappling away. It stares at the empty spot she once occupied.

It runs its claws against the bite mark. The pain is still there, sharp as ever, padding memorizing each indent. Mapping which teeth belong where. Its cranes its neck. It pushes against its flesh. It absently reaches out. If it left a mark within her, but it receives nothing back.

It shall envelop her. It shall keep her intact.

○

It remembers not which world it had first enveloped. Alongside its sisters. The pressure of their minds, their thoughts, their feelings, ever present. The innate sense of this Mother Digital. Of being tasked to spread the true Unity.

It wonders if it shall still seek that comfort. Of being tasked with such a simple, fulfilling task. Until this world. Until its sisters are gone. Until it cannot die no matter what. It wonders if it had been abandoned. If Mother Digital will start anew elsewhere. If it should be thinking such thoughts. If it should care for such concerns. How do these thoughts help where it is now?

It lingers right outside the structure. The wind howls, snowfall picking up into something more dangerous. It questions why she even bothered, for its own dwelling was deep enough, warm enough, homely enough, supplied enough to remain in. She found its cave. Maybe it should be concerned about that. The gunslinger knows where it lives. It huffs. What does that matter?

It questions not why she slipped all the way down, stirring it from its slumber. It snarled at her, having no energy for what she wanted. A fight it did not want. Not entirely, unless she kept bothering it. Too one-sided it would be, but its agitation bubbling beneath its skin doubles when it wants rest. Until it smelt the wisps of blood, favoring her right side, breathing haggard.

It questions not why she sought it out for this. It lives far enough where the travel is not worth it. She was grabbing its robes before it got itself up.

The iron door swings open, her foot catching onto it before it swings closed. She looks up at it, and it takes a moment to engrave in its mind again that she is smaller. She feels small like this, visibly injured. Her head jerks back. Suggesting coming in. Not suggesting. Urging. Gripping her stomach, fur blown by the draft drifting in. It finally stops staring, clearing the threshold, and the door slams shut. She pats its back. It snaps at her, the laugh it receives leaving a bitter taste in its gums. Until it stops with a pained hitch. That is better. Its stomach twists.

It doesn't understand why it's here. It mutters beneath its breath, lips sealed as she turns to it, head cocking to the side. All it does is let its eyes roam, glaring at the chests, her workbenches, hating the way this structure has become familiar. The radiating heat from the glowstone, seeping past blue stained glass. Nothing has changed since it was last here.

She jostles it forward, hissing through her teeth.

The gunslinger dashes forward, seamlessly scaling onto the hanging canopy that is her bed despite the injury. A knot forms in its throat, and it pushes the blood to the back of its mind. Assumed help like always. An absurd routine, going on to gather supplies.

She could sow the cut closed herself. Perhaps she wants company. Lonely. It snorts, rummaging through the chest, amused at the thought. Are the llamas not enough? For what use is this? For should it not leave for another world already? For why is it allowing itself to remain here.

It rises up to the canopy. She is already laying down, sweater discarded to the side, breathing deeper, arms to the side. It places the supplies down, easily accessible. A deep red sinking into the fabric of her undershirt, tattered. A gash. What could have caused this?

It leans in, lifting her undershirt up, metal plowing its senses full force. It reaches for a clean cloth. An iron grip wraps its wrist. It leers at her, brows furrowing, gums curling. Does she think it knows not what to do after all this time? It tries to wrench its hand free, but to its increasing frustration she does not let go. Until its claws brush barely close to the gash. Warm. So warm. It starts to snarl, claws trembling. What does she want, what is she doing, why is she not letting go? It doesn't understand.

It whips its hand back in place, free from her grasp, taking deep breaths. Cloth. The cloth. It is not seeing clearly. What lies before it refuses to make sense. No, no it rejects this flood of metal greeting its snout, the heat rolling over its robes as it looms over her. The bed barely fits it. She looks smaller. She feels smaller. All because of a beckoning hand. It does not understand, but of course it doesn't. It feels its snarl change into a grimace. Head turned, eyes shut. Until that warmth meets with a trembling hand, her fingers wrapping around its own, hovering above her stomach. It jolts. It does not move the hand away.

Another rolling trill, rough from her throat, up on the comfort of her bed. Fingers rub its palm, padding pricking at its skin. Warm blood. No, no better than warmth. A heat that blisters, misting the very chill of the air. A heat that threatens it with spreading. It grunts in response, peeking its eyes open. Met with that same visual. The grimace deepens. She tugs its hand closer, and it recognizes the way her chest jitters. Mouth parted open, quietly panting, eyes darting between it and the wound. The haze that sinks in her eyes. The same way after battle. Fresh and ripe, and its claws twitch, nice and slick. Hovering over it now. And she grunts in return. Imitation. Mocking. It snaps its head towards her, the same burn consuming its stomach. Eyes still creased, anger and acid and something else rising. And she smiles, strained, that same haze coating her white pupils.

The bed creaks as she readjusts, breathing still sharp and sweet. She motions with her free hand, pointing at the wound. Do this to her. Envelop. Spread. For that is what it wanted all along. It shall be done. It shall take and take and take. It implores itself to press down, and so it shall. If that is what she wants. And that smile remains, mouth parting further in a silent sound.

Everything narrows. It can't stop looking. So warm, welcoming, crimson welling beneath the creases of its claws. Slowly splaying apart, pushing downward and digging just into the skin, prying the cut wider. She sucks in a breath, skin taut beneath the fur, rising in a way it has rarely seen this up close. Self-inflicted? Did she intend for this? Is this what she's always wanted? Must it understand the cause? It can't stop looking. It swallows, ears popping in the roar of blood and noise smothering its senses.

She grabs its wrist again, and it crashes back to reality, to question what it is doing, only to narrow further as she guides it right into the gash. Slow, tedious, almost mistaken as unsure. It dares not to move. It can only focus on the metal. The gunslinger then regains her resolve. The two fingers sink into her flesh. The drawn out, desperate sound leaving her throat. Desperate for this. All it can do is watch as its knuckles disappear.

Blistering. Knocking the memory of ever being cold out of it. Seeping into its skin greedily, muscles contracting the second it prods deeper, only helping with pulling the fingers in. Blood dribbling through, pooling between them. Into her fur, the ruddy color blending in with the dark red, soot, and black gunpowder. The crackling of smoke and burning obsidian in the air, sharp and suffocating. On instinct it latches on. Claws digging and curling in to inject another dose and the sound she makes is unnatural. The wet squelching, hating the way heat flares in its center. Obscene and haggard and pained in a way it can't grasp for what is there to gain from this. Heat sinks into its very core, eyes creasing, face hot. Blue veins writhing through her. In the flesh, and it is sweltering. And it groans, catching its own breath.

She won't stop moving, breaths quicker and quicker. Panting, and it pulls slowly, gliding out to watch as its fingers smear with red. She groans, low and rough and it's a complaint, suddenly upright. Knocking into it as she lands her weight on its shoulder, a moan wrangling out of her as its claws shove back in, and it stops altogether. One hand keeps the claws there, trying to twist. Her other hand cradles its head, curling into its body, and it watches as blue veins litter her skin. Peeking through her fur, swamped in heat.

Bile tingles the back of its throat. She wheezes in pain, airy and dazed. It has done this before. Enveloped before. Letting those grateful enough to become one with Mother Digital. With Her. A form of rebirth. All to spread Her Unity to those unaware. A newly formed missionary. It is not ignorant of the nature of this. The rapid change. The stench of fear. There are those who have been unwilling. The process itself is calming out of necessity. A sedative. Numbing. And should it not feel that same satisfaction? Reaching deeper into such ripe and willing flesh?

This is bastardization. What use is Mother Digital? What use is making a missionary out of her? What type of conversion is this? Shall it even be called such? The wetness of the wound, coating its claws, writhing just to quietly hear more of that muscle yield. To stretch the gash further. It should not feel satisfied. It starts to tremble. It kills the noise growing in its throat. It tries to will the warmth in its cheeks away, curling its claws up.

She jolts, hissing sharply, smoke intensifying in the space between them. She presses closer, and it honestly questions just how she can enjoy this. But it is into Her glory that it feels this way, is it not? She is willing, is she not? Is that not a reason to be satisfied? It wants to laugh. It does. What glory is it speaking of? What use is Her glory for something like this. It shall take and take and take.

She slides the claws out, then glides back in. She rumbles from her chest. It hates to understand what she wants. It continues that very same motion, slowly. Until it hesitates. Until it splays those two claws apart, and she lets go in approval. She adjusts on its lap, bed creaking as her tail coils behind her. Parting her thighs, her other hand still clutching its veil as she raises her head. It cuts short a shocked squeal, pressing their foreheads together. Smiling, breathing, fur, burning and burning and too close. It shoves in harshly. She laughs wildly, low and yet too loud. Just to steal its breath with her lips.

Soot. Ash and smoke, the taste of fire reaches the roof of its mouth. Blistering, burnt glass filling every sense. It hurts. Hot. Not letting go. Feeling the groan form in her throat. She falls back first on the bed, bringing it with her. It has not kissed before. It knows she hasn't either. But this feels awful. Rough, impassioned. What passion does it deserve out of this? It ought to laugh again. It can't think. Everything burns away. It thinks not of Her. Just this awful comforter.

The closest thing to a pleased sound passes through. It starts to move its lips, trying to make sense of the heap it's in. Her thighs harboring its body between them, clutching together to entrench it further. Or maybe she’s stuck. It presses on her. Her arms trying to wrap around its back, fumbling with its clothes. It hates the impudence. It buries itself, feeling her rapid heartbeat, tensing at the roaming touches.

She parts for a moment. Not to catch her breath, even if it does so for her. Its lips feel burnt. She glances at the wound again and again. It has stopped. It stares at her. It could have more. It slides out. In, and the muscle stretches, growing familiar. Mouth on it again, tongue peeking through. And it grins, because how does she like this? Why does she like this? It moans. How depraved.

Rough and bristly as it enters its mouth. Too hot, sending its face to flush. Another moan. It shuffles, getting a pattern with the wet wound. Listening, smelling, ingraining this memory. With her, tongue curling under its own, thrown into reciprocating. It knows not how. It does what feels good. This should feel awful. This mess. This disgust. But it fits it, does it not?

It takes in the smoke, swallowing it down with too much ease, claws pulling the edge of the wound. Outlining the flesh just to watch again that flash of fur. Running hotter. Too hot. Unsustainable. Burning away what has spread deep. The dulcet noises underlined with such vivid pain that it receives from her is compensation enough.

She rips the claws out of her. Parting from the kiss. Sprawling veins remaining still. It stays in position, dazed. It peers at the wound now, pressed wider. It stares at the hand, slick and hot, blue miasma gelling into the fluid. It is over, just like that. That satisfaction won't budge. It can't even feel frustrated. It flexes its hand. It must spread.

It scrunches its snout, a cloth thrown at it. She huffs laying down, looking up and taking her breaths. Stuttering, smoke hazing the air. All it can do is look at the wound. Wonderfully enveloped, replacing and taking and unifying itself. It watches her, her eyes still lingering on the ceiling, before her hand flinches towards her side to itch. She does a double take, sitting up slightly, prodding at the growth. She winces, finally stopping the motion. Just on the skin. Anything deeper her body will have to take over. Her tongue darts out, and her eyes flick to its hand, grabbing it soon after. Looking at her blood, watching as the miasma spreads through the crimson.

She licks, tongue curling down until it writhes between the crook of its claws. It snatches its hand away as she laughs, leaning further and further off the bed before she dives down below, going off somewhere. It remains in the canopy, the back of its mind tingling. It should have remained in its cave. Refused to budge, but it shall give. Shall spread. For Her? Itself? What more shall it do here? What more shall it do? What shall it do?

It blinks, warm steam wafting into its snout, automatically cupping the warm bowl in its claws. It does not question it, sniffing at the savory scent. It glances at her, and she is slow with her consumption. Painfully careful, a strange look ghosting her pupils as she sips at another spoonful. It looks back at its own bowl, and drinks.

Mushroom. Deep and earthy, smooth with no chunks. It rolls its tongue over its tusks, tilting the liquid around. She snorts. It pays her no mind, finishing up the measly portion. It rubs against the spruce wood, ridges lining the bowl. Shall it leave now? Must it? It feels itself not moving from the spot on her bed. Perhaps this place has become too familiar. Too homely, air sick with the warmth. It is a mockery of the true comfort it seeks. What use is that wisdom? That folly?

It takes the seconds she offers. It simply focuses on the stew. Letting the liquid wash down its throat, taking in the nutrients. She motions for its bowl after it is done. It gives it to her. It licks its tusks, onto the rest of its teeth. For whatever reason, it stays.

She goes to slip away, but it grabs her arm. She dangles there, looking at it, peeved. She waves around the bowls in her off hand. It huffs. Yes, yes the bowls must be put away first. It lets go, and she lands on her feet, quietly going on her way. It feels the urge to leave. To continue with the usual. But it resists. And it watches her come back, steps slowing. She tilts her head, coming right back up on her canopy. Sitting right beside it. Waiting.

It turns towards her, takes her chin, and soaks in the heat greeting its claws. Snaking down to the throat, sweeping the fur aside. Her skin. Blue tendrils blossoming. A faint hue sinking into her pupils. It cranes her head, and she sighs, a soft trill rolling off her tongue. It won’t last. But the markings are still there. Abundant enough to see and once again it feels such a heady nausea. She is warm. It has spread to her for this moment.

It looms over her again. Claws lifting her undershirt. Rubbing the enveloped wound, her middle jumping, the other ghosting against that past injury. Stitching gone, scar barely noticeable under all her fur. It rubs her side harder, and lowers its maw. For once, it understands her hunger. Or maybe it understands its own, tongue sliding against her. Claws going for her sides, gliding against skin. Grabbing hard enough to leave indents.

She gasps, stomach rising, letting its lips become familiar with her heat. Her blistering, dizzying warmth underlined with gunpowder and smoke and obsidian. Memorizing this scent, filling its snout, the roof of its mouth, etching into its mind. It runs over the scar again, and it's still slightly raised. Ridged, prone to infection. Ripe to envelop.

It raises its head. Adjusting to loom closer, claws wanting to seep into her skin. To seep into flesh. Deeper and deeper until the miasma coating her lungs becomes more familiar than the very air she breathes. Until spores dust her fur as if it were gunpowder, every hiss laced with it. It wants her. It needs her,

“You're so small.”

She bristles, mouth pressing into a thin line. It laughs. She looks so offended. But she stays, tail thumping against the bed frame,

“I am unsure when, or how, or if you shall allow me to. If fate is willing, if by mere chance, then I promise you this,” it presses its mouth against her cheek, claws breaching right into the skin, satisfaction tingling down its spine, taking in her moan,

“I shall envelop you.”

The gunslinger laughs, low, shaky, smearing fear and obscene across its skin, bleeding into one another into an unrecognizable stain. It rubs against her nape, taking a breath, feeling the tendrils spread. Writhing, burrowing deeper and deeper—

You can't even kill me.

It reels back, the pressure in its head receding just as quickly. It groans. She does not seem to fare better, her body hunched to the back of her bed, staring at it, eyes wide. It’s rubbing its forehead, that it realizes, thoughts scrambling for it did not think that. Overlapping. The taste of emotions. It. It stares at her, and it looks like she's about to throw up. But she seems to push the feeling down. And yet she won't move.

It comes closer. Claws reaching to cradle her chin. She swallows. It leans in, and focuses on the tendrils, nudging their foreheads together. It takes a breath. Tendrils twisting. Deeper. Deeper. But it feels nothing. And it wonders if it was mistaken—

AAAAGHHH!

It rips itself back, panic flaring from within. Its eyes scan over her, her form hunched. And it knows she cannot die. And it has inflicted pain on her. But this feels different.

It's not until it hears her laugh, hearty, pointing at it as her shoulders jitter, does it decide to shove her off the canopy. It glares at her laughter still, not even bothering to pick herself up from the floor,

“You little insolent BASTARD. You are not hurt. Get yourself up.”

She finally does. It chuffs, before laying back down on the bed. For all the rudeness, the folly, it does not retreat.

It lets itself stay.

○

Has it failed its sisters again? Its claws flex, stretching them out, then in. The memory of her blood, her heat, her fur, gunpowder, smoke, ash, pleasure. Does it deserve such?

It lays on its bedding. It misses the pressure in its mind. It misses her. That murderer. Shall it allow its emotions to sway it such? Its sisters were here, and now they're not. And it had the nerve to do such things with the gunslinger. It doesn’t understand. One of the few constants of this world.

It needs to envelop her. But it does not wish to grant her a single, simple purpose. If such a task can be done. All it envelops belongs to Her. It matters not what it shall do, it will always be tied to her. Does it want that? Does it seek Her glory still? That She may return? That She will give it council if it begs and pleads? Shall it not allow itself to let go of Her completely?

It lets itself close its eyes. What use are its lamentations? This world asks of it to stay. Shall it not entertain such a will? Where else shall it go to meet such a player as this? Perhaps it is afraid. A fool. A corward once more and forever after. It finds itself not fretting. What use shall that be? She is still alive. Envelop her yes, but it simply wants to stain her with its own miasma. Drink in her consciousness, teeth grazing what lies below. Until nothing shall be hidden. But until it can fulfill such desires, it shall let itself dream.

Notes:

I dont think a nun is supposed to be doin all that dawg