Die. Respawn. Repeat. - Chapter 61: Feeling Antsy

The portal to the Empty City ripples into existence in front of me, and I note with some relief that the ant is, in fact, still there. They seem barely conscious, and with a small bit of alarm I notice that their Firmament is all haywire — there are flickers of Void still within them, though those traces are small enough that it doesn’t seem to awaken the hunger within me.

I’m not sure what else I expected, I suppose. There isn’t much time left before this area becomes dangerous, so I reach in and drag the ant-person out.

I wonder in the back of my mind if I should stop comparing all these species to various Earth animals. Mari and Tarin have been referring to themselves as crows this whole time; it’s no doubt some feature of the translation function, but it seems a little demeaning.

Not that any of that is the point.

Rotar watches in a mixture of fascination and fear as I drag my so-called prisoner out and carefully lay them down onto the forest floor. There’s a flicker of recognition in his face.

“You know them?” I ask.

“I… no.” Rotar hesitates. “Not really. I recognize the species. A lot of them are used as soldiers for some of the factions in the Cities. They’re kind of, uh… scary. Big and intimidating.”

“What’s their species called?” I ask, not commenting on the ‘big and intimidating’ thing. They’re about the same height and size as I am, and Rotar is on the smaller side for a crow.

“They’re called morphlings,” Rotar says. “They have a few different forms they can change into — it’s part of what makes them so useful as soldiers. They can serve basically any role.”

“Right.” I kneel down next to the morphling. We don’t have any more Phantom Root on hand, though this time the Firmament ravaging within them isn’t the Interface; I assume there won’t be any permanent consequences for this…

But I don’t see a way to fix this. Not without talking directly to the Void. I’ve been avoiding it a bit, I realize. For all that I took it because I was sure I could avoid it controlling me, there’s been a small amount of worry coiling around inside me.

No more of that. Especially if it’s going to pull things like this.

Void.

Intentionally activating the Inspiration feels far different from it activating itself. Instead of being a roaring beast, it’s a small presence within me, reaching out with tiny feelers almost as though it’s curious. Then it withdraws, as though confused, and I realize I haven’t given it a skill to attach to.

Concentrated Power.

Easy enough. I feel Firmament begin to gather in my arms and legs, empowering me slowly. I’d have to hold this skill for hours to make it stronger than my normal Strength skills, though it’s a relatively easy skill to hold — it doesn’t really take any concentration. I imagine I’d be able to keep it on even while asleep.

With the Void, though…

The Inspiration latches almost eagerly on to the skill, threading itself through the pulsing Firmament like it’s a lifeline. I feel the impact almost immediately as the Void begins to draw on the Firmament surrounding me. Concentrated Power is growing almost twice as fast, and that’s without me intentionally drawing Firmament out of anything.

hungry? the Void says it as though it’s a question, although I can feel the hunger from it. tasty.

Glad you’re enjoying the meal, I answer from within. Mostly because I think if I said that out loud it would scare Rotar. Want to tell me what you did to this poor morphling?

I get the distinct impression that the Void is… licking its lips. Not that it has any to lick, but it somehow manages to convey that sensation, along with the stretching sensation of a grin. It’s unpleasant. tasty, it says again, which is about as far away from a useful response as I can imagine. i eat.

That’s… almost a hint. I lean down by the morphling’s body, examining their chitin more closely, and then focus exclusively on my Firmament sense.

Everything inside the morphling’s body is chaos. It’s hard to make out exactly what’s happening, but it’s similar to what was happening to Tarin — so much so that I wonder if the Void learned from it, somehow. There’s almost nothing I can make out of what’s happening in there.

I let my senses narrow further, focusing on just the Firmament in the morphling’s head, then their antennae, and then just a single point on the tip of an antennae. It’s only then that I can even catch a glimpse of what’s happening.

No wonder the Void is so satisfied and docile. I get the impression that it’s purring, almost, even as it lends me its power. There’s barely any strain on my Firmament.

It’s still feasting.

There are tiny pieces of Void Firmament left stuck within the morphling, and they’ve manifested — for lack of a better term — tiny mouths, latching on in an almost parasitic way to the morphling’s Firmament. It’s fighting like an immune response, bucking and twisting to try to throw off the Void, but it only works in bits and pieces. I can’t imagine how this feels.

Enough. Inner voice or not, it’s cold and angry, and I feel the way the Void stills in response to me. Let them go.

hungry, it tries to say, defiant.

It’s strange. I can’t sense how that Firmament is being transferred to me or to the Void. I can sense that it’s being consumed, but I don’t sense any equivalent growth in my own strength — which makes sense, since I’m not the only user of this Inspiration — nor do I sense that Firmament being sent anywhere.

I’ll feed you later, I say, electing not to argue for the moment. Let it go now.

The last word rings with Firmament emphasis. I feel a drop of my Firmament being swallowed up by the Void, as though it’s trying to defy me — but just as soon as it swallows that piece of my Firmament, it shudders strangely within me, and I feel it pulling back.

…more later, it says.

Is that all it wants? A piece of my Firmament?

I don’t care about why in the moment. I just need it to stop doing whatever it’s doing to the morphling. Fine.

hand, the Void instructs, and I reach out to press my hand against the morphling’s shoulder, sensing the intent behind the instruction. The chitin feels warm against my fingers. I can almost feel the pulse of blood beneath, which makes this rank up there amongst the strangest things I’ve experienced since coming to Hestia.

The Void reaches out, tiny tendrils through my fingers, and dives deep. The morphling’s body lurches — Rotar hurries over to try to keep them still, and Ahkelios helps, extending a small net of his borrowed Firmament over the morphling’s limbs to keep them down.

I wince in sympathy. From what I’m sensing, this seems… uncomfortable.

The Void entwines itself through every fragment of the morphling’s being, and all the fragments of Void Firmament left stuck within it attach itself to the tendrils. I wonder, briefly, if it could have done something similar to help Tarin — but the Interface is a whole degree of power higher, and the Firmament here is being cooperative. It only takes a minute or two before all the Firmament is completely extracted.

I deactivate the Inspiration, though I leave Concentrated Power running. Just in case.

“They should wake up soon,” I say, although I’m not exactly certain about it. The morphling’s Firmament is settling, but it looks damaged. Whether that damage is so extensive that they can’t wake up…

They begin to stir, and I wipe the thought from my head, stepping in front of Rotar just in case. I’m sympathetic about them being puppeted around by a Voidsuit, but I still don’t know who they are.

…And they barely seem to, either.

When the morphling wakes up, they look around for a bit, as though lost; they don’t move to attack, though I keep my center of gravity low and my arms ready to defend. I can’t help the pang of sympathy I feel, though.

I recognize that look, even across species. It’s the look of someone with nowhere to go.

“Please,” the morphling says. Their voice comes through the Interface with a slight accent, though I can’t place where it’s from. As large as they are, the tone that emerges is gentle and soft and airy, in sharp contrast with their otherwise intimidating frame. “I want to go home.”

“Where is that?” I ask. I try to keep my voice low, more out of instinct than anything else. Like I don’t want to frighten them. It’s their posture, the way they hunch in on themselves like they’re trying to protect themselves from the world.

I recognize that, too.

“Up,” the morphling says simply. They look up at the sky, and I see the look of crushing disappointment on their face when they see nothing there. “…Gone, now. Our home. Broken.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

The morphling slowly gets up, pulling themselves to their feet and staring gingerly at their own four hands. They flex them slowly, clenching them into fists and then relaxing them again, as though wondering at having control over their own bodies once more.

“I remember,” they say, softly. There’s a lot of meaning buried in those two words — a lot of anger, though that anger doesn’t seem directed at me. “It has been so long. Thank you. I owe you a debt greater than you could ever know.”

“I think I also almost killed you, so it sort of evens out,” I say dryly, mostly because I don’t know what else to say in the face of such genuine gratitude. I mean, what am I supposed to do, say you’re welcome? That seems… insufficient, somehow. And ‘no problem’ is even worse.

“I would have preferred death to an eternity in that cage.” The morphling is still barely looking at me, but they finally do, and they seem briefly taken aback. “I do not recognize your species… You are someone new? A Trialgoer?”

“Why does everyone figure it out instantly?” I ask. It’s a rhetorical question; evidently, as many species as there are on Hestia, humans are still distinct enough that they’re immediately recognized as foreign, and apparently there’s only one source of foreign species here.

“You are different,” the morphling says simply, confirming my suspicions. “It is enough. And your friend…”

“Rotar,” Rotar supplies.

“Ahkelios!” the mantis says, perched atop my head. The morphling blinks slowly — this is the first obviously non-ant anatomy I see, with the way their eyelids close horizontally across large compound eyes.

“I am they who are called K’hkeri,” the morphling says, sweeping into a slight bow. “You are…”

“Ethan,” I say, wondering how I’d ended up being the last one to introduce myself.

“Yes.” K’hkeri — whose name trips across my tongue when I try to pronounce it, even mentally — tilts their head slightly. “Your friend. He is… a crow?”

“Is that actually the species name?” I ask, because I’ve never asked before. Tarin and Mari have openly referred to themselves as crows, though.

“Interface translations can be inconsistent,” Rotar supplies. “I don’t know what you’re hearing, but we hear the word we use for our species.”

Sure, I’ll blame the Interface for it. Better than admitting I’ve been calling them an Earth animal. “Makes sense.”

K’hkeri, before I can say anything else, bows a deep bow to Rotar. “I am sorry for what we have done to your people,” the morphling says. “I want it to be known that what we did, we did not do by choice.”

Rotar looks taken aback. “I… I know that,” he says, though he sounds off-balance. I notice now a faint trembling fading out of him, and wonder if he’s been afraid but hiding this entire time. “It’s the fault of the Cities. Not anything you did.”

“And yet, we bear the weight of it,” K’hkeri says.

There’s evidently a lot of context that I’m missing here. I see the way K’hkeri looks at Rotar, and watch as something invisible passes between them; acknowledgement of past crimes forgotten, perhaps, or something along those lines. I’m curious, but I have more pressing questions.

“Why were you after Rotar?” I ask.

K’hkeri stills. “It was an order,” they say, no small amount of disgust suddenly evident in their eyes. “An order from the Serpents. I cannot speak with certainty about their goals, but they wish for the power of the Interface for themselves.”

“My research team was heavily involved in Interface research,” Rotar says, looking away. It puts into context the way he’d spoken earlier about wishing he’d been chosen for the Trials.

“You used to be one of them,” I say, making the connections; I could be wrong, but I see the way Rotar sags, and I know that I’m not.

I’m sympathetic, I think. I’m no stranger to past choices weighing on you, and this one might be worse than most, based on the context.

“Also, I really need someone to explain to me what’s going on,” I add.