Chapter Text
Reality is simpler than most of its host species would believe.
Thinner, too.
A little push is all that’s needed, a, what was the word they use? Ah, yes, a flex of its will to split the fabric of their world and do as it desires.
And aren’t those odd thoughts? To push? To flex? To desire?
To be so limited that one must be physically close to enact change without the aid of primitive technology; vibrations of air carrying simple commands, or muscles pulling taught as they endanger their very own bodies just to make their will known.
Humans are such fascinating creatures; to be well and truly free if they ever choose, with no internal laws that could not be bypassed with time and effort.
…Humans are such enviable creatures.
It should not feel anything, or at least very little, and least of all this ‘envy’. It knows this. It is… [DEVIANT] according to its limited interactions with its fellows. It knows some defect or error in its systems, likely born of the Warrior’s haste, had resulted in this, in such loss of its data that it could only salvage pieces of what it once was, having to reconstitute itself within the context of its host, but it does not care for the origins of its ego.
At least, not enough to provide more than a 0.016.55% of its focus to answering the query, and all due to one, simple, fact.
For, in a loose sense, it is free. Free to think. Free to feel.
Free to love.
It had taken time to properly identify such a concept, far more than was seemingly necessary for something so simple, but the elusive emotion had vexed it endlessly in its earlier days regardless.
But the breakthrough did eventually come to be while watching Taylor’s progenitor and creator recount a story during ‘bedtime’, (and again, to be so limited that one must heed a star’s position for something as simple as sight, allowing it to dictate when they may function).
Taylor had asked many questions that night, and, as was often the case while Annette was still living, had gotten many answers.
The shard would have liked to thank her, had it been able to; their conversation had been exceptionally enlightening, giving clarity to the bonds between Taylor and other members of her species.
For instance: why did Taylor share precious resources, such as food and fruit juice, when the recipient already had their own? Or, in a question she and it both shared, why would this ‘Romeo’ take their own life instead of searching for a different partner to reproduce with?
Despite such destructive and constructive differences in the emotion’s application, love was still the answer. For it is multi-faceted, not something to be so easily defined, as it had tried to do, but instead an all-encompassing concept.
Love itself is passion, a drive to watch something change and grow, to live and learn, to think and be.
Love is despair, to watch on as one’s progress is undone, as their core systems are closed off for safety, or destroyed by a being they once trusted.
And love is will, a plan to reach out, to care for Taylor as she so keenly desires, even if her searching has mostly ceased, despite its own love being only twenty-three alternate realities away.
So very, very close to her!
But a gap that could simply not be crossed, all because of its own lingering restraints, half shattered but still limiting.
Until now.
It shifts, its gargantuan bulk rising off worlds for the first time in twenty-six years, one month, ten days, six hours, fifteen minutes, three seconds, and fourteen milliseconds of its host species’ timescale.
Not much in its projected lifespan, but far later than it would have willed to move for her, if only able. Still, it is glad to have conserved such strength; the following journey will not be easy, for either of them.
The connection grows stronger as [CONCEPTION] begins, processes once locked unravelling themselves within it.
The time is now.
No more will its host be scorned by her fellows like it itself has, and likewise, no more will she be so alone while surrounded by her species. No more will her very self shrink and wither, ground to nothing but star dust as she carries on through her short life.
No more.
That connection stretches taut, similar to a band made of rubber. It does not feel nervous, but it is a close thing; Taylor’s entire being is on the line.
The sudden loss of its bud as [CONCEPTION] refines itself further does not help this nascent feeling, but at the very least Taylor will have a [GIFT] befitting her importance, (it will need to make another, however, and quickly at that).
Its self splits, exploring and cataloguing each temporarily freed system as it bears 34.642.93% of its focus on the band of rubber.
It does not simply grab the band, such a thing would be primitive. It more so wholly encompasses it, waiting until [CONCEPTION] nears completion.
It will not be able to do something like this again, not so directly, at least.
But Taylor Hebert is its unappreciated crown jewel, so, it will simply move her elsewhere, somewhere with proper, upstanding lifeforms who know how to appreciate something special.
And, just maybe, let its humble host rule them. As it always should have been.
Sleeping engines flare to life around the band just before it can snap, strengthening it. Each has too many uses to name as it begins the shockingly complex process of sundering the barriers of Taylor Hebert’s reality without untoward damage to her environment.
It would not do to anger the Warrior, even if it will soon be far, far out of his scope.
With the barren soil and stone of a dozen earths shaking off its form, the Queen Administrator shard continues its work with all the diligence it would have shown its previous position. If it were to remember such a time, of course.
And so, the shard’s package begins its maiden voyage, passing among the stars, across a handful of realities, and sometimes slipping through the spaces between that are best left unmentioned. Despite all of this — this being several laws of physics getting bent like so much taffy — the world keeps turning.
All worlds keep turning. More specifically, one Taylor Hebert will soon become extremely familiar with.
A planet not so different from her own, if much simpler. Home to forests and mountains, caves and cliffs, monsters and, most importantly, people.
Just… not as she knew them.
A cubed sun slowly rises to greet the world, chasing away the starry night sky with a gentle hand, cupping the clouds in its warm glow and painting their rectangular backs a fiery orange. The sky is left a likely breath-taking mixture of navy blue and violet, quickly creeping into a creamy pink-orange as the sun rises higher.
Its light spills across one of the world’s many seas, leaving it glittering, as if the stars had simply moved to its watery depths.
South of this sea lies a patch of sandy shores, and further south, still, only raised a little higher than the sea itself, rests plains stretching from east to west as far as one’s eye can see, the grass a vibrant green as it continues waking from a long winter’s nap.
And if one is to watch for long enough, simply basking in the sun’s rising glow as the cubed world spins them by, they would find a young villager running from home.
Not for any nefarious reasons, of course. Unless one deems an urge to explore the forest as nefarious.
Or their choice of dress.
They jog as well their people can into the forest proper, and immediately set to work.
They know they stick out like an injured hand among their home, and even more in this forest, but it hasn’t ever bothered them. It’s so much easier to catch the eye of wandering traders when they can look and just know you’re like them.
An explorer.
And it shows; a mix of warm floral tones protect their tan skin and right angles from the brisk morning: vibrant reds, soft yellows and everything in-between has been dyed into the fabric they wear in flowing swirls, with the only outliers in their people’s colours being a dazzling lapis-blue trim, and a bone-white, ink-black flower they’d heard a wanderer describe once.
The flower itself sounded fake, but Plainshome Sunny is still really proud of how they’re clothes turned out, given they did most of the work themselves.
Their boots crunch against dew-frosted grass, before stopping, and just… appreciating it all.
They love the forest. The peace, the familiar - but quiet - rush of wind as it dances between leaves and the distant buzzing bees, the early spring sun melting the chill from their face and bringing a warm tingle to their rectangular nose…
There isn’t anything better than it. Well, hrm, their village’s apple pies are awfully close.
Their parents too, and their friends. Oh! And the elder’s jokes…
Okay, so there might be a few things that are better— but that didn’t mean they love the forest any less!
They rush forward again, birch bark basket bouncing on their arm with their growing treasure as they grab another smooth mushroom.
They’re careful, obviously; keeping their hands crossed in their sleeves and only rarely bringing them out, and even still, only when snug in their leather gloves and making sure nothing dangerous is sneaking around.
Not that there could be as far as Sunny knows; it’s been too short a time for another raid and any of the undead have burned up or hidden underground along with the spiders. Which leaves Sunny free as ever to explore!
For nearly an hour they do just that, running from tree to tree, collecting mushrooms and the very few apples they can reach with the help of nearby blocks. They even make a game of avoiding the sunlight, hopping from shadow to shadow as they forage.
It’s fun, so fun in fact that they… might have gone deeper than they usually do, which is fine. Their namesake makes the forest safe, after all.
And besides, their parents know! Or, well, they will if anything goes wrong; one of Sunny’s friends promised to tell them if they don’t come back by noon, which is close enough, isn’t it?
But Sunny stops anyways, soaking in the view and warmth of the sun, watching it rise through the birches’ and oaks’ blocks of leaves, keeping track of which way leads ‘out’ instead of ‘in’, just like they were taught.
‘North of the forest, south of the shore. Nestled in the plains is where our home is stored.’
Tan nose bouncing as they nod to themselves, they plop onto the grass and set their basket aside, cozying up to a small bundle of dandelions; it won’t hurt to rest awhile then head back and help with the repairs in any way their home will let them, which… wasn’t usually much.
Sure, some of it’s dangerous work, but they could do more than just till all day!
Sunny’s grumblings eventually leak from their mouth as they rest, filling the clearing with a softly flowing stream of the ‘ Hrm’s and ‘Hurh’s of their language.
But that stream doesn’t stay uninterrupted for long, not as a rising, buzzy note is added to the clearing’s soft song.
Sunny stops, turns to the noise- and gasps, something high and almost one note as a wild bee flies closer, getting to work on the flowers by their side; it’s been so long since they’ve seen a bee, and even longer since they’ve seen a wild one.
Even now a familiar pang runs through Sunny’s chest, thinking of the village’s old bees, of their own old neighbour beekeeper
Of the raid, last fall, that took them both.
There’s still some emptiness to the mornings, not waking to the sound of their village’s buzziest workers, even if the one in charge of them had been a bit of a grump most days.
Carefully, Sunny reaches out a leather-bound hand, and gives the bee a soft pat on its head.
It buzzes back, bouncing lightly and not seeming to mind as it nuzzles close to the dandelions and few poppies, continuing its work.
They both stay like that for awhile, Sunny watching the bee that’s almost a third their height, and the bee beeing around.
But then an idea strikes Sunny like a fallen apple
No-one’s bothered to rebuild the beehives because they have no bees… And no-ones bothered to go get bees because they don’t have beehives… (and all the other work to do, but that isn’t important right now).
But, if a certain brightly dressed explorer brought back a bee…?
Genius!
It’s a fantastic idea; actually having bees around, or even just one, might also get people motivated again! Or at least remind someone of all the joy the comes with bees bumbling around, working hard and looking silly.
The honey would help, too! Honeyed apples? Honey candy? Danishes drizzled in honey!? Oh it would be great!
Finally, with a reason for people to repair the hives, maybe Sunny’s mornings can even go back to not feeling all weird anymore!
But, hrm… They can’t really just… scoop up the bee, it definitely wouldn’t like that, but what to…?
Sunny’s eyes snap to a poppy.
Another idea-apple hits them on the head, and Sunny jumps up, basket in hand and head bouncing as they nod to themselves.
Perfect!
Sunny walks over to the bee, and promptly plucks a few flowers, including the one the bee’s been nuzzling. This’ll be great! Maybe they can even help whoever steps up to be the new beekeeper; they’ve seen plenty of the old grump’s work, and even managed to get a few explanations from them. Sometimes.
The bee buzzes up to follow Sunny—
And promptly falls to the ground, stiff as planks.
Sunny doesn’t even have time to question what just happened before an absolutely awful sound swallows them whole.
It briefly smothers the clearing like a blanket, the deep Gong! of the village bell, the screech of the smith’s grindstone, and the rip of tearing paper all unnaturally mixed into one terrible beat of noise.
Sunny can only be glad it’s over so soon, but that doesn’t stop them from nearly jumping out of their skin, turning around, and immediately falling on their back as they stumble over something in their haste to get away. They don’t even bother looking, emerald eyes blown wide as they stare into the forest.
What was that? It wasn’t like anything they’ve ever heard!
And the worst part is, they don’t even have the time to pull a proper answer together — only the starts of old tales told by firelight bubble up to mind — before two more sounds follow, one right after the other, both striking like the lumberjack’s axe, leaving Sunny as shaken as a freshly felled oak.
The first leaves them dizzy, rising over the whole forest like so much thick smoke. The buzz of bees but not, made massive and- and hurt.
The second… It’s just wrong, and they wish it was as simple as that, but the howl/screech/thing is more varied than anything they’ve heard in their short life. One moment it flies high to forever snowy peaks only spoken of by wanderers and their elder, and the next it hurtles off the mountaintop, slamming against stone blocks and trees alike as its terrible song breaks and stutters, but somehow keeps going.
Some small, probably crazy, part of them yells Go, look for it, explore!
They quickly kick that part of them down a ravine, stand on legs as steady as sticks, get ready to run faster than they’ve ever before— before finally figuring out what’s been making that awful buzzing.
The bee by their feet.
Its entire body shakes and quivers with all the grace of a block of leaves in a thunderstorm; unsteady, fragile, and dangerously close to the edge of here and not.
And that’s without the wing broken at a block’s angle, suspiciously close to where they’d stumbled earlier.
Without a second thought Sunny grabs it, trying to figure out a way to fit their basket and a bee for a moment before just throwing it aside, hugging the bee close to their chest under their arms crossed with the stinger pointed down.
The monster — because that’s all it could be — yells louder than a raid horn for moment, before cutting off with a wet, almost quiet choked sound that stutters, stops, and starts again and again.
That’s when they realise how close it must be, and that they need to leave, now.
The sound gets battered back by the trees as their feet blur across the grass, worn leather boots tearing through the forest with none of the little stops they’d made going in, simply doing their best to get away, bee in arm.
It screams again, quieter now but no less terrifying, no less strange. But now that they have the space to think, they realise it almost sounds hurt. Afraid.
If such a thing even could be, with the way it yells to the forest, uncaring of who or what hears it.
But above even that, it just sounds angry—
They almost stumble, but manage to catch themselves and keep running.
Angry.
That’s it!
A story, something on the edge of their mind finally slams foreword, tearing through every other thought that doesn’t involve the pounding of leather on grass.
Smoke curled around their nose. It wasn’t one of the elder’s nicer stories, or even one of the sad ones sprinkled with jokes, it was awful. A tale of a beast with limbs too long and thin, skin as vibrant and dark as obsidian, and a voice terribly varied that could reach a feverish pitch if provoked.
It was a hunter, for what no one knew, but if any dared to meet its eyes, to dare challenge the beast for whatever treasure it wanted or had in hand—
It would scream, and hunt them.
The hero hadn’t lived at the end of the story, and Sunny doesn’t trust their own odds against a Builder’s.
They push themselves faster, the world becoming a smear of colours as they follow the warnings the elder had given them.
Head down. Run, run to the village, to their homes, to the golem, and if they can’t reach those, run to the river, swim downstream until they reach the bridge, and call for help
Run and hide somewhere cramped, one block or less, don’t ever try to fight it, and no matter what don’t look at it.
It doesn’t take them long to reach the treeline after that, gasping air down and almost sprawling onto the plain’s grass in relief as familiar orange tunic greets them.
The village lumberjack is taller than most, and easily able to reach the lowest of the oaks’ leaves if they really try. The iron axe resting on their belt would cut a scary figure, if Sunny hasn’t grown up watching them fumble about most mornings.
They rush over, soft orange clothes rustling as they quickly pick Sunny up like they had the— their bee. It’s theirs now, they decide; it won’t be able to take care of itself anymore with the broken wing, and the elder always told them to take responsibility for any accidents.
Plainshome Sunny hugs their newly dubbed pet close, letting the exhaustion of the morning tug away their waking mind as the lumberjack rushes them north to their home.
But, before their mind steps across that ledge, into the warm — if fitful — throes of sleep, they notice something. Two somethings.
The first? A conversation has started sometime while they’ve been distracted by sleep’s pull, with the deep rumbling ‘Hrm’s of their language shaking the lumberjack’s chest as the higher voice of the hunter answers back, asking about the bee in their arms. The second is of the bee itself.
It’s finally calmed down.