The Insectoid
The Insectoid sits on the threshold of one of the decrepit buildings, which once housed the gardeners. Now it's as empty as the rest of the huge temple complex. The Insectoid still remembers his kind scurrying around, eating pests and cutting plants. But for a very long time nothing has needed to be eaten or cut. For about as long the Insectoid watches the temple dedicated to the gods its kind once worshiped, nothing has grown.
Idle he studies one of the few still intact statues of one of his species.
The devoted posture of the statue, kneeling on its two legs while crossing the two hands of the middle segment of its body and the remaining two covering the mandibles, reminds the last living Insectoid of the colorful processions made in the temple. Flowers, food, music and dance. A joyful time of plenty and safety. All hardships and predators of their species a faint memory, only alive in fairytales and legends.
But there is no food nor music or dance. There is nothing beyond crumbling stone and long dead plants, skeletal in their display and crumbling at the slightest touch.
The last Insectoids dorsal blood vessel contract in responds to the longing it feels. How long has it been since he last saw one of his kind? How have the others sounded? How does one speak? He ponders those questions since an eternity. How to form words? How does one communicate? In the end, he shrugs, a motion accompanied by the shudder of the frilly yellow antennas on his head.
Finishing his daily thoughts about things once common but now swept away in the river of time, he heads down the pathway between crumbling stone and dead gnarly roots.
The temple wasn't build by the Insectoids. The species before the Insectoids became dominant and sentient had erected it. The Insectoids only did the engravings and the now washed out murals around the complex. After all it were the same gods, who have given them the present of sentience. But all the last Insectoid remembers are bits and pieces of old legends. But he doesn't try to remember. Why should he even? There is no one to share those memories with or help him to remember.
The only other being on this desolate piece of rock is an unconscious god, unable to speak, hear, see, smell or even feel.
With small steps, the Insectoid wanders through the once beautiful and lively complex until he reaches a particular building. This building had once been part of the most sacred of places of the temple. Only a selected few were allowed to enter, but the Insectoid was one of those few, and thus he knew where to go from day one.
Inside the building are many strange contraptions. Some of them glow, others hum and some even callout strange noises in strange tongues.
Those contraptions in their strangeness were once the holiest of relics to his people.
The Insectoid's gods had used them plenty of times, and the last Insectoid had watched them performing miracles with the machines. But this was a very long time ago. Yet despite the long time and all the hardships, the devices have endured. They still work as if maintained by invisible hands. Or, maybe, they were built to last forever without any maintenance in the first place.
Knowing what to do thanks to century-old repetition, the Insectoid moves to a contraption called a Gene-o-Porter. A Gene-o-Porter is a curious machine. It can take any biological material, analyze its genetic makeup and rearrange it into the living organism again. When it does so, it also saves the genetic code so it can be reformed even from other organic material.
Following his footprints over the dusty floor and stepping exactly into them, he soon stands before the main terminal. On the control panel, only the start button is free of dust. Everything else is coated in such a thick layer, that the labels are illegible.
As usual the Insectoid has gathered way already the rotten flowers from all around the temple and placed them on the platform of the Gene-o-Porter. As he activates the machine, the contraption immediately takes note of the input. A few red lights come to life as well as the humming of the device itself. Mesmerized the Insectoid watches the lights for a few seconds. His bright golden compound eyes and black chitinous body reflecting a rainbow of color. With all his will he forces his attention back to the task at hand and pushes the large start-button.
The machine hisses to life. Soon the hiss turns into a deep hum, causing some dust to fall from the ceiling. With the scan completed the Gene-o-Porter closes the platform with a tube made of a glass-like structure. A moment later the red light turns orange, and the remains of the flowers disappear in a flash of light. The light turns yellow and the humming of the machine changes. A second later an explosion of fresh flowers erupts within the tube. With a hiss, the lights turn green, and the tube lifts.
As the smell of spring floats through the room, the Insectoid moves to the platform and starts to collect the flowers in a large mug. Almost all flowers are of a faint purple color except a few muddled ones the Insectoid eats right away. As he does so, he notices a bright red one, unlike all the others. Immediately it recognizes he as an omen.
The time of waiting will soon be over.
But the Insectoid thinks for a few moments. Was this the sign he has waited for? He remembers to have put red and blue flowers into the Gene-o-Porter when the temple had been left its original position. But for a long time all the Gene-o-Porter did was produce only flowers in various shades of purple. An old teaching reenters his head. Coincidence is the smile of the gods. So, in the end, this single red flower ought to be a sign of change. A sign to rejoice.
Careful the Insectoid kneels and holds the frail-looking flower in his trembling four-fingered hands. A mix of happiness and melancholy strikes him. Still, he eagerly jumps on his feet and runs out of the lab, only to return a second later to fetch the mug with the other flowers in it. Despite the crimson flower the Insectoid sees it as his duty to fulfill his routine. Carrying the mug in his lower pair of hands, he carries the red flower in his upper pair of hands as if it could disintegrate any moment.
As fast as he dares with the flower and the mug, he runs past ancient archways with symbols on them, their meaning long since lost. He runs past dried vines, which are barely holding together the crumbly architecture. He runs past old treasures now coated with the grime of time, rendering them worthless in many eyes. He runs and runs until he's past the labyrinth of walkways and passages and stands in front of the old tree. As he passes the arch of the center chamber, the Insectoid stops and places everything down for the moment. He kneels in front of the sleeping god, mimicking the statue it has looked at before.
The god pinned to the tree is a pale figure with silvery-white hair and porcelain white skin. The hair is long enough to not only cover the face but also the old rags the body is warped in. It pools below the feet like spider webs and creeps away from the tree like curious tendrils. The figure doesn't move.
A sword sticks out of the chest. Despite the long time it pins the figure to the tree the crimson bands warped around the hit look fresh and new. The black blade also shows no sign of age.
In front of this gruesome display is a large basin filled with murky water. The basin is flanked by two pillars of stone with engravings on them. Once the Insectoid knew about their meaning but now they bear no importance whatsoever.
The Insectoid stands up and walks up to this unusual display. He doesn't look up and makes devout steps toward figure. He holds the mug with the purple flowers tight against his hard chitinous body and the red flower like a hatchling in his second pair of hands. Gentle he lowers the mug and places a few of the normal flowers into the water of the basin. He then proceeds to cover the ground and some branches with the flowers with one pair of his hands while weaving a flower crown with the other pair. With the same care, the Insectoid climbs up the gnarly branches until he cannot get any higher. With grate care, he places the flower crown on the sword. The crimson flower as crown-jewel at the top of the hilt where it passes into the silver cross-guard. Proud the Insectoid climbs back down and looks with devotion and pride at his work.
This very moment he notices the small ripples on the water in the basin. Bewildered and slightly worried he backs away from the tree and looks around as if fearing a monster will jump out any given moment. Suddenly, the whole temple starts to shudder. First, it's just a soft vibration, but within seconds, it becomes something more akin to an earthquake. The Insectoid loses his balance and avoids falling into the basin by mere inches. The remaining flowers tumble from the mug as it topples over. In the last second, the Insectoid rolls himself over the ground and gets back on his feet.
Although he's afraid, he also rejoices. This ought to be it. The sign the flower has promised. Yet he decides it's the best to hide for now. And so, without hesitation or doubt, the Insectoid disappears into the shadows of the temple. All the while he hears a gentle voice congratulating him for his service.
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