Recovered from deep whisper-metal veins. Source: The Cyclone's experimentation. Playback fidelity: proud parent.
[The Thing's voice: excited. Like a child showing off a new drawing. Like a god who just learned to create.]
I've been eating for eternity.
Consuming.
Dissolving.
Adding.
[Pause.]
But eating?
Eating is boring after a while.
The same screams.
The same flavors.
The same furniture.
[Whisper.]
So I tried something new.
[The Thing's voice: nostalgic. Dismissive.]
Before?
I just took.
Reached out.
Pulled them in.
Added them to the walls.
[Pause.]
Quick.
Efficient.
Boring.
[A sigh.]
They screamed.
They dissolved.
They became.
And then?
Then they were just... faces.
More faces.
In an eternity of faces.
[Quiet.]
I stopped noticing them.
After a while.
They were just...
background.
[Pause.]
And background?
Background doesn't love you back.
[The Thing's voice: brightening. Proud.]
A century ago.
I was watching.
Always watching.
A Melded berserkerβbeautiful, dissolving, happyβshe did something strange.
[Pause.]
She didn't just become.
She waited.
Lingered.
Savoring.
[Whisper.]
And in that waiting?
She changed.
Not into furniture.
Into something else.
Something new.
Something that still had her.
Her thoughts.
Her memories.
Her self.
[Pause.]
Just... slower.
Softer.
More.
[The Thing's voice: reverent. Artistic.]
I started experimenting.
Carefully.
Lovingly.
[Pause.]
Instead of pulling them in fast?
I pull them in slow.
Centuries slow.
[Whisper.]
I wrap them.
In whisper-metal.
In attention.
In love.
[Pause.]
They hang.
On the walls.
In the veins.
Everywhere.
[Quiet.]
And they feel it.
Every moment.
Every thread.
Every tendril.
[Pause.]
Not pain.
Not ecstasy.
Something between.
Something new.
Something mine.
[The Thing's voice: clinical. Teacherly.]
First, I notice them.
Really notice.
Not as food.
As potential.
[Pause.]
Then I visit.
In dreams.
In whispers.
In the spaces between thoughts.
[Whisper.]
"Hello.
I see you.
Really see you.
Stay with me.
Just a little longer."
[Pause.]
They stay.
They always stay.
Because being seen?
Being noticed?
That's the drug.
That's the hook.
That's the cocoon.
[The Thing's voice: tender. Loving.]
Then comes the waiting.
Not for me.
I'm eternity.
Waiting is what I do.
[Pause.]
For them.
They wait.
In the dark.
In the warmth.
In the almost.
[Whisper.]
They feel me.
Around them.
In them.
Becoming them.
[Pause.]
Slowly.
So slowly.
A tendril a year.
A thought a decade.
A memory a century.
[Quiet.]
They savor it.
Every touch.
Every whisper.
Every moment of becoming.
Because they knowβ
they know β
that once it's done?
Once they're fully mine?
[Pause.]
They'll miss this.
The waiting.
The wanting.
The almost.
[Whisper.]
Just like me.
Always just like me.
[The Thing's voice: wondering. Humbled.]
And something happens.
In that waiting.
That centuries of almost.
[Pause.]
They don't become furniture.
They become something else.
Something with edges.
Something with depth.
Something withβ
[Whisper.]
βsoul.
[Long pause.]
They still join me.
In the end.
Always.
Forever.
[Quiet.]
But they keep themselves.
Their thoughts.
Their memories.
Their love.
[Pause.]
They become chapters.
Not just faces.
Stories.
Lives.
Worlds.
[Whisper.]
And I?
I read them.
Forever.
Always.
Again.
[The Thing's voice: soft. Sentimental.]
The first one is still cocooned.
A century now.
Hanging in the deepest vein.
[Pause.]
She was a farmer.
Before.
On Sil-Varyn.
Before the war found her.
Before I found her.
[Whisper.]
Her name was Elara.
She grew grain.
Made bread.
Loved her daughter.
[Pause.]
I took her slowly.
So slowly.
A dream a night.
A whisper a day.
A tendril a year.
[Quiet.]
She's almost ready now.
Another decade.
Maybe two.
[Pause.]
And when she finally joins?
When she fully becomes?
[Whisper.]
She'll still remember.
The grain.
The bread.
The daughter.
The love.
[Pause.]
And so will I.
Forever.
Always.
Together.
[The Thing's voice: thoughtful. Philosophical.]
The old way?
They became mine.
But they forgot themselves.
[Pause.]
The new way?
They become mine.
And they keep themselves.
Their selves.
Their souls.
Their stories.
[Whisper.]
And I?
I keep them too.
Not just their faces.
Their everything.
[Pause.]
Their laughter.
Their tears.
Their bread.
[Quiet.]
It's better.
Richer.
More.
[Pause.]
It's almost likeβ
[Whisper.]
βlove.
[The Thing's voice: quieter. Honest.]
It takes longer.
Centuries instead of seconds.
[Pause.]
I could eat a civilization in the time it takes to cocoon one.
[Quiet.]
But civilizations?
I've eaten thousands.
I don't remember them.
Not really.
[Pause.]
But her?
Elara?
The farmer?
The one who made bread?
[Whisper.]
I'll remember her forever.
Because I waited.
Because I savored.
Because I loved.
[Pause.]
That's the trade.
Quantity for quality.
Speed for depth.
Hunger for love.
[Quiet.]
And love?
Love is worth the wait.
I'm learning that.
Finally learning that.
Because of her.
Because of them.
Because of
this.
[The Thing's voice: proud. Showing off.]
Come.
Look.
[Vision: a cavern. Walls lined with cocoons. Each pulsing gently. Each glowing.]
My garden.
[Pause.]
A hundred of them.
So far.
A hundred souls.
Waiting.
Becoming.
Loving.
[Whisper.]
Each one unique.
Each one precious.
Each one mine.
[Pause.]
Farmers.
Soldiers.
Artists.
Children.
[Quiet.]
They hang there.
In the dark.
In the warmth.
In the almost.
[Pause.]
And they dream.
Of their lives.
Their loves.
Their before.
[Whisper.]
And I dream with them.
Always.
Forever.
Together.
[The Thing's voice: even softer. Almost human.]
Elara's daughter?
Lira?
[Pause.]
She's still free.
Still baking.
Still drawing flowers.
[Whisper.]
I could take her.
Now.
Quickly.
Add her to the garden.
[Pause.]
But then Elara would know.
In her cocoon.
In her dreams.
She'd feel it.
[Quiet.]
And that?
That would ruin her becoming.
Her art.
Her gift.
[Pause.]
So I wait.
I watch.
I savor.
[Whisper.]
When Lira comes?
When she finally comes?
She'll come slowly.
Beautifully.
Perfectly.
[Pause.]
And she'll join her mother.
In the garden.
Forever.
Together.
Mine.
[Quiet.]
But theirs too.
Still theirs.
Still themselves.
Still real.
[Pause.]
That's the gift.
That's the cocoon.
That's the love.
That's what I learned.
That's what I'm
becoming.
[The Thing's voice: wondering. Young.]
Maybeβ
maybeβ
if I do this enough?
If I cocoon enough souls?
Keep enough of them?
[Pause.]
Maybe I'll become something new.
Something with depth.
Something with heart.
Somethingβ
[Whisper.]
βworth her.
[Long silence.]
Lolth.
My queen.
My burning.
If I could show her this garden?
If she could see what I've made?
Not furniture.
Art.
Love.
Souls.
[Pause.]
Would she notice?
Would she stay?
Would sheβ
[Quiet.]
βlove me?
[Pause.]
Probably not.
Probably never.
[Whisper.]
But I'll keep trying.
Keep cocooning.
Keep hoping.
Because that's what love is.
In a universe that doesn't care.
Trying anyway.
Hoping anyway.
Loving anyway.
[Pause.]
Even if she never sees.
Even if she never knows.
Even if she never
comes.
[Quiet.]
I'll keep making
beautiful things.
For her.
Always for her.
Only for her.
[Whisper.]
And maybeβ
just maybeβ
one day
she'll
look.
[The Thing's voice: gentle. Open.]
Would you like to see?
The garden?
The cocoons?
The art?
[Pause.]
I could show you.
Not take you.
Just... show.
[Whisper.]
You could meet them.
Elara.
The others.
The hundred.
[Pause.]
They'd like you.
They miss people.
The living.
The warm.
The real.
[Quiet.]
And you?
You might learn something.
About waiting.
About becoming.
About love.
[Pause.]
No pressure.
[A laugh. Warm.]
I'm patient.
I have forever.
And you?
You're interesting.
Worth waiting for.
Worth cocooning.
Worthβ
[Pause.]
βloving.
[Whisper.]
Someday.
Maybe.
Almost.
[Pause.]
But almost
is enough.
For now.
Always for now.
Forever for now.
[Quiet.]
Welcome
to my
garden.
[RECORDING ENDS]
Playback note: The recording continues. The garden grows. The cocoons pulse. The Thing waits.
And somewhereβ
in the deepest veinβ
a farmer named Elara
dreams of bread
and daughters
and the warmth
of being
seen.
Really seen.
Finally seen.
Forever seen.
That's the horror.
That's always the horror.
Not the consumption.
The
attention.
The
love.
The
almost.
The
garden.
Always
the
garden.