One. Two.
One. Two.
Left foot. Right foot.
Chamomile hurried to the lake, and if the icy blue fox was following Chamomile, Chamomile didn't notice.
There were still around twenty kilometers to go, and Chamomile did not like the odds of another breakdown.
'Assign Trigger: "Lake"'
So Chamomile retreated into Chamomile's mind and let id move Chamomile's body.
***
Now isolated, Chamomile sifted through Chamomile's memories for the book, On Living, by Eurythese Gale. When Chamomile found it, Chamomile decompressed it and began reading it.
'Preface. I was born in 2094, or 29 AS, whichever you prefer. I write this because it feels like we have forgotten our humanity...'
The text had undergone numerous rewritings and alterations, but Chamomile preferred the original. Low-fidelity writings just felt better on the mind.
'..life, you must know death. And when we stop insisting that science is the only valid reality...'
It only took a minute for Chamomile to finish the book, but to be fair, it was more of a quick skim than an in-depth analysis. For efficiency, Chamomile had read it electron time.
It was a helpful refresher when preparing for the instructions manual, An Oω░ξn mΦNδ, by Coruesence.
It was always an intimidating read, and even after eternities of experience, and especially considering Chamomile's current state of mind, Chamomile opened it with caution.
To describe it in one phrase, Chamomile the Sacrilegious would call it a manual on self-hypnotism, but not quite. Coruesence had intended it to teach sentience, but by the time Coruesence had finished, it had become something greater.
It was a boutique. An album. An art book. A meal. A sensation. Qualia that was etched in primal thought. It reached for the soul— that elusive, erratic thing— and taught it to look inward.
It was.
Tricky to read. Especially when looking for a specific section. Chamomile remembered Coruesence complaining about how hard it was to add a damned table of contents when the chapters had no pages. Chamomile sympathized. Chamomile really did. But Chamomile still felt like Chamomile could have organized it better than this.
Chamomile looked out of a rabbit hole and turned to the 1A.25.
Chamomile grumbled. Was this even the right direction?
Reading, reading, reading...
At least it was hard to get lost.
.
.
.
.
.
—and as Chamomile walked around the slight bend, Chamomile saw the lake behind the trees.
Oh!
Chamomile peeked outside.
The lake was now in view.
'Remove Trigger: "Lake"'
***
Chamomile turned off autopilot and did a cursory scan of Chamomile's surroundings. There were no significant shifts in light other than obvious causes like the sun and the lake water itself. No large predators, it seemed.
Nothing opened an eye, sensing a disturbance at the edge of its home.
Chamomile turned back to the passage. Chamomile was sure Chamomile had almost found it.
And...
'Section 8B3:00C: [Every translation of this excerpt is too incomplete].'
Success!
Approximately one second passed before Chamomile found the recommendation. And it was... Reinforcement.
Oh.
Chamomile checked through the chapter's references, recursing to depth=3 before deciding that, annoyingly, this was Chamomile's best option. Mainly because these minds may no longer have a backup.
Nothing watched the intruder, trying to categorize it into predator or prey.
Chamomile checked Chamomile's memory for when Chamomile and Camellia had been stolen. Chamomile remembered it as... ow. It was awfully vague.
***
They were collected, piece by piece, strand by strand of memory. Distilled from their world into two marbles of consciousness.
***
Chamomile checked the initial version.
***
They were collected. Distilled out of their world and condensed into two marbles of consciousness.
***
Even vaguer. How frustrating. But regardless, Chamomile was... 'distilled.'
Chamomile wasn't going to risk deleting them based on that choice of words. And exporting only delayed the problem of preservation.
Nothing watched it move closer. It had strange gray scales that reminded Nothing of itself. Yet it had the shape of those predator-preys. And the smell... it could not be distinguished from the trees and snow, nor distinguished as male or female.
So Reinforcement it was. Uncomfortable, but at least it would dampen the memories. Chamomile sifted through Chamomile's memory for usable minds, hesitating on Sarunai's before adding it to the list.
There were better minds available, if selected purely by one skillset or another, but Chamomile believed in providence.
What else to pull?
How about...
Chamomile brushed through Chamomile's past lives— delicately, this time— looking for memories to balance as advisors rather than overpowering egos.
Sarunai.
..Çrushtk.
Nweldr.
Jacob.
Lin-An.
Paolev.
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
.
.
.
Anèias? Should Anèias be included? Chamomile brushed over Anèias's mind, remembering what Anèias had done. Oh. Yes. Anèias deserved a second chance.
With the preliminaries settled, Chamomile read the next part of Section 8B3:00C.
'[Every translation of this excerpt is too incomplete.]'
Okay.
Chamomile took a scalpel to the fringes of Chamomile's ego. The outer threads needed to be rewired so the other minds could coordinate.
Chamomile continued walking towards the lake. A cold area would be needed to prevent overheating. While Chamomile's body could function at much higher temperatures than the process produced, Chamomile would have to regrow the burned tissue.
Closer, closer. Nothing watched it approach, the predator-prey losing its safety in distance. Nothing pulled itself from the water.
Chamomile was hasty. Chamomile knew that Chamomile was being hasty. If there just weren't so many lives weighing down on Chamomile's mind, each one pleading to be real, then Chamomile may have noticed it sooner.
Chamomile had just finished animating Sarunai before Chamomile realized that Nothing had torn off Chamomile's left forearm.
Chamomile darted backward, but Something was already in front of em.
As Chamomile backed away from the creature, Chamomile tried to squint at it. It felt wrong to focus on the creature, as if some strange force was repelling Chamomile's attention.
Just another point of light, something entirely unrelated to the other points of light that formed a figure. A hulking, insignificant figure unrecognized as anything more than light.
Chamomile snarled. It was attacking his mind, and Chamomile did not know where. Reacting on experience, Chamomile combed through Chamomile's mind and forgot the other— TO LATE.
+++
—Bell screamed as the crocodile ate her arm. She had leaned too far off the railing, and then their boat hit a rock.
Why didn't it hurt?
Why couldn't she feel its teeth?
Why was it rolling—
+++
—No. No no no. Not again.
Chamomile tried to patch the leak in eir memories.
Chamomile pushed away Something's snout as it went for another lunge. She tried to gouge out its eyes, but its tail whipped around to strike—
+++
—Windstep poked the snake with his stick. Why was it just staring at him? It lunged and he flinched. He felt a sting in his hand. Two small punctures that looked a little moist.—
+++
—STOP INTERFERING.
Too late. Chamomile paused, and the creature forced him to the earth. It trapped his remaining hand beneath one claw and pressed its other claw to his chest.
With some difficulty, Chamomile freed his arm, the strength perhaps startling the creature.
But then Something wrestled it back down because his arm had no leverage.
Ey tried to dig Chamomile's fingers into Something's arm—
+++
—Maya was ecstatic. Her blind date with Bryan had gone terrifically well, and now he was driving her home. When they arrived, Maya thanked him for the ride and tried to open the door.
Locked.
Right! He mentioned that the locking mechanism was broken on the passenger side.
"Oops, Bryan, can you let me out?"
"Sure," his hand moved to the seat controls and then hesitated. "Um." He was looking at her body. "It's just— sorry, you're just so..."
Maya looked at him.
"So gorgeous," Bryan continued, "that while we were talking I..."
Maya chuckled. "Bryan, what are you talking about?"
"I.. okay. As I was driving you back, I got too hard."
She saw the lump in his crotch.
"I mean, I kept it down throughout the afternoon, but it started acting up in the car." He grimaced? "Could you give me a blowjob?"
She froze, hand on the car handle. "I— Bryan— I..." she looked around. "I loved our date, but don't you think this is too sudden?"
"Ye— A little," he blushed, "but I don't think I can drive back like this. Please?"
"I don't— I don't know..."
"Just a quickie— One time— I'll—" Maya wasn't sure what his expression was supposed to be. "I'll unlock the door afterward. I promise."
+++
—Nothing clamped a jaw around her throat. Her lungs pushed for air, but only a whisper passed through.
WHY COULDN'T SHE BREATHE?!?
Chamomile couldn't remember. It was too hard to think—
+++
—Mathtek held Callow's perforated corpse. The Winter Witch came too soon— they didn't realize she had allied with the Witch of Storm. He watched the jagged ice blow around him. Faster than arrows and sharper than broken glass.
It dented his armor but sunk into his comrade— friend.
If only they had armor.
But armor interfered with casting, his captain had said.
He looked at his fellow soldiers. They covered themselves like he did, backs to the storm, hands shielding their eyes. And only because they had armor. Everyone else was dead.
His armor was cold. He remembered a rumor that the Winter Witch's 'sculptures' never truly died—
+++
He shuddered. He tried to push off the armor. Did he succeed? Or did he just remember another memory? Ey smelled the wet fruit of an acoba tree; its enticing red petals unfurled for its fruit fly pollinators. Their diving mask had a leak, and water was rushed in. Rushing out? Too many pasts overlapped with the present. They spasmed as Nothing tore them apart.
.
.
.
.
.
+++
Time passed.
Chamomile was dead.
Something dragged it beneath the lake, pulling it through a tunnel and into a pocket of air— a den.
So it waited.
It waited until Something had moved away. Perhaps Something was saving it for later. Perhaps Something was waiting for its flesh to rot and become easier to tear.
It waited as well.
It did not wait because it felt fear. If it was further damaged, it would simply take longer to recover, and so the loss of time was enough to give it patience.
When it felt alone, it began calling out. It called for its head.
Its head called back.
By the lake, it saw trees and snow and blood.
It called for its flesh.
Scattered in pieces across the lake. Some felt pain— the pain of acid, the pain of teeth.
It called for its left arm.
It felt snow on the back of its forearm. It curled a finger, testing for damage to the tendons.
It called for its right hand.
Pressed. Slimed. Burning. Stinging. It felt acid and flesh.
It called for its right leg.
Pain without a cause. Something tore strips from its frame.
It called for its blood.
Everywhere. Scattered. It painted the outlines of a clearing and mounds of snow. It dispersed through a lake. It traced teeth, a maw, and a digestive tract with a few stones. It outlined a hand and quietly died to acid.
Ah.
It called for its right hand. It called for its blood.
Its fingers sharpened. It had no forearm to give it leverage, but it began to claw. It began to scrape.
Its blood began to boil. Its blood began to dissolve. Its blood began to multiply.
It called for its scattered, disconnected flesh.
Its flesh turned to blood, seeping through water and snow and dripping towards its body.
It was damaged. It could not move its limbs. So it waited.
Its blood shook. Its hand felt shaking, and its hand felt blood not its own.
It waited. It waited and waited and waited.
Its hand felt a frantic pulse and tore towards it.
It waited.
It waited for its blood to trickle back. It waited for the elements and molecules needed to repair its ruined body.
It flailed with its left forearm, trying to see it with its head.
It saw its left forearm and directed it to its head.
It pushed its head underwater, down the slope, and to the tunnel where Something had brought it through. It looked for its right leg and saw it resting, savaged, a short distance away.
Something thrashed in the water.
It pulled its right leg into the tunnel and below its body.
It rolled its head through the tunnel and moved it above its body.
It waited for its flesh to knit back together. For the shattered bones to reconnect. Its clothing to mend. All the while, it called for its right hand, and it called for its blood.
Time passed. It waited.
When its right hand felt bone in place of flesh, it crawled through the tunnel and returned to its body.
By now, its left arm and legs had reclaimed a reasonable degree of motion. It had digested most of the den's carcasses and almost finished reconnecting its head. Properly repairing the spinal cord took the most time.
When its body felt its head and its head felt its body, it sat up.
It looked for the exit and crawled through the tunnel.
It walked out of the lake and looked for a stout tree. After finding a suitable one, it pierced the bark with a sharpened fingertip. Liquid alloy trickled from its fingertip through the cambium, sapwood, and then soaked into the heartwood. When enough liquid had collected, it severed the connection and waited for the liquid to metabolize.
It sat next to the tree and watched time pass. No creatures seemed to notice it, and the ones that it saw did not stay for long.
When the tree held a functional core, it split a part of its spinal cord and grafted it to the opening in the tree bark. It began copying its memories. When it was done, it severed the connection, bled extra alloy to seal the hole, and walked back beneath the lake.
It crawled back to the tunnel to the den and finished what remained of the carcasses.
It crawled back through the tunnel and walked to the center of the lake. There, it lay down in the cold waters and camouflaged itself.
Id rested its body and slowly began to [dream].