He was himself, and he had always been himself, and he knew that on an instinctual level that there were others like him, but who were not him. Scent markers, pheromone triggers, wing patterns, quirks on landing and takeoff - all these thing helped him realize where he ended and others began.
There were other ways for him to know, tastes on the air and feelings in his head that uttered imperatives, commands that he obeyed without understanding why. Why, itself, was a thought that was beyond him; he obeyed the Queen, he avoided danger, he followed the swarm which were-him-and-yet-were-not-him, and he was a part of something much larger, but only for a time.
It was only when he swarmed around the others, the barkless ones that were not grubs and yet not ravenous, that he understood that his own self could have a sound. It took him many moons to understand that it was his sound, one that he himself could not make, but it helped him understand more about where he ended and others began. There were other barkless ones, ones who pushed him and shouted loud sounds at him and in some times injured him, but he learned where they began and ended to avoid them, and their sounds made no sense. The big ones were unknown and unknowable, the small ones were friendly and good, and made the good sound for him.
It also usually was a sound followed by free food, so it was worth paying attention to.
The sound - his sound - was repeated, and he raised his antennae up in attention, the scents and chemicals of the air passing over the delicate organ. His compound eyes focused as best they could on the barkless ones, who were hiding behind a jagged rock. He backed up against the wall, his abdomen pressing against the cold, smooth rock, and rocked his body back and forth. The rocking was automatic; he didn’t understand how or why he should warm up his muscles, or stretch, or the build kinetic energy into his legs. He just rocked when anticipating something, because that’s just what he did.
There was another yell, a flash of light, and he dove forward, screaming.
= = =
“GO GET IT BUCKEYE!” Brian yelled as he pulled the trigger on his food truck technical, a single hotdog launched from the weapon barrel at a significant fraction of the speed of sound. Buckeye the moth, wiggling in anticipation and joy, dove forward, his mandibles wide as he bit down furiously on empty air. The hotdog sailed past him, splatting against the wall.
“That’s 37 in a row he’s missed.” Pytor said, making a note on a clipboard as the semi-feral moth turned slowly around to eat the treat that had smushed onto the wall. “Double or nothing he gets the next one.”
“That’s a bet I”ll take.” Brian said as he aimed down his gunsights at Buckeye’s forhead. “He can’t miss this one, he loves chilidogs.”
“[You’ve said that the last 10 times.]” Taffy said, a frown on his dull banana-yellow features as he lifted another cooler of pre-made hotdogs into the back of the truck, opening the side of the white cooler and attaching a conveyor-belt feeding mechanism. “[Are you sure we should be doing this?]”
“Doing what?” Brian said as he pulled the trigger again, Buckeye watching the hotdog sail over his head, right between his antennae and hit the wall once more.
“[Teaching this wild animal to associate us with food?]” Taffy said, watching the weapon cycle in another foil-coated hotdog, the previous foil “casing” wadded up and ejected from a port on the side of the gun. “[Not that this… machine isn’t impressive, but we’re really messing with the wildlife here. It’s going to start thinking these trucks are food, and if it teaches the others-]”
“To be fair to Buckeye, he’s been breaking into our restaurant for decades and it hasn’t spilled out to any other moths.” Brian said, racking the slide to fill the chamber with meaty goodness. “But I think that’s on account of the head damage he got as a grub.”
Taffy paused for a moment before pulling his hood in tightly, turning his body clockwise to look at his human friend at head level. “[No one decided to take him to a wildlife veterinarian?]”
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“Why would we do that?” Brian said, pausing from his game of shoot-your-friend to raise his gun helmet visor and look at Taffy. “My dad said he regained consciousness after a day or so, ate the blanket they wrapped him in, and hung out after that.”
“[It’s a wild animal, even if you’ve partially tamed it.]” Taffy said, uncurling himself and resting his arms on the top of the technical’s driver cab, letting the warm air seep up through the open cab window and against his chest. “[What if it had a family? Or a hive or something that misses him?]”
“Well that’s why we keep throwing the leftovers into the forest out back.” Pytor said, matter-of-factly. “It’s compost if they don’t eat it, and if they do then Buckeye has friends.”
“[There’s no way that’s legal.]” Taffy deadpanned.
“You’d be surprised what’s legal when the cops aren’t around.” Brian said, tilting his head forward to slide the visor back down on his face. “Anyway, our growing boy over here needs his snackums yes he does yes he-“ Brian pulled the trigger and fired a chilidog right at Buckeye’s head, and for the first time in the past hour he animal opened his mouth and caught it mid-flight.
The humans cheered, the Taffy sighed, and Buckeye’s antennae went straight up as he finally understood what the barkless ones were trying to do all this time.
= = = =
The big bright had dimmed when He awoke, his antennae unfurling as consciousness returned. Buckeye tasted the air, his eyes focusing back into clarity as he overcame what could only be called a “food coma” brought to him by his friendly barkless ones. There was a flash of light, and then warm food, and a flash of light, and warm food…
Two free neurons snapped together deep somewhere within Buckeye’s dented skull. With a moth equivalent of a grunt he stood up, his legs wobbling underneath his significantly engorged frame. He felt rounder now, and with his new shape, a new sense of power.
However, with great power comes great responsibility; Buckeye knew this without truly knowing, chemical signals and instincts flooding his brain and giving him purpose. Such a bounty was too much for him alone, and so must be shared with the swarm. With great determination and a significant amount of effort, he spread his wings and gave a mighty flap, launching himself a few inches into the air before immediately falling back on his feet.
Buckeye stood there for a moment, his wings twitching, before attempting flight again, this time spreading his legs a bit wider to give himself more surface area as he leapt up, his wings flapping down as hard as possible.
He made it a whole foot off the ground before crashing back down, his swollen fuzzy abdomen thumping against the cool pavement of the weapons proving ground. Buckeye turned around to look behind him, then completed the revolution to face forward once more, a look of confusion - if moths could express that properly - seeming to flash over his face.
He began to walk back into the forest, every so often giving a half-hearted flap of his wings in an attempt to get skyborn.
= = =
There was a change in the feeling of the night, and this First One’s eyes focused, turning away from the rapture of the night and his first flight. The moth turned himself groundward, his multi-limbed grip on the mushroom “tree” he was perched on making soft squeaks of protest as his clawed feet sunk into the bark. This First One’s antennae swayed in the cool night air, the skies above dim with moonlight to all other creatures but his kin.
That One wasn’t Him. He knew this because of where he began and ended, and sometimes knowing which one was Him and which was not him took a while. This First One was able to identify, immediately, that That One wasn’t him based on a simple fact: The First One had never seen one of him so round before.
His antennae swayed again as he watched That One drag himself along the ground into the sleeping grove, his abdomen leaving a trail in the ground-litter below. Buckeye didn’t seem to be injured, didn’t sway with the blight-sickness, didn’t give off a stench of rot, and so the First One became… curious, for lack of a better term.
With a mighty flap of his wings, the First One launched himself from his perch, lazily dropping to the forest floor with gentle, halting wingbeats. He studied Buckeye as he descended, filtering the air with intent. There was no stench of sickness on him, but there was a stench, a smell that tickled some part of his brain. He needed to know.
Curious antennae leaned forward, trying to make a connection, and returned a chemical signal that closely resembled a heavy groan.
Buckeye unfocused his compound eyes, leaning away from his swarm-mate. He knew without knowing what he must do, but hated the idea of doing it. With a deep inhalation that shuddered his entire body, Buckeye rolled his proboscis out and spread his wings.
With an insectoid grunt he wiggled a bit to the right. Then he lifted alternating legs. Then a wiggle to the left. He turned himself around, slowly, his overfed stomach protesting at the need to move at all, before raising his antennae and tongue to the sky. What was just one audience member turned to two and then a dozen, as Buckeye continued his dance.
There is food. Many food. Small barkless give food. Half a flight west.
The growing swarm watched him with interest, every so often a probing tongue brushing against his abdomen, feelers patting his wings, getting a sense of where Buckeye went, what he had seen. Zesty corndog dust stuck to new antennae, cool ranch dressing licked up by unsuspecting tongues.
There WAS food. MANY food.
Buckeye stopped dancing. He wasn’t sick, not by any means, but he was tired, and with reassuring scents and pats from his antennae he laid down on the forest floor and passed out. The growing swarm around him, however, was of a mixed mind. No Queen demanded fealty, no fires needed to be spread, there was no migration… and food was plentiful anyway, as long as everyone kept to their own business.
But the flavor. The First One licked at his foot before placing it on Buckeye’s abdomen, pulling away an orange dust and putting it absentmindedly into his mouth. It tingled on his tongue, it touched parts of his mouth that he had never known were there. It energized him, it thrilled him - it was something new, something…. Good.
Many food. Only Half a flight west.
The First One, still full enough from his feeding a few days ago, decided it would be good to see what this new dust was, and how it could be eaten, and with a chemical curiosity slowly took to the skies.