MATRIARCH

Roger registered the alarmed shouting of his companions only dimly as the ground suddenly gave beneath him and he was dragged down, dropping his rifle to clutch at the snow covered ground briefly before it disappeared.

He struggled to disentangle himself from the bone-like mass as he was pulled from the surface and into the warmer, denser open air of a larger cavern buried beneath. He had never been exceptionally susceptible to panic, having been exposed to the harsh reality of life in the wasteland from an early age- he had always been practical about his survival, and fairly confident in his ability to avoid or defend from hostile interactions, but this.. There was nothing to prepare him for it. 

As he was deposited without ceremony before the immense being occupying this grotesque chamber of living flesh, a deep sense of foreboding had already consumed him- he felt a visceral desire to flee, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the monstrous demigod looking down on him with a pale, impassive gaze. His better judgement, however, warned against caving to instinct and he chose instead to push himself slowly from the ground, crouching there tensely.

This creature- though far removed from any semblance of humanity, it–she?–appeared remarkably humanoid.. And could have just as easily killed as captured him, though in itself, that wasn’t much of a comfort. He was well aware of the various powers in the wastes that operated purely on the desire to take and twist the DNA of human subjects into any number of grim and impossible distortions. But it did leave open the idea that peaceable communication of some kind was yet possible.

There’s no doubt he’s a soldier.

Mother can sense it, smell it, in every element of his body language. He crouches closely to the floor, mirroring the stance of the men she once saw in the old Anchorage newsreels. If he still had his rifle, it would no doubt be pointed at her. The sweat on his skin leaves a pungent smell in the air-- her air.

For a moment, they share silence, each one eyeing the other. Then, Mother speaks, a voice like honey radiating through her chamber:

The expression on Robert House’s face is nothing short of dumbstruck. He clearly didn’t expect Dr. Lacuna to waste her glass of vintage wine by throwing it in his face. It drips onto his shirt and jacket, leaving stains that she doubts will ever come out, and while she knows that the bastard will just buy new clothes...

The boy’s name is Hank. She has him brought to her chamber first. The skin beneath his eyes is puffy, swollen, and snot dribbles from his nose in twin streams. He is soaked. He is afraid.

“We do not intend to hurt you,” Mother says to him, in a voice as soft and sweet as honey, and she wants it to be true. She wants it so desperately to be as painless as possible for him. She cannot bear the thought of a child in pain. “Have you ever seen a caterpillar turn into a butterfly?”

He nods, wiping the snot away with the back of his sleeves. Mother smiles gently. She used to scold Lilith for the same habit, many centuries ago.

It is October 23rd, 2077.

In the dim emergency lighting of the cradle, Maria presses the electrodes to her head tightly. Her colleagues at CIT told her that she wouldn’t feel a thing. It’s true-- and that’s what concerns her the most. She has no idea of whether or not this is actually accomplishing anything. The seconds pass to minutes, then hours, and all she can do is watch the little monochrome progress bar on the terminal inch forward.

Tick, tock.

Digesting this information only proved to raise more questions than answers. Convert? What exactly did she mean by that? Was it a forced process? Nonetheless, she understood what she meant; radiation has caused havoc across the wasteland and things are… diversifying at an alarming rate.

“Seems like the majority of them fell back into a….paleolithic mindset… without the stability of a state… it’s everybody out for themselves…to them you’re just another enemy out for their resources.” Then silence. The lack of movement made it seem like she had turned into a statue but she had just lost herself in thought again. Albeit the perception was negative, it was something that was drilled into her for the longest time. Her concerns lay more within a planetary scale; for the majority of her life she believed complex life was wiped out and nothing was left besides simple creatures.

“Perhaps there is another way.”

She’s not wrong, Mother notes internally, although she thinks that the gynoid is not giving the human race entirely enough credit. Both the Dead Hand and the Gold Estate have been particular thorns in her sides; she would hardly call them paleolithic, although they are certainly as brutal as early man.

The lips at the synthetic’s side purse. Another way? She’s open to suggestions-- although her pride bristles at the thought of accepting any kind of help.

Sam bristled a little at the confirmation of his suspicions, but knew that he stood zero chance of coming out on top of a fight with this being. He certainly wasn’t under equipped, but his regular quarry was usually more his own size.

“Yeah, kinda figured as much,” he sighed and cradled his gun in his arms. “Davy told me a little bit about where not to go wandering, guess I got distracted by the weird show the sky was putting on.” Despite the unsettling atmosphere he had found himself in, Sam nodded as his host spoke. “Dead Hand sounds familiar, can’t say the same for the Tsar and Cossacks though… but they’re human, right?” 

Sam relaxed a bit and threw a thoughtful glance down at his weapon. A faint grin tugged at his cheeks as he rubbed the receiver with a gloved thumb.

“Seems there’s a bit of hunting folks goin’ around in this land, but I’m no stranger to that game. Still, I appreciate your help.” He paused a moment before looking back at the lips dangling from the ceiling. “Is there… more of you?” 

The question elicits an amused chuckle, rich and throaty, from the pair of lips. They’re smiling.

“Yes,” she answers. “Much more. Miles and miles of my body stretched upon this earth like a canvas wrap. What you see is just an extension of me, no more the whole of my parts than your trigger finger is the whole of you.”

The cavern seems to flex around him, growing smaller and larger in a gentle, rhythmic cycle. She’s smelling him, trying to get a hint of where he’s been in the frontier so far.

bold what applies.

I. THE FAIRY.  chipped nail polish.  glitter highlight.  tall trees with smooth bark.  tangled hair. the taste of cinnamon sugar.  talking too loud and too fast.  overgrown flowers in your hair. crumbling buildings reclaimed by nature.  flirting.  walking home at 3am with no coat.  platonic hand-holding. blowing smoke out of your nose.  dragonfly wings.  chaotic good. freckles.  fairy rings.  secret meetings.  gender nonconformity.  leather.  smudged eyeliner.  forbidden fruit.

II. THE REAPER.  computer errors.  a shiver down your spine.  haunting beauty.  hard liquor.  crowns of thorns.  shadowed alleyways.  decaying plant matter.  shattered mirrors and broken glass.  corrupted memories.  stopped clocks.  the scent of stale cigarettes.  tattered black hoodies.  walking your friends home.  the crescent moon.  the sea.  a graveyard on a foggy day.  cold rings on cold fingers.  absolution.  looking out the window of an airplane.  soft kisses.

III. THE WITCH.  graffiti.  pretending to know what you’re doing.  worn paperback books. growing up too fast.  parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.  lace and combat boots.  moth wings.  candles on every surface.  a weathered deck of cards.  turning the music up.  fireflies in jars.  calloused fingers.  drawing on your skin.  sunlight filtering through clouds.  petrichor.  a dying rose in a jar.  wearing a crystal pendant.  illusions and spells.  black cats.  mint gum. chapped lips.  dirt under your fingernails. the cycle of life and death.

IV. THE WOLF.  murders of crows.  frost-bitten leaves.  wolves howling at midnight.  knocking on your door.  leaving food out for stray animals.  the twang of an acoustic guitar.  honey.  tiny red buds on trees.  claw marks on the walls.  golden eyes.  slightly too long stubble.  sharp canines.  soft, thick fur.  hunger.  a small cottage in the middle of the woods.  knitted fingerless gloves.  sleeping on the forest floor.  always finding your way back home.