Raven's Nest

You finish your shower very quickly and hastily dry your hair. It was short enough now that you didn’t really need to brush it or even style it, so you just hang you towel, get dress and walk out without even glancing at a brush.

However as your day continues…

“Comet I don’t see the problem.” Eclipse grumbles, following behind you without a care in the world when he SHOULD BE WORKING.

You hold your head and sigh, “Just leave it be. It’s not a big deal—,”

“If it’s not a big deal, then allow me to tend to it.” He urges, walking a tad faster to catch up to your side. He slows to keep pace with your gate. “Really dear, having your hair so unkept is unbecoming.”

“Who cares?” You roll your eyes with a huff. Your training boots clicking against the tile floor as you move. Sun had wanted to come down to the training grounds for something.

“I do. Sun does as well as Moon…it’s already bad enough you cut it YOURSELF. But not allowing us to keep it tamed is irresponsible.”

“It is just hair.” You grit your teeth. “And if it bothers you that much, I’ll brush it when I get back.”

“Without me?” Eclipse has the gall to look slightly heart broken. “You used to LOVE having me do your hair! It was our favorite activity!”

“Emphasis on WAS…look.” You stop and turn to face him. He follows suit, his arms all crossed. You drag a hand through your choppy and short locks, “I can only tolerate you so much, alright? Having tea with you, I can do. Daily walks, great! Even letting you drag me to parties and events is enough.”

You shake your head, “But I will NOT let you turn me into THAT girl again. I refuse to be so powerless…”

Eclipse’s mouth tightens in a tense frown. He reaches out a hand, “darling, I never—,”

“So! Stop trying so hard…and just accept it.” You turn and continue your trek, “heaven knows I have…”

Eclipse is left standing there, watching you leave. His hand tightens into a fist and he feels his mana pulse under his metal. Yet he takes a deep breath and turns his stare to some of the portraits on the opposing wall.

He smiles at one. A large painting of your on your ninth birthday.

A small tug pulls his heart. He sighs, “I just want to be there for my little one…is that so wicked?”

With nothing left for him, he turns and heads back to his office. His mind flooding with the ideas of what to do next.

The memories click into place, cascading like shattering glass and the last dredges of foggy sleep are gouged from you like a butcher's knife cleaving meat from bone. Water — the electrolyte water. The one you twisted the cap off and offered. The iridescent light through the burnt trees that caught your attention. Yellows, blacks — the soft tuff of fuzz muted by the ashen soot and the firm, unyielding grip of hands on your arms. Hands that shifted, clawing and twisting into your clothes as they traveled over your side and wrapped around you like a cage. The brush against your temple, the buzz vibrating through your back, the deafening howl of the wind as the ground dropped away beneath you.

The bee hybrids…

Fear spikes, instinctual as the memories burn to the surface. The gasp that tears through your lungs is sharp and short, a knife slicing your throat as your eyes shoot open. Flight is the first and immediate response, your hands scrambling, clawing for purchase — shelter — but all you feel is soft, soft, soft, soft. All that fills your vision are hues of yellow and black. 

You realize the same moment your surroundings start to stir just where you are. 

A vast, open chamber. The walls, which arched in a gentle curve overhead like a ribcage, were a mottled map of ruins. Large patches of bare wood singed black and crumbling glaring and damning clustered near areas where wax, yellowed and disfigured, had melted and dried in bulbous clumps down the wall like tears. A few areas remained untouched, or perhaps already patched, the muted cream hue of fresh wax molded into geometric hexagons lined the wall from the floor to a third up the ceiling on a portion of one wall. The floor of the chamber was spotted, inset with recessions gouged into the floor wherein clusters of hybrids gathered — a subtly shifting pile of blacks and yellows. All around, bee hybrids bustle too and fro: many hovering high above or kneeling as they peel away melted wax and remake the structure anew; others crawl in or out of the recess pits, movements slow and sluggish.

It was within one of these pits you lay, the weight of several arms only now registering as they draped over your hips, your shoulders, another buried in the folds of your shirt and still another loosely wrapped around your ankle. Beneath you lay a bee hybrid, your hands braced against the soft fuzz of their chest that had served as a pillow but moments prior. Panic bubbles to the surface, quick and sharp. 

You shouldn't be here. You can't be here. 

Too close to the hive, too close to the queen. They could kill you, they will kill you. The bee hybrids located in the depths of the forest were tolerable of humans, but only up to a certain point — and Roth made sure to drill into your head the speed at which they moved, the strength they held, the protectiveness for which they bloodied their claws. 

You don't know why those two hybrids from before plucked you from the forest trails, but it doesn't matter now. You need to leave. 

You shift, tense and cautious as you test the hold of the various arms wrapped around you and buried in the folds of your clothes. The claw around your ankle tightens, a faint tug pulling your foot to another hybrid buried in the pile and you feel cold brush of a mandible against your inner ankle. This disturbs the arm of another hybrid that had been loosely draped over the back of your knees, and you feel the claws scrape against the fabric of your pants and settle around the entirety of your calf, encasing it effortlessly. The arm draped over your hip slides shifts, claws digging into the folds of your clothes as the body of another hybrid presses against your side. Beneath you, the soft rhythmic rise and fall of the thorax shifts slightly — a faint vibration thrumming beneath your fingertips that instantly sets you on edge. Not quite a buzz, but not a click, either. Something in-between, a message that perhaps could have been harmless — but as the claws upon you shift and bring more bodies closer, as the brush of antennae and mandibles increases against your limbs, all your bubbling panic can interpret that noise as is something threatening. 

The trembling sets in but you dare not bolt or act too fast, too quick. The bees beneath you are sleeping, though more and more begin to stir as you shake and try to inch your way out of their hold towards the edge of the pit. Your gaze tears from the hybrid beneath you to the edge of safety, where the rough wooden ledge of the recessed pit curves a warm brown against the yellow and black hues that have swallowed you. It happens the moment you shift your weight forward, pulling out of the hold of the hybrid beneath you and tugging on the leg held in the grasp of at least three different hybrids — they wake. 

With a murmur at first, a soft click barely audible. When the hybrid beneath you stirs, a claw dwarfing your outstretched arm as it encircles your bicep — their touch gentle but a hunters trap all the same — your panic spikes. The yelp that tears from your throat is instinctual as you flinch. A mistake. The hybrid beneath you snaps fully awake, brown eyes in black sclera sharp as they pin you, mandibles clicking as they chirrup. All around you, the others stir, their once light touch now sinking in — digging, grasping, caging. The one that had nuzzled against your side now looms at your shoulder, their claws anchored just beneath your ribs where your heart slams against its pitiful cage. 

"Please," the words break upon your lips as they press close, clicking and chittering, caging you with claws too sharp, sharp, sharp. 

The hybrids outside the recessed pit have stopped, their attention turning to you as you shake and tremble and wake the others once sleeping beside you. Workers that had been patching melted and damaged walls cease their rebuild, wide eyes on you as they chitter softly. A few leave their work unfinished, drifting over to the edge of the pit, wings fluttering as they kneel beside the recess and click their mandibles, claws reaching out to brush against the top of your head or snag on your clothes. They swarm around you, white noise clicking and a faint buzzing — claws digging into the folds of your clothes and wrapping around your limbs as you try, and fail, to extricate yourself. Any reach for the edge of the pit is thwarted, claws swallowing your hands whole or firm arms wrapped around your waist to pull you back into a fuzzed thorax. 

"Please," you beg, trembling hands pressing against their black, hard limbs. Your voice cracks, splintering as you shake — it only seems to spur the hybrids on as they press closer, their touch firmer. "Let me go!"

If they understand, they do not show it. Several hybrids press closer, claws sinking deep into your skin and clothes, the faint rumble of their chest rattling around your bones like a death knell. It doesn't matter how much strength you put into your hands, how you shift and toss your weight to break their hold — nothing changes. They pull you closer still, antennae brushing over your head, mandibles clicking in your ears, claws scraping against you. All you hear is their clicking, their chirrups and buzzing — it drowns out your thoughts, your pulse, your rationale. It fills every crack left behind in your panic, thrumming and vibrating at a frequency that makes your head pound. You shouldn't be here, you shouldn't be here, you shouldn't be here—

"Here, here," a voice cuts through the noise, only slightly familiar in its vibration. Claws, firm and unyielding, pull you from the grasp of the other hybrids. You don't realize the tears streaming down your face or the quick, sharp breaths that rattle in your lungs until the swarm falls away. You are swaddled into the arms of a single hybrid, his upper set of arms gently rubbing soothing circles on your back while his lower set hold you close. A faint buzz vibrates in his chest as he mutters to you in broken english, and he doesn't seem to mind the way your hands claw at him as you gasp for breath. "Calm, here," he says as he nuzzles against your temple. Pulled from the suffocating embrace of the others, it is easier now to breathe, but your breath still comes in shallow gasps, your vision still blurry from panic and lack of oxygen. Worse yet, your head pounds, pounds, pounds. It is difficult to cobble together a thought long enough to shape it into something coherent, maybe that is why you fail to react when the hybrid holding you shifts his hold into something more comfortable — cradling you. 

At his feet, the bees still in the cuddle pile shift and stare at you — you feel their gaze boring holes into your back. But before you can shift your attention away from steadying your breathing to them, or even the one holding you, another voice cuts through the soft white noise. "Better, child?" Another hybrid approached the one holding you from behind, a small wooden flask tube in their claws. Their voice, too, sounded oddly familiar. "468, worried — sense fear, hurried."

Your brow furrows, memories struggling to piece together as the hybrid holding you clicks and hisses quietly, their hold on you shifting as the smaller hybrid approached. 468… you heard that number before. It was… the drone, wasn't it? The one you offered water to. The one who flew off in a whirlwind of ash and dust. The one who came back with another, smaller hybrid in tow. One of the two who kidnapped you. 

The blood in your veins chills to ice, your breath stumbling over itself as memories click into place. 468, the drone who cradled you close, tilted his head down towards you as you tensed in his arms, brown eyes narrowing in black sclera as he stares down at you. One of his claws brushes against your cheek lightly, a soft click brushing over his lips and upon his mandibles. 

The worker beside him, the very same one who plucked at your clothes and muttered nonsense in the forest, offered you the small wooden flask in their grasp. "Drink, child. Thirsty — ill, hurt." They do not wait for you to react as they bring the flask up to your lips. 

"Wait, no I—" your words are swallowed as 468 effortlessly captures your hands that tried to push the flask away. The flask is pressed against your mouth, its contents rushing past your lips and you have little choice between choking or swallowing. You sputter, coughing, before you manage to swallow. Water. It's water — chilled and cool. Only after you have swallowed several gulps does 468 release your hands and allow you to push the flask away, coughing slightly still. 

468 trills, one clawed finger brushing the water from your lips. You don't notice the way he looks over his shoulder at the hybrids still nesting in the pit, their attention squarely on you. You do not hear the soft buzz of his wings or the click of his mandibles at them, a message to them that seems to settle them somewhat and the few hybrids that had lingered around the pit slowly drift back towards their abandoned work on the walls. However, their gazes, too warm and sharp, still linger on you. 

The worker in front of you seems to smile, all sharp fangs behind the mandible. They tilt the flask towards you, "More?" 

"No! No, thank you." You cough, flinching away from 468's touch when they try to brush against your cheek and neck again, but trapped in their embrace there is little you can do to truly flee. You shift in their hold, trying to wiggle out of their arms. "I — I need to go. Please just let me go."

468 shifts as you do, his claws easily maneuvering as your wiggle and squirm in his grasp. He keeps you, effortlessly, cradled against his chest, his wings fluttering behind him and the ground far, far beneath you. 

"Go?" The worker repeats the word, as if testing it. 

You press against one of 468's forearms, still trying to climb out of his arms, "Yes! Go, leave." The longer you lingered in or near the hive, the less your chance of survival — or so every hybrid procedural manual warned you. You did not belong here. You had to get out, before whatever strangeness causing them to act this way towards you wore off and their natural, territorial hostility returned. "I have to go, please."

"Ah, yes," the worker smiles widely, one of their claws reaching out to brush your hair as you fuss in 468's hold. You freeze the moment their claws scrape lightly against your scalp, heart in your throat — it would take just a fraction of power for them to pierce through your skull with those sharp, sharp claws. "Go, must. Child remember, good." 

You freeze, still entangled in 468's arms, whose patience seems endless as long as they held you close. Did that… mean they were letting you go? Were they going to guide you out? You frowned, glancing at 468 and then at the hybrids who still lingered nearby near the walls and those who stared up at you from the recess pits. A needling worry pricked at the back of your mind, something unsettling. "I can…. go?" 

The worker nods and places a hand over their chest, "Yes. 573 guide. Together, go." 

That needling feeling pricks and prods but you settle uneasily back into 468's hold, and he trills — pleased. You try, and fail, not to flinch as he nuzzles against the top of your head and adjusts you within his hold once more, both pair of arms cradling you gently yet firmly. His wings flutter, a faint buzz you feel pass from his chest to yours and you try not to squirm out of his hold again — survival instinct a constant itch under your skin. 

573 clicks, seemingly pleased as well, as turns to lead the way out of the chamber with 468 close behind. It seems the option to let you walk on your own never occurred to either of them and, if your failed attempts to break free on your own were any sign, they had little intention of letting you do so even if you managed to successfully communicate. You watch, unnerved, as every bee hybrid in that resting chamber watched the three of you depart, their attention too sharp, too attentive. As 468 turns after leaving the arched entryway, you swear you see several of them step forward as if to follow behind. 

But 468 does not pause, and you are carried out of the chamber and down the halls. You see, nestled in his arms, the various hallways and tunnels of the hive — both on the ground floor and carved out high above you. The walls, similar to the chamber you left, are a mixture of wood, wax, and another substance you do not have a name for. The entry way to several tunnels is barred by charred wood and melted wax, others still are being repaired, and still others are in the process of being freshly carved. Workers busy about, constantly moving and communicating in that white noise chatter you cannot parse. 

But as 468 passes by with you in his arms, they all — inevitably — stop, silent.

The bees flying overhead, fixing tunnels and reshaping wax, all pause mid flight as they tilt their heads down to watch you pass. The workers tending to the burnt wood — carving and peeling to find fresh bark beneath — freeze the moment they catch a glimpse of you. The silence that settles is unnatural and their stares are heavy, heavy, heavy and linger as 468 passes by with you in his arms. You feel their gaze tumbling over his broad shoulders and narrowing upon you. 

At first, you tried to keep track of the path 573 lead you through. You tried, really you did, to map every turn, every twist, ever flutter of wings when the two of them flew up to another level to change tunnels. But as more and more of those stares bore down on you, it became impossible to track. 

The natural light that had illuminated the chambers and tunnels gradually dimmed and once more, that uneasy feeling rolled through you, sinking like tar into your very bones. Something is wrong. Instinct, fear. It spikes in you once more, and 468 bows his head to nuzzle against the top of yours. You try not to flinch, try not squirm or give any reason for him or 573 to react unkindly. Instead you make yourself smaller in his arms, you try to steady the breath already stumbling over itself. 

"Where," you swallow, trying to find your voice, but it still such a small, fragile thing. "Where are we going? Is this this way out?"

573 glances over their shoulder at you, their wings fluttering in a short buzz. "Go, we must. Greet." 

Perhaps if you had kept your mouth shut instead of volunteering to replace James, whose bad knee had been acting up — if you had just nodded along when Roth assigned you to man the station — you would be tucked safely in bed at home. You would fall asleep to the gentle lull of your wind chimes instead of the unsettling constant buzzing of wings. You would be wrapped in blankets and that one quilt gifted to you by Ranger Anne before she retired instead of smothered in black and golden fuzz. 

You would be safe at home, by your definition of the word and not theirs. 

Instead, you opted to cover James' assigned section, the western sweep north of Boulder Creek. Now that the wildfire had been officially extinguished, surveys needed to be conducted, damage assessed, and any stray animals that didn't make it out tended to. Over a hundred and forty acres gone — charred and ashen. Now that clearance had been given, it was time to put boots back to the soil and work. You volunteered, assuring Roth that James was more comfortable with the radios than you were and his knee was still recovering. Roth listened. 

He shouldn't have. 

You had packed your bag, checked the handheld radio, and pocketed a compass before you set off for Boulder Creek. Normal. Routine. Even surrounded by the burnt, charred forest — a hole scorched into your chest as you navigated the ruins — you knew the land. You knew your way around. The sweep shouldn't have given you any issue. 

But it did. 

Because you noticed. Because you stopped. Because you were kind. 

You notice them only by happenstance, a shift in the sunlight through the thin clouds overhead caught on something iredecent and frail — unusual and forlorn framed by the scorched, bare trees that crumbled like weathered tombstones. It pulls your attention and beckons your feet from the path you knew by heart. Only as you near, soot framing your footsteps, do you realize what lay crumpled upon the ashen forest floor. Four arms, covered in fine black hair, curl tightly around a broad chest of golden fuzz and two similarly black legs pulled in close. That black fuzz, so close to fur, covers their hips and sweeps out in banding arcs across the abdomen that protrudes from their lower back. Four gossamer wings shudder ever so faintly on their back. You don't need to see their head, tucked into their arms and pressed into the soil, to know what they are. 

A bee hybrid. 

One that is certainly over double your height, judging by the length of their limbs — which isn't uncommon for the bee hybrids. They tended to be unnervingly tall, all long limbs and stark blacks against bold golden hues with a droning buzz that could split your head open if too many of them got aggitated in a small space. A colony or two were known to reside in the far recesses of the park, nestled into corners of the woods where humans and other hybrids would not bother them. They were a reclusive people. 

As far as you knew, both colonies had been warned when the fire broke out and then urged to leave once it became evident the flames could not be easily contained. The wildfire burned for nearly two months, violent and unquenchable. Had they not left? Had they braved the flames or, like you, had they only just now returned to stand in the wreckage of what remained? 

Worry furrows your brow as you knelt beside the hybrid — close but not close enough to touch with your shorter reach, you know better than to startle a bee hybrid. The soft shifting of soot beneath your boots seems to register to the hybrid, evident in the flinch of their claws across their ribs and the weak buzzing flutter of their wings. They do little else aside from their weak attempt at threatening, however, too weak to otherwise move. 

"Can I help you?" You ask softly, your hands open and flat on the ash covered soil in front of you: unarmed, harmless. 

The hybrid shifts, a twitch of antennae as their gaze, a deep brown nearly lost in black sclera, blurrily tries to narrow on you. The buzzing of their wings falters and picks up, faint but determined — the noise settles like a minor headache at the base of your skull. The black and golden hairs covering their body stand on end, puffing up and making the weakened creature seem even larger. A scowl pulls at their lips, a flash of white fangs visible. 

"Are you hurt?" You ask, your attention drifting from their face down to their torso. Ashen soot covers their body, discoloring the bold black and golden hues, but you do not see any burns. Blood should, likewise, be a rather stark contrast against their coloring but their fuzz could also easily hide it, depending on the severity. You're not an expert on hybrids by any means, but the Rangers did give you a few small pointers on the extremely rare chance you ever encountered the territorial bee hybrid residents. "Do you need anything?" 

The buzzing falters as your gaze drifts away from their face and slowly settles into something just barely softer — still there, vibrating a faint pressure at the back of your skull. But it's subdued, cautious. The hybrid shifts the upper pair of their arms, unwinding them from their torso and bracing against the ground, yet they do not move to sit up. Faint, barely audible — you think you hear a series of soft clicks and the hybrid pauses, as if waiting for something, before they scowl. When they speak, their voice is a raspy, rough thing — a shuddering, vibrating noise as if dragged over a fraying rope, "Drink." 

The single word sinks heavy between you two for a moment before it registers as an actual request. You fumble, reaching instinctively for your pack slung over your shoulder only to pause when your quick movement causes the hybrid to flinch and the buzzing picks up pace once more. "You're thirsty, right?" The hybrid does not answer, but their brow furrows further. It's hard to tell in the black sclera but you feel their gaze drilling a hole into you, unfocused though it may be. "I'm just going to get something out of my pack." 

This time, you make sure your movements are slow and easy, patient enough to allow the weary hybrid to follow the motion. The pack slides from you shoulder and you make a point to keep your gaze on it as you pull out the electrolyte drink you'd brought for your sweep. Pure sugar water would be better, you think — if you remember correctly, at least — but something is better than nothing. As you twist the cap off and place the bottle down on the ground, intent to gently nudge the bottle into the open space between you two, you hear the soft clicks once more. There's a lilt to it, curious and confused. 

You don't know what it means, if anything, so you simply push the bottle forward and retreat. 

The hybrid stares between you and the bottle for a long moment, a single click tumbling from their lips as their brow furrows into something softer. The buzzing dies down as the lower pair of arms unwind and reach for the bottle before they take a long drink. As the last of the electrolytes slips down their throat, the buzzing has stopped entirely, and a sharpness returns to their gaze. They shift, legs drawn in close as their upper pair of arms braces them fully against the ground. Their wings flutter, sweeping up a gentle gust of wind as they rise and stand to full height, his shadow fully swallowing you in its shade. Still clutched in one hand is the bottle, which they hold out to you, mindful claws careful not to puncture the plastic — there's a hint of disgust in the way only the tips of their claws hold it. 

"468, Drone," the hybrid says suddenly, tone even and calm, as if stating a fact. 

Drone… that's what the bees called the males of their species, isn't it? What did the number mean? 

"Thank you. Did you need another one?" You stand slowly, shouldering your pack and taking the bottle from his black claws gently. Your gaze drifts up from his still proffered claw to the golden fuzz of his chest covered in soot before it lifts to his face. Even now he is dwarfs you, his shadow completely encases you in its shade. Yet it is silence that hangs between you, empty of the buzzing from before and instead burdened with his gaze heavy on the crown of your head. 

The hybrid is quiet for a long moment, his head tilting this way and that. Behind him, his wings flutter quietly, but it's his arms that have your attention. Both pair hover, inching closer only to pull back — they drift near the top of your head, linger by your hands, one of them stretches to almost encircle your back as if seeking something. Again, he softly clicks at you, the furrow in his brow deepening when you merely stare up at him. His voice is still that rough tone, a faint vibration in the undercurrent of it, "Hurt?" 

"Oh, are you?" Your pack slips from your shoulder as you rummage through it once more, "I have a first aid kit with me, if you show me—" 

Cold, firm. His claws wrap around your upper arm, stopping you. He clicks and chitters once more, quick and hurried, his brow creased and a frown on his lips. There's something in his gaze you can't quite catch, though it's likely because you're unaccustomed to a bee hybrid's features. There's an edge of frustration to his tone you can read, however — a faint ripple of urgency. His wings flutter behind him, restless, as he tries again in a language you understand, "Lost?"

A flicker of panic nestles in your chest the longer his clawed hand cages your bicep — so easily swallowed in his grasp. You shift your weight, gently testing the strength of his grip, only for his hold to tighten and that flicker of emotion in your chest kindles into something brighter. It's instinctual, the way it vibrates in your lungs and shudders in your throat. A part of you seems to realize, innately, the difference in strength. You bury it, suffocate it beneath logic and reason: you're fine, he's just disorientated, you've followed every rule in the guidebook to make yourself as nonthreatening as possible, plus you should not be anywhere near his Queen. It's fine, you're fine. 

"I'm not lost," you explain, eyes downcast to his hand on your arm. The first words tumbling from your lips tremble a little but as they flow, your voice evens out. You're fine. You're fine. "I'm with the Rangers; we were just surveying the damage from the fire. If you're turned around, you're right by Boulder Creek. The lake is 30 degrees northeast of here." 

More clicks and chitters. The hybrid places a hand near the back of your head and suddenly bows low to lean in. You feel his breath brush against the top of your head, the faint skim of his antennae brushing over you and your heart leaps up to your throat. His firm grip on your arm is the only thing rooting you in place, effortlessly containing the visceral flinch that ran through you. Warnings blare across your mind — safety precautions, distance to keep, their speed, the deadly force of their strength, the sharp gouging edge of their stinger. Partial questions break upon your lips as you try to duck down, away from him but his grip is firm and unrelenting as his head follows — smelling, scenting, searching. 

His claws release you suddenly as he stands back to full height and you do not miss the opportunity to fling yourself away, scrambling until your back slams into the crumbling remnants of a burnt tree. Soot and ash flake off, coating your clothes and dusting your hair, but you pay it no mind as the hybrid stares long and hard at you, motionless save for the faint fluttering twitch of his wings.

You peel your tongue off the roof of your mouth, heart hammering in your chest, "What—" 

He points one clawed hand at you, his voice rough and firm, "Stay." 

Before you can argue, or even demand an explanation, his wings spread wide and kick up a gust strong enough you have to close your eyes against the soot it stirs up from the soil and trees. The bee hybrid flies off in a whirlwind of ash and soot, leaving you coughing and choking on the air left in his wake. You stumble away, eyes watering and throat rough with each cough that rakes through your lungs. Only when you put enough distance between yourself and the spot where you found him does the air settle enough for you to catch your breath. 

What the hell was that about? 

You pull out the only remaining water bottle from your pack and take a few sips before unclipping your handheld radio. When you radio back to the station and inform James to report a dehydrated bee hybrid, his voice is tinged with concern. Were you hurt? Was the hybrid hurt? Were they alone? Any sign of the Queen? You field his questions as honest as you can, leaving out the bee's strange behavior and promise to check in once you finish your sweep. Exhaustion settles in, a faint echo in your bones, as you return your radio back to your pack and sling it over your shoulder. 

Just finish your survey and get through the day. The hybrid was likely just… disorientated and dehydrated from the fire; many of the water reservoirs were damaged or contaminated and the creeks didn't fare much better. He likely hadn't seen a human before and wasn't sure whether you were friend or foe. He was just… confused. 

It's fine. You're fine. 

Before you can take a step forward, the sky overhead darkens and a sound fills your ears — buzzing. Loud. You snap your head up to see it wasn't a cloud overhead but a shadow — two shadows. Your heart sinks down to the soles of your feet, instinct flaring to life once more, the primal urge to flee igniting in your blood. Soot and dirt crunch underfoot as you take a single, instinctive step back, still swallowed in their shadow. With a shrill buzz, they dive down — a blur of black and gold that land with a gust of wind in front and behind you. 

Two of them. 

The bee hybrid before you is slightly slimmer than the drone you’d found, who now lingers nearly pressed against your back, the thrum of his wings passing through his chest and rattling your bones as all four of his hands find purchase on your arms. They both click and chitter at you, the one in front tilting his head to the side and the one behind you bows his head to nuzzle into your hair. Soft buzzing fills the air, needling at the back of your skull. 

You're shaking, shivering — heart in your throat. "I'm sorry, I—" 

— didn't know? Don't understand? 

The words tumble and collapse on your tongue, choking you. Did you make a mistake? Did you offend them? You were trying to help. You gave him something to drink so he could fly home. That's what people did to normal, little bees, right? 

The bee hybrid in front of you chitters and steps closer, claws plucking at the front of your shirt as if trying to grab your attention or pluck strands off it. When they speak, their voice is similar to the drone's, rough and deep with a vibration to it that sounds off to your ears. "Calm, calm," he soothes, the buzzing of his wings softening a fraction as his claws brush against your cheeks. "468 guide us. Safe, child." 

"Please let me go," your voice cracks as you flinch away from the hybrid's touch, cold and uncanny against your flesh. You struggle, dropping your weight and pulling against the drone's grasp, but he curves himself around you even more, his claws digging into delicate skin as his buzzing picks up in fervor. You feel him nuzzle against the crown of your head, his antennae brushing against you. 

You feel the other hybrid's touch again, ghosting over your cheeks and down your throat. "Child, confused." Their claws lightly scrape against your bare flesh, "Fire, hurt. Body, wings — bare, gone." 

A pressure builds at the back of your head as the buzzing increases, the drone's grip shifting to completely embrace you is the only warning you have before he curves himself even closer and presses you against his chest. Ash fills the air once more as the wind kicks up, swept up by the beat of the hybrids' wings, and the ground drops away. The hybrid hovering in front of you presses their palm against your mouth, muffling the scream that tore from your throat when the safety of the ground was torn from you. As the buzzing fills your ears, the pounding in your head swells — darkness, fueled by panic and pressure you are not built to withstand, bleeds into your vision before it swallows you whole.