Hyding Love

November 21

It’s a funny world we live in. But I find that it’s how the world is perceived that makes it truly hilarious. Like how hate is considered so much more powerful than love simply for being more openly destructive, and yet no one questions getting in-between, say, a mother and her bear cub as an act of love, even if they do tend to pad the word with maternal instinct.

Though there is something to be said of the baseness of animal intelligence. No one, however, questions the love of any competent father over his only daughter, as many a local boy could tell you of the death glares they’ve received from daring to let their eyes linger on his precious gem.

Even something less powerful, like lust, has been noted to have been the cause of great wars and countless deaths of those who did not love the prize, and even lost their own love in turn for another’s.

There are countless forms of love, each with a varying level of power behind it, making even the most pathetically pacifistic person go out and better themselves to reach their goal in some way, shape, or form. Always striving, always adaptable, it has a way of broadening one’s senses, something that is done only to sparingly outside of love, and usually leaves one a babbling moron or just bullheaded. But when it comes down to it, love is the most powerful and destructive force in existence, or, at least that’s my uniquely insane perspective on things. Maybe that’s why I was ripped away from my home. It’s as good as any other of those disgusting internet rumors or theories.

… I’m feeling sad now, so I’m going to stop the entry.

***

Looking up I stare out into ocean of sand, the wind sweeping the fine white grains in shimmering waves as the more crystalline bits catch the glare of the full moon. I clutch the journal that now read “Property of: not YOU, so put it the hell down” on the back of the cover. It just didn’t seem worthwhile to mention my name, all things considered. Like being stranded a hollowed out mesa on a different universe’s planet for one, and some echoing paranoia at what my life has become for another.

Sitting on the only outcrop above the shifting waves of desert, of which I had found to be quite literal once I’d found the path down from the “roof” of the hollowed mesa I’d found myself on. I took one step and it went through with a puff of dirt directly into my eye, causing me to flail and fall in. Luckily, (I hate that word), I landed on my back, having twisted slightly as I fell and was able to paddle my way back onto stable land and now filled entirely with sand in every place I could imagine. And that little discovery only happened once I figured out where I was, or at least where I thought I might be after having stepped into a bloody puddle of water that went on for near eternity, only to wake up, prone, sputtering into a bone dry cave with the dried carcasses of what I could only surmise, after a good deal of screaming in fear and disorientation, as changelings. Dead desiccated corpses, though they held their shape much like they were still living, it wasn’t until I tripped over one in my haste and it broke apart with a crackling crunch, but rather than having my leg once again coated with another form of dust it was instead coated with whatever organic filth consisted of the creatures insides. Even better, it stuck to my pants, of which there was still sand stuck to, as much as conditions would allow. Maybe if I were more comfortable with myself I might have gone nude, but I’m not, and there were others around anyway.

Getting up, I leave the ledge above the twisting path down to the white sand sea, and I walk over the polished surface of the mesa to the hole in the ground which serves as a long curving spiral into the heart of the mountain. The novelty of the strange partially melted and bent rocks of the tunnel had yet to wear off. I assumed it was an acid of some sort, but it didn’t matter to me beyond the point of it, much like the ledge pathway, looks kind of cool.

“Hey Ralph,” I say to the crushed changeling by the door as my harsh whisper leeches across the high ceiling webbed with twisting stalactites with small alcoves lining them. As expected, no answer. I move to the supply closet, which seems to be the only thing that wasn’t absolutely ravaged by whatever happened here and try to make myself comfortable on, what I hope, is paper. It smells a bit funny, and the sickly green light from the glowing fungi above only helps to keep my paranoia growing.

Not that it matters. It’s now my third day and second night out here. No food, the changelings share too much to their non-exoskeleton counterparts to be of much good now that their rotting and I have nothing to starts a fire with, and no water. I clutch the journal and pen I’d found to my chest, the last motes of philosophy and the different paths of where certain lines of logic might lead to, a distraction to keep me from cursing God at my shit ridden fate. Closing my eyes I try to find some sleep past the grumbles of my stomach and the pain from lips that had immediately chapped and bled in the desert environment, only to o be forced away from sleep for a few more wretched minutes as my subconscious begins to play a song, just for me.

***

Flying in a tight line the head changeling lets a small line of pheromones pass behind her. ‘Move in fast’ it said. Numbers were on their side, a squad of fifteen, all specially bred for long distance flight their wings were noticeably larger from the burst flight of most of their hivelings, perfect for these long distance assignments, but it came at the cost of limb endurance, meaning that any confrontation had to be quickly won, and the enemy subdued. The outpost had not only failed to report for a week, they were also simply unreachable through the emergency contact lines. An irregularity of the clockwork precision the hive strove to maintain with its information collection. Without all the constant updates and re-evaluation of the old to make sure it was up to date and ready for the hive minds to give updates to food stalk personalities, the entire squads of retrievers could be put at jeopardy, and she was not going to let that happen, not again.

Catching sight of the black outpost in the Sand Sea, it was supposed to function as a weather monitoring site for pegasi as its cover, but the weathervane, and all the rest of the useless spinning mechanisms were missing from the mesa’s top, and now there was a glare reflecting off the top. Flying to the port-hole opening in the center she was able to see her warped reflection on the now completely smooth surface.

Once in the cavern the squad immediately fanned out, combing the air for pheromones, it was clear enough to see that nothing was alive, but the almost utter lack of scent was disturbing. There was, however, fresh scent leading away from the changeling at the door and went to the supply closest, of which one of the scouts had just entered. She didn’t have long to question any what-ifs as the scout quickly buzzed out and calling for silence with a low hiss. Silently creeping toward the leader the drone discretely releasing a small puff of pheromones, ‘You need to see this scout commander.’