Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mizzen awoke to the sound of ripping fabric and a strangled voice that sounded nothing like own bursting from her jaws, screaming horrible things that would ordinarily never cross her mind. Her arm burned with exertion, her fingers ached, but she had no control over her body. Her limbs were like wrathful parasites, moving on their own and sapping the life out of anyone who came within reach; tearing into them, ripping their guts apart, and ruthlessly moving on after it was over.

She managed to still her arm. Force her clammy fingers to release the handle of the knife. Fill her lungs with air. The relief of seeing a torn-up pillow pinned under her knees and not an corpse was so overwhelming, all she could do was—for the first time in…months, years?—laugh. A tearful laugh that bordered on panicked hyperventilating, but a laugh nonetheless. A laugh that quickly dissolved into terrified sobbing, because, try as she might, Mizzen couldn't remember when she picked up the knife.

She collapsed back into bed, smothering her face in the remnants of her pillow and letting the sobs wrack her body. She flung the knife across her cramped bedroom, lodging it in the wall with a precision she didn't have before. It was too early to get up, but she didn't trust herself to sleep anymore. Instead she lay in silence, trying desperately to get the image of that Ant from her dream's face out of her mind. It was hard when she'd been forced to see it up close again the mere evening before.

She was supposed to be free now. Everyone had promised her as such. Yet every night she'd feel just as helpless as ever, just as much of a slave to her unconscious as before. She was a monster, no matter how many people told her she wasn't. No, she hadn't been in control of her actions when she tore apart the bodies of defenseless citizens. No, she hadn't been in control when she stung and bit and clawed at anyone who got too close. But she was in control now. There was no crown polluting her mind, no outside forces making her the violent creature she still was. Nothing made her pick up that knife except for her own mind conjuring up dreams of unarmed soldiers. She was programmed to kill, and there was no reprogramming her. She would be trapped here for the rest of her life, never able to safely be with her friends and family again. She wasn't even sure how many of them were still alive.

Mizzen was glad to be freed from the Wasp King's control, but she desperately wished she'd been freed a second, two seconds, three seconds sooner, so she wouldn't have to watch herself lunge forward and stab that Ant's throat. Every night she tried to consider a world in which it had happened differently.

But that's not what happened, and no matter how much she tried to convince herself that she could go back to change it, she knew it was fruitless. And given how vicious she still was, maybe it was the universe's way of showing her who she really was: a barbaric animal.

Once her tears ran dry and the wailing died down, Mizzen sat up, running her claws through the collar of bristles over her neck. Gnarled clumps of unwashed fur tangled around her fingers and refused to budge no matter how hard she pulled. Heaving a sigh of defeat, she slowly brought her hands away from her neck, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and sifting through unorganized piles of junk she promised herself she'd sort through tomorrow. Tomorrow always turned into next week which turned into the week after that, but she'd get there eventually. Her head kind of hurt today. Maybe tomorrow.

A quiet thought crossed the back of her mind: "There's still blood in your fluff."

She combed through her bristles again, feeling their stiffness, how they were caked in…something. The logical part of her was saying it was just the regular grime that accumulated when she didn't groom herself, but a louder voice was saying, no, no, that's blood. That's her blood. You need to get it out. You'll never be clean. You're a filthy liar.

She covered her antennae as if someone was right beside her screaming and quickly slunk away, making her way to the bathroom, ensuring that she remembered to pick up the knife on her way out. She hid it in her arms in case any of the staff saw her and assumed she had ill intentions. It wouldn't be out of the question, given she'd just violently maimed her own pillow in an unconscious murderous rage, but in all reality, her intentions were completely innocuous. All she wanted was to be clean for once.

Mizzen hated how quiet the halls were getting. Months ago, she used to barely be able to squeeze through the halls from how many bustling wasps were rushing by in both directions. Now the only sound was her echoing footsteps. She might like the solitude if not for what it represented—she was irrevocably, painfully broken. Everyone else had healed and moved on from this little facility, a shabby thing thrown together in a span of a few weeks, meant to give the wasps who couldn't live on their own after the war a place to stay and be cared for. Everyone but her. The war ended over a year ago. Mizzen was the only one there anymore aside from the staff, who only stayed because she did. She didn't know if she'd stay much longer—she'd no confidence she'd do well on her own, but after last night, she wasn't sure if she could dare look any of the staff in the eye ever again. She was mooching off the kindness of those who didn't know better.

Knotted clumps of bristles fell into the sink, coating the white porcelain in a layer of prickly ashen fur. Slowly, carefully, she sawed through her greasy fluff, cutting off another large chunk. And another, and another, until all that remained was a choppy, rather ugly stretch of fur around her neck that scarcely reached an inch in length at its longest. She took a deep breath, but it hitched in her throat. There was still blood in her fuzz. She couldn't see it, but she was certain it was there. It hadn't been washed out when she was rescued and cleaned of her wounds. She had to get those last bristles out.

She pressed the cool, rusted tip of the knife against her collar. Not hard enough to cut her flesh, she made sure. The blade nestled deep in her fuzz, hugging the roots of each individual bristle, she slowly glided through, and—

The sight of a blade in her claws, pressed up against someone's throat—even in the context of as something innocuous as a haircut—broke her. Her knees gave out, she curled up in a ball on the floor, her mind stopped working. She might have started screaming. She wasn't sure—her voice hasn't felt like her own, lately.

How long did she stay like that? She couldn't tell. She was not longer in the bathroom, but in the middle of a flaming field, gripping a bloody spear, staring down in horror at the corpse pinned under her feet. Hands were grabbing her, dragging her off. Her throat hurt from screaming. People were assuring her that she was fine, that she was just going to be brought to the hospital for treatment. She couldn’t breathe.

An Ant came in—Lucille, one of the staff members who was more often than not a little nervous around her—circling her crumpled form like a vulture. Even without looking at her, Mizzen could feel the anger in her gaze, the unforgiving grief of someone who had their sister so brutally killed at the hands of a cruel animal like her. Panic boiled over, but before she started screaming again, Mizzen calmed herself, held her breath, kept her eyes open and staring at the ceiling listlessly, and let her limbs fall limply to the ground. Her memories of her life before the Wasp King were fuzzy, but she remembered one command clear as day: play dead. If she ever found herself in a situation where she had no hope of fighting back, just play dead. Nobody would attack a dead wasp.

"Mizzen, are you okay?" Lucille asked hurriedly. Mizzen's chest was burning from how long she'd been holding her breath.

"Mizzen? Mizzen!"

Just stay down. Ignore Lucille. She wanted nothing to do with Lucille ever again.

Lucille crouched down, grabbing Mizzen's neck and running her claws over her throat. It was all she could do not to cry. She could hear Lucille huff a sigh of what sounded like relief as they sat back, letting go of her. The sink turned on with a hiss, and she was pretty sure Lucille started cleaning up the piles of bristles all around the basin.

"Mizzen," Lucille said again, "sweetheart, I’m not here to hurt you. It's just me."

Don't cry.

Lucille knelt next to her, wiping her sweaty face with a cool, damp cloth. "I'm just making sure you're okay. I heard a scream. Did you have another flashback?”

A single tear slipped down her cheek, but she couldn't muster the courage to move a muscle. That was enough of an answer for Lucille.

"Alright. Deep breaths. Do you want me to leave you alone for now?"

Somehow, Mizzen gathered the strength to just barely shake her head no, and say in a tremulous voice, "I’m sorry." She didn't dare look her in the eye.

Lucille smoothed Mizzen's antennae back as she helped her off the floor. "You didn't do anything wrong. I was just worried sick about you." Lucille caressed her choppy fuzz. "I thought maybe you’d done something to hurt yourself. Thank Venus you didn’t. Why did you cut your bristles?"

"Blood," Mizzen choked out. "Blood in my fuzz. I had to"—she found herself beginning to hyperventilate—"get it out. It wouldn't go. It wouldn't go! I had to cut it! There's still blood everywhere! There's blood on my—my—m-my arms, there's…"

"Hey, it's okay," Lucille assured her. "How about I help you get the last of your bristles shaved off? Then you'll be clean."

Mizzen shook her head frantically, backing away and pressing herself into the corner. "No," she whimpered. "You're gonna cut my throat."

Lucille, for all her patience, seemed genuinely taken aback by that. "What? No, I’m not. What makes you think that?"

"B-b-because"—Mizzen tugged at her antennae, forcing the words out of her throat—"you hate me! I killed her! And you want to kill me as revenge! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don't hurt me! I didn't mean to! I’m so sorry, I don't want to die! I’m not ready yet!"

"Mizzen, what are you talking about?"

"The ant in the picture," she sobbed, rocking back and forth. "I was l-looking for you last night because I was having trouble sleeping, and I—I went into your room, and I saw a picture of you and and someone else. An ant."

"My sister?" Lucille said faintly. "What about her?"

"I killed her!" Mizzen burst. "I killed your sister! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it was—it"—she gasped for breath, trying not to faint—"I told you in o-our last session about how when I w-woke up from the crown I was killing someone. It was her. I recognize her face. I'm n-not crazy, they have the same face and the same markings, a-and…I'm so sorry. I spent all of last night feeling like I was gonna throw up I felt so bad. I know you won't ever forgive me, but—"

Lucille went pale, her face sobering in a way Mizzen had never seen before. Before Mizzen could choke out any more apologies, Lucille pulled her into a hug. Mizzen could feel tears running down her cheeks. She really was a monster, wasn't she?

"Mizzen, sweetie, I do forgive you. There’s nothing to even forgive you for. It was never your fault."

"Yes, it was."

"Mizzen." She tilted her chin up, gently kissing her tears away. "Mizzen, you're just a kid."

Chapter Text

Heaving a strained sigh and rubbing her aching neck, Jaune sunk down to the floor, grappling with the overwhelming fog of exhaustion that strangled her every thought. She pawed blindly behind her, making careful effort not to move her head nor her eyes, lest the world start spinning again. Finally, she found her paintbrush, listlessly tickling the dry bristles against her lips as she dug back in her memory to remember what she was supposed to be doing. The memory didn't resurface, but she was sure she could figure it out. She was, as the queen herself had told her, on track to become one of the Hive's most proficient artists in its history. Which was flattering, sure, but came with the heavy baggage of expectations that, at a time, she was sure she could meet. Now, though, she wasn't too certain. Her skill was slipping, her competitors quickly catching up.

An awful pounding was creeping into her head, growing worse with every pump of hemolymph through her body, but there was no time to stop. It didn't matter her throat was beginning to tickle with nausea, it didn't matter that she was struggling to stay awake—this painting wouldn't finish itself, now, would it? The lights that once seemed so gentle now felt like staring directly into the sun. Others had offered to change the settings to a warmer color, or to dim them, or turn them off entirely, but Jaune had vehemently refused all suggestions—getting the colors just right was one of the building blocks of her art, and how was she meant to tell the differences between shades of blue if she couldn't see right?

The world spun like running watercolor when she stood. Leaning her full body weight against the frail easel, she guided herself back down, pulling her beret over her eyes to block out the light. Just a little more to go, she assured herself. You can do the rest of it on the floor. Bracing herself for the light, Jaune looked up at her canvas. A hideous, crooked, almost uncanny caricature of the queen stared back at her. Jaune had to laugh at how horrible it was turning out, because the only other option was to break down in tears. "I’m gonna get banished from the Hive for this," she laughed under her breath. Even laughing made her head hurt more.

She knelt in front of the painting, lowering it to the floor with more precision than she used for lowering her to the ground. Oh, it looked so much worse up close—she could see every individual brush stroke, how shaky they were, how they jutted out at weird angles and overshot the line art. The queen's uneven face was wreathed with a layer of off-white paint that Jaune had piled on in an effort to cover up where she'd messed up, but it only made it look all the more obvious. Maybe she could fix it.

Pinching between her eyes, she dipped her paintbrush in a can of pale blue paint, leaning forward and coating over the ugly parts. Well, that immediately proved to be a bad idea. Sure, the newly-added backdrop covered up the preexisting mistakes, but it created about a million new ones. The color was too bright. Hideous, frankly, and the clouds she'd attempted to paint on to distract from the ugly shade she'd chosen looked like they were done by 5-year-olds with finger paint. Not to mention how the background was digging into the queen's fluff in some areas, making it look like someone had taken a bite out of her. Jaune groaned, tugging at her fluff and grabbing the yellow paint to remedy the situation. Only for the two colors to mix into an unsightly green. Great.

Jaune couldn't get her eyes to focus long enough to even look for any other mistakes to fix. Somewhere along the line she must've tried to fix those clouds—she didn't really remember doing so, but that wasn't anything new, as of late—but only made them look worse. She was losing her touch. At the ripe age of twelve, her career was tanked. What a disgrace. The clock hands refused to stop marching forward, and she couldn't keep up. How had an hour passed already? She hadn't done anything. She'd spent half the time zoned out.

The door slowly opened. "Not now," Jaune grumbled, assuming it was one of the nurses coming in to badger her about turning the lights down, or taking a break, or a nap, or whatever. That would have been preferable to what she instead saw when she turned around.

"Get out of here!" Jaune hissed, mustering up newfound energy to shoot up and usher her little sister out of the room. "Out! Go! Leave me alone!" Just the other day she'd overheard a conversation between one of the nurses and Vi in which they gently informed her that Jaune might be a little meaner because of the injury. Jaune instantly took that as an excuse to finally speak her mind and let those bottled up feelings out for once. But maybe it was just the concussion talking.

"I just wanna look!" Vi whined, ramming into Jaune and trying to rush inside. It was hard when she was so tiny, but it also gave her the added advantage of being much harder to catch. Crouching down, she crawled on her belly under Jaune's legs, buzzing over to her painting with a smug laugh.

"Violet!" Jaune scolded, chasing after her the best she could. "Why can't you just go away?! I’m busy!"

"You've been in here all day," Vi complained, "I miss you! You're so boring now!" She took one look at Jaune's painting and burst out laughing. Jaune tried not to let Vi's antics get on her nerves too often, but she could feel her cheeks heating up in a blush and her head grow fuzzier. There was nothing purer than the sound of a child's laughter, Jaune had been told, but whoever said that must have been trying so hard to cope.

"Violet," Jaune said again, firmer this time. "Get out of my room, now."

"Is that the queen?" Vi asked all too sincerely, pointing at the painting. "I have some constructive criticism. She looks like she had a bit too much berry juice. And has some kind of slime mold growing on her face."

"Vi!" Jaune yelled, too exhausted to bother calling her by her full name. She marched up to Vi tearing her away from the painting by the arm. "You know whose fault that it?" She spat. "Yours."

"Not my fault you can't draw!" Vi piped. It took all of Jaune's willpower to not smack her.

"Yes, it is! If you hadn't done that, maybe I wouldn't be so—so bad right now! This is all your fault! You're the one who pushed me! You're the one who made me fall! I can't stand you!"

Vi's mood shifted in a heart beat. "It was an accident," she muttered.

"That wasn't an accident! That was completely on purpose! I hate you! I hate you!"

"I was just trying to play! I—I was the big scary weevil trying to catch you! You were laughing!"

"Yeah, until you tackled me! You're a total freak if you think that hurting people is playing! You ruined my life!" She shoved Vi out of the room, slamming the door. Her temper had already boiled over, though, and even once Vi was on the other side, she continued yelling. "How am I meant to do anything with my life if you're like this? I can't do anything right anymore all because of you! I can't stand you!"

"I didn't mean for you to fall." Vi sounded like she was on the verge of tears. Jaune was glad she couldn’t see her little quivering face, because that would definitely make her feel guilty.

Jaune sank against the door, head in her hands. All that yelling and movement was making her headache much, much worse. "Just go away. I need to take a nap."

Surprisingly, Vi obeyed, running away as quietly as she could. Which, for Vi, wasn't very quiet—Jaune could swear she could hear her yelling to someone about how "her sister hates her, now"—but at least she was trying.

Jaune sighed. She marched up to her painting and swiftly punched through the canvas, tossing it in the trash before diving into bed, burying herself in the blankets and falling asleep.

Chapter Text

It stumbled throughout the damp depths of the cave, tripping over every rock and its own stolen feet. Its malnourished, rotting frame bobbed back and forth like rocky waves, swaying, swaying, bumping into walls and letting waves of euphoric energy flow through its body. What was its name? It didn't know. It tapped its claws against one another, ecstatic over the sensation of flesh. Its knees buckled—it had the vague feeling there was something wrong with its left knee, like something had bitten it, tore it down to the point it couldn't move right. Oh, the sound of its hard shell hitting the stony floor reverberating throughout the cave was so powerful, so beautiful. It was alive.

Flickering lights of crystal fragments illuminated its new body. Blue as the crystals that coursed through its veins and shone throughout the room were its gangly arms that didn't quite feel like its own. It grabbed its own forearm, laughing airily. It could grip, it could touch, it was someone and not something. Once it started laughing, it couldn't stop. It always thought that laughing sounded so painful—it had only heard it coming from the jaws of tired and mean roaches, after all—but it was surprised to find that instead of hurting it, laughter rejuvenated it. It had never felt more alive, and maybe in a sense, it never had been until now.

It wrapped its cold arms around its chest, savoring the feeling of pressure against its body. It felt so nice. So calming. It closed its eyes, pretending that the arms belonged to its sibling, who it had never been able to hug. It could still remember those long days of pain and suffering that would be alleviated by silent communication with its sibling. Where had they gone? Maybe with its new body, it could find them, and finally be able to feel its arms.

Too weak to stand, it began to sing. It didn't know any songs, nor had it actually know of singing as a concept, but disjointed vocalizations in an attempt to find its voice morphed into an ethereal yet hoarse chorus that reverberated throughout the cave. It was enthralled by the sound of its own voice.

It was so cold. Where had everyone gone? It wanted someone to sing with.

Its voice stopped working right. It cracked, shattered, broke into a fit of gasps. What was this? Why were there icy drops of water in its eyes? Was this body broken? Why did its chest hurt? Why was it making these sounds, an awful mix between a cough and a song? It had felt fear before, pain, agony, but nothing like this.

Footsteps. It instinctively played dead, straining its antennae and holding its breath to listen to the people and their foreign words that somehow seemed familiar:

"Stop," a hoarser, higher pitched voice ordered.

"What?" Another asked, the same pitch but distinctly male.

"I heard something. Coming from where that web is, way over there."

"Yeah, but what'd you hear?"

"Crying."

The sound of chitin on chitin echoed through the cave. "Shut up," one of them laughed, "don't try to scare me like that! Look, it'll be a simple expedition."

The voices and footsteps were getting louder.

"I’m being serious."

"Sure, you are. The artifact can't be too far. We find it, grab it, bring it back, and that's that."

A third voice chimed in. "I don't know. I thought I heard something, too, but I thought it was the wind blowing through the tunnels."

One of them moved a rock away. Suddenly, daylight was shining through the gap, into its eyes. "You two are so paranoid. See, nothing th—"

A smallish dragonfly stared at it with huge eyes and a pale face. An ant stepped beside him. "What is that?" She asked in horror.

"I can't tell. A moth? It's not moving," the dragonfly said. "It's…it's dead."

"They did say not a lot of people make it out here alive," the third voice, still obscured by rocks, noted. "I guess it only makes sense they can't recover all of the bodies."

"Who do you think it was?" The ant asked. "Do you think they have a permit on hand? Maybe they have some sort of ID." The ant crouched down next to it. Before she could touch it, its eyes flitted to the side to meet hers. She shrieked, scurrying to her feet and grabbing her companions. "It's moving!" She cried. "It's not dead, it's not dead!"

"But it's rotting! It's dead!"

"It looked at me! We have to go! I don't like this!"

Before any of her teammates could argue—or before it could try to communicate—the bristles on the back of its neck stood on end. It pointed upwards in what was meant to be a warning. The third bug, which it could know see was a rather bulky beetle, was the only one who noticed. They briefly glanced up at the ceiling, following its finger.

They lunged at their teammates, scooping them up in their arms and running deeper into the caverns to flee.

It was too late. The spider jumped down at them, crashing through the tunnels and grabbing them. Thankfully, it sounded like it was quick. Not one of them had the chance to even scream before it could hear the sound of chitin hitting the ground limply. It kept itself as still as possible as the spider stubbornly crawled back over to it and slung it back in its web where it had broken out. It looked as if it was about to eat it, but hesitated, sniffing around it in disgust before slinking off to enjoy its three new catches.

All it could do was sit and watch as its new friends were eaten, leaving it hopelessly alone once again. It didn’t even get to learn their names. Its eyes grew wet again, but it held its tongue, abstaining from singing any more.

Chapter Text

Time seemed to slow to a halt, the universe relishing in the moment and ensuring Hoaxe felt every second of humiliation and suffering for as long as possible. A scream he didn't know he was capable of producing burst from his chest, wavering as branches sprouted from his throat, creating a web of roots throughout his airways. Leaves bloomed, then flowers, all in the blink of an eye. The cloying scent was nauseating. As hard as his lungs tried, he couldn't breathe. His scream faded away into a weak gasp.

The hemolymph pumping through his body began to solidify in an agonizing process. He could feel the way it thickened into a sap like substance, strangling his innards, clinging to them and weighing them down. It soon turned to a solid, clogging all his body's functions. How was it that he was still conscious when his hearts had all stopped?

His legs stiffened. This wasn't supposed to be happening. How was this possible? He looked up from his frail legs, now intertwining with one another like rope, to look at the three bugs who'd ruined his life. Despite the anger he felt towards them and their dumb, stunned expressions, he could only muster up a look of fear. Maybe they could help him. They were good bugs, right? They had to help them. The beetle would cut the branches growing around his limbs. The moth would freeze the bark growing over his chitin. The bee would knock away the roots firmly panting him to the ground.

The beetle grabbed the bee. The moth grabbed the beetle. They all backed away in a huddle, gawking at him as if he was nothing more than a gruesome spectacle, the final step on their journey and not a bug just like them. Why weren't they helping him?

He couldn't scream anymore, but his mind was intact. "Help me," he ordered in his mind, praying the crown was still on his head. "Come help your king. Help."

Nobody came. A sorry excuse for a soldier who was lying off to the side, facedown in a puddle of her own, blood stirred a little, as if confused, but her burst of vigor didn’t last. She slumped over dead after just a few seconds. "This is all your fault," Hoaxe snarled at them in his mind, hoping enough of these worthless soldiers were still alive that he could at least make their last breaths as miserable as his own. "If you people weren't such barbaric animals, this wouldn't have happened. You're all worthless creatures. Heartless. I hope you all perish. You are a stain on this world."

The last thing he saw before the leaves overtook his eyes was a tiny, young wasp off in the distance with a a gash so large her guts were exposed. Pinned under a pile of rubble, but still very much alive. Even with the crown's control dulling her thoughts and making her a mindless zombie, she was crying.

The crown fell off what remained of his head before he could finish his final thought: "I’m sorry."

Chapter Text

Mothiva listlessly flipped through a flimsy stack of tabloids, hurriedly scanning over each one for a mention of her name. "Zasp," she drawled, flinging the magazine aside when it boasted a disappointing lack of her name, "what're we doing for dinner tonight?"

Zasp looked at her funny, zoned out and distracted as if he'd been engrossed in activity, when in actuality he'd been doing absolutely nothing but staring into space all afternoon. He swallowed hard, drawing his knees up to his chest and letting his head droop against the arm of the chair as he forced his lanky frame to stay in the seat. "I dunno."

"I don't know either, that's why I’m asking!" Mothiva snapped. Oh, right, she was trying to be nicer. She cleared her throat, trying again. "I’m just seeing if you have a preference. You want anything in particular?"

Zasp mashed his mandibles together in a way he only did when badly stressed. "No. I’m not hungry."

"Don't be difficult," she sighed, sitting up to glare at him. "You've barely eaten all day. I know you're hungry."

Zasp's eyes dropped shut. Mothiva could see the trace of a grimace on his face. "I’m…not. I don't really have much of an appetite right now."

In the blink of an eye, Mothiva's world began to shatter. Her heart began to beat so fast it hurt, a cold sweat washed over her shell, and the atmosphere was suddenly very suffocating. "Why?" She asked breathlessly, though she knew she'd hate the answer. Zasp sat up, rubbing his eyes and looking a little worse for wear. He was talking too stiffly, too quietly, too breathlessly.

"I dunno," he mumbled. "I’m tired. I don't feel good. I've been feeling weird since this morning."

"What kind of weird?" She pressed. Already she was breaking out in a sweat.

"I dunno," he said again. "Something feels off. I guess it's my stomach."

"You probably just have a migraine," Mothiva said with a nervous laugh. He gave an almost unnoticeable shake of his head that made her heart pound so violently she was dizzy.

"I doubt it. My head doesn't hurt," he said, voice—worryingly enough—bordering on whiny. "And my stomach was giving me…trouble this morning. I thought it was a fluke and that I'd feel better in a few hours, but it hasn't stopped." He tried to stand up, but went pale upon standing and slowly sunk back down into the chair. "I—i don't feel so good. 'Iva, can you take my temperature? I feel like I've been overheating all afternoon," he sighed wearily.

Mothiva couldn't move. Her legs gave out beneath her, and she could feel a budding panic attack creeping up behind her. Stop. Stop. Deep breaths, she reminded herself. It's probably just a stupid cold. Because, he would never get sick. He couldn't. That was the kind of thing that only happened in her recurring nightmares. He couldn't actually ever have a stomach virus, that wasn't…it wouldn't be fair. She had a show tomorrow. She'd thrown up on stage once before, and it was once too many. She was barraged with sympathy and well-wishes afterwards, so she admittedly wasn't too embarrassed about it happening in public, but the thought of having to vomit in of itself was too overwhelming to handle. She'd rather die.

"Mothiva?" Zasp asked again. "Are you alright?"

She couldn't get herself to answer.

"Don't be scared, honey, I’m probably fine."

Mothiva stood up in a huff despite the weakness in her limbs, trying to look as put together as possible. She silently walked to the bathroom like a zombie, grabbing the thermometer all while keeping her chin up as to not let the tears fall. The moment they did, she wouldn't be able to stop them. Before she left, she made sure to wash her hands, just in case. That wasn't enough. She washed them again to be sure. And another time. Still not enough. How was she supposed to be clean when it was just her hands she was washing? She swiftly grabbed a bottle of hand sanitizer and practically doused herself in the stuff. It stung, yes, but that meant she was safe, right?

She could scarcely enter the living room, not when he was still there, so she ended up tossing the thermometer at him and putting as much distance between them as possible. Even from well across the room, she could see the resignation on his face as he bent over to grab it where it had fallen, and slipped it in his mandibles. Curling up again, he shut his eyes almost peacefully, as if he wasn't ruining Mothiva's entire life.

She waited with bated breath for his temperature to register. And waited, and waited, and waited for what felt like the most excruciating minute of her life until it finally emitted a quick beep that she couldn't tell was good or bad. Zasp didn't seem to notice. His antennae didn't even flick at the sound. Out like a light already. Huffing a sigh of stress, she covered her mouth with her elbow, held her breath, and dashed by him as quick as she could, snatching up the thermometer from his mouth. Glancing down, she read the small, faded number: 100.3.

She immediately washed her hands again, hurriedly praying all the while. The scales on her hands were starting to rub off entirely, revealing the shiny chitin beneath. Alright, so, 100.3 wasn't the worst, but it still confirmed he was at least somewhat sick. You're holding up pretty well, she told herself, given the severity of the situation. She hadn't started screaming yet. That was a plus. There was no reason to panic just yet—it could simply be a cold that happened to kill his appetite, or a flu, or even food poisoning that wouldn't affect her. That'd still be nerve wracking, but she wouldn't have to worry about contagions. You're fine, she reminded herself as she shut off the sink. You're completely fine.

She nearly jumped out of her shell when she glanced up in the mirror to see Zasp standing lazily behind her, squinting from the light. She half expected him to instantly keel over sick, but he simply mumbled, "what time is it?" She scurried away from him—making sure to grab the bottle of hand sanitizer and once more coating her hands in it—and plastered herself against the wall. "Get out!" She shrieked. "Get away from me! Go!"

Zasp rubbed his head as he backed up. "Sorry. Do I have a fever? Did you take the thermometer from me?"

Mothiva gave a curt nod. "Yeah. 100-point-something. Go away. Don't come anywhere near me."

"Alright." He stared down at the floor in silence. 'I…I think I’m gonna go lie down," he said, turning to walk to the bedroom. "I'll tell you how I’m feeling tomorrow morning and if I’m up to going to your show. If I’m still feeling like this, I…don't know if I'll be able to make it. I have a really bad stomachache. Are you going to be okay without a security guard?"

"I don't care, just go to bed!" Mothiva cried.

Zasp wordlessly obliged, stumbling into the bedroom and flopping into bed, smothering himself in the covers and squinting against the rays of the setting sun, peering in through the window. "Mothiva? Can you close the blinds for me?" He called. "Please?"

"Do it yourself!" Mothiva burst through tears. She washed her hands again, just in case. She knew she was being mean. Overtly cruel. But she couldn't get herself to stop, or be the slightest bit more nurturing. She was well into fight or flight mode, and, oh, she was fighting.

Zasp peeled himself out of bed with a groan, closing the blinds and stopping to lean against the wall for a moment. "Can you at least get me a glass of water?"

Mothiva gave him a dirty look that said more than words ever could.

"It's okay," he muttered, crawling back into bed without bothering to get himself anything to drink. "I don't really know if I’m up to drinking anything, anyway. I 'm kind of…um…." He trailed off, his tone unmistakably growing softer. "…Queasy. It's probably just food poisoning. I wouldn't worry about it; you don't eat what I eat. You'll be fine."

Mothiva hated how he treated her like a porcelain doll, needing to be coddled. He didn't need to so careful around her.

…He didn't need to be, but he was right in doing so. Simply hearing the word queasy leave his mouth was the final straw. Mothiva slammed the door shut behind him, sinking down against the wall and burying her head in her knees. It took all her strength not to grab a knife and stab herself in the head so she wouldn't have to handle this. Too dramatic, she'd been called before, but considering Zasp had to physically restrain her from bashing her head against a wall the last time she had a panic attack like this, it wasn't out of the question.

She ran back to the couch, hiding her face in the pillows and letting the terrified sobs out. It probably sounded like she was getting murdered, but she couldn't get herself to care. She screamed and wailed and begged Venus for mercy until her throat was raw, her eyes unable to produce any more tears, her head aching. Her desperation reached such a point that she sincerely considered running away entirely, hiding out in the woods for the next week. Gods, she was an idiot. The only thoughts that could break through the fog of anxiety were ones of self-deprecation. She was a grown woman. She had to be better than this! How could she sit here calling herself a good partner while contemplating abandoning him when he needed her? She was pathetic.

Despite her best efforts to keep her eyes open and alert, she must have fallen asleep, because when she next opened her eyes, it was completely dark. After a long moment of reorienting herself—she wasn't entirely sure, but she thought that she might have been sleep talking for quite some time given she woke herself up by asking nobody, "where am I, again?"—she sat up, hoping in vain it had all just been a bad dream, but the lingering scent of sanitizer on her hands forced her to acknowledge what had happened. What was still happening. It wasn't over yet. This was just the start.

Grabbing a nearby quilt, she huddled up, grabbing the TV remote and putting on a marathon of the first mindless show she could find. It didn't matter what it was, she needed something to keep her from falling apart again, and especially to keep her from falling asleep. Who knows what would happen when she was unconscious? Zasp could throw up, and she'd be woken up by the sound. Worse, she could wake up having to throw up, and she wouldn't have a moment to prepare herself mentally. Throwing up was scary enough on its own, she didn't need the element of surprise against her. She would have to stay awake to keep herself safe, even if it was physically painful to keep her eyes open.

Trudging to the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water and grabbed a snack, hoping she could at least get comfortable while she was in the midst of the worst night of her life. Flopping down on the couch, she took a slow sip of water to quench her dry mouth. The tiny sip made her guts clench a little, and it was oddly hard to get herself to swallow. There was a noticeable shift in how she felt, and she had to lay in an awkward position for her stomach to not feel quite so uneasy. The small snack she'd taken suddenly seemed rather unappetizing. Her heart began to hammer as the first small aches wormed their way through her stomach and the first stiff hiccups started up in her chest.

It was the quilt that was making her feel a little warm, surely. It was the stress that made her stomach feel a little jittery. It had to be. When her heart was racing so fast, it was understandable that she wouldn't be feeling her best. She was fine. Completely fine. So, then, why was she beginning to panic again?

Her mind raced, struggling to find an explanation other than the inevitable. It was just anxiety. It had to be. But Zasp hadn't gone anywhere that she hadn't. They were cuddling last night, face to face, limbs entwined. She'd kissed him that morning, and he said he was already feeling sick them, she—she—

With no exaggeration, she couldn't breathe.

The world was starting to spin, her legs started to shake. No. No, this couldn't be happening. She hadn't thrown up in years. That couldn't change, now. It wouldn't. Please, Venus, let this be a bad dream like always. Please.

Right as she buried her face in the couch pillows, drawing in a deep breath, the calm before the storm, the bedroom door creaked open. Popping up, she could see Zasp's silhouette slink out in an awkward hurry, making a beeline to the bathroom.

She knew what was happening. But she couldn't move. She couldn't run. She sat there in paralyzed agony, eyes wide, breathing shallow and too quick. Her head spun, her eyes watered. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't happening. This wouldn't happen. She would kill herself before she let it happen. Or, so she told herself. It would be easy, wouldn't it? To throw herself off a bridge? She should. She should do that. Venus, please smite her down. Please. She didn't want to die, but stronger than her vigor for life was her overwhelming terror.

Zasp loudly coughed. Even from the living room, Mothiva could hear the way it reverberated in the toilet bowl. She hadn't even realized she was starting to cry until the tears were dribbling over her lips. The coughing quickly turned into retching which quickly turned into puking. Against her better judgment, compassion overtook fear, and she dashed to the bathroom to make sure Zasp was alright—though she refused to stop covering her antennae for even a second. She couldn't handle the sound. She didn't care how much of a diva that made her, the sounds, sight, smell…anything relating to throwing up made her feel a dread she couldn't put into words. Maybe she was over-dramatic, but sometimes, self preservation came before reputation.

"Zasp?" She panted as she tore into the bathroom, flicking on the light and trying not to faint at the sight of him hunched over the toilet. He turned to look at her, squinting in the light. By some miracle he had made it in time, but the stray drops of vomit dripping down his chin were more than enough for her to start sobbing again.

"'Iva," he slurred, collapsed against the toilet seat and lightly trembling. "I’m so sorry I woke you up, I just—I woke up feeling so nauseous that I couldn't take it anymore. I'll be done in a minute."

Maybe if Mothiva was a bit nicer, she'd kneel next to him and rub his back and tell him how it was okay, how it's almost over. Maybe if she was a little braver, she would grab a damp towel and wipe his face clean and give him a kiss on the cheek. Maybe if she was a bit more helpful, she would help him back into bed with a garbage can nearby and crawl in next to him, hugging him and gently rubbing his stomach until he didn't feel so nauseous.

Maybe. But maybe didn't help Zasp. And no matter how much she wished she was, she wasn't nice, or nurturing, or brave, or anything of the sort. She was rude, selfish, scared, cowardly.

Mothiva reached out her hand hesitantly as if she was dipping it into a vat of lava. She could scarcely get herself to touch Zasp for more than a second, so what was meant to be comforting back pats turned into more of a slap. She couldn't take it. She just couldn't. Zasp was being so loud and her own stomach was starting to ache and twist in nausea, and she didn't know if she could handle this without going completely insane. Her mind wasn't forming coherent thoughts anymore. They had devolved into nothing but a shrill shrieking that bore into her mind, overpowering every rational thought, begging her to follow suit and scream as well.

She broke down in tears, falling to her knees and squeezing her eyes shut, praying that this would end soon. Stage tears, she'd had them called. Over-dramatic fits that weren't ever genuine, always for attention, always a ploy for sympathy. Were they? They felt genuine to her, but maybe she was so deep within her own head that she wasn't aware she was faking anymore.

Forehead pressed against the floor and covering her antennae, she let the agonized screams out and let the hot tears to ruin her makeup. Her stomach hurt. She was definitely feeling queasy, now. "Zasp, help me," She sobbed, the stress growing to such a level she was tearing blindly at her arms with her claws, shredding her flesh to bloody shreds. She couldn't stop. She didn't know why she was doing it. She needed something to do with her hands, some outlet for this overpowering fear.

Zasp crawled over to her, grabbing her hands and steadying her in his arms, gently rocking her back and forth. "Hey, hey, don't do that. What's the matter?" He asked, voice weak and shaky but genuinely concerned. The worst seemed to be over for him, but he still sounded exhausted.

"I don't know!" Mothiva gasped, hitting his chest. "I don't wanna throw up! Please don't let me! Help. Please help me." Mothiva slumped into Zasp, too weak to move. This was humiliating. She was supposed to be the strong one. Sure, Zasp was her bodyguard, but she rarely had to rely on him for emotional support like this. She usually tried to hide these moments of weakness—to varying success—because of how embarrassing it was to be shaking so badly she couldn't even stand.

"I can't control what happens," he said, giving her a hug before getting to his feet to wash his face off. Mothiva was too scared to look at his face even after he'd cleaned himself up. "Do you feel like you're going to?"

It took her a moment to garner the courage to do so, but eventually, she sheepishly nodded. "A—a l-little. I don't n-n-need to, like, I'm not going to, but I’m feeling kinda funny, a-and if that's how it started for you, then…"

"…then it's probably not just food poisoning." Zasp gave her a tired look, slogging back to the bedroom and coming back a few seconds later with an armful of pillows and blankets. "Alright," he announced, gravelly and woozy, "Let's get this over with. We're camping in here until this is over."

"I can't believe this is happening," Mothiva whined, tears rolling down her cheeks. "How can you be so casual about this? I feel like I’m gonna die."

"It's only gonna last a day or two," Zasp said tiredly, curling up on the hard floor and wrapping himself in a blanket. "C'mere." He held his arms out, pawing at her.

Accepting her fate, Mothiva silently laid a blanket down next to him—no way she was lying down on the bare floor, even if she was already teeming with contagions—and cuddled into his arms, letting the tears freely fall. She shuddered when he kissed her on the top of the head, but, admittedly, found the gentle pressure of his arms around her to be soothing. "You don't get it," she sniffled once she could string together a coherent sentence. "I have nightmares about things like this every night, I can't—I can't believe this. I can't breathe."

"I’m gonna be right here with you," Zasp assured her. "You only have to make it through a day or two, okay? Two days. You can do it."

"Okay," she hiccuped, hiding her face in his chest, too exhausted to worry about catching anything anymore—besides, whether she liked it or not, she was definitely already sick. "I’m scared," she whispered. "I’m really scared. What am I supposed to do?"

Zasp thought for a moment. "Hm. Let me think." A pang of guilt hit her. He was obviously not feeling well, he was directly off the heels of vomiting, yet he was still doing everything in his power to make her happy. She would say she didn't deserve him, but honestly, she was too petrified to consider what she did and didn't deserve. "Do you want to go watch TV to keep your mind off of things?" He offered.

"I don't know," Mothiva whimpered. "I don't think anything's gonna help. I’m too scared to think of anything else. This is so embarrassing."

"It's okay. It's like I said, these things only last a day or two. If I've been feeling sick since this morning, I’m probably already nearly halfway through," Zasp told her.

"I know." Mothiva covered her eyes with her arm, trying to take deep breaths. "But I don't wanna throw up. I’m not trying to be dramatic, I swear, it just—makes me so scared I want to die. Am I just exaggerating?"

"No," Zasp said. "Look, I don't know what goes on in your head half the time, but I've known you long enough to know when you're acting, and when you're not."

"And I’m not acting right now?"

"No." Zasp grabbed her tighter, drifting his eyes shut. "You want to do anything fun? Something to help you get through the night?"

Mothiva looked at him like he was insane. '"There's nothing fun about this, you sicko. This is the worst night of my life."

"Come on," Zasp drawled, "it'll be like a sleepover. I never got to have a sleepover before."

"We sleep in the same bed, dumbass, we have a "sleepover" every night," Mothiva grumbled.

"Do you want to be cheered up or not?" He deadpanned, much less playful than before.

Mothiva gave an exaggerated groan. "Ugh, fine. Story time, you big baby. Tonight's story is called, 'how Mothiva kicked Vi's ass.' Sit down and shut up, cause this is gonna be a long one."

…immediately after saying that, she closed her eyes, sighed, and conked out in Zasp's arms. Zasp nuzzled the top of her head—she was starting to get a little warm, wasn't she?—and made sure to stay awake as long as he could to watch over her in case she needed something. Nope. She slept like a log the entire night.

He was happy she was able to get some sleep, though, admittedly, he was a little sad he never got to hear the story.