Chapter 714: New Potential Allies (1)
<Mikhailis, detection event.> Rodion’s voice cut through, urgent but not loud, slicing into the haze of their shared intensity like a blade through fog. Thalatha and Mikhailis froze, their lips still locked, breaths mingling in the slot’s dim air. The urgency in Rodion’s tone tugged at her instincts, but the heat of Mikhailis’s mouth, the lingering taste of him, held her for a moment longer. Not yet, she thought, her body reluctant to let go, the fire in her core still burning. They didn’t stop immediately—instead, they kissed for another five seconds, as if their lives depended on it, a desperate, hungry clash of lips and tongues.
"Slrp! Slrp!" The sounds were fierce, wet, and unapologetic, their tongues coiling tightly, sucking hard, each movement a frantic plea to hold onto this moment. Thalatha’s tongue curled around his, pulling with a need that felt like it could anchor her against the slot’s cold reality. Gods, I want to keep him here, she thought, the taste of him—salt, warmth, the faint musk of their shared passion—flooding her senses. His tongue answered, sucking back, a dance of give and take that made her head spin, her fingers tightening in his hair. "MMH!" she moaned, the sound muffled against his mouth, her body trembling with the intensity of their connection. It was as if they were betting everything on this kiss, stealing a final burst of heat before the world demanded their attention.
Then, slowly, silently, they released each other, their lips parting with a soft, reluctant pop. Thalatha’s breath came in shallow gasps, her chest heaving as she leaned back, her eyes locked on his. His gaze was still dark, hungry, but softening now, a quiet promise that this wasn’t the end. We’ll come back to this, she thought, the realization steadying her, even as her body hummed with the aftermath. They separated, the slot’s cold air rushing into the space between them, a stark contrast to the warmth they’d shared. Without a word, they began to reproper their clothes, movements deliberate but unhurried, as if acknowledging the moment’s weight.
Thalatha reached for a cloth from Rodion’s outstretched tray, the marshmallow-like construct rolling forward with a soft whir, its eye-lights dimmed in a gesture of discretion. She wiped herself, the cloth cool against her slick thighs, cleaning away the mess of their passion—his seed, her own wetness, a reminder of how thoroughly they’d lost themselves. So much, she thought, a flush creeping up her neck, both embarrassed and proud of the evidence. Mikhailis did the same, his movements steady, his eyes flicking to hers with a shared understanding, no need for words. The act was intimate, practical, a quiet acknowledgment of what they’d done, what they’d been to each other in this stolen hour.
As she adjusted her torn undergarment, smoothing the frayed edges, Thalatha’s gaze drifted to Mikhailis, his shirt now tucked, his trousers straightened. He looks so composed, she thought, a pang of amusement mixing with the lingering heat in her chest. But I know what’s underneath. The thought was bold, unapologetic, a spark of the hunger that hadn’t fully faded. She glanced at Rodion, who had already turned his attention to the holoscreen, his cone of light painting the far stone with a neat wireframe, as if the construct had decided their moment was private but the work couldn’t wait.
Thalatha and Mikhailis paused, their foreheads still close, breaths steadying as they switched to work mode, the shift as instinctive as a blade drawn in battle. The holoscreen flickered, revealing a chamber webbed in hex galleries, soil-ribs reinforced with pale resin. Ant silhouettes moved in streams—hand to forearm size, coordinated, their movements precise and purposeful. Overlays pulsed faint necromantic signatures along brood tunnels, like crown flickers buried under the Brake Choir’s low, resonant hum. Not our ants, she thought, her mind sharpening, the general’s instincts kicking in. But not enemies either.
<Colony: active. Not undead puppets. Not purely living. Hybrid profile. Necro-ambient.> Rodion’s voice was steady, clinical, but Thalatha caught the faint hum of excitement in his tone, a rare spark from the construct.
Scent bands scrolled across the holo: glowcap traces, ironvine dust, old bone meal. No abyssal rot. No bile lattice. Her instincts translated faster than her mind—Edible to our Queen’s brood, if we go slow and respectful, she thought, her pulse steadying as she processed the data. The slot’s dangers were many, but this colony wasn’t one of them, not yet. A chance, not a threat, she decided, her mind already mapping the next steps.
A side feed zoomed in, showing small grave-worker ants dragging cleaned bones into a spiral. The pattern was tidy, almost artistic, a delicate arrangement that felt eerie yet elegant. They’re not just surviving—they’re creating, she thought, a flicker of respect warming her chest. The ants moved with purpose, their work a quiet defiance of the slot’s cruelty, much like her own.
Mikhailis stood so fast the chair sighed, a soft creak breaking the silence. "That’s very great," he said, his voice bright with possibility, his eyes already scanning the holo with the focus of a tactician.
Thalatha’s eyebrow rose, a sharp arc that wasn’t quite a challenge but demanded speed. "Why?" she asked, her tone clipped, efficient, ready to move.
He pointed at the holo. "Neighbor hive, speaking a language ours can learn. Not plague, not blight. We don’t smash. We parley, trade, or fold. If the Queen approves, we can..." He caught himself, as if he didn’t want to oversell. "We can grow the ant side without starving the room."
He pointed at the holo. "Neighbor hive, speaking a language ours can learn. Not plague, not blight. We don’t smash. We parley, trade, or fold. If the Queen approves, we can..." He caught himself, as if he didn’t want to oversell. "We can grow the ant side without starving the room."
Thalatha’s eyes stayed on the moving lights. "And if their queen doesn’t listen?"
Mikhailis exhaled, thinking three steps ahead like he always did. Say it clean. Don’t make it sound like a game. "Then we put another path on the table," he said. "Not a raid. A replacement. We can choose one of our chimera variants—maybe a Scurabon matriarch candidate—to challenge. If she wins clean and earns their respect, the hive might accept her as the new queen. Then we integrate, not destroy."
She didn’t react big. Just a small tilt of the head. "You’re suggesting we crown one of ours... inside theirs."
"Only if the signs line up," he said. "Only if the colony is already unstable or predatory. If they’re decent neighbors, we trade and keep bows low. But if they’re a danger and won’t stop, we offer a better throne."
Rodion’s eye-lights narrowed, and a neat sidebar opened on the holo: growth charts, pheromone trees, brood throughput. <Royal-morph feasibility: conditional. Scurabon line shows latent queen potential under catalyst exposure (royal gel + resin-seed + ironvine trace). Success bands increase if incumbent queen is removed by duel or ritual abdication. Respect metric must exceed 0.72 for stable adoption. Risk: hive war if respect fails. Mitigations: envoy etiquette, tribute package, witness rules.>
Thalatha folded her arms, thinking. The idea wasn’t pretty. It was practical. "If it works, we don’t just have allies. We have a connected net. More routes, more scent threads, more ears."
"And more hands," he said, allowed a small grin. Don’t get giddy. Keep it useful. "Recon teams that know every rib and seam. Ant runners to map dead ends faster than we can walk them. We could find ways up, or out, two or three times faster."
She scanned the little grave-workers spiraling bone on the holo. Ritual. Order. Not mindless. "A queen duel won’t be simple."
"No," he agreed. "That’s why we try polite first. A pheromone letter. A gift. If they answer well, we shake hands and go slow. If they answer with teeth... then we think about a champion."
Rodion flicked a second panel into view. <Candidate list: Scurabon-Red 07 (high cohesion, command pheromone range +12%), Scurabon-Black 12 (combat bite index +18%, patience score high), Slimeweave Ant 03 (logistics queen-track, egg care protocols strong). Royal gel synthesis: achievable. Training time: short, with coaching.>
Thalatha nodded once. "We keep it quiet. No patterns. One envoy at a time. If they take the gift, we move to message two. If they don’t, we back off."
"Agreed." He tapped the air and the holo zoomed to a calm pocket near the colony’s outer ring. "We drop the care package here. Mint-paper crumbs, bone meal, glowcap dust. A mirror token to return if they accept the talk. We wait. No hero moves."
She looked at him, the corner of her mouth almost smiling. "And if your ’better throne’ plan becomes necessary..."
"Then we do it by their rules," he said. "Witnesses. No ambushes. The goal is respect, not fear."
Rodion’s tone stayed dry, but the eye-lights brightened. <If successful, network effect: significant. Added units increase recon coverage, scent-net integrity, and carry capacity. Probability of locating viable egress routes improves by 34–51%. This is, to use Mikhailis’s vocabulary, ’a great thing.’>
Thalatha breathed out through her nose. She didn’t like the word "conquer." She liked "connect." But the result would be the same: more bodies to move, more eyes to see, more chances to live. "We win either way," she said. "Allies or adoption."
Mikhailis let himself smile properly now. "And if we adopt, our new queen is one we trust. A Scurabon can rule without making a mess."
She gave him a flat look that wasn’t actually flat. "You’re biased."
Absolutely biased. He kept the smile because he’d earned it. "I like women who can organize a thousand children and still label the pantry," he said lightly. Then, serious again, "This gives us more units in hand that can both recon and find paths. It’s... a good thing, Thalatha. For once, the dungeon gives us a lever."
Her answer was simple. "Then we pull it. Slow. Clean."