Ex Lacrima Remnant

Track #13 – Anthropic Principle

Prim didn’t think. Prim didn’t plan. As soon as its presence grazed her retina, her survival instinct kicked in. No matter that her last spear was made less than two days before. No matter that she couldn’t make a new one on demand. Whatever she had now, was what she had to make use of. Her lymph excess, held without release for two days. That was her secret weapon. So, she let it loose, she let it flood the cavity inside of her spine, lubricate the rough shape of her javelin, forcing it out, as her hand closed around her roots, as her tendrils formed a new handle, as she slowly extracted it from her back. Whatever that was, whatever quality that ‘weapon’ had, she knew it had to be enough. Not because she trusted her skills as a rhizome. If anything, she didn’t. But it had to be enough, because otherwise Mal could have been drained of his water. That was absurd. Inconceivable. Since Mal could not have his water drained by it, her spear could not be broken. Q.E.D. The unnamed Peacekeeper could not die either. If he died under her watch, she would have been punished. But that too was inconceivable. That’s why she barged in. That’s why she pushed the Peacekeeper away. Because there was no chance her spear would fail.

And, if it failed, she would have died before them. If there was any possible future where she survived the strike, no doubts one of her countless possible counterparts would live it. Maybe just one. Yet, even if one did, so could she.

The only world line in which she lived was that where her spear stopped its attack.

And that future was now. Right after the impact that severed those tendrils. Right after the blow that saved the Peacekeeper’s water. For now, at least. But, for her, that was more than enough.

Because it retreated, it put some distance between itself and her. She could see it better now, she could see its coils of plant matter, its roots, vines, flowers, the tangled mass of branches trapping dried human remains – a collection of jaws and fractured skulls encased in what could be called its chest. It was oozing a green substance from all of its appendages. Lymph. That was rhizome lymph. Prim sealed that information in her brain, didn’t let that sway her. She commanded her neck roots to grow, to encase the sides of her head like a helmet, right out of the hoodie’s collar, being careful not to rip it. That was her favorite sweatshirt. No way she would destroy it, if not absolutely necessary.

She bent her legs, strengthened her grip around the spear.

Then, she dashed forward, with the speed of a bullet. Thrusting her spike into its chest, breaking through that collage of human bones, through the bark surrounding it. The spear didn’t meet any resistance. It pierced through the plant matter, like a finger through soft butter. A groan escaped Prim’s lips, as she pulled her weapon out, dashing back almost immediately. Just in time to avoid the tendrils, gigantic spider legs hitting the ground, shattering the floor. She thrusted forward again, aiming at a different section of its body, right where its ‘tail’ begun. The spear pushed with both hands, bark broken in the impact, plant matter ripped and carved out. But not enough. A gigantic pressure on her right temple, branches swung like clubs, smashing her from the side. Prim felt the absence of gravity for an instant, then her body plunged on the ground, crash landing on the tiles. She got on all four, still holding her spear, tried to ascertain her reserves of excess lymph. She didn’t know exactly how much of it was left, aside from a vague feeling she got from her innards. It was like having to an extra organ, one that, when it was too full, would send the same signals as a bladder. Yet, she sensed no such thing. If anything, the opposite – total dryness. Her two days of stored lymph, partially reduced by her vomit and her bodily function, had been spent completely to finish up her new spear. That meant no residual lymph to fix her frame, if things went south. She gritted her teeth, cursed her uselessness once again, slowly stood up.

It was crawling, slithering towards her, keeping its distance, studying her. A paso doble of death, a clash of wills, the silent gaze of a predator, the looming threat of the unknown. A circular motion, none of the combatants approaching the other. Prim squinted her eyes. Inhale. Exhale. It wasn’t a beast. It didn’t act on instinct alone. There was a certain deliberateness in its motions, in its tactics. Whatever it was, that made it exponentially more dangerous. She grabbed the spear again with both hands, her legs bent like coiled springs.

Only for a vine to whip its chest. A wide gash, bark and wooden splinters flying out, a skeletal jaw escaping the tangle, now broken free by one single lash.

Felce. Joining the battle, standing close to Prim. Both of her arms wrapped with lianas, emerging from under her wrists. She grunted, lashed her second whip, breaking more vegetal matter off its body. Then, she jumped back, right out of its range, right as a gigantic club smashed the floor where she stood instants ago. She glanced at it, almost gasped. Two, four growths were sprouting from its backside, extruding from its main body, turning sturdier and more twisted by the second. Felce cursed, let her vines retreat, gritted her teeth. It had six appendages now. Six trunk-sized clubs. That had to be a joke. She closed in on Prim, stood at her side.

“Your pet has called HQ. We need to keep this… thing occupied till they bring the big guns.”

Prim nodded, raised her spear once again.

“Do we have permission to go all out?”

“Just wait and see, sister.”

Felce coiled her vines around her arms, before letting them loose, like two anacondas, growing, twitching, twisting like living beings.

“Let’s dance, shall we?!”

Both of her vines lashed at the same time, a cross of death slashing its body, carving away even more plant matter from it, leaving gashes on the bark, ripping roots and vines away. Prim sprinted again, drove her spear through its chest, crushing a human skull into pieces, piercing the center of its body. That’s when she heard.

The crack.

Coming from her weapon.

She tried to pull it out, with all her strength. Yet, it wasn’t moving. It was keeping the tip inside itself, forcing it in, clamping it with its body. Then, it raised three of its clubs, swung them in the air. Instinctively, she knew what that meant. She braced for impact, her neck roots encased her head. Just in time for it to strike, for its clubs to thrash her stomach, her head, her hips, throwing her around like a rag doll. Breaking her spear in half, shattering it in a million fragments. Prim’s back hit the tiles at full speed, her nape bounced on the stoneware, her whole body slid on the ground. Her fingers still closed around the stump that once was her spear. She knew it. She knew that it couldn’t last long. Made too quickly, with too little lymph and not enough raw materials. Prim was not surprised. Maybe, just disappointed. She was, indeed, the weakest rhizome. No matter the words of encouragement. No matter her effort. She was just. Firewood. Incapable even of doing her job properly. Incapable of protecting a single life. Her ears were buzzing, a phantom noise going through them. That impact had broken something. Her right arm. Her right leg too. She could barely move. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe. Her eyes. She could still turn her head. The civilians. All gone. Except those who already died. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe. No more casualties. One corpse still fresh, the grandkid. Still full of water. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe. She would have been reprimanded. Of course, she would have been. But did she have a choice? The kid was dead. His head was no more. She needed repairs. She needed them quickly. Her spine twitched, her tendrils extended, ripping her hoodie apart. She loved it. She loved that sweatshirt. Spent hours putting it on and off in front of a mirror. She considered it a part of herself.

But she had to.

Sacrifice.

It.

If she wanted to survive.

Her tendrils burst through, stripping her back bare, slithered on the ground.

And delved into the child’s corpse.

Sucking its water, its blood, its nutrients.

Sucking everything she could to fix her own frame.

It didn’t notice her in the act. Its attention was focused on Felce, dancing around it, slashing its body with her whips, chipping away small chunks of its body. Not enough to stop it. Not enough to damage it. Yet, she kept evading its clubs, its tendrils, turned around its back over and over, over and over, without ever stopping for more than an instant. Till she jumped, crossing both of her whips again, going all in on its back.

But it was ready.

Two.

Four.

Six.

Eight spikes.

Emerged from its chest.

In less than one second.

Thrusting into Felce’s body.

Skewering her.

Right shoulder. Chest. Left arm. Right thigh. Left calf.

Felce’s eye widened, her pupils shrunk, her mouth wide open, a scream of pain, all her receptors flaring up, shouting ‘danger’. Not because of the damage, no.

Because.

It.

Was trying.

To suck her water.

Out of her.

Her lymph. Siphoned. Slowly. Drip by drip. Felce gritted her teeth, tried to free her hand, her arms, to no avail. Suck. Suck. Suck. Her water. Was leaving her body. Quickly. Dizziness. Thirst. Pain. Suck. Suck. Suck. She roared, twisted her muscles, spent all of her efforts, every ounce of energy she had left. Her sight was blinking on and off. Her thoughts slower. Suck. Suck. Suck. She stopped resisting. Tired. She was tired.

Closed her eyes. Prayed it ended.

Somewhere.

There was another Felce.

One of the countless.

Same model as hers.

Maybe.

Her life could have been.

Better?

Suck. Suck. Suck.

She might.

Have survived.

Never met it.

Never eaten fries.

But survived.

Suck. Suck. Suck. Su…

A sudden bang.

A black fluid sprayed.

On its tendrils.

On all of them.

A second.

A third bang.

It twitched. If it had a mouth, it would have screamed too. It burned. It burned. Whatever hit its vines, it burned them. It lost all sensitivity. Its vines were dead. Dead. It couldn’t see, only feel its own surroundings. And understand that something changed. That its back was burning. That the burning was seeping through its layers, burning and killing more and more of it.

A fourth bang. One of its extensions, its arms. It was still attached to its body, but it couldn’t reach it. Couldn’t feel it. Just as if. All the connections. Were severed. Then, its senses emerged from the chaos, followed the heartbeats. One was strong. Close to it. One that, before, was frozen, silent. Suddenly, it felt like coming up had been an error. Yet, it was necessary. Because the world above violated its sanctuary. It reacted to the probes. It reacted to those foul tendrils that sucked water out of its reserve, out of its nest. Those tendrils. From above. It would have ignored them, if they didn’t taste.

So.

Sweet.

Something.

Above.

The vibrations.

Were sweet.

The heartbeats.

Were sweet.

Up there, there was.

Living water.

So, dig up.

Dig up.

Dig up.

Dig up.

Drink

Suck.

Slurp.

Dry.

Pain.

Pain.

Pain.

Now. It was.

Pain.

Pure. And simple. Pain.

What it couldn’t see, was the rifle. What it couldn’t see, was the Peacekeeper, on the verge of collapsing. What it couldn’t see, was Mal having that weapon in his arms, trained on it. Because the Peacekeeper couldn’t react. Couldn’t overcome the shock. But Mal could. And he knew it. He knew about the herbicide.

So, he pulled the trigger.

Before Felce was drained.

Her body was laying on the floor, her breath ragged, her clothes torn, lymph oozing through her wounds. Yet, still alive. But it wasn’t over. Because it located Mal. And was now slithering in his direction. Another bang, the trigger pulled again. The substance sprayed in a wave, hitting large swathes of it, turning them black, withered. Not enough. Another shot. Another one. More and more of it was black, more and more of it was falling apart. Yet, it endured the pain, came closer. Closer. Closer. Mal pulled the trigger one more time. But the rifle was ripped off his hands. A gigantic swing, a club of plant matter, smashing him on the side. Mal lost his breath, as his world turned upside down, as he slammed on a bench, before slumping on the tiles. His nails gripped the stoneware, almost scratched it, every movement a hell. That’s when the Peacekeeper ran. Its attention was locked on the downed man. Right time. It was the right time. He could get away. Get away. Live to see another day. He gasped, pushed forward, left Felce’s aching body behind, stepped over the dried corpse of the grandpa, of his unfortunate grandson. The monument. The mass grave. Was down there, in front of him. He stopped for an instant, to navigate the rubble, to avoid falling down the hole. And, in that instant, he felt something strange. Something unlike anything he ever felt. An aching, sharp pain. In the right side of his chest. He looked down, incapable of understanding. Till he saw the branch. Wood. Thorns like brambles. Going through his skin. Piercing his armor. His body. His lung.

Then, a second, in his left shoulder.

Then, a last one.

Through his head.

Shards of glasses, the helmet destroyed, the metal fractured, blood sprayed through the wounds.

And his water.

Sucked.

By it.

The part of it that still focused on him.

Because it didn’t just follow Mal.

It was following everything.

Everything that emitted vibrations.

“NO!”

Mal’s voice trickled through his throat, as the body of the Peacekeeper fell on the ground, before being torn apart by the thorny vines, desecrated to squeeze his water out. The black sections of its body started reinvigorating, more flowers bloomed on it. And new tendrils came out of its back. Two. Four. Six. Twelve. Looming over Mal.

It raised them above his head, ready to strike down.

But it didn’t.

Attack.

Because it didn’t just follow Mal.

It was following everything.

Everything that emitted vibrations.

Which is why it turned. Which is why it stopped. Vibrations. Massive vibrations. An active plasma knife, shining bright, dwarfing the artificial lights. A knife that once belonged to a Peacekeeper. And now was in a rhizome’s hand. Prim’s hand.

Like a bolt of lightning, she run at it, slashing each and every part of its body, every vine thrown at her, every spike, every tendril, every flower, every root. It could feel it. Could feel the searing pain of its body getting burned, cut, sliced. It waved its arm, tried to smash the rhizome. And, suddenly, the arm was no more, fallen to the ground. It didn’t understand. It couldn’t follow. It couldn’t reason on what was happening. Only that, for the first time in its life, it was traversed by a new kind of feeling.

Fear.

It was scared.

Before it could turn, before it could raise its other arm, the blade met its torso, cut through it, severed the tail from the rest of its body. Letting the core, the part where the neural center had to be, fall down, incapable of getting away.

“You have killed four civilians and one Peacekeeper. You are hereby sentenced…”

Prim raised her arm, her knife shining above her head.

“…to instant termination.”

The last thing it perceived was the strange feeling of lightness, of having its reason split, of its parts getting farther and farther away from each other.

Then, it was fire.

And its whole core began to burn, its flowers to turn to ashes, its leaves to fall.

Suddenly, it stopped thinking. It was no more. Its intelligence burned with the remaining plant matter, the remaining skulls and bones burning too. Till all what was left was a charred bush, surrounded by broken tiles, corpses, puddles of herbicide.

Crumbling in front of the rhizome that overcame it.

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.

Prim let herself slump on the ground, the plasma knife deactivated, completely unloaded. She was running on fumes. One broken arm. One broken leg. All kept together by the nutrients she stole from a human child.

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.

They would have punished her. They would have punished her for that. No way out. She let her roots free her head, let her tendrils extend from her back, move around, slither on the ground. Mal. Felce. She had to check on them. She had to make sure of their state. She had to be sure they weren’t…

She stopped thinking. She couldn’t know. She couldn’t say.

First, Felce. Prim forced herself to move, dragged her body with slow steps, before collapsing one more time, under the weight of her broken leg. Her tendrils extended from her back, through the ripped sweatshirt, delved deep into Felce’s skin. Her heartbeat. She could hear her heartbeat. But her water levels were low. Very low. She extended another tendril, reached the dead Peacekeeper’s body, entered into it from one of the holes it left. A corpse had no use for all that water. So, he could spare some. She sucked it, let it pass through her lymphatic system, then pumped it into Felce’s stream. Six other tendrils emerged from her back, three delved inside Felce, three inside the body. Pump. Dump. Transfer. Faster. Faster. Faster. All for Felce. All to save Felce. But why? She didn’t know.

Once, she would have just sucked her water too.

But that felt

Wrong?

After they ate fries sitting at the same table. After they talked about sunbathing on the beach. After they spent an afternoon together.

Sucking her dry

Felt

Wrong.

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.

A movement. A movement on her right. She turned her head, trying to keep the dizziness at bay, trying to ignore her pain. Felce. Felce needed help. Yes. She needed to focus. Not to think about anything else. Because… because…

“…Prim?”

She gasped.

The movement. Was his.

Mal.

Mal was standing there. Looking at her. Tears in his eyes.

“…Prim, you are… we are…”

Then, he hugged her. His arms around her neck, his head on her shoulder, his voice broken.

“…you… oh fuckin’ Lagash, Prim… you…”

Prim felt his warmth, the warmth of his skin on her own, his heart pounding in his chest, his sobs, his stuttering words.

“…you saved… me?”

“I…”

She felt the water dripping down his cheeks, wetting her skin too, saw his swollen eyes, sparking with something akin to relief. Prim’s tongue reacted to that wetness, licked the tears, tasted them, licked more of them, almost automatically. She jolted, her heart skipped a beat.

“Mal, your water…”

She stopped. That wasn’t the time or place for it. Too much. Too much for that day.

“My water…?”

Too late. Her brain raced, looking for a way to complete the sentence, one that didn’t alert him of her real thoughts. She found one. One that wasn’t a total lie.

“…is delicious.”

“What.”

Her arm, her only healthy arm, embraced Mal’s shaking body.

“…turns out… you’re not junk food.”

“Nah, I’m… your emotional support human.”

“…that’s good, because now… I really… really need support.”

Mal nodded without saying a word, let her head rest on his shoulder. And so they remained, knees on the floor, hugging each other, while Prim’s tendrils transferred waters and nutrients from the corpse to Felce.

So they were found, when the rescue team came. Broken, tattered, bloodied, but alive.

With the knowledge of having beaten all the odds, of having made a world where both of them survived a reality.

At least for one fleeting moment.