No, not structure. Hive.
Vespa. The Italian word for wasp.
Well, if I wasn't stung to death, this would make great dinner party conversation, should I ever like enough people to host one.
Inside was a labyrinth of dense honeycomb-shaped chambers, all with that translucent glow. Each hexagonal room was a self-contained tiny treasure: one pinky-red, made of petals that smelled like roses, another emerald green with feathery grass stalks higher than my head, yet another a brilliant sky blue where you crossed on fluffy clouds.
My footsteps echoed off a fallen trunk that traversed a miniature forest rich with the scent of pine. Vespa had created a microcosm of nature within this hive.
I headed deeper and deeper inside. "Hello? A little guidance here?"
"Right, right, left," Vespa buzzed. Their voice both boomed through the space and drilled down from the crown of my head to my toes like a precisely wielded jackhammer.