Finally... FOOD!

For a long moment, he hesitated.

He was not afraid—not in the way a creature with lungs and a heartbeat would be, not in the way that flesh fears the knife or the hunted fears the jaws of its predator. His fear was more abstract, more insidious, a thing born not of instinct but of knowledge—of the simple, unrelenting certainty that he did not know how to be.

The abyss had already overwhelmed him once.

And now, he was expected to command it?

He had no eyes, no hands, no way to reach out into this unseen world. But the world had already reached into him.

He could feel it now, the quiet pulsing rhythm of existence, the silent conversation between water and all things that drifted within it. There were currents, subtle and slow, stretching across the darkness like unseen threads. There were ripples, disturbances in the stillness, whispers of things that had moved, that were moving still.

He had felt them before.

Now, he had to seek them.

"Alright..."

The thought was tentative, uncertain, but there was no hesitation left in the action.

He let himself reach, not with hands, but with something deeper, something woven into the very fabric of his being—

And at once, the world bloomed around him.

It was not sight, nor sound, nor touch as he had once understood those things. It was something else.

A chorus of phantom tastes, invisible trails etched into the water, the lingering traces of things that had passed this way long before he had awakened.

There were many scents, each a different whisper of molecules, unraveling before him like threads. Some were faint, fleeting, insignificant, the distant remnants of something too far gone to reach. Others were stronger, thicker, still fresh, still real.

And then, at last—

There.

Something stood out among the chaos.

It was subtle, barely a trace at all, but he felt it, felt the way the molecules shifted and curled into something recognizable—or at least, something his body recognized, even if his mind did not.

"I think I found something."

A beat of silence.

Then, with the same clinical detachment as always—

"Congratulations."

A pause.

A silence pregnant with frustration.

"That's it? That's all I get?"

"You require further validation?"

"I don't know, maybe a little? It's not every day I figure out how to... what even is this? Smell? Taste? Sense molecular ghosts in the water?"

"You have successfully utilized your chemoreceptors to identify potential nutrient sources. This is an expected biological function. However, if you require verbal reinforcement—"

Another pause.

A pause that somehow, impossibly, felt condescending.

"Well done. You are now marginally less incompetent."

If he had lungs, he would have sighed. If he had hands, he would have rubbed his nonexistent temples in pure, exhausted misery.

"You know, for an assistant, you're not very encouraging."

"I am highly efficient. Encouragement is extraneous."

"It wouldn't kill you to try."

"Correct. I cannot die."

Another long, slow moment of suffering.

But—he supposed—there were more pressing matters to deal with.

Like whatever this strange, pleasant thing was.

Because despite his irritation, despite the frustration of grappling with knowledge that should have been his to wield from the moment he had awoken—

There was something else.

Something comforting.

It had been present since the moment he had begun to listen to the abyss—this soft, steady pressure, neither constricting nor violent, but constant, unshifting. It wrapped around him like a second skin, a quiet embrace, a sensation of belonging so natural, so deeply ingrained, that he might not have noticed it at all had he not been paying attention.

"What is this?"

"Clarify."

"This thing. This... presence around me. It feels... I don't know. Nice?"

A pause.

Not one of thought—she did not require thought—but one of consideration, as though deciding whether or not to waste precious efficiency on delivering an answer in a manner his deeply incapable mind could grasp.

And then, at last—

"The sensation you are experiencing is the result of the cohesive molecular interactions within the surrounding medium. More specifically, it is the presence of water tension and the even distribution of osmotic pressure against your membrane."

A silence.

A silence so dense, so thick, it could have been bottled and sold as pure, concentrated incomprehension.

"I... Okay. You tried. You really did. But—let's go for a different approach. Explain it in a way I can actually understand."

"Very well."

And this time, when she spoke, there was something different—not warmth, never warmth, but an adjustment, as though she had, at last, chosen to meet him where he stood.

"You are enveloped by an abundantly common molecular structure known as 'water'. It surrounds you on all sides. This is normal. This is good. If it did not, you would cease to exist, which—while solving many of your current problems—would be counterproductive."

"Additionally, the surrounding medium contains dissolved... khm... 'good' compounds, maintaining a balance that prevents your immediate rupture or desiccation. You may consider this a fortunate circumstance."

A pause.

And then, softly, carefully, almost reverently—

"I think... I get it."

"That is fortunate. It would have been inefficient to repeat the explanation."

"And there it is. The sarcasm. I was starting to think you were going soft on me."

"Your continued inability to grasp complex concepts necessitates accommodation. However, I do not foresee a need to simplify indefinitely. I anticipate a marginal increase in your comprehension over time, however slow and painful that process may be."

"Wow. Thanks. I feel so encouraged."

"Acknowledged."

Another sigh.

But—strangely—not a frustrated one.

No, this time, it was something closer to... acceptance.

And now, for the next task.

"Alright... I have a general idea of where the nutrients are. How do I get to them?"

"You will utilize your flagella for propulsion. Given your inexperience, your movement will likely be inefficient, uncontrolled, and erratic, just as I said before you had a traumatic event with a certain organism."

"Fantastic. Can't wait."

"Begin movement."

"Fine, fine. Here goes nothing—"

And then—

He lurched.

Not forward, not backward, not even in a straight line, but into a wild, chaotic spin, his entire form twisting, tumbling, spiraling through the abyss in a manner so ungraceful, so catastrophically uncoordinated, that if he had possessed bones, they would have rattled apart from sheer centrifugal force.

And then—

Chaos.

Not forward, not backward, not even in a straight line, but a wild, thrashing spiral, his entire being twisting and convulsing, flung in every direction at once. His flagella—these traitorous, wretched things—lashed against the abyss without discipline, sending him into an uncontrollable cyclone of suffering.

The currents did not resist. No, they welcomed his incompetence, eagerly throwing him from one unseen force to another, until he was little more than a helpless, floundering speck, at the mercy of a world he had no right to exist in.

"No—NO—stop, stop, STOP! WHY IS THIS HAPPENING AGAIN?!"

His thoughts burned with a desperation that could not manifest into breath, into ragged gasps or frantic clutching. He had no lungs, no hands—only the ceaseless, merciless spin, a mockery of control.

The voice in his mind, unshaken, undisturbed, unmoved by his plight, cut through his panic with the cold precision of a scalpel against quivering flesh.

"Because, as I stated previously," Taltos intoned, her voice a monotone blade, perfectly even, painfully indifferent, "your movement is inefficient, uncontrolled, and erratic."

He could hear it—the quietest edge of smugness buried beneath her carefully measured words, as if she were actively restraining herself from saying 'I told you so'.

"Taltos!" His frustration surged like a wave crashing against a jagged reef, breaking apart into sheer, unfiltered distress.

"Yes?"

Calm. Detached. As if he had not just called out for dear life. Just the usual.

"DO SOMETHING!"

"Clarify," she replied, as though his current predicament was not already painfully obvious. "What, specifically, would you like me to do?"

His thoughts staggered, disjointed, too chaotic to form anything resembling logic.

"I don't know! Fix it! Make me move right!"

"Ah," she mused, as if she had just now realized what he meant, as if she hadn't been watching him suffer this entire time. "You would like assistance in stabilizing your locomotion."

"YES!" His very being coiled with exasperation.

"Acknowledged."

No urgency. No hint of concern. No pity.

Just that same, clinical acceptance, as though he were asking for help assembling a piece of furniture rather than desperately clinging to the last remnants of his dignity.

"Your instability is due to improper flagellar coordination," she continued, her words smooth, methodical—the exact opposite of what he was experiencing. "You are activating appendages at inconsistent intervals, producing torque without directional control."

"I—what?!" His mind tangled upon itself, trying to process the words, trying to claw meaning out of them while he continued to flail like a dying insect in a whirlpool.

"You are flailing," she clarified, flatly, unapologetically.

"I KNOW THAT! HOW DO I STOP?!"

"Begin by ceasing all movement," she instructed, her voice carrying the casual ease of someone explaining how to close a door.

If he had teeth, he would have ground them into dust.

"And how, exactly, do I do that?!"

"Disengage all flagellar motion," she said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the universe.

"I—Taltos, I DON'T KNOW HOW TO DO THAT!"

"Then learn," she stated with nurturing intent, unbothered by his suffering, "or continue flailing indefinitely."

He hated her.

He hated her so much.

But screaming wouldn't help. Complaining wouldn't help.

He had to try.

Slowly—painfully, awkwardly—he forced himself to stillness.

The world did not immediately comply. His momentum fought against him, his form still tumbling through the abyss, but he could feel it—the gradual slowing, the uneven quivers dying down until, at last—

He was still.

He had never appreciated stillness before.

Now, he worshiped it.

"Good," Taltos acknowledged, though she sounded completely unimpressed by the monumental struggle he had just endured. "Now, initiate forward propulsion. Engage flagella with synchronized motion—gradual, not abrupt."

His hesitation returned.

But—he had no choice.

He tried.

And for the first time—something responded.

There was no chaotic thrashing, no helpless spiraling into oblivion. This time, his flagella moved as one, each appendage engaging in a steady, rhythmic motion.

And the abyss answered.

It did not fight him.

It did not cast him into another uncontrolled tumble.

It simply let him move.

It was slow.

It was awkward.

But it was movement—true, deliberate movement, something that was his.

"You are successfully generating forward propulsion," Taltos observed, her tone unchanged, as if he had just completed the simplest task imaginable. "Your movement is now functionally stable."

He almost couldn't believe it.

"I... I did it?"

"Correction," she said, and there was something so deeply insufferable in her tone that he could almost see the calculating gleam of condescension behind her words. "You did not do it. You were instructed in how to do it. My assistance was required for a successful outcome."

"You just can't let me have a moment, can you?"

"Would you like an unearned sense of personal accomplishment?"

"Yes!"

"Request denied."

"WHA-! You are the worst."

"Noted."

He could feel her satisfaction.

He had never felt anything more infuriating.

But—

He was moving.

For the first time since he had awakened into this strange, incomprehensible world, he had control.

It was not perfect.

It was not seamless.

But it was his.

And for now, that was enough.

He now simply drifted, his movements no longer dictated by stupid incompetence but by his own will, however weak, however unsteady, however incompetent still.

Then finally...

The source.

Something lingered in the distance, an unseen specter in the water. He could not see it, could not touch it, but he felt it, the way it curled and tangled within the currents, the way its molecules hung suspended, adrift in the same vast nothingness as he was.

And it called to him.

Not in words, not in whispers, but in a way deeper than knowing, a pull woven into the very essence of his being.

This was food.

Or at least, his body thought so.

His mind? His mind had no idea what to do next.

"So... how do I eat it?"

"You will need to absorb it." Taltos' voice carried no weight, no sense of the significance of this moment. To her, it was merely another instruction, another biological function, as simple as shifting through the water.

"Absorb it?" He hesitated. "You're going to have to be more specific, because last I checked, I don't have a mouth."

"That is correct. You will instead use membrane transport mechanisms to uptake necessary molecules."

"And what does that mean for me, the idiot who doesn't understand anything?"

"It means you will engulf the nutrients directly into your body. You do not require chewing, digestion, or conscious effort. Your cell membrane will facilitate the transfer through endocytosis or passive diffusion, depending on the molecular properties of the compounds."

He processed this.

Then—slowly, deliberately—

"...Am I about to absorb something through my skin?"

"You do not possess skin. But in essence, yes."

His entire being shuddered at the thought.

"That sounds disgusting."

"Your survival depends on it."

A long, miserable pause... This starts to get really repetitive.

Then—

"Fine. Tell me how."

"Approach the nutrient source. Increase membrane fluidity at the point of contact. Allow molecular diffusion or initiate phagocytosis, depending on compound size."

"That still means absolutely nothing to me."

A pause. Taltos' ever-neutral tone did not shift, did not betray even the smallest flicker of amusement, but he could feel it, somehow—a subtle, silent sense of disapproval.

Then, with the careful, measured patience of someone explaining basic arithmetic to a brick wall, she spoke again.

"Move closer. Touch it. Let it in."

That...

That sounded so much worse than it could be.

"You make it sound like I'm about to be violated... Again."

"I assure you, this process is both natural and necessary. Your personal discomfort is irrelevant."

He did not sigh—because he could not—but he felt the sigh echo through the very fabric of his being.

"Alright. Fine. Let's get this over with."

He propelled himself forward—slowly, cautiously, flagella stirring the water in measured, careful strokes. The substance ahead of him—whatever it was, whatever had left it behind—remained suspended in the currents, neither fleeing nor fighting, simply existing, waiting to be taken.

As he neared it, the sensation became stronger—a chemical presence wrapping around him, growing denser, more tangible, pressing against the edges of his being, like a veil of unseen mist.

And then—

Contact.

A ripple shuddered through his membrane. A foreign presence, an intrusion. But unlike the last time—unlike the horror of the F-pilus forcing something into him—this was different.

This was not forceful.

It was not invasive.

It was welcoming.

The molecules did not force their way inside—they simply drifted, slipping past the barriers of his form as if they had always belonged there.

The moment they passed through—his entire being ignited.

Not in fire. Not in pain.

But in power.

It was warmth, expansion, a quiet, humming energy surging through his core.

The dull exhaustion that had pressed into him since the moment of his awakening—it was fading. The hollow, gnawing absence of something missing, something he had not known how to name—it was filling.

The molecules slowly entered him.

His membrane drank in the carbon, the nitrogen, the phosphates, the microscopic treasures carried within the drifting matter—his form absorbing, converting, repurposing, setting the gears of some vast, hidden biochemical machine into motion.

And he felt it all.

The slow unraveling of potential energy, the shift of molecules as they were transformed into function, the quiet, rhythmic hum of something waking up within him.

"You have successfully initiated nutrient absorption," Taltos remarked, her voice flat, but undeniably present. "Your metabolic efficiency will increase proportionally with intake."

He barely heard her.

Because for the first time, in this great, dark abyss—

He felt alive.

"Alright, let's find more! I feel as if I maybe need more."

"An adequate conclusion. I cannot argue against your goal. Go on!"

- TO BE CONTINUED! -