ORIGIN

The thing about a collision is, in the moment, it feels so... slow. Quiet. The adrenaline, maybe. Despite the screaming, squealing, physical crunch, it all collapsed so neatly on the event horizon. And at the center of it, the Zoisite was pulled into a black hole.

At the center of it:

Nothing.

Sorry, there was nothing to be found. It was forever, an infinite blackness, one that made the Zoisite doubt itself. Had there ever been more to it than the twisting, squirming worm of natural synapses firing in some mockery of instinct? Maybe. If there was a heart, it was not to be found within the insect anymore.

Outside, then. The edge of the black hole, where things stretched and warped, pulling into the infinite at the speed of light and yet, so slowly that time itself seemed to stand still. The Zoisite could acknowledge the sensation of pain, even as it was so thoroughly displaced from itself. Its eyes could see the fracture lines that charged up its arm; where venom-soaked teeth burst the useless limb like a gusher, painting crimson and brown armor with a blinding, golden ichor in the voidlight.

Orthoclase-Alpha's eyes met their own. There were no words to be shared between the two, no words that reached their thoughts-- why would any reach the Orthoclase's? There were no emotions to be read in those blank, wide, dead eyes, whether they were green or yellow.

It did not matter. The Orthoclase looked away, drawing teeth back and letting the gaping wound continue to gush and pour. No longer on its tongue, instead on to the floor where its own blood-- and the Reaver's-- made the whole scene of the accident as slick as an oil spill.

Speaking of the Reaver, over the horizon line: Zoisite's other arm, forgotten for a millennia of a single second, remained pressed into a dozen of Khavur's quills. Limbs and wings tried to engulf the black hole, to keep it from swallowing anything more. If only that was how these things worked.

Khavur's cries fell on deaf ears, slowed down to the point where it was nigh impossible to comprehend. They could have been screams of agony, or more glass armor shattering into a trillion slivers, ready to fall upon them like rain.

Then, in an instant, the world came crashing to full speed again. Another collision: a mass of weight slamming into Khavur, tossing the Zoisite with it. A squeal, a sputter. Two mouths snapped shut, on empty air; the Zoisite closed both jaws as tight as it could, refusing to let those razor sharp ends strike out.

Talons reached both ways: the mangled arm continued to reach for the Orthoclase, shaking violently with the effort. If it was to ward it away, to keep it at arms length, or to beg it to stay, it simply did not think beyond the base nerves. It reached for Alpha because that was what they did.

And the other limb... the other grasped for Khavur-- or the thing that had struck them-- for balance, to steady itself. Behind them, a second explosion screamed, filling their head with static.

"I'm... I'm alright," the Zoisite said, feeling as though it was not anything at all, much less something that could be "all" or "right".