ORIGIN

Sometimes the absence of something turns out to be its presence from another angle. Sometimes darkness makes an imprint on the mind like light. The space that surrounds an object is just another dimension of the object in that sense. The absence of the voice in Khavur's mind only alluded to the whispers all around it, the whispers of the negative space. Oh, Maximus — they wouldn't know it now, but Khavur understood better that memory they had once shared. You're in its dreams. You're in its thoughts, because you're not in its thoughts. It still talks to you sometimes, more frequently now; picking up a dead end phone and rambling on just to throw its own skull at a brick wall. Because that's what it felt like doing some days. Sometimes you respond, but you don't know that. You never will, at this rate, while you're still hidden away in that rock somewhere—

Why haven't you done it yet? I am afraid. The whole world must have been turned inside out. Where once brutal, brazen honesty was rationed, it now overflows, no end in sight. No shortage available, simply must keep guzzling from the pipe. Please try again later. Khavur wasn't done: It may still hate me. And I may still... seek its destruction. We must be ready. Placing time and space between yourself and Labradorite-One is what you have been doing. You already know it's a different problem, now it's time for a different solution. The replica was imperfect. Khavur, try as it might, mold that mental clay tirelessly and fruitlessly for hour upon hour, at every opportunity... try as it might, Khavur could not imitate something so alien to itself. Not when the smaller details of Maximus's features were beginning to fade from view. They became fuzzy. Adorable and fuzzy, like Maximus, but ultimately not Maximus enough.

Still, from what Khavur could gather, not-Maximus-yet was still right. Artificially correct. That just meant Khavur was correct, didn't it? Funny, that. The world must be upside-down. Where once the limb was the extension of the body, the body is now the extension of the limb. Like potatoes?

Some breathing mound of stone lurked outside the entrance to Draco. One could not say it stood Sentinel, nor could it be called Overseeing... but living, existing in this space, and watching, all these it certainly was. At first, Khavur could have walked on past it, jaws stiff and aching for the hunt ahead. But then, with such alarming, bone-breaking speed, it realized: no it could not. The laws of the universe must be changing, because Khavur could not actually take another step forward upon seeing this pile of rocks. No, Khavur could scarcely breathe in its presence, let alone stare or attempt to process. The world... the world must be imploding, and exploding, at the very same time. Keeping it at a perfect, violent, erupting stagnation.

One tree and one boulder, one fresh and one old, and one says to the other in nothing short of anticlimactic disbelief: "...Overseer?" And the world changes energy levels, destroying everything of its former self while still nothing truly moves. Not with a bang, but a whimper. It's not so dramatic, calm down. You're ruining the joke.

Acknowledgement. Ruptures and ripples in the ozone that could devastate the planet forever, but all Khavur got was acknowledgement. That was fine, though — it needed little else. What happened, for a moment after a single word and acknowledgement, was a process of thought that found through the swamp of all the festering others. Rational, reasonable thought. It felt like the pot staring into the void of the kettle, sitting here staring at "Overseer Orthoclase-Alpha"'s scars and wounds and wondering if it should say anything. If it should notice anything at all. Khavur was going to notice one way or another; the frame, the shift in attitude, the look in those putrid green eyes. Registering all these small details that only ever hinted at possible emotion, registering monster to monster, if that is even what you are.

Khavur decided its path. The silence they had had to bear in the meantime was just a tad too long, but Khavur was practiced in the delicate art of directing its own choir. "I... was not aware you had returned." Perhaps the silence threatening to settle in had been a harbinger of comfort for Overseer. If that were so, then it would be a pity, since this was only the first step in the road. "I thought you would... well, I suppose it does not matter what I thought. You are here." The sun travels its steady course, ever westward, braving the dangers posed by the mountain peaks. "Welcom-hm..." Often in one brazen, forward direction — allthough in this instance, it would think better of that. Khavur would redirect, attempting to switch gears while covering up the trace of error: "...How long ago did you return? I was away for some time, as you may already know. Perhaps I missed it." In this mountainous, westbound region, the sun found many jagged peaks to dance around like jacks on the floor. However, being a gaseous giant rather than a being of flesh and blood, it often fails to realize where it has already stepped, when it is already bleeding. Or perhaps it pries and prods at these hazardous perimeters with calculated purpose, counting drops of blood like clattering gold coins. One expression remained veiled in oilstone while the other portrayed a curious awe towards Orthoclase-Alpha, so it would be difficult to tell. Nevertheless, the Reaver danced; and what a poor Overseer that would leave behind, with so little room to escape through.

Monstruo y monstruo, yes, yes. Creatures of tendency, tendons, see; a proclivity towards... violence, chaos, and disruption which were all danger here supposedly but, I am not so sure. "Ah. A few weeks," Khavur would echo as it thought and as it shifted, almost into a "settled" position (although the Reaver did not really have the anatomy for settling; more for standing stock still like a horse). Khavur did not seem to recognize the orthoclase's discomfort. Could be a tip to the audience, but then, Khavur was not usually the one to notice— or, well, more like not the one to care about that kind of thing. Something, that little space of tension in the back of its head, the negative space generated from the awareness of its own lacking, gnawed at it expectantly, and instead of complying this time, Khavur gnawed back. Maximus— I know what I am doing.

"I must have been too preoccupied." The Chaos Forge had been short-staffed, after all. "...I imagine your return was well-received by Master Vargas." It must have been, if he reinstated you so quickly. It said a lot to Khavur, but why mention it aloud? Was this an idle musing? "I thought I might be ordered to search for you. The absence has made an impact, I believe." No, it was not. "Hm... may I ask you why you returned, Overseer?" No, it was really, really not. "I do not mean to stall my hunting duties — nor do I doubt your intentions. I simply ask because I believe any answer would help me... understand something about a certain topic." Both sets of eyes, regardless of function, bore into the orthoclase's hide. But the placid, dutiful tone never shifted. "A topic Master Vargas encouraged me to pursue."

Khavur wondered where the zoisite had inherited their impeccable shell from. Such pristine armor never shattered like glass, even after the spirit did and the beast came out. The Reaver wondered what else they had inherited, from which party. Khavur wondered, so dangerously close, as if it, too, had inherited something from its Master. Would the orthoclase feel it? The eyes — even the ones that no longer functioned? Even though the breath and the expression never changed, would the orthoclase be able to pick out the monster from the rest? Distinguish it? More than comprehend, understand it? If it could or could not, if it did or did not, would that not spill more and more?

This is all too dramatic. It can't possibly mean this much. Khavur is just a pair of eyes. And Orthoclase-Alpha is just a...

Coward. The Overseer was a coward. There was no sheepishness, no sheep in the Chaos Forge. The only lamb it had ever produced had since left them. The rest were all wolves, wolves in various clothes. Call 'Overseer Orthoclase-Alpha' the emperor of having none. All their eyes could see it. Would anyone ever say anything? You are jumping to conclusions. There was something, something Khavur did not want to hear. There is no authority and no forethought in any of its words. Do you not remember the Overseer who trained me? Succinct, yes; blunt, yes; but capable of instruction at least— Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe that's why you still don't know how to win a fight. Maximus would never say that.

"Your work... You were not created specifically, and yet you have a work to complete. That is intriguing..." Khavur was waiting for it. Waiting for the repercussions of all its poking and prodding Waiting still, even though it felt in its gut that there would be no climactic end to this battle. Perhaps the Overseer was entirely incapable of spotting battles anymore. No, that couldn't be it. Complacency, laxity — these were things for those being lulled to sleep. The orthoclase must have been rudely awakened. Had it ever slept? Its condition did not indicate a positive answer to that question.

Khavur decided it had no choice but to continue its prodding and poking. Continue until it found the orthoclase it remembered again — the aloof, the commanding, the one who fought back. The one who knew how to kill a rat and looked like it had eaten plenty. Khavur had never been quite so attached to that orthoclase, as far as it knew. Khavur would seek without sentimentality, gorge without famishment, dig in its talons without mercy, until it could finally be certain of the truth. Certain that the eyes lodged deep within that distinctive bone structure really reflected anyone, or if they were simply vestiges of a magical gift that had scarcely ever been used. Certain of Khavur's prior suspicions, which it had kept from everyone as best it could — especially this mason's own adamantine spawn. Khavur had to know. Because maybe Orthoclase-Alpha had never been a hole in its heart, but it had been a hole in something. In this ecosystem — the one Khavur would give life and limb to nurture.

"Did you choose it? Your work? Was it instinct, or choice alone? —This all pertains to my research." Impersonal. Official, almost. And detached, seemingly. Yet, it involved knowing their very hearts, every one of them. Every heartbeat in this forest would carry Khavur's body when it rose to the skies. Every network of veins below this soil would sustain Khavur when all sustenance was gone, when all hope was otherwise lost. For this biosphere, Khavur would become purple as a bruise, large and looming as the darkest cloud. Or, Khavur would become bright, glistening soft, filled to the brim with cherry red. That was Khavur's purpose. Could it be inherited? Had it been before?

Khavur felt like it already had its answer, but— Don't assume. Just look at it. Look at every fragment of that carapace and remember how it breaks under the right pressure. Bones, skull, keratin, all the same fabric. Look at how the eyes move, how the quills waver, how the chest falls and rises almost without rhythm. Look and find it, or wonder where it went. Behind your own sturdy, wooden gaze, think to yourself: does it grimace like a monster? does it love like a monster? how much pressure would it take to crack every bone into a smile? Look deeper and deeper, swim as far as the farthest buoy allows, and as you go, boil and steam in your rage. Because of all the things you could have found captured in the surface of those pearls, the last thing you had expected to see was... yourself. In all its iterations.

You hate it when that happens, but don't give it all away just yet.

There would be no hole to hide from the sunlight eyes in this time. Crawl and coil, deepest insect — coil in on yourself tighter and tighter like the never-ending serpent. Khavur would find you, and you would know its blinding light once more; for there is no place on this world for a man to stand where he might escape the light of stars.

The mannerisms did not evade Khavur's notice. It almost seemed silly, imagining that they could. Whether the Overseer knew of its own lack of plating seemed a less important question than whether or not it could even fix its conscious or unconscious mistakes. Hoarse voice, lean frame, an unfocused gaze... hiding the blood that seeped from the cracks in that armor would be impossible to achieve without using the very blood spilt. In other words, any question of Does it know? Does it care? had been rendered irrelevant by the fact that the orthoclase seemed in no shape to do either effectively.

"I didn't." Unholy tension rose like hot air. "Ma-aster Vargas did." Then it snapped.

Then it is not your work. It is his. Finally. "What would you have chosen?" Finally. Khavur's facade was breaking, finally, under the unrelenting pressure of all that hatred frustration. At long last, its lashing tongue was wrapping around the words it really wanted to say. A far more personal plunge unfurling from its venom-soaked lips like snarling teeth.

There was a beast rattling beneath Khavur's every scale, haunting and infernal, its wicked soul the color of the darkest plume of fire — it craved the blood of its enemy. There was a songbird fluttering in Khavur's gut, twisting its vocal chords, singing sweetly of salvation — it craved the air of its companion. Khavur wished, with heart and soul, flesh and bone, that it could bear all these elements, every aspect, to its Overseer. To bear tooth and talon, to tear limb from limb, even if there was no response, just to feel the extraordinary pain of Orthoclase-Alpha's being alive again. And why shouldn't that be possible? After all, this orthoclase was not what it once was; it would be too weak to retaliate.

But alas, this orthoclase was not what it once was; it would be too frightened to stay.

Once again, the world was imploding — a supernova cascade — while the two monuments of nature stood undaunted, leaving no evidence of the impact in either body beyond each one's uneasy breath.