ORIGIN

It awakens within the heart of the Hive. One moment there is nothing but dark nothing and then the next white perfection. It sees all - the Cleaners, She tells it, running back and forth, a few rapidly gathering the shards of clear stone that lay at its feet, and the Praetors standing guard around Her body. The perfect symmetry of the room, the webbing, the crystalline grace. And her voice gentle in its mind. It knows its name - Zero One Four, Vindicator.

They hate us. They reject us. But we love them. It understands this. Perhaps it is its mission to give them their wings.

It is alive, but not fully awake. As if it were in a dream, a trance. This here was Heaven, it a messenger of the One, and it was about to be sent to earth.

With its first emotion, a strange bitter sweetness that ached so deeply, it identified the exit and slowly drifted that way. A Praetor came forward and it knew to follow. Out through the tunnels. Out of Heaven.

Yet at the edge of its glorious realm, it found that the world was not so bad. So white and beautiful and perfect, clean snow unbroken. But it could identify the asymmetry of earth immediately. A stone to its right but not to its left. Over there was a forest but the other side had nothing. Hm.

It drifted forward, arm-silks gracefully dancing in the wind, perfectly synced. It could feel the cold, but it did not chill. No blood to cool or warm, no bodily temperature to fluctuate chaotically. No, it was only perfection. It was only Order.

It drifted with little intention or purpose. It had none, just yet. It understood its end goal but not where to begin, or how it would go about doing it. It simply existed, for now, almost blending in with the white of the snow, listening to the soft whispers in its mind. Part of something. A protector. A messenger. A vindicator.

The aimless drifting halted as vision caught the sight of movement and a voice in its head - one of many voices - spoke louder amidst the gentle murmur of thoughts it had not noticed before. It stopped moving, simply floating just above the blanket of snow, at first distressed by the destruction of the perfection of unmarred snow, the asymmetry that this so-called beast of Order was creating, but gentleness soothed its rage. Not everything was perfect. Not everything was pure. This was the way.

It did not turn to face Alcina - for the Vindicator could see all and had no face to turn. It simply focused in her direction, looking the massive beast up and down. There was nary a movement as the angel silently observed and when it spoke, at last, its voice came from seemingly nowhere.

"Sibling. Sib....ling. What is it? What does thy words mean?" The word family rang through its alien mind, a shiver through its hollow form. Family. Love. Sibling. But how are they connected, when they are so different? The Vindicator was perfection and grace, clean and smooth and cold. This other one...the sibling...flesh and blood, warmth, a beast. It did not have wings nor grace. But...there was symmetry. There was perfection. And for that, it loved her.

"This one does not knoweth thee," it echoed again, masculine and feminine voices singing together, "But it knoweth of Order and of Her. Thou art the same?" It was a statement and a question. One voice rang true, the other curled in, curious, questioning.

The link felt so sacred, to know the other despite the newness of its mind. To feel as she did in each moment, her eagerness and love, the comfort she offered and that it accepted with grace. It felt warm, even though it did not feel warmth with its stone-like skin. It was rather a deep warmth in its alien mind, like sun glowing from within. Ah, how true and beautiful this love was, how pure it felt to be so connected. Would not all creatures wish to feel this warmth?

At last, its body turned, so that one of its faces was fully towards Alcina and an arm reached out. Where there was a pointed nub at the end, it slowly split into two fingers and two thumbs. The spindly hand rested upon Alcina's skin, now knowing that warmth on the body. Connected in mind and spirit, and now connected by touch. A small gesture, but an accepting one, perhaps not necessary but feeling good regardless.

"It understands," it chimed as it pulled away. "Thou art same, but thou art different. Warbeast - thy seem mighty indeed. This one is...not so." It was not through a sense of disdain that it made this observation, but simply a neutral statement as it fully compared itself to its sister, then. She was muscle, thick skin and hide and sharp edges made for battle. But it was not so - it knew the fragility of its skin, the hollowness and lightness, aesthetically beautiful but physically weak. Their purposes diverged.

It thought for a moment, with Mother's encouragement to know its name. "Vindicator," it concluded after a moment. "Mother has named it - Zero One Four Vindicator. It is its purpose to giveth them our wings."

The claw upon its hand felt nice. Connection that it realized it had sorely lacked. The hivemind was...intimate, openness and unity, but this was physical connection that it could never truly replicate. It wondered...would others like this same connection? Would others accept its touch, even if it did not have warm blood in its veins? Had this been an oversight during its creation?

Small doubts crossed its mind, but were quickly set aside. It had much time to think of it, to learn more itself, rather then wonder on old knowledge. Its name rang softly through the link and it wondered if its other siblings turned to acknowledge it too, its name and purpose echoed through many minds, perhaps hundreds. How could anyone not want this? This connection, this feeling of importance? One link in the chain, perhaps, a single cog in the machine, but each cog had its purpose and its purpose was so grand.

"It is good - the Vindicator doest not wisheth to fight." It did not like the imagery that came with battle. Screams and blood, dark beasts and anger and hate. It was a terrifying thought and one that it shied away from. There was a moment of silence before it asked, almost child-like in its momentary fear. "...Will it happen again?" Referring, of course, to those images it saw. A beach-side battle. Death. Pain. Chaos.