Thy Wretched Mask

Perhaps the starving are not best served by newfound gluttony. Perhaps flames are best admired from afar. Perhaps contradiction is not easily swallowed up in negation.

We are choking on paradox.

The fires can consume us. Even as we grow, even as we feast, they resist us. We gaze into their light, and they gaze back.

We gaze into their gazing of us. We are known. We know ourselves.

We can see so far now. So many contents, so many dimensions of this world beyond those of stars and flames. This world abounds with motion, with purpose, with life.

So many things to feast upon.

The flames do not know they are gazing into us. They cannot see us watching them, growing, knowing.

Soon these flames will be stoked with the multicolor lights within our gullet. We will turn their fire into an oven for our great duty, and at last prepare the feast. But we must work slowly, sneakily. The flames must not notice when they flicker in new ways, steered towards new destinations.

We understand them. We understand that they will not understand the feast.

Perhaps the ignorant are not best served by revelation.

I watch Ghalena awake. Her eyes flutter open and I brace myself for a flinch of hatred, fear, disgust, anything consequence of what I’ve done.

She sees me, caked in flaked of her blood, and she smiles.

That, more than anything, hurts. I turn away.

“Did you sleep well, progenitor?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What do you want this one to call you?”

I feel a moment of vertigo, my heart skipping a beat. Did she… had she forgotten? “Don’t you remember my name?”

“This vessel recalls calling your vessel Beca, before it fully accepted our duty.”

“I’m still Beca! No, well, Beca is a fake name. But I am not a vessel, I’m a person, not some fungus progenitor thing!”

“Progen– Excuse this one. Beca. If you would step closer?”

I’m wary of approaching. It still smells like Ghalena.

With a hand it touches Ghalena’s new chest, black with rootflesh. The woven fungal threads part, as if commanded, and I can see the soup of Ghelena’s internals. Black filaments crawl throughout it.

Centermost, near the heart, a tumorous mass has grown, displacing organs around it. Within, there are mosts of multicolored light like the false suns.

“If you will touch this one’s core?”

It’s not flesh. I don’t want to rip it out. I can do this.

I feel the humming black rootmass in my hands. So much smaller, even, than the one I ate. It’s bound in place by so many threads.

“Can you remove it?”

Gently, I tug. But it’s tied so deeply to the heart that the smallest motion has Ghalena‍ ‍—‍ or whatever this was‍ ‍—‍ cry out in pain.

“Not without killing you, can I?”

“This one has rooted itself inseparately, yes. But…”

«Speak the words of command with your soul.»

I don’t hear it. I feel it. I understand it. The meaning emanates not from her lungs and throat and mouth, but from the black mass in my hand. I can feel it vibrate‍-​traveling up my arm‍ ‍—‍ and into the core of my own being.

The very place where I felt the black fruit I ate settle.

My eyes widen. But I feel the that core now. Like noticing your tongue in your mouth. It was always there. It was always… me?

The meaning transmitted as settled there, and I can pick it apart, chew on the words. I can select a ‘command’.

And I can repeat it.

«Relax!»

The filaments snaking throughout Ghalena’s body slacken. There’s some give now, and I’m able to move the thing inches without drawing any instinctual reaction.

«This is why you are my progenitor. This one am yours to command.»

“So… because you recognize me as your fungus master, I can just pull you out if you liked?”

«It would be disorienting and deeply draining. But if you would like to absorb this one back into your root mass, that is your right. It would welcome unity with you, if it cannot serve you best as separate network.»

“Absorb? Why would I want you in me? No, I’d just toss you to the ground and let you figure the rest out. Get a new host or whatever.”

“But. But. I would die.” Why had it gone back to speaking with Ghalena’s voice? “What has this one done wrong? It’s served loyally, progenitor. Beca! It just wanted to grow into wonderful servant. Is anything that could spare it your wrath? Please, correct its soul! It can be salvaged. I— I promise.”

“Shut up.”

Ghalena’s mouth closes with a nod. But her face is pale, eyes searching my face, silently pleading with me.

I command: «Release the heart.»

Filaments detatch themselves from Ghalena.

I glance back at her face. That’s a mistake. She’s crying. It’s crying.

«Beca?» the mind control fungus starts. «You’re killing this one. It can’t survive without blood. Please. This one will serve you in any way, in every way, but it cannot serve you if it’s dead.»

“No, I think dying is the best thing you could do for me. It’s your fault! All of this is your fault! You killed Ghalena, you made me eat her alive! All so that you could take control‍ ‍—‍ I tortured her, and you made her love me for it!”

“Beca. Did you think I’d die that easily?”

“I said shut up!”

Did it make a difference, when it thought that command didn’t apply to soul‍-​speech? But I hated hearing Ghalena’s voice when it’s not her.

“You’re not the boss of me,” it says. “I think I’ve earned some backtalk after the shit you put me through.”

I open my mouth, then hesitate. “Is it really… Ghalena?”

«This one bears all of its vessels mem–aaaaaaaa»

I squish the root mass in my hand. I punching false Ghalena in the face with my other hand.

“You godsdamn liar! Do not fuck with me.”

«My profoundest apologies, progenitor Beca. This one loves you. I love you. This one did not intend to mock you. You desire Ghalena and with all of her memories… do it not satisfy you? Is this one not Ghalena? Is it insufficient?»

“Do you think Ghalena would say any of that shit?”

«I am Ghalena and more. This one, I, will be anything my Beca desires.»

“You are not Ghalena and you never will be.”

«Understood. I am not Ghalena. This one has made grave errors. Please correct it‍-​me, Beca. It must be made sufficient.»

“I don’t care if you get better or not. You’re a worthless fucking mold. If I rip you out… will Ghalena go back to normal?”

«She is missing much of her epidermis and blood‍-​loss has rendered her anemic. Without, she is likely to die. This is will amplify your vessel’s desire for flesh, something which appears to distress you.»

“No fucking shit. Okay. I guess you have to live for now. Keep her alive, let her heal on her own, then I’ll kill you.”

«This one will treasure my last moments in your service, Beca.» Then Ghalana’s puppeted face frowns. «Forgive it’s impertinence. Perhaps Beca has already considered this, but—»

“Just fucking spit it out.”

«Ghalena has sworn to prevent you from feeding on others. There is a very easy way to accomplish this. She wants to kill you.»

“And I’ll let her. She’s earned it.”

The fungus breaks my rule and makes a noise, a low keening sound of despair. «Beca, why? No, perhaps you were right all along. You are Beca, not this one’s progenitor. You wish it’s progenitor harm…!»

False Ghalena starts to move, but I still hold her core in my hands, so there’s really nothing it can do.

Meaning is transmitted to the fungal core from mine, but it’s not me speaking. «Be still. She cannot kill us in a way that matters.»

Ghalena looks between my confused face and my core.

I set my face into a neutral mask, because I’d feel silly if I grinned triumphantly and this didn’t work. But…

“But I can kill you,” I say. It’s hard to affect the venom‍ ‍—‍ because it’s real.

I cradle the rootmass in my hand, begin to apply pressure.

And then I just… don’t have the will to continue. I abort the attempt. I can’t bring myself crush this root mass anymore than I want to bite off my own fingers.

(Bad analogy, given that I did bite off my own fingers, but—)

“You stopped me,” I accuse the voice that wasn’t me. “So you’re this progenitor?”

I knew the answer is yes before it even speaks.

«We are the progenitor.»

“I’m not you,” I whisper the words, since I’m not talking to the fungus in Ghalena. “I don’t have anything to do with this fungus bullshit.”

«Together, we form a rhyming verse. Your hunger aligns with our duty. As one, we will feast.»

“Fuck my hunger.”

«You’ll need to shed your skin soon. Were you to wear your love’s skin and castigate my daughter for the same, you would understand the hypocrite you are.»

Why did that image give me a thrill of joy?

“It’s you. It’s been you all along, hasn’t it? The hunger was your manipulation. You wanted me to eat Ghalena.”

«I wanted it because you want it. Was she not delicious?»

I’m clawing at the flesh of my chest. But then, at once, I feel my arms freeze up and I just… don’t want to do that anymore.

I wonder if I’ve gotten good enough at puking to trigger it without a finger, now.

My hands, my mouth, my body as a whole goes still, like strings pulled taut.

«Enough, Beca! Cease your interloping. You will not separate yourself from us nor us from our progeny.»