Chimali’s smile didn’t falter. He just tapped his stone pad, humming a new, even more off-key tune. “Seven days! Oh, that’s plenty of time. We’ll just need to upgrade our flak batteries, get some long-range projectiles humming. Think of it, Ixchel! We could turn those reaper pods into… well, into more reaper pods! What a fantastic idea for a closed-loop system!” Ixchel watched him. Her hand, previously hovering near the hilt of her bone-dagger, slowly lowered. He wasn't scared. Not even a flicker of the cold, calculating strategist she’d glimpsed before. Just boundless, unhinged optimism. “Glassing protocol,” she stated, her voice flat. “That means a planetary bombardment. Nothing remains.” “Nonsense!” Chimali waved a dismissive hand. “They just want to clear the field. But they don’t know we’re here, do they? A walking city full of helpful citizens, ready to offer them… a different kind of welcome! Now, where would one find top-tier projectile schematics in a post-apocalyptic world?” He paused, tapping his chin. “Old military installations, naturally! Ollin, darling, can you manage the city for a bit? We’re off on a field trip!” Ollin, who had been meticulously picking bits of Spore-Goliath residue from his phalanges, let out a hollow groan. “More ‘field trips,’ you mean more frantic sprints through acid-blighted ruins while you hum show tunes? Fine. Just try not to get yourselves melted. The paperwork for reanimating an entire scout is dreadful.” “Don’t worry!” Chimali chirped, already consulting his screen. “The Mandate just pinged a high-yield 'seed' location! A former military bastion known as Nexus Alpha-7. Sounds promising!” Hours later, an alien spore-patrol slithered past their hiding spot. They were deep within the rusted, reeking ventilation system of what used to be a heavily fortified subterranean command center. The air was thick with the metallic tang of old circuitry and the sugary rot of alien biological residue. Outside, the patrol’s multi-jointed legs clicked eerily on the shattered concrete floor. Ixchel pressed herself flat against the grimy metal, her breath held. The duct was barely wide enough for one person, let alone two. Chimali, directly behind her, was radiating a warmth that was deeply unsettling in the frigid, stale air. His arm brushed her back, a light, insistent pressure. She could feel the vibration of his low hum against her spine – a tune about ‘happy little spores.’ One of the chitinous creatures paused. Its eyeless, lamprey-like head swung slowly, sniffing the air. A low, guttural rasp scraped from its throat. Ixchel’s muscles tensed, ready to spring, to kill, to die if necessary. This was her element. This was the grim reality she understood. Then, a faint, almost imperceptible *whir* began in the absolute stillness. It was coming from her belt pouch, where her covert Xihuitl Ascendancy transmitter was stashed. The device was designed to activate under specific spore bio-signatures, alerting her handlers to high-threat targets – and its low-frequency emissions could easily be picked up by the very creatures it targeted. Her eyes flicked to the pouch, then to Chimali’s face, inches from her own. He was still humming, his gaze fixed on the vent ahead, oblivious. The whir grew fractionally louder, a tiny insect trapped in a jar. If it activated fully, they were dead. She had mere seconds. Her fingers twitched, desperate to reach the device, but the angle was impossible without moving, without attracting attention. Her ribs tightened around her lungs, not from fear, but from a sudden, fierce protectiveness. She had accepted him for her own reasons, selfish and calculated. But in this tight, suffocating space, with his maddeningly cheerful presence so close, a cold dread seized her. Not for herself, but for the idiot who thought a planetary glassing was ‘plenty of time.’ Chimali shifted slightly. His hand moved, not to her pouch, but to the vent grille. With a barely audible *click*, he adjusted a small, rusted damper. The whirring stopped instantly. The beast outside, seemingly satisfied, continued its patrol, its clicking fading into the distance. Chimali turned his head, his blue eyes wide and innocent. “Oh, that was a close one! Nearly had a little loose fitting. Good thing I noticed before it got properly stuck. Bad airflow is terrible for morale, you know. And these ducts are so stuffy already!” Ixchel stared at him, ribs frozen. He’d known. He had heard it, understood the danger, and disarmed it with a casual, airhead excuse. The cheerful mask was back, but the sharp intellect beneath had just sliced through her carefully constructed defenses. They navigated the labyrinthine passages, eventually reaching a massive, blast-proof vault door. It was secured by a multi-layered biometric and optical lock, clearly designed to withstand a direct orbital strike. A relic of a bygone era of human ingenuity. Chimali clapped his hands together. “Oh, a puzzle! How fun!” He pulled out his slate pad, its surface glowing with intricate schematics of the bunker’s entire energy grid, which he’d somehow downloaded in minutes. “Hmm, looks like a standard ‘Serpent’s Kiss’ cordon array. Very quaint.” He didn't tap, didn't swipe. His fingers, surprisingly agile, danced across the holographic interface projected from the device. Lines of archaic code, long dead to any living technician, flickered into existence, then vanished. He muttered under his breath, not in his usual cheerful tone, but with a focused intensity that made the hair on Ixchel’s arms stand up. The airhead mask was gone, completely. In its place was something cold, precise, and utterly ruthless. His eyes, usually sparkling with manic optimism, were now sharp, devoid of any warmth, tracking the data streams with terrifying speed. “Aha,” he whispered, a predatory satisfaction in his tone. “They tried to use a pseudo-quantum entanglement lock with a fluctuating frequency key. Cute. But they forgot about the thermal bleed on the central processing core. Amateur.” Without another word, a surge of energy crackled through the old system. The lights in the corridor flickered. With a groan of ancient gears and hydraulics, the colossal vault door rumbled inward, revealing a dimly lit chamber beyond. “Voila!” Chimali chimed, his grin back in place as if it had never left. He pushed the heavy door open, revealing rows of cylindrical containment units. Each unit held a human, pale and still, connected to various IV lines and monitoring equipment. The air was filled with a low, mournful hum. Ixchel took a step inside, her rifle raised. “What is this place? A cryogenic stasis vault?” “Not quite,” Chimali said, peering at a console. His buoyant tone seemed to echo unnaturally in the sterile environment. “It’s a ‘Purification Chamber.’ These humans are awaiting the invaders. They believe they’re being ‘sanctified’ as a sacrifice. They’re called the ‘Fathers of the First Bloom.’ And it seems they’ve set up a welcoming committee.” Suddenly, the entire bunker shuddered. Dust rained from the ceiling. A deep, guttural roar vibrated through the reinforced walls, shaking the very ground beneath their feet. A massive shadow fell across the vault door. The ceiling directly above them groaned under an immense weight, then split apart with a tearing shriek of metal and concrete. Through the newly formed rupture, a colossal, multi-limbed figure, dripping with alien ichor and bristling with chitinous armor, began to descend. Its single, central eye, a malevolent crimson orb, fixed on the humans in their tubes, then on Chimali and Ixchel. It was a Vanguard, one of the smaller, but no less terrifying, scout beasts of the fleet, here to collect its ‘offerings.’ [GENESIS MANDATE ALERT: Apex Predator Detected. Vlaxari Harvester Vanguard. Potential Bio-mass Yield: HIGH. Recommended Processing Protocol: IMMEDIATE ACQUISITION.] The creature let out another deafening roar, its massive clawed foot smashing through the last remnants of the ceiling, intending to butcher everyone.

Gathering Seeds