Vicky paced the length of the kitchen like a caged animal, her claws flexing and unflexing, tail twitching with every turn. The oven hummed quietly, filling the air with the rich scent of baking cookies, but it wasn’t enough to soothe her nerves.
Across the counter, Mera sat on a stool, needle and thread clutched tight in her hands. She was working on a patch of fabric with jerky, uneven stitches, unpicking them half the time just to start again. She pricked her finger twice in as many minutes and hissed, but she kept going, jaw set in determination.
Jakira was beside her, but she didn’t even bother with busywork. Instead, she hunched forward, forearms braced on the counter, hands twisting against each other until the skin turned raw. The faint scent of iron hung around her too — not from blood, but from the blades she had made.
“It’s been three days,” Vicky muttered, her voice low, like saying it out loud might make time move faster.
Mera didn’t look up from her sewing. “Edward said three to four. Could be done any time now. We just… we just need to wait.”
Vicky stopped, gripping the edge of the counter so hard the wood creaked under her claws. “That’s easy for you to say.”
Jakira finally looked up, tired eyes meeting hers. “I’ve made nearly twelve blades in that time,” she said flatly, like it was some kind of confession. She flexed her sore fingers, the skin of her palms nicked from long hours at the forge. “Don’t even know what to do with them. I just needed to keep my mind and hands busy.”
Vicky’s chest ached. She wanted to scream, or cry, or tear the room apart just to burn through the restless waiting. Instead, she slumped against the counter, tail dragging on the tiles. The smell of sugar and butter from the oven was almost mocking — warm, homey, ordinary — while their whole world teetered on the edge of what Chrysanthemum would wake up as.
“She’s almost ready,” said Edward, his voice drifting through the intercom like a whisper of thunder.
The words froze Vicky mid-step. She turned sharply toward the wall speaker, heart slamming in her chest. For three days, Edward’s voice had only carried reassurances, reminders, clinical updates that meant nothing to her. But now—now it carried finality.
Mera dropped her sewing needle. It clattered against the counter, forgotten, as her wide eyes darted to Vicky. She pressed a hand to her chest, steadying her own frantic breathing.
Jakira stilled too, her restless fidgeting cut short. She stared down at her scarred palms, flexed her fingers once, then curled them into fists as though bracing herself for a hammer blow.
Over the past few days, Edward had drowned them in explanations. Gene editing, cellular memory, cognitive re-alignment—endless streams of knowledge from a world so far beyond theirs it barely made sense. Vicky had tried to listen, tried to hold onto the words, but they slipped through her like water. Mera hadn’t fared better, though she’d nodded and smiled like she understood. Jakira had stopped trying altogether, just muttering that she’d stick to iron and fire.
None of it mattered now.
What mattered was that Chrys was in there. Changing. Shifting. Coming back.
And after all the agonising wait, after the sickening churn of guilt and dread, they were finally about to see who stepped out.
Vicky’s throat was dry. “Edward…” she whispered, barely able to force the name out. “When?”
There was a pause, and for a heartbeat it felt like eternity stretched.
“Now,” came the answer.
Edward guided them through the twisting, dimly lit corridors of the vessel, the hum of engines and the occasional flicker of strange lights making the passage feel unreal. Vicky’s footsteps echoed softly against the polished floors, each turn bringing a tightening in her chest. She didn’t need to ask where they were going; Edward’s quiet confidence made it clear.
Finally, they stopped at a single sliding door. It hissed softly as it parted, revealing a chamber that was startling in its sterility and precision. The walls were lined with what Vicky at first thought were theatre boxes, but she quickly corrected herself at what Edward had taught her, they were monitors—countless screens displaying images, charts, and streams of symbols and languages that made her brain ache just to glance at.
At the center of the room, at the far back, stood the massive glass tube. It dominated the chamber, filled with a softly glowing blue liquid that shimmered as if alive. The light danced across the surface, concealing and revealing shapes beneath. Through the liquid, a figure floated, fragile and silent, framed by the machinery that hummed and blinked with quiet purpose. Vicky’s breath caught.
Even through the obscuring glow, she could see the faint contours of Chrys—or Alesha—inside, a body suspended between two worlds: the past and the return, between what had been and what was about to be. The air seemed heavier here, weighted with anticipation and fear, and every step they took toward the chamber felt like it carried them closer to a moment that could change everything.
Slowly, the blue liquid began to drain from the tube, swirling down into hidden channels beneath the floor. Tiny bubbles clung to Chrysanthemum’s form as she descended, her body lowering gracefully until she rested on her knees, still slick with the remaining shimmer of the liquid. The glow faded with each passing second, leaving only the faint glint of moisture on her chitin and skin.
As the last trickle disappeared, the massive glass lid began to rise with a low, resonant hiss, the hydraulics whining softly in protest. The chamber filled with a sharp, metallic scent, unfamiliar and almost electric, curling through the air and making Vicky’s nose twitch. Her hands flexed at her sides, tense, her heart hammering with every second.
Chrys’s antennae twitched uncertainly, her multiple eyes reflecting the light of the monitors around her. A subtle tremor ran through her frame—not fear, but a strange disorientation, like surfacing from a deep, dreamless sleep. The liquid was gone. The barriers were gone.
“Chrysanthemum?” Mera took a cautious step forward, her hand outstretched, voice soft and tentative.
The swarm queen’s many eyes blinked rapidly, her mandibles flexing as she tilted her head. “Who… who are you?” Her voice was sharp, alien, yet there was a fragile uncertainty woven through it.
Everything froze. Vicky’s stomach dropped. Her chest felt like it had been hollowed out, her heart shattering in slow, jagged pieces.
Jakira stiffened, her hands flexing at her sides, and Mera’s knees buckled—oh no, oh shit!
Without thinking, Vicky lunged sideways, catching Mera just before she collapsed, cradling her in arms that felt suddenly too small to hold the weight of panic and fear.
“Oh fuck, I was joking!” Chrys scrambled, her long, spindly legs trying to push her upright. But the fluidity of her movements was gone; she slipped and tumbled forward, sprawling face-first across the cold floor.
Vicky opened her mouth to scold her, to comfort her, to do something, but no words came.
The sound that issued from Chrys’s throat was not her own. Not the sweet, gentle, jagged cadence they had loved. It was clear, well spoken, and she cursed. She actually cursed.
The room was silent, except for the faint hum of the machinery and the shallow, panicked breathing of Vicky holding Mera, Jakira frozen in place, and Chrys lying before them, suddenly so achingly unfamiliar.
Chrysanthemum planted two clawed hands on the floor, then another two, pushing herself upright. Her movements were clumsy but determined, every motion accompanied by the faint rasp of chitin on tile. She swayed before settling back on her knees, mandibles clicking as she exhaled hard.
“Right. So that was a terrible joke,” she said at last, her voice switching into perfect Htulthan—smooth and fluid, like slipping into another skin. “Whoops.”
“Damn bloody right it was!” Jakira snapped, hand pressed to her chest. “Thought my heart was going to stop!”
Chrysanthemum chittered softly, a sound halfway between laughter and the rattling of dry leaves. “I’ll be honest. I am very, very disoriented and sorting through a lot of shit. Feels like I’m in a completely different body and not at the same time. Like I’ve been fully conscious and asleep for so long. It’s… fuck me, it’s like that time I took acid. Awful trip.” She laughed again, awkward and broken.
Vicky’s throat worked as she tried to speak. “Are you still… Chrys?”
The swarm queen rubbed her temples with two hands, antennae twitching wildly as if trying to shake the static out of her skull. “Yes. No. Yes and—yes with an asterisk.” She gave a sharp little click, then sighed. “Hooo boy, okay. Give this one, like, ten or twenty years. There are centuries of memories to muddle through. Ah, yeah. Like outliving everybody I used to know. How the hell did this body even live this long? Ah whatever. I wasn’t dead, exactly. It’s like… two personalities just smushed together and now I have a raging headache and three…” her mandibles flexed, eyes flicking between them “…girlfriends? Yeah. You’re worried, and I desperately want to alleviate that, but it’s going to take time.” She leaned back against her abdomen with a tired smile. “It’s like I’m awake for the first time after forever sleeping.”
“You’re back. You’re really back, Alesha?” Edward’s voice came through the intercom, tinny but trembling.
“Somewhat, you dumb pile of circuits.” The swarm queen’s mandibles flexed, her voice slipping unevenly between jagged clicks and smooth words. “Ah shit. This one has way too much to do the think about. I mean—think about. Whew, that’s going to take a while to get out of the habit. Me. I. This one. Yeah.” She exhaled sharply, as if frustrated at her own mouth.
“Mm… wha…?” Mera stirred against Vicky’s arms, her lashes fluttering. Then her eyes snapped open, wet and bright. “Chrysanthemum!” she cried, the sound breaking as it left her throat.
“Right here, love,” said the queen, softer this time. Her arms—four of them—spread open, an unmistakable gesture even on a chitinous body.
Mera practically tore herself from Vicky’s grip, stumbling across the floor until she collided with Chrysanthemum’s chest. The swarm queen caught her easily, curling her arms around the girl and pulling her close. Mera pressed her face into the plated surface, shoulders shaking.
“I was so worried,” she sobbed. “So worried for you.”
“Nah, I was gonna be fine. Edward knows what he’s doing,” Chrysanthemum murmured, stroking the back of Mera’s head with surprising delicacy. Her antennae brushed lightly over Mera’s hair, a comforting, insectile caress. She tilted her head toward Vicky and Jakira. “Wanna get in on this cuddle-snuggle? I got some feelings and right now the main one is I wanna hug the shit out of all of you. Four arms! One for each of us. Though Edward, I’ll just be cuddling you in spirit.”
“Please don’t call me a spirit, Alesha.” The AI’s voice cracked faintly, a synthetic mimicry of a wince. “You’ve been calling me that for too long.”
Chrysanthemum gave a low click, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Sorry. Old habits. Lotta old habits to burn off.”
Vicky and Jakira practically lunged at her at the same time, and Chrysanthemum’s four arms immediately wrapped around them. The pressure was warm, strong, and grounding, the chitin hard but surprisingly flexible against their bodies. Vicky buried her face into the curve of Chrys’s shoulder, inhaling the faint metallic-sweet scent that was uniquely hers, while Jakira pressed against her side, arms squeezing tight around the queen’s middle.
Chrysanthemum held them both with careful strength, rocking them slightly as if to steady their trembling hearts. “Got you,” she murmured, her voice soft now, almost tender, the jagged cadence of the past softened by the warmth of reunion. “All of you. Safe. Here. Right here.”
What a terrible joke to start out with Alesh-Chrys
OH MY GOD WHAT A TEASE. JEEZ GIRL.