The Hive

(live: 3s)[(goto: "THE HIVE")]

[[Simone]] [[Abel]] [[Lyra Grace]] (if: ($Simone is true) and ($Abel is true) and ($LG is true))[ [[Fox]] ] [[*->Credits]]

(set: $slowTransition to (transition:"dissolve") + (transition-time: 6s))(align: "========><=")[THE HIVE] (live: 7s)[(goto: "begin")]

[[You were right about this]]

"He[['s]] just not [[right."]]

Your parents have just [[died]].

Game by Halden Ingwersen World concept by After the End LARP Simone concept by Ericka Skirpan Abel concept by Charles English Fox concept by Lex Pulice-Farrow Music - Lavender Town Orchestral Arrangement by Vanitas (played at half speed) Font - Beehives Are Sticky by FontPanda [[Play->begin]]

[[You're big.]]

[[You're brave.]]

[[You're tough.]]

You're [[10]].

You can handle the hunting. The [[band]] trusts you. [[You're so ready for this.]]

Your family. Your friends. Your kin. [[You're home.->10]]

You lace your boots. You shoulder a big hunting knife, and a small [[pistol]]. And, fearless, you [[charge in.]]

The sun is high in the sky, you feel the crunch of dry leaves underfoot. There's the perfect amount of nip in the air. It smells crisp. The trees [[look like fire.]]

You breathe deep. And you walk [[deeper]].

Your mother goes to kiss you on the top of your head but you duck out of her grasp. [[You're grown->You're so ready for this.]]

You walk until you can no longer hear your band. This is where it properly begins: [[The Woods]].

You're in The Woods. You could do anything. [[Set a snare]] [[Climb a tree]] [[Gather berries]] (if: ($snare is true) and ($tree is true) and ($berries is true))[ [[Look up->Woods2]] ]

You have everything you need. You find a stick and [[sharpen it]].

You can go after something bigger than just some bunny. You can bring home a whole deer. You'd make your family [[so proud]].

There's a bush nearby with lovely red berries on it. [[Pick some.]]

The little pocketknife is so heavy in your hands. You feel the weight of this task as you prepare the stick, the wire. [[Seek a good spot.]]

It doesn't take long before you find a place where the thin cover of leaves have been shoved to either side. Near the gnarled roots of a big oak. Rabbit warrens. [[Perfect]].

You drive the snare into the ground, go to hide in the bushes, [[watching]].

As you watch, you think about the rabbit you'll catch. Rabbit stew. Rabbit fur. Rabbit roast. [[Rabbit]].

Fluffy rabbit. Tiny bunnies. With their perfect little pink noses. And their velvet soft ears. [[Rabbits...]]

(set: $snare to true) [[You pull up the snare and walk back->The Woods]]

You were there for a deer hunt, once, last year. The grownups brought you and a couple other young ones. You felt so [[honored]] to help.

You scurry up a tree and wait. You must be very still. You must be very [[silent]].

You forgot to have your pistol out and ready. You know. Just for when //something// [[comes by]].

You wait. And you wait. And [[you wait]].

Waiting takes an awfully, awfully long time. It's chilly up here. The sun has moved. [[This is boring.]]

(set: $tree to true) [[You clamber down->The Woods]] You'll get a whole deer another day.

You fill a hand, but then your face. [[They're delicious]].

But you've picked this bush clean. [[Luckily there's another not far.]]

[[So you pick some more.]]

[[There's the yummy purple kind just down that way]]...

You fill your hands, your pockets, your bag. [[They'll be so happy with all these berries!]]

(set: $berries to true) You smile and [[look up->The Woods]] from your work.

[[Where are you?]]

You don't know these [[trees]].

There's no path to be [[seen]]...

You cleaned off all the bushes, so you're not even sure where you've [[been]]-

Youre [[lost]]

[[You never find your way home again.->begin]]

"There's some[[th]]ing off about [[that boy."]]

"His [[p]]oor [[family."]]

They think you don't hear them. And maybe you don't. But you know. You maybe [[know too much]].

You maybe are too much. For them, [[anyway]].

You know the following things: 1. Other people are not like you are. 2. This means that they take issue with you. 3. But you know more about them than they know about themselves. Their [[paradaigms]] were not [[built for you]].

"People were filled with sin. They built up the world into perpetual Sodom and Gemmorah. The people before were the serpents, offering their poisoned Apples, twining around hearts until they destroyed it all. Most of them are dead now. The other few who survive are, likewise, horrible creatures of sin. But the Father heard The Word of God and we exist to build up his Garden. We are the bees who will help the world grow, reborn. The Garden will not be ours, but we are the first part of growth - we are the Hive. All we must do is love and honor and obey. Through our hard work and prayer, we will call the Angels to speak unto us we will rebuild the Garden." [[These things generally do not work the way they say they will->anyway]]

You fit awkwardly into this space. It's not that you're not built for the space they say is for you: The efficiency and elegance of perfect hexagons makes sense to you, and you could easily snap into one and be a functional producer. It's just that they lied about [[the shape]].

The world of your small community is not made into neat, clear, clever hexagons, not build sensibly, not crafted for efficiency. It's squishy and bad and ill-made. So you do [[everything right]]. [[And it doesn't work.]]

You're productive. You learn your lessons. You study your scripture. You do your work. Until you can quote passages backwards, until you know as much or more than the elders, until they all finally stop quizzing you on Passage Revisions, because you never fail to know it. [[And the Angels speak unto you.->the shape]] (You know they do.)

They call you bad. They call you wrong. They say these things that are, apparently, designed to hurt you. They don't bother you, not really. If anything, it's [[your sisters]] they bother.

Such as right now. This is the space where the Hive has bonfires and sometimes big, outdoors sermons. You like it, even if the Angels send you some [[confusing messages]] here. [[Lyra Grace is sitting on one of the stacked pews.]]

ANDTHERESNUMBERTHREEWITHTHEPASS !!!!ANDHELANDSIT!!!! HOTDOGSGETCHERHOTDOGS .YOU.KNOW.HES.BEEN.HAVING.AN.INCREDIBLE.SEASON.HASNT.HE.JIM. ONLYAFRESHMANBUTHESNEVERONTHEBENCH G O W I L D C A T S G O W I L D C A T S G O W I L D C A T S G O W I L D C A T S G O W I L D C A T S G O W I L D C A T S G O W I L D C A T S G O W I L D C A T S G O W I L D C A T S G O W I L D C A T S G O W I L D C A T S [[The Angels don't always make a lot of sense->your sisters]]

She hasn't been doing well since The Incident. Maybe it was the loss of your parents that caused it, maybe it was just an accident, maybe it was something else. But you know everyone in the community [[blames you]].

[[Your brother did not die in a hunting accident, you shot him so you'd not have to share your father's land ->that boy."]]

[[You meet with the butcher's wife behind the grain silo when your own wife goes to bed->right."]]

[[You've been concealing your corn crop from the community to brew your own liquor in secret ->Abel]]

"Poor girl[[! T]]o be cursed with such a [[brother]]."

[[You fell asleep during mass and lied about it->blames you]]

"He's d[[a]]mned and he's damning her, [[too]]."

[[You bore false witness and got your neighbor excommunicated so you could take his animals ->brother]]

"Surely someth[[ing]] can be [[done?]]"

[[The first fire you lit was an accident, but the four since have not been ->too]]

And that's just what the grownups say. They are wise enough to conceal their words, to say them far away from where they think you and your sisters will hear. It does not work that way, but at least they try. [[The other children]] are not so charitable.

As you approach your sister you see the four other children who are there, with her. They were her friends once, or something like it. It was always easy for your twin to make friends, bubbly and gregarious, the perfect image of a daughter of the Hive. The grace they extended to her was given to you, as well, her excuses for you always keeping you from being fully, completely iced out. [[They are not her friends anymore.]]

Now they are cruel, teasing, taunting. They've surrounded her, three boys and one girl, all close in age to you. //"You're busted. Broken." "Your stupid brother made you stupid, too." "My pa said God hates your family." "You've gone sour."// Through it all, Lyra is silent, staring straight out ahead. Not giving them the reaction they want. [[You know what comes next.]]

If taunts don't give them the reaction, they'll escalate. You know it well, far, far better than your sisters even realize. They don't notice your approach until it's [[too late]].

You [[tackle]] the most aggressive of the boys to the ground. Everything is a blur. In the background, the others are yelling, the girl is shrieking. The world becomes a tube of whirling sky and grass as you roll with him. He's strong, but you're stronger, bigger, and [[you get him pinned]] beneath you.

[[CARRINGTONWITHTHETACKLE G O W I L D C A T S->too late]]

Your hand moves to the pocket knife in your trousers with such natural fluidity, nobody realizes what you're going for until it's flicked out in your hand. Your fingers force his jaw open. He's stopped yelling at you and is now screaming, wordlessly. You didn't see anyone else move, but you hear their noise and you know Lyra is on her feet, just behind you. [["You know, it's a sin to lie," you say, distressingly calm in spite of the violence of your actions.]]

If it's you, you don't care. They can speak as they please to you. But your sister doesn't deserve this, and she's not had as much practice to tolerate it as you. "If you mean to waste the tongue God gave you on saying cruel things, then perhaps you don't deserve to keep it. Perhaps you could learn more from silence like hers." He bites down into your fingers, drawing blood, but you really don't care. His mouth is open and you mean to take the tongue he is using so poorly. Someone is tugging at your arm, [[but you barely feel them]].

But you certainly can't ignore the searing brightness of the screaming right inside your own brain. "ABEL STOP." You know the voices of Angels. [[That was not the voice of Angels.]]

Your grip stays steady, but you turn to look behind you in shock. Lyra is standing there, eyes huge, looking as stunned as you. Everyone else is still carrying on just the same. Because they didn't hear her. Because Lyra Grace can't [[speak]].

You blink. Twice. Then drop your grip. The knife is returned to your pocket. [[You get up]].

The boy gets up and starts running, the other three hot behind. They're likely off to tell the elders. [[But that's the furthest thing from your mind.]]

You stare at your twin. Your twin stares at you. "Did you think that?" you ask, out loud. She nods. //Yes.// [[She didn't move her mouth.]]

(set: $Abel to true) This changes [[everything->begin]].

You have, by [[all accounts]], been taking this [[very well]].

All accounts: * "Bless the sweet girl, she's already got such an albatross and now this." * "I wonder what those parents did for God to do this? After... well. Thank the Lord for those girls, anyway." * "A stiff upper lip, keeps on working for Us. A blessed child." [[Their opinion would normally matter more to you than it does just now.->died]]

You find that you're not exactly happy to be taking it well. It's more like... it hasn't all... [[sunk in yet]].

In part because every time you start to think of it you [[gag]].

And in part because you think you're not handling it the best by being numb to it. If anything your [[twin brother]] and [[older sister]] are doing much better than you. [[If you could be more like them, in some ways, you'd be happiest.]]

Abel is only a few minutes older than you, you don't remember a moment of life where he wasn't there. He is- + So smart - Acting like nothing's happened + So perceptive - Treating this like it's not a big deal + A rock to you, in this and all things - About as personable as a rock [[He's making things difficult->gag]]

Simone is several years older, a nearly grown to you and Abel's bare 13. She is - + So brave - So wrapped up in her books + The model of a Hive woman - When she's not being //super weird// + Holding your family together - IF they let her keep you [[She is so busy right now that she has no time for you->gag]]

Simone seems to be taking it well, in that she's following all of the procedures and doing everything she's supposed to. She's: * arranging for the funeral, * handling the family's plots of land and personal animals, * managing the preparations of [[What's To Be Done With You Two]]. She's got things under control, but... Well. She's the older one, isn't she? Next best thing to Mama and Pa. [[Next best thing.]]

"You two" = The Twins The Twins = The Normal One + The Wrong One The Normal One = You The Wrong One = Abel What Matters = What Everyone Else Who Can't Understand Thinks - What You Think Of All This [[You're both 13, isn't that old enough to make your own decisions without being shut out of rooms of whispering adults?->If you could be more like them, in some ways, you'd be happiest.]]

You wouldn't call her that to her face. You know her look. You're quite sure she'll break into tears if you blow on her wrong, and you couldn't bear to be the tipping point of her grief. Abel isn't showing any grief at all. He's acting as if everything is [[perfectly normal]].

You both love and hate this. On the one hand, it's comforting to have him, Abel, same as always, so rock steady. On the other hand, his apparent lack of reaction, lack of emotion, to the //death// of your //parents//... it aches you in the gut in a way you're struggling to name. [[It's dawn.]]

You need to get ready. [[Wash your face]]

[[Comb your hair]]

[[Braid it back]]

[[Shift and bloomers]]

[[Stockings and shoes]]

[[Skirt and sash]]

And done- [[Wait]]

You almost forgot to pray. [[Now what does that say about you?]]

The funeral is over in a blur. You're not given to speak. Neither are Simone or Abel. You sit in a row on the front pew, three little black feathered birds on a thin, thin wire. Father Isaac does all the speaking. You're sure it's very wise and expressive. But you're not holding a word of it. You're usually a [[better listener than this]].

Two plain pine boxes are lowered into the ground. It's so hot out, a perfect golden late summer's morning. But you catch yourself [[shivering]].

A soft arm on your shoulder. A glance up. Simone. Comforting, warm, even as she stares at the boxes and not at you. A glance to the side. Abel. [[Not reacting at all]].

There's refreshments after. It feels wrong to have a party. But it feels just as wrong to end it there, abruptly, after the burial. Someone made tiny hard biscuits. Someone else brought a little fruit. Someone else has a big bowl of cider. "The Garden is bountiful," you're reminded yet again. You feel like you're going to [[suffocate]].

Simone needs you, but you slip out anyway. Out from the cool house and into the big, wide, hot [[outside]].

The sky seems so big here, in this valley nestled between the dark, tall hills. It's so bright, so blue it hurts your eyes. Your family's plot of grain backs up against every other family's plot within your Hive, creating a honeycomb shape of rows and paths in an endless sea of violent gold. There is one tree in the very center of it all, gnarled and twisted into strange wind shapes, it's never had fruit, but it has a much needed shock of green to break up the blue and gold. The wind is slight, barely stirring the wheat and barley. They rustle like a whisper. By the tree, there is one black feathered [[figure]].

//- We are commanded to speak no evil. - We are commanded to bear no false witness. - We are commanded to hold our tongues to better hear the Angels Speak.// But that's not how it really works. People talk. And they say cruel things. So many of these cruel things are about [[him in specific]].

How he's bad. How he hears things wrong. How he's dragging you down, dragging your whole family down. But you've never once listened to any of that talk. That's something cruel and wrong about //them// not about //Abel//. That's not [[the part that stings you]].

The part that //stings// you is how he can't even //try//. He's so infuriating. He won't stick up for himself. He won't try to be nice and polite and make friends. He won't meet you half way when you work //so hard// to try and get //anyone// to like him, to even talk to him! All you do is try to //help// and he can't even play along. And he never talks when it would be //right// to do so, and he never //shuts up// when he's saying too much! He //knows// the Elders don't approve of what the Angels tell him. And you're not calling him a liar or anything, you believe that Angels do speak to him, but why does he have to make it so much //harder// on himself (and on //you//) by sharing every little thing they say? Why can't he just try harder? [[Why can't he just be normal?]]

You're walking before you even realize your feet are moving. And suddenly you're right there, [[facing your brother]].

You're exactly the same height, but you're built different. You've always been a little small, a little sickly, and he's always been built sturdy. Pa always said he'd be a big man someday, like him. Simone's been saying that you'll all blink and he'll be in a growth spurt. But for now you're at exact eye height. [[You're speaking before you think of what you're saying.]]

It comes pouring out of you, violent, angry, the sheer rage of your statements taking you by surprise. You tell him everything. Everything you've always kept held back, secured inside, it's all out now, like your lips have suddenly had a button burst. Your anger, your frustration, the unbearable weight of carrying Abel along with yourself under the oppressive scrutiny of the Elders, the other children, your own parents. The fury that comes from trying to be perfect enough to cover two people, to make everyone happy, to keep everyone from hating you both. [[You've never been this angry in your life.]]

You're gasping by the end, tears streaming down your face. Perhaps all the tears you couldn't cry at the funeral, perhaps all the tears you'd been waiting on. Here they are now. "And now our parents are //dead//," you hiss. "Dead and you can't even say anything? What is //wrong with you?//" [[You beat a fist against his chest.]]

He looks down at the fist and up at you. And he says... Nothing. [[Nothing at all.]]

You don't know what to do with all this rage. Nobody ever taught you. Nobody ever let you feel enough anger to come close to how this feels. "I HATE YOU," you gasp, "I WISH YOU'D DIED INSTEAD OF THEM." [[You don't mean it.]]

But you said it. Abel [[blinks]] at you. "They're part of the Firmament now," he says. He's so calm that it unsettles you, and for just a flash you reaize what other people see when they look at him, talk to him. "They're not gone." [[This is too much for you.]]

His eyes, like yours, are //too much//. But where yours are too big, too light, his are much, much [[too dark->You don't mean it.]]

You want to spit at him. You want to tell him the most awful, vile curse you can think of. But you don't know any. [[So instead to turn and walk away.]]

Later, Abel tells you that you made it about twenty yards before you fell over. Later, Simone calls what's happened (what //won't stop happening//) a seizure. [[Later, you have so many questions. And so many apologies.]]

(set: $LG to true) But you can't say them. [[You can't say anything at all.->begin]]

"//I was right,//" you think to yourself as blood pours over your hands, seeping into the fabric of your dress, creeping up your sleeves until you're [[cloaked in red up to your forearms]].

There's screaming, but you barely hear it. It's a dull bit of background noise, one you're distressingly used to by now. [[You'd have liked to have used some painkillers-]]

But the Elders wouldn't let you. That would be Sinful. The pain is a blessing. The pain is God letting us know we're alive. The pain is Sweet. This pain, in particular, was a holy punishment and more necessary than any other type of pain. [[You're still quite convinced you could make this procedure a comfortable one.]]

But they aren't exactly fond of that sort of forward thinking around here. "Her fever is spiking," you say with urgency. There's sweat plastering her thick brown curls to her forehead, her neck. Wiping them away would be useless, [[you'd only get blood all over her]].

Not that everything isn't always coated in blood here anyway. Your office, the pristine white all around, the white you work so hard to keep [[clean]], is more frequently stained red than not. [[The cleaning had been an uphill battle all its own.]]

Boil the tools. Boil the fabrics, then scrub them in strong, skin-tearing lye soap. Scrub the floors and furniture with soapy water so hot it hurts. Replace the stiff bristled brushes as often as you can. Your little brother and sister frequently help, though nobody seems to like it if they're around when they're in to be seen to. [[It's as messy a part of the job as the rest of it->you'd only get blood all over her]], and you couldn't do it alone.

"How dare you tell me to wash my hands," they'd hissed, like the serpents they had tattooed on themselves. "These hands have delivered so many, how could you call them unclean?" They acted like you'd said they were [[bitter]].

It took so long to convince them, you were almost shocked when they finally caved. [[But you're pretty sure it was to get you to shut up about it.]]

They do a lot of things to get you to shut up around here. You pretend not to notice. [[You pretend it doesn't sting.]]

At least things get done. This? This is getting done alright. [[But it isn't going well.]]

She's a [[snakewife]] - they're supposed to be stronger than this. Strong enough to survive bearing children. Strong enough to survive anything. This one, you realize, [[is failing... and fast.]]

Snakewife: [n] "A female member of The Hive who has been confirmed on her ability to bear children by surviving the bite of a venomous snake, thus proving she has strong enough of a body to carry and pass along her strength as well as strong enough of a spirit to resist temptation." [[You see more of them, to deliver, than anyone else here.->But it isn't going well.]]

You look up at her. Her body is cloaked in light, a flickering blue on the edges, the extremities, darkening, creeping further up the arms and legs to where spots of red frantically pulsate in her breast, her belly, her head. The smaller figure is already too dark of a blue to do anything but [[extract]].

When you do, there is silence, other than the pained misery of the Snakewife. Nobody else is reacting as fast as you are. They're all to busy mourning something that, most likely, never was. You don't call them useless, [[but you think it]].

"Help me get her cool," you say, brushing people out of the way. "But the baby-" someone says. You frown, deeply. How is this so unclear to them? "Too late for that," you snap. "But we can save her." [[They hesitate.]]

They don't want to. [[You know why]] but you don't let it stop you from doing what //must// be done. [["Take it, then, just get out of my way."]]

They think she's useless. What is the good of a snakewife who fails at bearing children? A fluke, perhaps. It was only her first one. But... kinder to let her go, perhaps? [[You're not buying it.->They hesitate.]]

Her hips are the most [[sturdy]] part of her but the rest is easy. She's not fully aware of the world, a ragdoll in your arms. Blood stains the enterity of your dress, soaking you through to the skin, sticky, hot, not enough to distract you, [[somehow]].

You drag her from the Healing House, down the unpaved path to the stream behind. You insisted it be built close to the water, that it was unavoidably necessary for fresh water access and to dispose of all the blood and waste and bile. [[You're grateful, just now, that it isn't far.]]

You pull her into the water, and you go along with her. The water soaks through you both, the shock of it taking your breath away. [[She barely reacts.]]

It's winter. Cold. There's a thin coat of snow on the ground, a powdered milk dusting. Ice edges the shallow stream, kept from going in any further by the current. The air is so still, here. No farming. No birds. No one outside if they have any sense. The frozen ground dead packs all noise. You hold her there until you are both frozen to the marrow, until her eyelids [[finally flutter open]].

"Where's my baby?" she asks, her voice slurred by bloodloss. You hesistate. "Shh... there'll be time." You're trying to be comforting. But comforting isn't as important as keeping her alive. [[No matter what anyone else thinks.]]

There's a lecture, later. Of course there is. [[There always is]], when you dare to do anything... unorthodox. You take it in silence, in your soaking wet, bloody, ruined dress. You saved a life today. Not your first. Not your last. No matter what anyone tries to discourage. [[You did good. You know you did.]]

(set: $Simone to true) [[They flicker reds and blues. But... more red than blue. And you'll call that a win.->begin]]

Content warning for: - Parental death - Pregnancy and birth - Stillbirth - Blood - Social ostricism - Fictional religious cults - Bullying for implied neurodivergence [[Noted ->Start]]

[[She should have been a good choice->"Take it, then, just get out of my way."]]

"Miss Carrington, you can't keep putting this off." [[I know.]]

"I know it was hard to lose your parents when you did-" [[(They don't know the half)]]

"-And you've been an incredable caregiver for... your siblings." [[Thank you, sir.]]

"But, Miss Carrington... //Simone//... you can't keep putting this off." [[I'm not putting it off.]]

"My dear, if things had gone right, you'd have long been a Snakewife by now. God could have sent us so many children though you." [[I know, but I've delivered just as many.]]

"And you've been a wonderful healer. But it's time for you to think about this. Be more serious." [[...Yes, Father Isaac. ->No matter what anyone else thinks.]]