“Thank you for your help.”
The male insect offered a soft word of thanks. The last time he had met the leader of the Armed-type was during a mission report in the Fourth Quadrant, where they had shared a meal with Sakti after finishing their work. The time before that had coincided with the first collective meeting of the Core Gene Groups, when those returning to the home star system were sent to the Great Information Nest by Kleeman.
In the two Great Cycles since then, he had hardly spoken to the other at all—until now.
Kara had always been terrified of females in their alienated state.
Many violent individuals took great pleasure in using their primal forms to bite and toy with their "playthings" during mating. Those sharp scales and barbed whip-tails could easily tear a frail partner apart, and their massive size could inflict unimaginable damage.
His own body bore many such scars. His healing factor was far lower than that of a female, leaving those marks to persist even today as faint traces scattered across his limbs.
But strangely, Kara did not fear the alienated form of the Armed-type leader before him.
Perhaps it was because, during their first meeting, the towering female—clad in grey-black scales—had scooped up his near-dead self and carried him out of that hatchery nest filled with never-ending agony.
The other had bristled with hard scales, yet had brought no new violence or abuse. Even after seeing him in his filthy, rotting state, leaking horrific eggs and skeletal as an empty shell, Kleeman had still carried him to a treatment pod. Afterward, he would pat Kara’s head and feed him sweet nectar.
To an Armed-type of direct lineage, such actions were perhaps no different from feeding a kitten, but for a male who had been standing on the boundary of death, that small measure of protection was what allowed him to survive.
At the moment, the male was likewise trembling with pain. He was injured, yet he forced himself to sit upright.
The Armed-types were essentially a mechanism of violence. Their warships prioritized offense and rapid assault; a standard Alpha-class vessel was equipped with only ten to fifteen treatment pods, far fewer than the well-stocked logistics ships.
Consequently, Kara gave priority for treatment to those companions in worse condition, sitting aside to wait for the next available slot.
The battle had ended, but Kleeman’s scales had not yet receded, and his two pairs of deep grey eyes remained fixed in a vertical slit pupil state.
A direct-lineage female consumed by killing intent was entirely different from their usual personality. During a fierce struggle, the members of an Armed squad were like mad dogs, never letting go until the last enemy was bitten to death.
The towering female said nothing, simply dropping to one knee and draping a large blanket over Kara’s head.
As if sensing his own movements were a bit too rough, he paused, then used his sharp claws to adjust the soft fabric, preventing the cold and aching male from being smothered by the blanket.
“Thank you.”
Kara thanked him softly once more. To this, Kleeman only shook his head to indicate it wasn't necessary.
Thus, both fell into a state of relative silence.
The Broad-wing male worried for a moment that he was being a nuisance, which was why the habitually taciturn leader was unwilling to engage in conversation.
A group of high-level marauders, drifting outside the Core Gene Groups, had recently attacked the Fourth Quadrant without warning.
Kara and his companions had issued an emergency plea for help through the Small Information Nest. The first to respond was the Armed-type leader, who had been conducting a deep-space patrol at the border of the Third and Fourth Quadrants.
Sakti understood the inherent combative nature of females, and he understood the importance of a sharp blade ready to strike back for the safety of the race. Therefore, he had not entirely filed down the ferocity of the Armed-types.
He split the "Mad Dog Squad"—who needed to be "sharpened" from time to time—into rotations, alternating between security missions within the home star system and peacekeeping missions on the periphery. This so-called "peacekeeping" essentially meant crushing any insect that tried to cause trouble.
The former task taught the swarm to obey orders and wear a muzzle when facing their own kind; the latter was purely for the purpose of intimidation.
The Armed-type squad that had rushed to the scene was currently in that second state.
The marauders looking for easy pickings this time possessed a fairly sophisticated fleet and weaponry. They had chosen a peaceful period of recuperation to strike, directly tearing through the stable border defense line.
A large area of a planet that had only recently begun reconstruction was bombed. The original garrison fell into a sustained firefight, and there were minor casualties among the low-to-mid-tier species.
Fortunately, the managers of the Information Nest—the males led by Kara—had sent out a distress signal at the highest speed. Otherwise, the scene would have been many times more tragic.
Once the unleashed violence squad arrived, they immediately threw themselves into the fray.
Their lamprey-like warships latched onto the enemy, and the blood-crazed Grey-wings fully liberated their primal natures. It had been too long since they had encountered such a blatant provocation. Joy was instantaneous; bestiality seamlessly overturned the morality and etiquette they displayed when wearing a human skin.
It was as if a rabbit had been dropped before a pack of hounds; every insect fell into a frenzied carnival.
The marauders' ships were eaten away until they were in tatters. Had it not been for Kara, buried under collapsed buildings, continuously sending out request signals, the Armed-types would have ground the enemy into dust.
But the Broad-wing male had held back the leader, who was busy dragging enemies out one by one.
Because the Small Information Nest was damaged, their communication was intermittent.
The voice asking for help was trembling.
“There... there might be males on the marauder ships... please... please don't sink them.” The male, pinned under a pile of heavy debris, couldn't crawl out. He was dizzy from blood loss, yet he gripped his information linker tightly.
“Please don't sink them...”
The squad performed an emergency brake, cooling their charged cannons. They then peeled open the mangled ships, searching them one by one.
They found over forty dying males.
“You received their plea for help?”
Now, the rescued Kara clutched his small blanket tightly, his tail habitually curled around his legs, his expression tinged with unease.
The Grey-wing, having calmed down significantly, finally squeezed out a suitable topic, posing his first question.
“N-no.”
Startled by the other’s sudden speech, Kara answered in a thin, soft voice.
“But marauder species love to capture males to keep on their ships, taking them wherever they go for... use and sale. If these 'goods' don't die, they are later sold off as supplies.”
As if to make the other believe him, the male added: “My brothers and I were once captured and sold many times within the Broad-wing star system before finally entering the hatchery nest. So, I k-know.”
What a terrible topic.
The Armed-type leader’s tail began to stiffen. This was an answer he didn't know how to follow.
“All the marauders have been shatt—are no longer capable of causing harm.” Kleeman, who had originally intended to say "shattered into dust," took an emergency verbal turn, choosing a less bloody phrasing.
His scales slowly receded. His deep grey pupils watched the male nestled in the oversized fabric, as he tried to explain in a serious tone he believed to be gentle.
“We did find some imprisoned males. They will receive emergency medical treatment and then be sent to a nearby base for further protection. No one will hurt you.”
“Thank you.”
This time, the Broad-wing male smiled.
His smile was no longer awkward or strained. Having spent two Great Cycles rushing about and immersing himself in various tasks, the male was now capable of smiling properly.
“I will find an available treatment pod for you. You need to have your wounds tended to as well.”
Having located Kara’s signal after the battle and dug him and his companions out, Kleeman was well aware of the male's condition. His words were brief and to the point.
When found, the small Broad-wing had been huddled under a half-collapsed building, bracing a wall that was about to snap to protect a smaller companion. All the healthy color he had worked so hard to gain had vanished; he was covered in dust and exhausted.
The male's tail had been severely crushed and injured, and his leg was lame. After being dug out, he couldn't walk well, limping heavily.
“Can I see those males?”
When he was picked up along with the blanket, the Broad-wing summoned his courage to make the request. Even at close range, his voice was always very small.
“My companions and I can help. It will be easier if we explain the simple resettlement procedures to them.”
“Treatment first.”
Kleeman was unmoved. Carrying a male while walking caused his long-delayed "opposite-sex phobia" to finally kick in.
The incredibly dense, tail-flicking fellow, without even noticing it himself, performed a classic act: his scales bristled like a pinecone.
“I will take you to see them later.”
“Thank you.”
“No need.”
Excellent. The conversation had been killed once again.
The flustered male gripped his blanket tightly, while the female—whose scales were bristling across his entire back—remained silent with a cold expression, though his strides grew longer and faster as if he were in a speed-walking competition.
That whirring tail was like a propeller.
If the Black Core-type were here, he would undoubtedly have laughed out loud without mercy.
Sakti’s tongue was just as poisonous as Clark’s. However, while the latter’s venom involved circumlocution and irony, the Core-type’s venom tended toward a direct, full-power assault.
During the construction of the Fourth Quadrant, Sakti had personally visited the annexed planets several times. He had once shared a single, solitary meal at a garrison base with Kleeman, who was on mission, and Kara, who was setting up the Small Information Nest.
It had been a truly painful and long meal.
The Core-type had never felt that beast pincers could taste so bland.
“I should find you some ancient soap operas and entertainment programs,” the black-clad female had complained upon returning to the nest, picking up his partner.
“Their atmosphere...”
After searching for a long time for a suitable description, Sakti sighed. “It’s like two people on a first-time blind date who don't know each other, eating stiffly in front of a camera.”
“They can't find topics, so they force the conversation. One asks, the other answers, until the whole table falls into silence.”
Reaching out to scratch Gla’s little tail, he let the white insect ride on him, burying his face in the other’s soft abdomen and taking a deep breath like one would huff a cat. A very good pheromone; it brought him back to life.
“And they’re so incredibly polite and formal. No matter what the other says, every single sentence ends with 'thank you.'”
Gla burst out laughing.
The mode of interaction between Kara and Kleeman was miraculous. An onlooker like Sakti watched with a face full of agony, yet the two parties involved accepted this bizarre atmosphere perfectly well.
Two insects who both suffered to some degree from opposite-sex phobia were clumsily communicating with one another.
They often did many inexplicable things; it wasn't smooth, and they didn't even see each other often. But every time they were together, they seriously practiced their question-and-answer routine.
For instance—
“May I ask how long you will be staying here?”
The male peeking out from the blanket quietly watched the deep grey female. His attention was drawn by the whirring tail, and he managed to find the next topic.
“I will leave once the emergency matters are handled. The nearby long-term garrison will take over subsequent affairs.”
The expressionless Armed-type replied. His steady, cold voice stood in stark contrast to that whip-tail spinning three hundred and sixty degrees.
“However, before that, I will ensure this place is safe.”
“Alright.”
The Broad-wing once again fell into a state where he had nothing left to say.
“Thank you.”
“No need.”
Excellent conversation; it made one's mind explode.
***
