Gemini watches the diseased beast. Once a formidable force of nature, it was now dying.
“Behold, a testament of life’s cruel parody. A beast reduced to a quivering prey, much as those who have crossed me find themselves. Consumed by their malevolent motives, they feast upon the world with their mortal desires, oblivious to the havoc that inevitably follows.”
The very air seemed to thicken with ominous expectancy.
“Fidel, the proprietor of the grotesque Eden where vice is gold, and Grim, the hunter who bends nature to his will. Each moment submerged in self-service, each display of power over the world, is a bite from their impending doom—a silent invitation to the agent of destruction.”
From deep within her, blackened insects spiraled forth, descending upon the diseased beast. An unstoppable canvas of creeping death, they veiled the wretched creature from the world.
“A poignant illustration of men’s oblivion. Believing themselves to be apex predators, they are, in essence, akin to the very insects they deride. Each transgression, each disruption of nature’s harmony, a step closer to their own end.”
“Grim, with his blinding obsession of the hunt, sees not the futility of it all. Each kill, a morbid trophy, a monstrous echo of the destruction that awaits him. Tirelessly, he pursues the thrill of the game, ignorant that he himself is being hunted.”
“Then there is Aarman,” her voice rises to cover the disgusting buzz of the beast being devoured. “His garden of vice, a paradise rotten at the root, seems a haven to lost souls. But look beneath the veneer and you’ll see a pit of devouring darkness—a diseased world offered to the swarm.”
Gemini casts her gaze back to the dying creature.
“The blind pursuit of their desires sees them both dancing in a cyclone of destruction, claiming everything in its path. Fidel sees his patrons as insects coming to feast on the perfection he has created for them. Grim sees his trophies similarly, just game to feed his beast.”
“But their worlds, depleted with each indulgence, race towards the eventuality of decay.”
She laughs, flicking her black tongue out to taste the rotting air.
“But that is folly. Insects can be directed, can be given a target, but the truth of them is the same of pestilence. Once they have begun feeding, they will not stop. They will not yield. Nothing will ever be enough. The game that they so cherish, the world they so exploit, only hastens their approaching oblivion. Unbeknownst to them, they are not the hunters but the hunted—mere morsels awaiting the swarm.”
The insects back away from the carcass, nothing more left than gnawed bones and a haunting memory.
“In the end, feeding upon the world serves only to feed their demise,” she murmured, “and in becoming the feast themselves, they sow the seeds of their reckoning.”
“The feast is set, and the swarm needs not an invitation. They’re already there.”
She grins at the pile of bones.
“You let them in.”