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They say there is a monster living in District 7.
A horrible one, something spun by a child’s unsettling nightmare. With crawling limbs and many teeth and beating wings that horrify, what this entails, Sancho doesn’t know, but she’s gleaned enough to be sure of its haven.
No human will dare to look for her here. Those that do will have to first contend with the monster. And Sancho knows too much about them. She is one, after all, even if she has Rocinante to hide it.
She needs a place to flee and a place to slumber. She almost had it with the River, but that would have been too much like betrayal. She could not forget Father, even if her memories now serve as a cruel reminder. All the things she failed to do. All the things she was forced to do.
She is able to survive, but not live like how he wished. Not when the dreamer is gone. A hand she could never grasp back.
It is better to slumber. Better to never dream.
So. A monster is living in District 7.
That’s fine. All it means is she’ll fit right in.
The stench of blood and smoke is everywhere. With every breath, Sancho drinks in chemical air and copper. Traversing past the borders had taken a vast amount of time, especially without her Bloodfiend abilities, but eventually, she was able to pick her way in.
It must have been years since the Smoke War, but the scars of it remain fresh and ugly. Sancho is not so familiar of wars between humans, but war is war. She can recognize the inherent destruction of it. Debris decorate the ruined ground. Houses incinerated into blankets of ashe. Buildings that once stood so tall and proud now graves to the fallen. Streets that used to be full now silent but for its ghosts.
Too easily, it reminds Sancho of La Manchaland. Of the destruction she had witnessed. Of what awaits for her when she returns. Because she will return, no matter how many centuries it takes. Before anything, she is Father’s child first.
She should have never left him.
Each step into the wasteland means wrenching herself away. She sees nothing of the corpse-like parade, hears nothing of their parched wails. A reminder of how far away she is from Father now. Her hands clench into fists, knuckles strained thin and white. Is he still whole? Or has he been felled by their Family’s fangs? Father is powerful, but his weakness has never been more clear. Like a bear with her cubs, he loves too much. He is not like Sancho, who would slay her fellow Kin for the sin of filial impiety. He would rather take in their claws and fangs and thirst and despair.
Would rather still love his Children than kill any one of them.
Her lungs burn with an ugly ache. Breathing is difficult, and not because of the tainted air. Everything used to be so easy, but alone, she is unmoored. There is no one there to guide her. No foolish smile that beckons her. Instead, only silence remains in this war-torn land, and Rocinante is just as still, as quiet. They’ve long since stopped dragging her away, but they’re still not hers. They could never be hers. Rocinante is Father’s steed.
They will never be hers.
She trudges on with only a knapsack that Bari has given, a tale of a lonely Fixer whispering to her in her head. A useless tale and a cruel tale, because there is a happy ending but not for Father.
But it is the final gift from the Knight of the White Moon. Father’s friend, and, and—
Her precious friend as well.
It is nearly hours later when she spies a house still standing. A miracle, especially so close to the war. Sancho’s face tightens at the sight of its corpse. The roof is caved in, the walls splintered like firewood. An unwanted memory pierces her from the recesses of her mind. A hunger that hollows. A loneliness like ice. Still, she forces herself to the crumbling steps of the entrance. Shelter is shelter. She does not have the luxury of choosing anymore.
There’s no longer a door, so she walks right in. Yet what greets her nearly stops her in her tracks: interior walls cracked and horribly peeled. Pictures frames broken, its contents mostly empty. She sees a woman smiling with her mother and sister. A man laughing as he holds a child in his lap. On the floor are various clothes, as if its occupants were in a mad rush. On a half-collapsed table, sits a child’s ragged doll.
Its limbs are missing, its glass eyes staring blankly. Sancho very gently turns its face into a different direction. This used to be well-loved. This used to be somebody’s home. Without meaning to, she finds herself thinking of her own. Not La Manchaland—home means a place where you were once safe and happy. She thinks of the castle with Father and Bari, of Father and the Family, and Father and Father. Those days of golden laughter seems so far away now.
Everything that once was that can never be again.
She does not take off Rocinante. She does not want to feel that ugly, miserable thirst. It is too close, too much, this disease that has plagued her and every Bloodfiend’s life. Everything Father tried so hard to overcome. Everything their Family eventually succumbed to.
And… she made a promise to Father to dream in his stead, even if it’s a dream that she wishes too much to wake from. A promise is a promise, and knights are nothing without their oaths.
Sancho is no knight, but she will always love Father.
Crawling. Scuttling. In the corners of her vision, she spots something small and dark. A cockroach. Then another. Until suddenly, she is surrounded. Several hurry between grimy corners of the room. A swarm skitters behind old, dilapidated walls. Underneath the cracks of crumbling floors, there is a rush of sounds that can only be born from tiny legs. Sancho grimaces. She should have expected it. District 7 was the Wing that engineered humans into insects. It is no surprise to see the remnants still lingering. The only difference she remembers is the sheer size of the swarm. Back when the castle still stood, Sancho hardly encountered these small pestilent creatures. Dulcinea especially loathed the sight of them. A reminder, she suspected, though she was never one to pry. They were always several of her Children on the lookout for them, to make sure they didn’t infest the crevices of their sanctuary.
Now, it’s just Sancho. She watches as one gets too close. Its antenna twitches as it crawls this way and that. Looking for food, just like the pests that they are. On instinct, she raises her foot to kill it.
She almost does. It would’ve been natural. Fitting. But after a moment, she slowly lowers her foot to the ground. Who is she to trample over them in their own home? Insects they may be, but they were denizens first. She has no right to scorn their very existence. She has no right to kill them for simply surviving.
Hah. Sancho almost laughs. Even though her power is far above most humans, she is no different than these lowly pests scrounging for food. Her status as a Bloodfiend and her might as a Second Kindred means nothing here, not when she no longer has anything.
She watches as they scour over every surface of the house. Craving, searching, a never-ending hunger. Her own stomach growls. Sancho does not feel hungry, but she was ordered to live, and so she listlessly takes out some jerky. Akin to a hemobar, each bite does not leave her less empty. She does not feel as though she is living.
The cockroaches linger beside her, drawn to the smell of food. Chittering watching. Inhuman, yet oddly endearing. Before, Sancho wouldn’t have entertained such juvenile acts, but now, she finds herself tearing several pieces for them. It must be Father’s influence, or the absence he has left in her chest. She finds herself remembering the strangest things when alone: how he would feed the deers from the forest, smiling and petting them. Urging Sancho gleefully to do the very same.
Now, she follows a repeat of that memory. Feeding them and even giving a light stroke of their antenna. Though the roaches share none of the same majesty, their little chirps are almost as warm, as comforting. For a moment, the weight in her heart feels lighter. For a moment, Sancho thinks life is a little better.
But like a curse, the memories of that day rushes back with a vengeance. A punishment, a reminder. All of it, self-inflicted. She cannot forget what she has done. She cannot forget her Father whom she failed to protect. Who she is. Why she is here.
Insects will only ever remain insects.
She curls in on herself, a paltry warmth. She is alone, and worse, she is all too aware. Bari used to hold her when she thrashed for Father in her sleep. Father used to cradle her as her past life tried to chase her to the next one. She was loved and loved, so much so that she almost forgotten: the coldness of loneliness, the despair of nothingness.
Now, she has no one. There is only her and these wretched insects. Sancho does not weep herself to sleep, but she comes terribly close to it—a rising ache behind her eyes as she huddles alone. Pinpricks that threaten to burst as she dreams alone.
She thinks she might as well be dead. A part of her wishes that she was. It would be fitting, after everything. Father could be dead right now.
She might as well be, too.
When she awakens the next morning, she finds that the roaches are still there. Not hiding behind crooks and crannies but now several swarms, watching. It is an unsettling sight - Nicolina and Curiambro would have most certainly been ordered to use fire. Sancho has never encountered such abnormal behavior before. As though the roaches are truly alive, and not creatures tethered to their instincts.
They follow her when she walks outside. Hiss at her when she starts a fire. Buzzing in fear when she stares at the flames for too long. Nipping lightly at her clothes to try and pull her away.
Sancho irritatedly brushes them off, though not so roughly to the point of harm. She wants to be warm. She needs to be warm. And she knows how to. All it takes is…
No. Her human life was something that was thrusted upon her. This life instead, was a gift she willingly received. She cannot do something so horrible to Father, even more horrible than what she has already done. She cannot betray his love. She cannot destroy his first and most precious gift.
Sancho stares at the fire for another terrible moment before she forces herself to turn away, lest she be beckoned by its flames again. She wills her body to take in what warmth it can allow, a slow, searing spread that only reaches skin-deep.
Around her, the roaches chitter. No longer buzzing and skirting around in a panic. She cannot describe the crawling insects as cute, but there is a certain quality she finds surprising and impossible. When she goes near the fire again, they chatter like anxious children. When she lies down to look at the sky, they surround her the way safe arms would a lonely child. They look for her. Even try to talk to her. Chirping and buzzing, as though they are…
Sancho shakes her head, a slight flush rising to her face. Ridiculous. Has she gone crazy from solitude already? Insects are insects. They can never be more than that. Just like Bloodfiends can never be more than monsters slavering for blood.
The pinch of irritation sharpens to a particularly venomous blade. What has she been doing? Pretending to find comfort in pests while Father is out there, trapped and in agony? A foolish child she has been, to play-pretend when their world has already crumbled. She is a disappointment of a Second Kindred.
Father should never have trusted her.
Shame and anger blisters like a lanced-open wound. She does what she should’ve done from the very start: she ignores the pests, even as some try to perch on her shoulders. They are persistent as flies, even when she roughly shoos them off. Even when she ignores every pesky click of their chatter.
Insects are insects. There is no point in understanding them. Just like there is no point in trying to be free from their thirst. Father had tried because he loved his Family so, so much.
But where was he now? Betrayed and staked by that very same Family. And where was she now? Alone and pathetic, reduced to chasing company from pests.
One particularly large one still persists in its attempts. Dodging her hand, landing on her whenever it can. There is no reason for it to try but still, it does.
“Leave me alone,” Sancho hisses. Her scowl deepens when it blatantly refuse to.
Her Bloodfiends abilities may be suppressed, but she still has a wealth of experience at her disposal. When the pest tries for yet a sixth time, she quickly grabs it, confining it to her hand.
“Enough! I am not your companion or your friend. Not when I can crush you as easily as I breathe. I am a Kin of the Manchegan Family, the Second Kindred to Don Quixote. You are but a miserable pest. Nothing before me.”
She flings the small insect away and watches it wobbly fly off. This time it doesn’t return, not when a wing has been torn.
They leave her alone after that. The anger makes her feel good, too good, before a split second passes and she crumbles to the floor. She does not feel strong. She does not feel brave. She feels weak and small and so horribly alone.
It is everything she remembers when she was still a human child. That wretched loneliness that she tried so hard to escape. Now it’s followed her here, as if a punishment for her sins. This is who she is.
There is no running from it.
That night, Sancho dreams of her first meeting with Father. How he found her in ashes, moments away from certain death. He looked so serious back then. Befitting of a noble, and unfitting of the Don Quixote she came to know.
She wakes up before she can take his hand. When she touches her face, she finds that she is crying.
It takes some time to wipe away her tears. It takes even longer to do anything else. Her heart rings in her ears, memories swelling louder and louder. She should’ve taken Bari’s offer. She should’ve died along with Father.
How can she be trusted to dream in his stead when she doesn’t even know how to live for herself? She is numb, a coldness that eats her down to her core. She is a terrible Bloodfiend, a shameful second Kindred.
A worthless child, both human and inhuman.
Sancho stares blankly at the fractures in the ceiling. Morning turns into noon, and noon turns into night. A day turns into another. Misery beckons her.
And still the ceiling, the dullness remains the same.
Around her, the world is silent. The insects she’s come to know are no longer present. Ever since yesterday, they’ve stopped approaching her. She’s not surprised. It’s what she wanted, isn’t it?
But nothing of her feels better at it. Without their presence, the isolation knifes deeper and deeper. She feels so small. Everything feels so small.
She might as well be nothing instead.
By the time Sancho realizes her stomach is growling, the sun has dimmed down to a familiar hazy darkness. She gets up because to betray Father would be the only thing that hurts more. Rifling through her knapsack like a machine assigned an order.
But then, she stops. Not out of welling apathy. Sancho stares at a roach sitting next to her bag. In and of itself, it is not an unusual sight. But she recognizes this one by the tear in its wing.
Sancho has never been one to apologize. She had done it too many times in her once-human life. And in this life, where she was allowed her pride and dignity, she was eventually forced to spill them out, as if with enough payment, it could take her back to Father. She remembers crying out in despair as Bari held her, Father, Father, I’m so sorry, please don’t make me leave you—
Something sharp bites into her palms. She looks down and sees blood staining her nails. A little trill warbles in the direction of her hands. Despite its lack of mouth, she thinks she can hear the insect worry.
Or maybe she’s gone crazy again. Acting as if it truly cares. Maybe this is what loneliness does to you after not feeling its claws for so long. Her pride is gone, her dignity in shreds. What is there to be proud of when couldn’t do the one thing that mattered the most?
It hops a little, approaching her slowly and carefully. Its little antenna shake. Offering its sympathy.
She’s lonely. She’s so, so lonely. ”…I’m sorry,” Sancho says, giving in to this insanity. She looks at its torn wing, feeling something like guilt. “…I shouldn’t have been so juvenile,” she adds. Brusque in her usual manner. Something only Father and Bari loved. But she reaches into her bag and takes out a thick piece of jerky. It’s not much, but it’s still better than if she were the Sancho at the beginning. She would’ve been offended at the thought of apologizing to a mere insect. Wouldn’t have thought twice about crushing it beneath her foot.
Its mandibles happily chew away at this feast before it. The antenna shiver with delight; an admittedly endearing sight. Something Father would have delighted in and Bari would fondly inscribe.
Such a little thing to be comforted by. But Sancho finds she doesn’t mind.
After the roach finishes eating, it hops onto her arm before crawling all the way to the tip of her shoulder. Its antenna twitch again. More energetic this time. If Sancho looks closely, she can see it trying to point her towards the entrance.
“You want me to follow you,” she says. It isn’t a question. The insect wriggles, as if confirming with a yes. It does another little hop when she walks outside. When she starts making her way to the heart of the fallen Wing.
Something lives there, Sancho knows, but not once, has she seen the rumored monster. Now, she has one of its children guiding her to meet it. It sounds so ludicrous, and yet so much like Bari’s tales.
It would be dangerous to follow. It would be equally dangerous to say no. Thus, Sancho does what a proper Fixer-Knight would do.
She lets herself be guided by this small, curious creature. Following every twitch of the insect’s antennae and body. It doesn’t take long for her to notice a growing swarm following them. Her mouth allows a small quirk. She thinks of how her Kin had done the very same to Bari.
With the perfect guide at her side, the way forward is clear. Sancho can tell when she’s close by how vast the devastation is. Trenches dug then ripped open with great, destructive forces. Buildings aged until they are only dust. Weaponry of various grades lying scattered like corpses.
Slowly, very slowly, a row of barracks comes into view. Like a soldier’s march, all of them are somehow still standing tall. But only one is different, with a bigger building and an old flag still pinned to its roof. On the side lies three unmarked graves.
Sancho wonders if it’s the monster’s doing or a human’s.
When she reaches the door, the world is simply drowned out: buzzing wings, gnashing mandibles, and thousands of scuttling legs. Sancho is not afraid of insects, but to say she is unperturbed would be a lie.
Her nerves tighten in quiet dread, hand aching for her Hardblood lance. Her roach guide chirps once when she finally opens the door.
Carefully, she enters the belly of the beast.
A humid, unsettling heat nearly swallows her whole. Sancho stares. There can be no other response. She has felled monsters before, both human and inhuman, but never once in her long life has she seen anything like this. In front of her is the monster, for what else can it be? Tendrils of chitin make up its eerie visage. Its tall crown of antenna twitches erratically. A haunting cloak trails behind it—all of it like royalty.
But it is only a mockery. Where Father once had a true throne, its throne is but a small and decrepit bed. On the walls are scratch marks and strips of an ancient poster. Nothing like the gleaming stone of their once royal castle. The only thing that remains whole is a small picture in the far corner. If Sancho squints her eyes just right, she thinks she can spy a woman with golden eyes and a small child smiling.
The monster is not very big, even smaller than Father, but it is surrounded by so many roaches it is as though it is made of them. The trunk in which it is attached to writhes like living veins. Upon closer look, she realizes it is: what she had thought of as its cloak are actually hundred and hundred of wings. Twitching, translucent, catching light with its paper-thin surfaces. Sancho remembers the rumors of the monster. How it had hatched during the war before destroying the very Wing that created it.
Ungeziefer Kaiser, they called it. The Roach Emperor. Last of G Corp’s weapons, and an imitation of royalty. All of it spoken in awe, in vitriol, and careful, hushed tones. A nightmare come true. Something that should never have given form.
A tense shiver crawls up Sancho’s spine. She is strong, far stronger than most humans will ever be. But she does not possess the same strength as Father, as Bari. If the Emperor decides to bare its fangs, she is not sure of her victory. Especially as she hasn’t drunken blood in so long. Even if she were to take off Rocinante, it might be the thirst that kills her before the Emperor.
She keeps to watching, to being on guard. Looking for any weaknesses to file away for later. She spies pink flesh peeking out from chitinous shells. Ungeziefer written across a shaky, pockmarked arm.
Vermin. A reminder of its curse, of its monstrosity. Sancho does not find amusement in it. Every monster that is allowed to exist was human once. All this tells her is that someone must’ve made it this way. It could not have been willingly, she thinks. Who would agree to a life like this?
Quietly and carefully, she circles around its throne. She knows better than to draw close, to startle it into attacking. This is simply precaution. When she was Father’s squire, she always calculated the risks for him. Every detail mattered. She was the same with Dulcinea and Nicolina in this regard.
A soldier’s outfit. Locks of dark brown hair. More patches of human flesh. A lone, human eye.
Closer, she spies on its faded nametag: Gregor Samsa. Once upon a time, this monster used to be Gregor.
There is an irony in this that burns like a brand. Sancho thinks about how she used to be nobody. How everyone in their Family used to be nobody—unseen by a parent’s greed, left to rot by indifferent eyes. She remembered that hard, empty gaze when she first saw Dulcinea. When she met her Children, plucked from their former, terrible lives.
She thinks she can see a similar story here. That lone human eye watches her without change. But she recognizes something in it, because she will always remember that pain. Her former life is dead, but its corpse will never leave. That nothing she used to be is a part of her, just like the proud Bloodfiend that Father allowed her to be. Behind the Emperor’s human remnants, she spies that same, powerless being.
Lost. Helpless. And so, so alone.
Sancho knows loneliness like she knows Bari’s smile. She knows loneliness like she knows Father’s laugh. What it means to truly live, to have companions she cherishes. She knows it like the pain of her heart being torn asunder.
Against her better judgment, she leaves some jerky out for it. Her roach guide chirps happily along with the rest of the subjects. The Emperor stirs, golden eye locking onto hers.
For a moment, she thinks she sees him. Human. Child. Gregor.
She takes a step back. Then another, and another. But all the Emperor does is let out a low, haunting chorus.
March. March. Consume. Erase. March. A threat, an order, and yet a familiar plea as well. Born from the cold, uncaring hands of the Wing. Furthered by the depths of eternal hunger.
Sancho is able to leave without a fight, but not without this knowledge lodged into her heart. It’s familiar, she thinks. All too familiar.
She doesn’t know what to do with it.
She is greeted by a symphony of insects in the morning. Sancho blinks and groans, rubbing the painful ache from her eyes. Her roach guide buzzes loudly, as if acting as her personal alarm. She almost swats it away before realizing in time.
Before, she had always been the punctual one, the responsible one—a necessity to Father’s many, many whims. Distraction was his second state. Sometimes with his hobby of the month. Sometimes with a new painting or a book or strange ware.
But it was Bari who finally put an end to it. Or rather, Bari who unapologetically fed into it the most.
Now here she was, barely able to get up like she should. She does not think of Dulcinea’s judging eyes; her pride as a Second Kindred has already been unspooled. Her insect companion crawls over her hands, trying to gently prickle her awake. She does, eventually, but not because of her little friend.
Accompanying the same symphony are chunks of rotten food. The smell is ripe. Sancho’s nose curl in an undignified manner. Father would no doubt have found amusement in this. He’d have compared the offering to a cat leaving a dead rat.
She sighs in exasperation. What nonsense, really. The Roach Emperor isn't some stray thing that she can tame. It is dangerous just like how Sancho is dangerous. A monster just like how Sancho is a monster.
She leaves the rotten pieces where they are. She has no need for its gifts in exchange for her pity. Because that is what it is, isn’t it? She felt sorry for the Emperor. Like it was a poor, neglected dog. At how it was so much like… like…
Sancho’s jaw clenches. Her fangs dig into her tongue. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that last night should not be repeated. She met the monster of District 7. Survived what could’ve been a terrible encounter. She should consider herself lucky that rotten food is the worst it’s done. Her journey with Father had her also bear witness to ugliness. She could’ve been chased to the ends of the Wing. Injured with bites that would swell and burst. Tortured with thousands of crawling limbs and teeth.
Or far, far worse.
But… she also cannot ignore this one other truth: that the Emperor had simply looked at her. Recognizable despite its unfathomable form.
Monster it may be, but human it once was.
Gregor Samsa, the name tag had said. Once upon a time, the monster used to be somebody. She wonders what would happen if she called it by that name. Would it even recognize it? Or was it too lost to remember?
Her hand curls and uncurls. She thinks back to what she has seen. The unmarked graves. The barrack it still inhabited. The bed decrepit, but well-worn, a child’s sanctuary.
And in the corner, the picture that still remained whole: a Mother and her son. The same hair. The same eyes.
What would Father do, she thinks, because despite her abandonment, she is still her Father's child, still the first of his Kin. His visage will always haunt her in the same ways it soothes her. His smile. His promise. His vast, overflowing love that on better days, she drinks from, and on worse days, she drowns in.
He would do so many juvenile things that Sancho wouldn’t do. So many impossible things that she could never do, unless he was right here with her.
She closes her eyes, feeling a terrible hopeless weight. How can she be trusted to dream without him? He was always so ridiculous, and yet full of warmth and love. Now, she is devoid of it, that same love that’s saved her. She had known it first by how little she received. Immolation was the only way she knew how to be embraced. Death meant nothing, only an escape, a means. Everything around her was cold and colorless.
Her roach companion chirps, nuzzling her fist with its head. Pressing into her hand, as if saying I’m here, we’re here.
You are not alone.
It jerks Sancho out of her all-consuming thoughts. Pulling her upwards, away from her slumber. Her fingers touch the small insect’s head. Despite the coolness of its shell, she can feel something there. Warmth. Love.
Everything Father had given her.
An outstretched hand, from one to another. He had found her as she lay cold and dying. Had offered her a new name, a new home, a new life. Taught her what happiness was like, that she was never meant to be alone.
Her Family grew, from one to two, to four to hundreds. Suddenly, her world was so much brighter. She never talked much to her fellow Kin, but she had loved them and cared for them in her own way.
Every day was a new day. She’d talk to Father and sigh at his frivolousness. Help look after Dulcinea’s new Children. Observe what they liked and didn’t like to remember. Stand guard to Father’s throne, a knight to her Lord. Every day was full of a presence she had been missing.
And everyday was full of that red thirst haunting them. Like a carousel, underneath the pretty lights and royal coat was a curse always waiting. As though they were fated to forever be trapped in one place. The thirst that made them Bloodfiends would eventually consume them.
But Bari had barged in and challenged them as a human. Bari had dared them to hope and dream. To realize there could be life without that thirst chasing them. So full of a happiness they thought could never be.
She had irreversibly changed their lives entirely. For better or for worse, Sancho still does not know. But Father had never smiled brighter than when they embarked on their journey.
Sancho regrets many things, but not this. Never this.
Monsters they are, but human they once were. She remembers how crushing that loneliness is. Father had gave her an outstretched hand. Bari had done the same to them.
Now, it’s your turn she can almost hear them say. Smiling infuriantingly in the way Sancho could never bring herself to hate. She is made of Father’s love and she is made of Bari’s kindness.
She holds out a hand to her little roach friend.
Sancho barges right in with the confidence of the Knight of the Moon. Declares her intentions boldly, just like Father would do.
“I am here to give you something that you seek,” she loudly exclaims. Her chest is puffed out. Behind, there is a sound like Bari’s laugh. “You, who are cursed to sit stagnant on this throne. You, who have been shackled here by cruel and indifferent hands. Despite your overwhelming power, you still long to fill your emptiness.”
The Emperor, no, Gregor writhes like he is a knot of living vines. Insects surround her, a storm of teeth and hunger. An echo of darkling wingbeats. The pitter-patter of stalking legs. March, she hears. March. Consume. Procreate. Destroy. Sancho has no intentions of stopping his royal duty.
But first, she has something to say. To share.
“Gregor,” she says, and it is as though she has awakened him. Like a true love’s first kiss. Pulling him from his terrifying, lonely slumber. That name. That name. When was he last called by that name?
“I am here to help you dream,” Sancho says. He looks at her, with that eye that wishes to weep. “You lie here, huddled together with your many children, and yet are you not still chased by that hollow loneliness? Tomorrow is the same as yesterday. The day after that will be the same as well. Wasting away with no one to see you or show you a better morrow. I promise you upon my honor as a Fixer, that I will grant you what you truly seek.”
Gregor shudders, every insect-shell of him trembling and alive. His crown shakes, the hair on it twitching. Sancho remembers Father’s reaction. The disdain. The amusement. Then, a curiosity.
And a hope that Bari’s words would eventually come true.
She talks, and talks, and talks. Of knightly tales and wondrous dreams. Her voice is creaky from disuse; she stumbles over words and emphasizes the wrong ones. She is not a natural storyteller like Bari was. An amateur at best, a poor imitation at worst.
But she had loved Bari’s stories just like Father had loved them. And she had loved Father’s everything just like Father did, too.
She is his child first. She would always be his child first. How can she not be, when they share that same zeal, that same love?
Father told her to dream in his stead and Father had loved her and begged her to live. This is the closest she has come to feeling alive since then. He is here with her. He has always been here with her.
Gregor listens, his cloak of wings shivering. His antennae twitches when she talks about their fiercesome battles. He chitters away when she recalls their travels of faraway lands. Of quests and adventures. Of her and Father.
His lone eye is changing; there is something like life now. A bud resurfacing through the dry soil of its pupil. Somewhere under the monstrous wrappings, he is there and waiting, has been waiting for so long. Grasping desperately for that warmth like she once had, a long time ago.
More cockroaches scurry around her, an endless sea of chitin. As if she is on stage, performing for a captivated audience. Well done, she hears Bari say. That’s my Sancho, Father beams in delight. Both smiling with eyes like the sun.
Both so, so proud of her.
The ache in her eyes come back. She thinks she might be crying or laughing. But she is not alone, not anymore.
Beside her, her roach friend chirps in resounding delight.
The tale of a lonely Fixer. The tale of a Bloodfiend Lord and his Knight. How they met and dueled, fighting for three days.
How they became brilliant friends, precious like starlight.
All too quick, the story ends, but it is only the first of many - her head is a tome to hundreds and hundreds more. Every single tale Bari has given she has kept. Her beloved treasures, passed down to Father to her.
Gregor gives something like a low, warbling hiss. Impatient, isn’t he? But a good storyteller knows when to stop. Sancho remembers the fervent excitement on Father’s face. She remembers especially the same one nestling in her own heart.
Something to look forward to. Something to help them dream. In place of terrible memories. Of overwhelming thirst and hopeless nothing.
“I’ll be back to tell you another one,” she promises, for it is a storyteller’s duty to finish what they started. Gregor rumbles, and his Family buzz restlessly with their wings. But he otherwise lets her walk away whole. Sancho smiles. Father had acted like a child at times, and even she herself had been fidgety for more.
When she turns her head back just one more time, she sees Gregor and his Family waiting for her return.
Just like Father had with Bari. Something like pain aches inside her chest. But for once, it’s not unbearable.
For once, she welcomes more.
They say there are monsters living in District 7.
And yet, the place is also home to so many things: small, skittering creatures. Friends that are never more treasured. A warmth that is precious. Beloved stories and dreams.
This is a place for those who have been scorned. For those trying to flee, and for those who are lonely. Monsters they may be but human they once were.
This is a place for lost, broken things.
Enter into the heart, and they will welcome you with countless wings and chirps and tales. Don’t mind the rotten food; the monsters here like to share. Sit enraptured to a Fixer’s story before clapping along with a sea of subjects and their Lord.
They say there are monsters living in District 7. We hope you will never be lonely.