There was a loud clanging sound coming from just beyond his door. Bunnu jumped. The sound was that of the afternoon bell. It was time for Courtship Hour. He sighed at the realization that no matter how vehemently he doubted his perceptions, their seeming persistence continually managed to peel away at his resolve to defy them. His shoulders slumped as he put his hand to his forehead. He was here in the present. Right now: here in the moment. Here: in the Asoka Plains Detention Facility in the country of Morell, a region of the world that was now understood to be a part of the Republic. A republic is a kind of political system. Political and system are words. Words exist.
And as the other cell doors swung open and inmates filed out to make their way to the Yard, Bunnu now envisioned them: these surly gray fibrous masses beyond his door, in the spaces between walls, trolling the depths of the building itself—hunched, faceless amalgamations of loosely-configured men, leaking abrasive Matter upon the hard surface of the floors when even the slightest breeze whistled through their cavernous bristled epidermis. He imagined them: these husky, ashen Beings, scurrying in droves through damp, uninviting corridors, nestled back against the wall, lingering behind corners, lying in wait for even the smallest squeak of his door hinge, so that they may swarm inward upon him and the bristles that comprised them could unravel and twirl in his direction, skimming from ceiling to floor, scraping against the walls and curving in through the crevice to creep along the shivering mass of cells upon his exterior and cover the body whole. His hand would freeze upon the door knob and be shattered to splinters of flesh as he, in defiance of this coarse invasion, struggled to break free of their grip: to no avail. Gray fibers covered with loose granules of cosmic dust—similar in consistency to incense ash—would plunge through every orifice in search of alveoli to stop the breathing at its source. He would then be flooded with this strange, granular matter and made to respire by proxy as the invading agent would not allow him the benefit of self-respiration, as it was too selfish and far less efficient than the sort of respiration that could be achieved through mutual means.
Bunnu shivered as he broke into a cold sweat.
The very anticipation of this process was, for him, horrifying, for he could imagine the Dust spiraling in corners, plotting en masse an elaborate offensive upon those who sought seclusion from the outside Universe. The Dust: it was older than Time, bound by its allegiance to the Tangible—to the very Physical Substance of creation— to make pointed attacks fueled by conspiracy upon its bitter rival, the amorphously-composed Intangible Will. This conflict, too, was older than time: one that had always existed and one that continues perpetually between the abstractions of Tangible Form and those of Intangible Will, the two locked in eternal combat for they could know no other state than to oppose the infringement of each upon the confines of the other. The tangible, however, was more resolved—more given to complicity—for without this, there was no hope of overcoming the tenacity of something so refined. Accordingly, there were many natures to such Dust, many inclinations that Bunnu was impelled to delineate—for the sake of convenience—by arbitrary color. For example, red dust, though it wasn’t truly red, came as a result of an incredible shift in gravitational force, perhaps from an explosion of a vast star in a distant galaxy. The particles of dust traveled and accumulated through void, attracting each to the other by sheer weight of their micro-gravities as they fused with hot gas to form masses, which would loom in stasis for many billions of years and later crumble to their constituents in vast explosions, sending each particle off again upon its own distinct immaculate trajectory. These particles carry with them their memories in aggregation of them with their associates and of their associates with their collection of foregone associates, allowing them by means of interconnecting social networks to seek old members of former almae matres (i.e. one particle of red dust recognizes another that he had once been fused together with to form a rock on the surface of a distant planet and seeks to relive old glories together. The particle, in question, however, is wedged between the teeth of a beached whale, and thus the alliance-seeking granule, must seek to merge with the whale itself in order for this reunion to become a reality).
It was these elements of the outside that Bunnu had now come to fear. This cosmic dust which plotted against him and sought to sap his Will with impurities: he had no choice but to resist it, for his insulation from the outside world had given him purpose. He could not, now, allow the outside to infiltrate the defenses and make inroads to that part of him untouchable even by Light and Dark. But-
THE ANT!!! Where’s the ant?
Bunnu now jumped up from the mattress and brushed his hand over his forearm. Nothing. It escaped! Or perhaps, it was holding on for dear life. Holding on to one of the hairs of his arm. That shrewd little beast! He scratched at his arms intensely with his long yellow nails, drawing blood, but the ant wasn’t there. He picked up the mattress and threw it against the door, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Dust? How did it get-? H-how could it-?
He backed slowly away from his mattress screaming wildly as he felt his shoulder blades touch the door of the cell. His hands now clawed frantically at his hair and beard as he, for the first time, realized how long they had grown. What’s happening? The image of the shivering plane loomed before his eyes until he, too, felt tremors throughout his body, ripples through his essence. It’s getting inside! It’s getting into me! He cried out again in panic as he could feel particles of the dust growing to vines in his bloodstream that crept slowly along the walls of his vessels and branched inward until they reached his air passages. He reached for his own throat. My God! It’s inside! He felt an explosion in the back of his head as the door behind him opened allowing the air of the outside Universe to circulate in. Amidst the swirls of enveloping dust, he could hear voices roaring behind him like ravenous beasts as he fell forward to the concrete floor.
His vision started to fade as he, sprawled upon the floor of his cell, felt an itching sensation beckon to him from his forearm. He looked up slowly and through a blurry mist of his own tears, beheld, to his surprise, the image of what appeared to be an ant upon his wrist. It stood there, looking victorious amongst the rivers of blood that now flowed from his forearm. There it was: the leader of the invading forces. Having spearheaded this offensive, it was now looking upon its conquest with what—from this indistinct perspective—appeared to be a glimmer of pride. Bunnu had no recourse but to admit defeat. But there was another option that still appeared to be available. The ant was feeling merciful and was willing to accept symbiotic coexistence as a feasible diplomatic alternative.
Presumably, the ant was lonely and sought companionship beyond that which could be afforded by mere foot soldiers of dust. Perhaps, that was what Bunnu required too. This may very well have been what he had needed all along. Surely, it would be moderate companionship, at best—albeit companionship, nonetheless, which would certainly be worthy of, at the very least, his perennial affections, however lacking in depth these may have been.
But precious time was slipping away and a decision had to be made in the moment. Does one acquiesce to such terms?
The blurry ant—as though in response to this query—appeared to stand up on two legs and bow before Bunnu graciously in a gesture of appeal. The ant was both magnanimous and compassionate in victory, which was something that made its proposition all the more compelling.
Bunnu’s breathing faltered. There was still one other option he hadn’t considered, an option he wouldn’t otherwise want to consider, if for no other reason than its inherent cruelty—it’s calculating lack of compassion. Certainly, it would be a temporary solution that attacked the symptom, but neglected the root cause and, thus, it could actually end up being counterproductive to pursue it, as it may prove to exacerbate the situation further, rather than alleviate it as it was intended to do.
Nonetheless, with his hand dangling in mid-air, circling like a predatory
bird, he, with all his strength, pulled the looming appendage out of its failsafe position and into a steady dive in the direction of its target; and with the fortifications of his doubt overcome by the force of his own fatigue, he committed himself fully and unquestionably to the objective of this pointed assault until he felt, under the force of his own thumb, the body of this six-legged diplomat being crushed mercilessly. Its insides leaked out through ruptures in the exoskeleton, which crumbled easily to tiny fragments of external solute in a pool of internal fluid. He did this and he allowed his body to slump back down again and his eyes to close. He had given in to this option out of exhaustion and could not be bothered to consider its repercussions at this very moment.
And as he drifted out of consciousness, he could sense a shadow fall upon him from the doorway of his cell and hear these voices from all around him, whispering again and again in concert: Asoka Plains…Asoka Plains…Asoka-
Three Years Later
(or “A Brief History of Asoka Plains”)