[The answer is immediate. Frenetic. Like pulling a plug from a basin and all the water comes spilling out of it: a young woman in a coma, then ten more, then fifty, then a hundred quiet would-be corpses filling the chambers of a too-familiar Nesting Deck, soaked with a sheen of nauseating fear. There's a flicker of unreality to it - an imagined scene more than memory -, but it tastes like the ash and salt of a panic sweat.
It's too much - the symbiote, being a hundred million universes away from where they belong, all the connections their brains weren't meant to make. You can't just graft wings onto a fish and expect them to fly. Even if they manage a few wingbeats, they just inevitably land somewhere with no water to breathe.]
no subject
It's too much - the symbiote, being a hundred million universes away from where they belong, all the connections their brains weren't meant to make. You can't just graft wings onto a fish and expect them to fly. Even if they manage a few wingbeats, they just inevitably land somewhere with no water to breathe.]