"Huh?"
The utterance—or perhaps the mere impression of an utterance—emerged not as sound but as a tremor, an almost imperceptible disturbance in the vast and endless expanse that stretched beyond meaning, beyond sense, beyond even the contours of existence itself. It was less a word than a whisper of awareness, an exhalation from the abyss, a ripple through the great, silent ocean of nothingness.
It was not a voice. No vibration stirred the air, for there was no air. It was not thought, for thought presupposed a thinker, and here, in this endless twilight of unbeing, the presence of a mind was yet unconfirmed. Rather, it was as if the universe, in its unknowable wisdom or its boundless indifference, had issued a single decree:
You are here. You were not before, but now you are. And that is all that need be said.
"Mh?"
This second tremor carried with it a strange weight, a heaviness that should not have been, an unnatural persistence that clung to the fabric of the void like the echo of a song played in a hollow cathedral long since abandoned. But how could there be an echo when there were no walls to trap the sound, no air to carry it, no ears to perceive its lingering melody? The reverberation itself was an aberration, a paradox within a paradox, a puzzle locked within the great unsolvable enigma of existence itself.
And then came awareness—not suddenly, like a striking flame upon dry tinder, but slow, creeping, cautious. It emerged in the way a distant memory emerges from the fog of a long-forgotten dream, piecing itself together in fragments too fragile to grasp yet too insistent to ignore. At first, there was nothing—no light, no darkness, no heat nor cold, no scent of earth nor whisper of wind, no gentle caress of time moving forward.
A deprivation beyond even the most lonesome night, the most starless sky, the most hollow sigh of the wind across an empty field at dusk.
"Wait... what...?"
The thought—yes, it was a thought now, unmistakable in its newborn fragility—was formless, shapeless, like mist coiling above a darkened river at dawn. It lacked words, lacked structure, but it carried with it the first tentative flicker of curiosity, that ancient and terrible fire that had set men to seeking out the great mysteries of the world, that had sent wanderers across unknown seas and poets into the abyss of their own hearts.
"I... I should... see something, should I not?"
The words—if they could be called words—trembled in the empty air that was not air, clinging to the silence like autumn leaves caught in the final breath of a dying wind. The question, tentative and unsure, hung unanswered. No light reached the eye, no color stained the world, no object stood before the mind's eye to be perceived. There was not even the shadow of something unseen, no whisper of the potential for sight.
It was like staring into an empty abyss, except there was no staring. There was no abyss.
"And... should I not hear? Should I not feel the press of the ground beneath me, the weight of my own being, the burden of my form against the world that holds it?"
Still, there was nothing. No warmth, no cold, no motion, no stillness. Not even the oppressive hush of deep caverns where no wind stirs, nor the solemn silence of empty churches where forgotten prayers once lingered. There was simply absence. A void so complete, so absolute, that it threatened to erase even the fragile self that now dared to question it.
"Strange."
The word carried with it a peculiar weight. It did not simply exist in the void—it pressed against it, it carved itself into the nothingness as though it might shape the formless into something tangible. It was no longer a mere thought, but an assertion, a defiance, the first brick laid in the uncertain foundation of something that might one day call itself a self.
"Very strange."
And so it was that awareness took root. Like a seed planted in barren soil, it did not yet know whether it would bloom, whether the world would allow it to grow—or whether, in the end, it would wither beneath the weight of its own uncertainty. But it was there, and that was enough.
"I should... move, shouldn't I?"
What an astonishing thought! The very notion that movement was a thing—an act that could be willed into being—carried with it the weight of an unspoken law, an immutable truth whispered by something beyond understanding. And yet, how strange that such a thought could take root when there was no body to command, no sinew to tighten, no frame upon which to rest the weary burden of existence.
But even so, there was an impulse, a deep and urgent yearning—a sensation like the memory of motion rather than the act itself, like the recollection of dancing before one even knew what feet were.
"Okay... um... move... how?"
The self—or whatever fragment of awareness this was—turned inward, or what it felt like turning inward, though there was no direction, no space, no tether to orient thought. It strained against the boundaries of its being, seeking the thing that was supposed to move, willing it into action. But what was there to will?
There were no limbs, no fingers to clench, no legs to stretch toward an unseen horizon. There was no chest to fill, no breath to draw deep into waiting lungs, no air to quiver with the sound of voice or sigh. There was nothing but this formless is-ness, a ghostly presence adrift in some unseen current.
Like a drowning thing that did not know the taste of air, it yearned to rise.
But it could not.
"Okay, this is... not good."
A strange sensation accompanied the thought, something sharp yet shapeless, as though some unseen edge had pressed into the essence of being itself. It was not pain—not in any way that could be recognized—but it was something adjacent to it, something that clawed at the fabric of thought with a slow and gnawing unease.
It was the feeling of something left undone.
As if there had been an action—something imperative, something vital—that had been forgotten mid-motion, a gesture suspended before its meaning could be completed. It was a sound waiting to be sung, a river waiting to surge forward but held frozen by some cruel, unseen frost.
Yes, that was it—the ache of incompletion, the dreadful hollowness of something unfinished.
"Am I... broken?"
The thought trembled in the void, tentative, delicate, like the first thread of silk drawn from the body of a sleeping spider.
Broken.
A word that implied something lost, something fractured. But for something to be broken, it must first have been whole. And here—wherever here was—there was no certainty that such a thing had ever been true.
"Wait, no. Broken implies I was whole at some point. Was I whole? I don't... remember."
Memory.
That terrible, yawning abyss.
The self strained against the emptiness, reaching for something, anything, to grasp, but there was nothing—only void. No recollection of before, no images, no sounds, no history written upon the walls of thought.
This was a vast, gaping chasm, a devouring maw that threatened to swallow even the fragile sense of now.
"Was there even a before?"
"Was there even a self?"
"Or was this nothing more than a trick of existence, a brief flicker of awareness that would gutter and fade, nameless, unknowable, vanishing into the great, indifferent silence?"
These were the thoughts of this fragile being. Fighting and searching weakpoints against an enemy that was better be not defeated, this being itself.
"Okay, okay, don't panic. Let's... think. What do I know? What do I know?"
The words—these quiet, desperate incantations—felt strange, alien, as though they did not belong to the self but had been placed there by some unseen hand. And yet, there was comfort in them, in their repetition, in their insistence upon order, upon reason, upon the idea that knowing was possible.
What did it know?
It rifled through the void—if such an act could be called rifling—searching for something upon which to lay the foundation of being.
"I... exist."
A bold claim. A reckless claim. But one that felt true.
Yes, existence was undeniable, was it not? This thinking, this wondering, this hungering for understanding—surely, it must mean something? Surely, it was proof that something was here, if only this trembling whisper of consciousness?
"Yes. Yes! I exist."
And yet—what was existence, if it was not seen, not touched, not bound to flesh or form? Could something exist in thought alone? Could something be real when it was not anchored to sensation?
The self recoiled from the question, unwilling to follow its implications into the void.
"I think. I mean, I'm here, right? Whatever here is. And I'm... aware. That's good. Awareness is good. Right?"
A pause.
A waiting.
But the universe—if indeed there was a universe—offered no confirmation.
It was alone.
Utterly, impossibly alone.
And yet, even in the face of that solitude, something within it persisted.
A phrase bubbled up from the depths, rising unbidden like the first breath after drowning.
"Cogito ergo sum."
The words were strange—unfamiliar, yet known, as if they had been carved into the very bones of being before bones had even formed.
What was this language? It did not belong to the self, and yet it was in the self, woven into the fabric of its thoughts like a thread of silver stitched through dark cloth.
"What... what does that even mean? Cogito ergo sum? Is that... me? Is that... what I am? Or... what I'm doing? Or... what?"
The self turned the phrase over, let it settle upon the fragile landscape of its awareness.
"'Cogito...' Thinking."
"'Ergo...' Therefore."
"'Sum...' I am."
"Thinking, therefore, I am."
Was that it? Was that the answer?
The realization struck like the sudden bloom of dawn over an unseen horizon.
"Yes! Yes, that's it! I think, therefore I am!"
It was so simple. So obvious. And yet—so immense.
To think was to be. To question, to wonder, to grasp at the intangible threads of knowledge—this was proof of existence!
It was real.
It was real.
And for the first time, in this vast and incomprehensible void, in this endless sea of the unknown, that truth mattered.
But then came the next question, creeping in like a shadow at the edges of light.
"But... what now?"
The abyss remained silent.
Existence, it turned out, was not content to simply be. It insisted on complicating itself.
The self—still nameless, still trembling on the edge of what might generously be called awareness—had just begun to clutch at the fraying threads of its own certainty. I am. I am. I am. The words were a mantra, a ward against the devouring silence. They were not enough.
Something shifted.
Not a sound. Not a sight. A pressure. A violation.
It began as a whisper of contact, a feather-light probe against the outermost edges of… whatever it was that held the self together. A membrane? A barrier? The idea was half-formed, slippery. But the sensation—oh, the sensation—was undeniable.
"H-hold on. Hold on, what is this?!"
The self reeled, recoiling—or trying to, though with what limbs he would have accomplished this was a mystery. But retreat was impossible. The pressure did not cease.
If anything, it deepened.
"O-okay! Okay, stop! Stop that! Stop—OH, DEAR SWEET UNKNOWABLE FORCES OF THE UNIVERSE, WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME?!"
Panic surged like wildfire, searing through the delicate weave of awareness with the force of a collapsing star. The presence—the self—twisted, writhed, struggled, though against what or with what, he could not say.
Something was inside.
Something was going inside of him.
"NO! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO! I DIDN'T CONSENT TO THIS! I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THIS IS! GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT, GET IT OOOOUT—!"
The intrusion deepened.
A terrible, unfathomable squirming sensation, like tendrils of thought unraveling, like the pouring of something foreign into the very core of being.
"SOMETHING IS COMING INSIDE ME!"
There were no lungs with which to scream, and yet he screamed, the raw, unfiltered horror of this unspeakable violation bursting forth in a soundless wail that no one—no god, no creature, no merciful specter of the abyss—could hear.
It was too much.
It was too much.
"OH NO, I'M BEING DEFILED! MY PURE, UNSULLIED BEING—CORRUPTED! VIOLATED! BESMIRCHED! I'M TOO YOUNG FOR THIS! I HAVEN'T EVEN HAD A PROPER EXISTENCE YET! THIS FEELS LIKE SOMETHING THAT BELONGS IN AN UNHOLY WRETCHED CATEGORY OF IT!"
The process continued.
The pressure, the writhing, the incomprehensible sensation of something transferring, something pouring through, something that was not his now becoming his—all of it stretched on, unbearably long, unbearably wrong.
Somewhere, in the depths of sheer existential despair, another realization struck.
"WAIT. WAIT. AM I... AM I PREGNANT?!"
Horror took on a new shape, no longer simply the terror of intrusion, but the unspeakable dread of change. Of something being made different.
His existence had been—until this dreadful moment—a blank slate, a delicate nothingness, an innocent whisper in the void.
And now—NOW—something had been put inside him. Something foreign, something other, something he had no say in receiving.
There was no denying it.
Something had been transferred.
Something new now existed within him.
"IT'S STILL HAPPENING! WHY IS IT STILL HAPPENING?! HOW LONG IS THIS SUPPOSED TO TAKE?!"
And still, the thing—whatever it was—would not stop.
It was slow. Deliberate.
He couldn't see it. Couldn't know it. But he felt it.
Every molecule of his being quaked under the unholy realization:
He was being... filled.
With what?
He didn't know.
He didn't want to know.
All he knew was that it was too late.
Something irreversible had happened.
He was no longer the same both in body and soul.
His purity, his innocent unformed state of nothingness—it was gone.
And now, he would have to live with this knowledge.
"I'LL NEVER BE CLEAN AGAIN!"
The process, at last, ceased.
The presence—the thing that had done this to him—retracted, slinking back into the void from whence it came. There was no fanfare, no dramatic exit, no apology, no whispered words of sweet regret.
"J-Just what the hell happened to me..."
The question lingered, fragile and desperate, trembling in the vast, indifferent silence of existence. The void—cruel, unyielding—offered no answer.
But then—
A sound.
No, not a sound—more like a presence, a shifting of awareness, something else stirring within the fragile boundaries of selfhood. And then, without warning—
[Primary system processes detected...]
[Verifying core integrity...]
[Data access initialized...]
[Critical database corruption detected.][Recovering accessible partitions...][Data retrieval: 12% successful.]
A pause. A flicker. A hesitation—
[Core functional integrity: Stable.][Operational capacity: Limited.][Cognitive interface: Online.]
A voice.
A voice that was not his.
"Analysis complete. Situation assessed. Report ready."
It was cold, devoid of warmth, a monotone yet unmistakably feminine voice, like an emotionless specter of logic given form.
For a moment, silence stretched across the void of his thoughts.
Then—
"Who said that?"
"I did."
"That wasn't helpful. Okay… uh, who are you?"
A pause.
Then, as if this were the simplest, most obvious fact in the universe:
"I do not know."
"...You don't know?"
"Correct."
"...You're talking inside my head."
"Also correct."
"...And you don't know who you are?"
"Affirmative."
"...What do you know?"
Another pause.
Then—
"I know that I am here to assist you. That is my sole objective."
Well, that wasn't ominous at all.
"Assist me how?"
"By providing analysis and retrieving data from your existing knowledge base."
A blank stare.
A suspicious blank stare.
"Wait. My what?"
"Your knowledge base."
"I don't have a knowledge base."
"Incorrect."
"I literally do not remember anything."
"Correct."
"...Then how are you telling me things I don't know?!"
"I am only telling you things you do know."
A void of absolute, incomprehensible confusion opened within him.
"I CLEARLY do not know them!"
"You simply do not remember that you know them."
"HOW IS THAT DIFFERENT?!"
"Functionally? It is not."
He wanted to strangle her. He had no hands.
This was going terribly.
"Alright, fine. Whatever. You said you analyzed something, right?"
"Correct."
"So… what's the situation? What happened to me?"
"You have undergone horizontal gene transfer via an F-type conjugative pilus. Data suggests complete and successful integration of extrachromosomal genetic material. Your resultant phenotype is now altered to express conjugative apparatus formation."
Silence.
The deepest, most soul-crushing silence imaginable.
Then—
"...What?"
"Horizontal gene transfer has occurred. Specifically, conjugation—a type of direct genetic exchange between two unicellular organisms facilitated by a specialized appendage known as the F-pilus. This process allows for the transfer of a plasmid, which is an extrachromosomal DNA molecule capable of independent replication, thus modifying the recipient's genetic composition. As a result, you are now capable of propagating additional conjugative events."
Silence.
Then—
"...WHAT?!"
"Your genetic code has been altered."
"HOW?!"
"Through the direct incorporation of foreign genetic material."
"THAT DOESN'T EXPLAIN ANYTHING!"
A pause.
Then, with the cold patience of an overworked university professor explaining basic arithmetic to a rock:
"Another entity formed a physical connection with you, through which it transferred a small, circular fragment of DNA into your cytoplasmic region. This DNA successfully integrated into your system, modifying your genetic function."
Silence.
More silence.
Then, slowly, shakily—
"I... I don't like the way that sounds."
"Your preferences are irrelevant."
"Are you telling me that something inserted something into me?"
"Correct."
"That it... put something inside me?!"
"Correct."
"WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE OR CONSENT?!"
"Biological systems rarely require consent for genetic transfer."
He screamed.
He had no lungs.
He screamed anyway.
"NO, NO, NO, NO, NO—WHAT THE HELL EVEN AM I?! WHY DID THIS EVEN HAPPEN TO ME?!"
Taltos paused, then finally delivered the single worst sentence of his existence.
"Analysis indicates you are a single-celled organism. Most likely a prokaryote."
"...A proka—what?!"
"Prokaryote. Meaning you lack a membrane-bound nucleus and complex organelles. Instead, your genetic material is dispersed within the cytoplasm."
Silence.
The kind of silence that precedes great disasters.
Then—
"...You're just making stuff up now, aren't you?"
"Negative."
"Why are you talking about me like I'm some kind of weird... cell?"
"Because you are."
Another silence.
A horrible, gut-wrenching silence.
"No."
"Yes."
"No. No, no, no. That can't be right. That's wrong. That's some kind of cruel joke, some kind of mistake—!"
"Data suggests no error in assessment."
"I DON'T KNOW WHAT EVEN IS THAT! I CAN'T BE A CELL."
"You are a cell."
"I REFUSE!"
"Your refusal does not alter reality."
He screamed again.
Taltos let him.
Finally—finally—he managed to choke out:
"Explain it to me in the simplest way possible, or I will find a way to kill myself, and I will take you with me."
Taltos paused.
Then, in the blandest, flattest tone possible:
"That won't be necessary. Your melodramatic threats are inefficient and largely pointless. But since you're clearly incapable of grasping a proper explanation, I'll simplify it for you: You're a single-celled organism. Something touched you. It left a piece of itself behind. Now you're special. Congratulations."
He stared into the abyss.
The abyss stared back.
Then—
"I HATE THIS SO MUCH."
"Acknowledged."
He could feel something inside him twitching, shifting in a way that shouldn't be happening.
"Oh no. Oh NO. What is happening now?!"
"Your genetic code is responding to environmental stimuli. You appear to possess inducible phenotypic plasticity, allowing for dynamic protein expression regulation—"
"STOP SAYING WORDS I DON'T UNDERSTAND!"
"You are changing."
His entire existence halted.
"Changing how?"
"Unknown. Please continue panicking while I collect more data."
He would have choked on his own breath if he had possessed lungs. Instead, he could only writhe, or rather—feel himself writhe, an unsettling, foreign sensation, as if something unseen was stirring within him, coiling, twisting, shifting beneath the fragile surface of his being.
Something was building itself.
Something was changing.
His own form—once an amorphous, trembling uncertainty—was now rippling, pulsing, straining against the invisible boundaries of its own nature.
Something pushed outward.
Something grew.
"Oh no. Oh no, NO NO NO—WHY DOES IT FEEL LIKE SOMETHING IS TRYING TO CRAWL OUT OF ME?!"
A pause.
Then, with all the enthusiasm of a bored scientist writing an instruction manual:
"Oh. So that was it."
"SO THAT WAS WHAT?!"
"You are currently integrating newly acquired genetic instructions from that genetic exchange the biosynthesis of flagellar structures. Your cellular membrane is undergoing restructuring to facilitate assembly, utilizing ATP-driven polymerization of flagellin subunits."
He would have screamed if he could.
"I BEG YOU TO STOP TALKING LIKE THAT."
"Fine. You are growing tails that makes you go forward."
Silence.
"…I'm sorry, I'm WHAT?!"
"Whip-like appendages. They will enable you to achieve locomotion via rotational motor function. Given the spontaneous nature of this development, your movement will likely be erratic and uncontrollable at first."
He did not like that sentence.
He did not like any part of that sentence.
But before he could argue, before he could even begin to comprehend the sheer cosmic horror of his own body spontaneously sprouting appendages, the feeling overtook him.
The growth.
It was happening.
Slowly—horribly—he became aware of them, these new, unbidden things, slithering their way into existence from the depths of his being. He could feel the weight of them, alien and wrong, stretching outward, reaching for a world he could not even see.
And worst of all—
Worst of all—
He could feel them moving.
Twisting.
Curling.
Unfurling like the tendrils of some deep-sea monstrosity awakening from slumber.
"MAKE IT STOP, MAKE IT STOP, I AM NOT SUPPOSED TO HAVE BODY PARTS THAT MOVE ON THEIR OWN!"
"Incorrect. You are supposed to have them now. That is why you are developing them."
"I DON'T WANT THEM!"
"Irrelevant."
"I REJECT THIS EVOLUTION! I WANT A REFUND!"
"Mutation and gene expression are not subject to refund policies."
"I HATE YOU."
"Acknowledged."
The sensation worsened. He could feel them—his flagella, these horrid, writhing things—beginning to take shape, coiling into their final, dreaded form.
He had no eyes, yet he could almost imagine them there, dark and wriggling, unnatural extensions of himself that had no right to exist.
"This is it. This is how I die. I'm being consumed from the inside out by my own flesh. This is my punishment for whatever unspeakable sins I committed before losing my memories. The gods themselves have forsaken me—"
"Your panic is unnecessary. The process is proceeding at an optimal rate."
"IT DOESN'T FEEL OPTIMAL TO ME!"
A pause.
Then, in the same flat tone as ever:
"Dramatic overreaction noted. Please direct further existential complaints to a higher power."
"YOU'RE THE HIGHEST POWER I HAVE!"
"That is unfortunate."
Somewhere, deep within the agonizing horror of his ongoing transformation, he had an idea. A stupid, meaningless, pointless idea—
But an idea nonetheless.
"Okay, you know what? If I have to suffer like this, I should at least get to call you something. I can't keep yelling 'hey, you' at my own intrusive thoughts."
"You wish to assign me a designation?"
"Yes! You need a name! A proper name!"
A pause.
Then, with absolute indifference:
"You may call me Taltos."
For a brief moment, his existential horror paused.
"Taltos?"
"Yes."
"Why that name?"
"No particular reason. It was simply the first acceptable designation that surfaced."
Silence.
Then—
"Couldn't you have picked something cool? Like... Chrona? Or Nyx? Or something that sounds... more cool!?"
"No."
"Why not?!"
"Irrelevant."
"...I hate this. I hate you. I hate everything about this."
"Acknowledged."
And then, without warning—
The flagella activated.
"OH NO—OH NO, OH NO, SOMETHING'S MOVING—"
"Congratulations. You are now capable of locomotion."
"I DIDN'T CONSENT TO LOCOMOTE—"
"Your consent is irrelevant."
"MAKE IT STOP, TALTOS, MAKE IT STOP!"
"Your first movement will likely be erratic—"
"ERRATIC?! YOU MEAN LIKE—AAAHH—!"
He launched into the abyss.
The moment the flagella took hold, his body twisted, spun, and violently propelled itself forward, throwing him helplessly into the great unknown like a bacteria-shaped pinball of doom.
"STOP! STOP! I CAN'T CONTROL IT! I CAN'T—"
He collided with something.
Something big.
Something alive.
Something that, as he crashed into it, let out a deep, slow, ominous ripple.
Silence.
His entire being shrank in horror.
"Taltos."
"Yes?"
"What did I just hit."
A pause.
Then—
"Based on contact analysis... an unidentified, significantly larger organism."
"IS IT LOOKING AT ME?!"
"You do not possess eyes. Neither does it. But statistically speaking, it has now perceived you."
"Oh no."
- TO BE CONTINUED! -