Someplace desolate in the Verdant Valley: Surrounded by the remains of a destroyed village, a brave man bled out as his two captors were kept occupied by their heated arguments. Two monsters, to be exact.

Eventually, after seemingly endless time passed and Dure came to terms with feeling like an unwanted clown barging in on a date for two, the man donning the fake, very unsettling business smile spoke up to him.

“The following: Azariah will search your memories, and if we find what'd warrant an exception, we have a deal. I won’t fool you, the procedure is painful and your chances don't look good.” ‘…and that’s what took you so long?!’

Dure gritted his teeth so much he heard them crack, his pale face losing even more colour. ‘What a nasty condition! A deal? Whom are they kidding?’ He shouldn’t accept, he knew, but… at this pace, his hope would only die with him.

The servant slumped down powerlessly, from a sitting position to a sprawled out one. The ground was saturated with blood, feeling sick to his exposed skin. Rubble lay littered all around him, only increasing Dure's physical discomfort.

Yet the psychological pressure positively dwarfed any other sensation. The stench of death closed in from all sides. Dure knew it. In order to bargain for better conditions, the most basic requirement was time–––which he couldn’t afford to waste the last bit he had.

Somebody was going to take advantage of him without as much as hiding crooked intentions. Yet... Dure could only laugh and smile in response, had to suck it up unconditionally, playing the gullible fool like he always did.

All the rightful anger in his mind could not distort the fact that made him suffer so much: Dure was weak. Too weak to impose his wishes on anyone. It was unfair! The whole world was unfair!! Unfair in its barbarous simplicity...

Be it the process of unearthing information or the one concerning evaluation, both depended on the beautiful teenager looking at him like one would at an interesting magazine.

As a tool good only to pass time… one had to have the bearings of one, no? If Azariah didn’t feel like it, even if his brain was a treasure trove which it surely was not, it would’ve been all for nought still. But! 'Beggars ain’t choosers.'

As far as Dure remembered, the ball had never been in his court. The female lifeform who failed to introduce herself even in his final moments approached him with grace as he wallowed in self-pity.

Each step thundered in his ears as everything else besides her princesslike contours gradually disappeared from his perception as if erased by her presence.

When she stopped less than ten centimetres (3.9 in) away from Dure's haggard face, her eyes broke down into countless tiny dots with each representing a part of her compound sensory organ she preferred to keep hidden and... Dure howled.

The servant thought he was ready to face any horror, yet what he was put under begged to differ. Noises he never knew being within the realm of human capabilities tore his throat asunder, rattled his gullet, cut along his tongue and moved out in the wide world he was soon to leave.

Spooked, Dure moved his arms as if to push Azariah away as freely flowing drool accompanied his unebbing whimpers. However, his resistance did not last long.

Something crept into his head, rifled through his memories, dug out what he believed long forgotten, ripped and tore to shreds any blockade there was, mercilessly eradicated attempt to impose his own will.

Emotionless, systematic efficiency dissected his mind. In the face of a dreaded creature in girl’s shape taking him apart with the same ease as a lofty master alchemist would a defective puppet besmirching her grand name, Dure’s fear shot through the roof.

The expedition’s last survivor lost himself in a never-ending spiral of pain–––both emotional and physical–––as his whole life passed like a muted clip before his eyes.

Dure relived his nightmares time and time again. The holy moment meant for only him, and him alone, he shared, was forced to. Then it was over. The first impression that followed was of loneliness and damage.

As the pain vanished, numbness spread towards the hole Azariah had left behind, filling it, barely. Dure felt a strangely familiar hand guiding him across the borders into a realm beyond the horizon, loaded with suppressed murmuring voices, jokes and laughter.

The hand was warm, welcoming even, as it beckoned him to follow. Suddenly he paused, unresolved regret making him resist the gentle guidance. He turned around and waited, and before long “we have ourselves a deal–” his worries finally fell on listening ears.

A murmur ever so short of a whisper, a cognitive sliver. Yet so powerful it immediately shattered all the remaining shackles. Dure smiled, relieved, satisfied and undisputedly happy as he trekked forward, embracing the world of white.

‘Why can’t you shut your overzealous mouth for once and waste–––I say, a second and no more–––by making use of that deflated brain of yours?’

By the time the agent regained his wits from the cruise through someone else’s mind promptly shared by Azariah through her ethereal feelers, Pansy’s nagging assaulted him like greedy pirates would a defenceless commercial ship.

From beginning to end, a tragic life had unfolded before his eyes, one he felt nothing about besides cherishing it as being highly informative.

Indeed, the experience was certainly invaluable as there was much about emotions to be understood and things to take note of if he ever was to safely move in human society–––yet it still fell short, by a lot.

Dure’s last wish, his ardent desire in provoking the despicable Balen Clan’s downfall might’ve very well created a miracle in the end: A detail so insignificant the destitute servant never learned the importance of. It fulfilled what his sacrificial attitude could not.

It brought value to the table. As some ants dragged the corpse away, Azariah ceased massaging her throbbing temples and finally asked the same question Pansy barely knew the answer to.

“Your reason?” It was by no means a rebuke, only interest. Certain things were better said now to nib any possible misunderstandings in the bud, of which the Queenant already had enough.

Queen Azariah had already made a bunch of mistakes she didn't know how to address properly nor remedy. There was definitively no need to add to the list.

So she tried her best to make her question sound as harmless and carefree as possible. If all Linlin desired was information, Azariah positively equalled an entire, albeit slightly outdated, psychic library in this regard–––or perhaps even more.

What that sorry figure knew, and she did not, wasn’t precious at all in the Queenant's eyes. And knowing about some skeletons in a puny Balen Clan’s closet was worth little, besides enforcing her belief humanity shouldn’t be easily trusted.

Even before their disastrous loss, the queen would've never considered this mediocre force dangerous, much less worthy of her attention, for with each passing second, more of her children would rise from torpor, ready to contribute.

“Flower,” Linlin answered succinctly as if that alone explained everything, his expression as plain as usual, “in the Sunken Cave, or what they call that place. Indispensable for certain advanced elixirs.”

“You're... an alchemist?” There was a rather long break before she finished her question. She almost failed to contain the urge to worm her way into Linlin's mind and had to crunch down hard on the foolish idea.

Just when Azariah believed she'd accurately gauged Linlin's abilities, something new pooped up all of a sudden, giving her much of a pleasant surprise. Alchemists were a special bunch that had special connotations for the State... the queen didn't dare to think further.

Whatever windfall had brought Linlin to her resting place, it must have used up all her luck in one go. Otherwise, she wouldn't know how to interpret such fortune.

Azariah felt the sincerity within his cool words, so it was alien to her labelling our hero a quack. However, the higher his worth, the greater her anger. At herself. At how she'd treated this special someone.

They had to talk, and soon at that. She couldn't lose him, no matter what. No, that was wrong. The queen had already resolved to repair their relationship based on equality and explain why things turned out the way they did.

This newest finding did not change her attitude at all. What it did, however, was increase Azariah's sense of urgency. The sole thought of losing unsurpassable rear line support because of some stupid mistake made her giddy. She had to make amends.

Azariah took a deep breath and once again recognised the importance of a lengthy conversation followed by a sincere apology. Having come up with such opportunistic, selfish thoughts, the queen mentally spat at herself for her bad character.

Beyond the shadow of a doubt, were Linlin to lose every bit of value to her State, the Queenant within her would cast him aside like a broken doll, which she hoped would never happen.

Azariah truly regretted her mention of another fellow requiring arbitration. Else, she could’ve continued with their earlier brief exchange and may also have anticipated her heartfelt apology.

As Azariah valiantly fought against her instincts, she smiled so tenderly at Linlin that countless shivers went down our mistrusting hero’s spine. Something was in the bush, something really fearful.

Maybe the death sentence was no wrong call, after all? “Ready for the next problem child?” It seemed both personalities were just too much on edge, reading too much into Azariah's giddy behaviour.

As Azariah's command busied her children, Pansy engaged in another verbal spar to not see Linlin fall into complacency. But the agent was totally uninterested in the things the Master Strategist spewed. He couldn't help it!

No matter how often he saw their seamless coordination, it never bored him for there were only new facets to discover. By chance, he noticed a hidden detail: The ants prepared for an ambush–––as strange as it might sound–––with absolute central defence in mind.

In utter silence, each member did what was required–––and only that. Nobody stepped out of line, no wrong movement was seen and the concept of vigilance and readiness saw a new definition altogether. Only their antennas wiggled tho and fro.

The agent suddenly felt that whatever harsh training he underwent under the heavy-handed care of The Bastards, it was not worth a mention.

He felt like a quack that met an expert. The longer he was exposed to their modus operandi, the greater the hit on our hero's whacky self-esteem.

He knew it. Humans could never do this. For with personality came uniqueness. Or put differently, an inherent degradation of absolute cooperation was the result of free minds, each occupied by thoughts centred around personal gain.

Our curious hero thought about intruding into the hivemind like before just to get a quick look at how orders were conveyed, but Azariah’s presence meant a hard to ignore session of unscrupulous scolding from the moment on the agent's intention was known to Pansy.

For good or for worse, the Master Strategist never took a break from his exaggerated nagging. Luckily, the agent needn’t endure much, for he showed up, their… guest.

A good head taller than our hero, his bulky two metre (~6.5 ft) something frame towering over most ants–––save the trucks, bombers and bulldozers of whose name or function they knew nothing about.

Well-built to the point where he'd be considered a veteran bodybuilder on Earth, his real proportion hid behind an uncanny trench coat so big it covered part of the messy ground he stood upon.

Looking like black leather processed by a master of his craft, the material the trench coat was composed of seemed oddly metallic at second glance. Linlin could’ve sworn things moved within.

A disturbing feeling, this first impression gave him. Was it arrogance? Or confidence, perhaps? The newcomer spared no glance at his welcoming committee as he strutted in like he owned the place.

With his head held high, he showed a haughty expression varying between cockiness and conceitedness–––as far as one could tell from his eyes alone.

He even had a comical cloth wrapped around his head, a strange extension of his trench coat with unknown use, it seemed to be. It was open at the top, exposing a styled tuft of greasy hair poking at the sky.

“In reminiscence of olden days, this Lord forgives,” he began his apparent monologue. No introduction, no small talk, just dangerous chatter. For him. ‘Well, duh–’

“Torn from soothing perpetuity by uncivilised riffraff, threatened with unclean hatchet and incongruous evil eyes pertaining to uncouth abductors.” His belittling eyes widened and turned to stare daggers at the ants, as he pronounced word by word.

Whatever magic he did, each word he spoke had the impact of a club on their mindscape. The agent got the sudden urge to use him as a practice dummy for his training. “A lonesome corner, my abode–––unfit for the noblest of yore.

Thou, vindicate thine most inexcusable neglect in a vital exchange of salutations. Reasons art awaited.” Azariah gazed at the buffoon with an unnaturally stiff smile on her delicate face–––one aligned with her dangerous side rather than the innocent one.

“Born in the clouds, that dick.” “A... fearless nobleman, perchance?” “Blue-blooded? Maybe,” the queen poked Linlin in the side and made a theatrical sweeping motion across her children, “then what am I?” “A fearsome queen,” came the dry reply.

“And you?” “...her little helper?” “Wrong!” Having failed in conveying her point, the Queenant hissed angrily. “A king deserving respect.” Pansy caught the hint and muttered jokingly in their mindscape. ‘My, my–––poor lad.’

Yet it seemed the man in question remained oblivious to the impending storm, his persona oozing arrogance from each pore still. “Price question.” Queen Azariah presented one of her most unique radiant smiles of the likes that could kill in more than just one way.

“Between royalty and common nobility, who is ill-advised displaying boorish behaviour?” Her rhetorical question was underlined by bestial killing intent so ferocious Linlin almost toppled over–––and that though he was a mere bystander and certainly not the target.

It now seemed to get through the self-important man’s thick skull that, first, what surrounded him on the ruined village square was no malnourished riffraff he could easily mow down or escape from, but an army ready to shed all pretences.

And, second, his chances of survival just hit rock-bottom. Suddenly, he began trembling like a leaf, his creepily melodious voice sickly reverent to the utmost “–my most veracious apologies, kindest, dignified Sires.

Indisputably, among ye dazzling qualities a mote of forgiveness art ascribed to yer humble servant Chartres. Knobbly shagreens of ancient mimic art distant to the meritorious notion eligible as treasure,” as whatever-that-thing-was rambled on, its figure shrank to child size, its oversized coat bursting into a nebula of confetti that slowly fell to the ground, revealing pathetic rags hidden beneath.

Innocent, big doe-eyes stared pleadingly at the trio, all previous haughtiness evaporated. What remained was an accumulation of visual defects so glaringly obvious one simply could not remain oblivious for even a second.

Azariah noticed them, so did Pansy. The Queenant sighed as her much anticipated discussion moved further away from her than she’d have liked. Another weirdo!

With obvious tiredness to her movements, she pointed out to Linlin, a gesture Pansy interpreted as an order to take over before she really had this creature’s neck bitten off cleanly.

To prevent embarrassment, Pansy excluded the agent fully from any decision-making, walked around it, paused and grumbled as he studied the strange creature closely. He’d felt some kind of connection to the newcomer since his appearance.

However, the Master Strategist didn’t know what to make of, nor how to deal with it. Not so now, as clues almost came raining down to his rescue. ‘The probability of meeting a lifeform of our kind… really, blessed by rotten luck.’

“Whatever you are, your performance requires additional practice.” ‘You see this, Stupid? The difference between professionalism and amateurism? Hard work breeds excellence!’ ‘Says scoundrel Pansy, his royally lazy fuck. With thrice my sleep to your name, where’s the hard work you're speaking of?

I don’t see any.’ “A credibly begging expression requires far more than whiny stares.” Pansy ignored the agent's spiteful remark and pressed on.

“Elucidate,” the creature got out of role completely as it demanded without a shadow of cordiality. “With pleasure.” Pansy didn't care, though.

“What’s that contemptuous smile on your lips? And the far too stiff attitude? The position of your hands–––do you twirl your thumbs? Looks like you're giving handouts to a beggar out of the kindness of your heart, certainly not begging yourself.

By the way, while the topic’s still hot, have you ever seen a ragamuffin with no hint of sweat nor dirt, and donning styled hair to boot? I certainly have not.

Not to mention here in this darn forest among the bloodsoaked grounds.” The creature hissed asynchronously. “Male... no it.” He spat instinctively.

While lost in thought, the mimic pulled at his nose so much it closely resembled an elongated elephant’s trunk, weirding out Linlin for good measure. “What a wanton aspect to enunciate.” The boy replied by stressing out each word individually as hedid before.

“Persist caged to emptiness itself for thousands of years, ineffectively manoeuvring oneself out of condemnable confines. Does thou cognise how many numerical twines human muggers art obliged to overstretch for proper manifestation of emotions to audiences' palatable delight?

Expressions,” he spat venomously, “art muscle work at its finest. Too many strings to pull to emerge authentically!” Hearing such archaic language coming from a young boy seemingly no older than 9 was in itself pretty weird.

But weirder still was the matter constituting the creature's body and shape. “So, thou art the fabled Master.” The creature scanned Linlin from top to bottom, changing the topic far too abrupt for anyone to follow. “A kindred spirit, undeniably.”

Pansy’s questioning gaze was left as is. Instead, the creature’s hands intruded into his pants, where he continued pulling at a certain tubular piece. With the end finally in sight–––and the strenuous exercise over–––Azariah hissed like a madwoman out for fresh blood.

Pansy, too, lost his calm and the bellicistic personality took back command immediately, ready to go bonkers at any given time. At first, both had found it difficult to identify the tube, but by the time the head covered in unknown, transparent material was plain to see, thick killing intent spread from their bodies.

“Essentially the last impetus required.” The self-proclaimed mimic ignored everything as he ran his hand over said material, and the hood came off before its consistency disappeared in the centre of the creature’s outstretched, eye-covered palms.

Suddenly he grabbed the unconscious snake’s head, and before anybody could react further an energy flash went through the juvenile snake. Immediately after, Linlin was heard howling like a pack of wolves.

Plug-In Installed Successfully Data Received, Converted And Stored Energy Provided By Exterior Source Initialising Security Protocol #Three# In 3 2 1 Task Completed Security Package Violated! Repeat: Security Package Violated! Forceful Shut-Down In… 3 2 1

“An idol under which Lord Chartres gathers,” his contradictory facial expression aside, he looked quite pleased with himself. Watching on, as he saw Azariah frantically tending to the unconscious Linlin, he nodded in approval and continued doing his thing seemingly oblivious to his rapidly worsening situation.

“As sort of an armoursmith, I abhor fennel, nor art liver and other egregious buncombe on my preferred plate. Booze and steak, dear favourites of mine. Glad to be a denizen to ye shared abode.”

Having laced his unimportant narrative with barely enough irrelevant information conforming to his tastes, Lord Chartres shut his trap, ignorant of the crowd of doped worryguts awakening from their stupor and screeching for cold murder.

Before Linlin woke up, he’d be perfectly safe anyway. As for what came later… came later. Though... a certain very professional discussion with the queen he was about to suffer from would haunt him for ages to come.

Before that, however, he was put through the familial wringer that were the very energetic cuddles and embraces drowning him as more ants came trundling through the dimensional cracks Azariah opened with a vengeance.

As a whole chitinous ocean rolled over Chartres, the mimic liquified his mass out of fear and was stuck in that state for as long as the ant's frantic happiness lasted.

Entered into Forced Contract with Subject: Mimic Lord Effamy Lubellius Rowengarde Blightstar Chartres

End of Chapter 3