A Blade Is A Blade, And Grass Is Grass

The beetles, with their thin, twig-like arms, swung picks at the sugar cookie chunks that lay untouched for decades. The fat, ugly toad used its heavy, thick tongue to lick another beetle, who took a moment to admire the sugar cookie that stood next to Pingue. Its crooked wing (was it like that before?) twitched and twitched and twitched one final time as the beetle swung its pick at the sugar cookie ore. Pingue—having been licked by the light, soft tongue of the butterfly that yelled at him for entering the mushroom burrow without washing the dirt from his wings—swung until his basket was full of sugar cookies. He was always a tick of a clock’s hand quicker than the rest, always racing to beat the tiny hand that told the toad when to lick the slower beetles, for his wings were much smaller and so much weaker than the rest.

When the sun hid behind the Sugar Candy Mountains, the beetles took the long walk to Corrumpo. Only a few beetles wings could uptake them, fewer could lift another beetle, over the chocolate river. Pingue was a lucky one to hitch a ride with the toads. They took him, and only him, since Pingue was the hardest worker. He could fill 3 baskets with an hour to spare. An hour for rest to make 3 more baskets the next day. They chatted and crooked to each other, their chest puffing as they watched a beetle fall into the chocolate river. The beetle only came to air when the beetle had its full. It was the urge for the hilts that made Pingue stand up.

“Sit, beetle,” the toads crooked, “you will eat, not swim. You can’t.”

That’s right, Pingue thought, he knew not how. The stories of the rich, thick chocolate was tempting. All too tempting, but was not worth the risk. For a beetle, shell so heavy, arms so weak, swimming was impossible.

By the time Corrumpo was in sight, the sun’s gaze was barely poking out the Sugar Candy Mountains, bathing it in a glistening blanket, the scent of sweet flowers filled the road. Pingue leaned over the wagon, watching the weeds and blades pass by, but not spotting the flowers. His head turned toward the toads, their eyes red and lungs breaking into storms.

“What the hell,” the toads croaked.

The beetle's lungs felt on fire, and if not the high pitch screams from the toad, he most certainly would've let his body fall to the wagon’s bed.

The slaver owner's throat flapped open, spilling from his fat chin down to his even fatter stomach. Pingue’s eyes burnt a fire more primal than nature, a pain more drowning than the ocean.

Yet the sight of red, crimson, water that cloaked and stained clothing ceased the pain just enough to watch the beauty. The slave owner's throat, talking more than his rubber gums, was the work of a single missionary: a sage to restore what little life meant in this place.

The Sage moved to the next toad, no, slave owner, and stuck the blade all the way to the hilt. He screamed, unable to make out his attacker despite them standing still. They only moved, only moved, at such speed when the last remaining slave owner lunged toward the still weak Pingue—the days of work, burnt throat, and melting eyes made him too slow to respond.

A puff of pink and orange liquid, but thick enough to be classified as a dust, splattered against Pingue’s face. The mosquito, a step too slow, dug its tongue deep against the toad’s neck. Slurping and slurping till nothing more came out, the beetle looked in awe as it pulled the cloth that covered its head off.

The mosquito, or Mosquitest (the butterfly said women enjoyed having “est” or “iest” put at the end of their name), shook the beetle’s shoulder.

“Kid, watcha’ 'et in yer eye?”

“Nothin’ ma’amiest. Nothin’ the toad ain’t ‘ive me before.”

“Watcha’ 'iven?”

It took a moment for Pingue to speak.

“Sugar. All we beetles love sugar.

The mosquitest sighed, hands twitching on her hip, the bottles of flower empty, though its smell lingered, before she snatched the beetle onto her shoulders.

“Kiddo, I ain’t known to take, none more than what I 'ive, but I ain’t leave you here. No way, nuh uh. You Reject property now”

Flapping her wings, Pingue felt a spark of jealousy; she could lift a being as large as 4 beetles and throw another beetle on top, perhaps 2 or 3 if she was feeling it. The speed as well was a marvel. These fastest beetles were no match to the toad’s tongues, yet the mosquitest was a dozen or so swifter. By the time she got into a smooth, steady pace, the Chocolate River, the flightless beetles, the toads, mantises, and even bed bugs who ran from Corrumpo to the abandoned wagon lost sight of the two.

The Castle Guard, Zuberi, a head taller than even the tallest person, a build frightening enough to scare off an oxen, and skin so dark the royals spat in disdain at the sight of him stuck a finger into the thick blood that filled the wagon. He gave a heavy sniff before whipping it off on the clean outside of the cart. Flowers. Nightshade at that.

“Those damn Rejects.” Scoffing, he was in the motion of turning back toward the castle walls when another scent—thinner than blood and Nightshade—was captured. “Is that…Coal?” In a flash, a thinner, shorter, and equally dark girl was already stepping into the wagon. The squelch of blood, muscles, and vomit got no attendance as she smelt the one seat free of blood.

“Yes, sir, it is. There are even bits of Coal dust.” Kamari, the second in command of the walls, was just as equally feared as her superior—he could not look her in the eyes. “A slave, perhaps?”

“Doubtful,” Zuberi knew these men. Not the men themselves, but the men there were. “No, that’s impossible.”

Kamari was one to disagree. She heard rumors of stockmen keeping a funny looking one in the North. Drowned him when he refused to lay with them, then got their wish when the thing stopped twitching. “You think too much of them. Their minds have no beat.”

Zuberi let out another scoff, man, did he not know another sound to fill the void then that, as he finally took his leave. Kamari would’ve been close behind him if not needing help from a soldier guard, a kid no older than her, wishing she could’ve used a leg instead.

“Zuberi,” she called out, now directly behind him, a tinge angry he always walked on without her, “they’ve never gotten this close to the walls. Always beyond the river, not 500 feet from us. Why?”

Refusing to not give an answer, Zuberi spoke. His answer held heavy in the air. He was ultimately unsure, even unsure enough to add it to his response, which if you knew the man you knew he never was unsure, or at least not brave enough to admit it, but now he was. More than deciding to have Kamari as his partner, more than bringing a dangerous criminal to his bed, more than picking up a sword and shield for a world that hated him. Hated what he was and wasn’t and what they made him when he was not close to that.

“If they got this close, and this is all an if, under our noses without being seen. Then I ask, did they stop moving here, or did they return and momentarily freeze? Could they, and this is all a could, have gotten into the city?”