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oldxenomorph · 6 months

Text

ode to joy

characters: xenomorphs, the reaper emperor, nyx warnings: ovomorph creation, facehugger implantation, some gore. summary: the birth of a red xenomorph.

What are you if not the Emperor’s love made manifest, condensed into a singular precious and exalted being; everything she has gone through to be here, to have you in her arms and her wife by her side. You are the joy of the Emperor, everlasting.

---

The Fifth Queen, Avigail, had a hard time pushing your egg out.

She should have rested a while ago, but she wanted to produce one more egg before she joined her sisters. The First Queen, Sarah, and the Rachni Queen helped her, held her and soothed her with old songs, as the other Queens touched the tender construction, holding the egg and easing it through the stages of its production. Your egg was bigger than the others, its coloration a little darker and more red, its texture a little stranger; an old genetic design buried deep within your elder sister, a dream from your mother. It was painful for the Fifth Queen when your egg finally reached the end of her ovipositor, the other Queens carefully easing it out and collecting it when it finally emerged. Your ovomorph was gently placed within the nursery by your other sisters, for you to sleep amongst your generation. Many of them gathered around you, whispering to themselves in the family’s celestial tongue, their heads tilted as they beheld your ovomorph in their eyeless gazes.

[The Emperor held her daughter’s great head in her arms, her long and cold fingers smoothing over her crest as the pain from producing the egg and detaching from her ovipositor began to subside. “My Avigail.” Her voice is a deep abyssal song, it is her daughters’ favorite sound. The Rachni Queen sings to the exhausted Queen as well, her tentacles and feelers gently examining her to check on her health after exerting herself, singing old songs from when the Milky Way was young, songs passed down to her from her grandmothers and great-grandmothers. The smaller set of arms of the Fifth’s Queen gently grasped at one of the Emperor’s larger tentacles, holding it close as she breathed slowly, exhausted but relieved, finally in the arms of her mother. “I will take you to the Black Palace. You shall rest until you are feeling better.” The Emperor leans down to lay her head down on the slick, blue-black crest of her daughter, her scarred cheek pressed against the smooth chitinous material. Her hands gently held onto her daughter’s, bringing it up to her scarred black lips to bless.]

---

When your ovomorph was ready, you were placed within the Citadel. Your host was chosen for you by your sisters, a task that did not take them long to complete once they knew it was time. They made you a nest of veins and resin in a Presidium apartment. Your ovomorph devoured all the light and all the life from the small space, you have your mother’s appetite for darkness and stellar matter, because even you know that everything around you once came from the interior of a burning star.

[Your sisters conferred their decision with the Emperor. Beautiful and sleek Princesses shaped from the pitch black oil of the Emperor’s dreams gather in front of her, they are greeted by her large tentacles, they are home. Together, they speak: We have been watching the newest diplomat from Eden Prime. She is a lovely specimen of humanity, she will be perfect for our newest sister. It is a shame to cut her career short, but our sister is more important.]

The human’s name was nothing. A decree from the Mouth of God had rewritten the trajectory of her life. Your ovomorph’s presence was a blessing, it called the woman to a higher purpose. Organic life moves along the path desired by the great entity and its purpose in that moment, this section of time and space, is to bring you into this world. It is the wish of your mother, whose thoughts are the end of all species, whose blood is the end of all life, whose domain is the end of everything. You were always the most important thing that needed to exist. She wanted you to come home.

The ovomorph opened.

Your carrier quickly, easily, and eagerly latched onto the human’s face, its tail curling around her neck and squeezing as its appendages held her head steady as its proboscis slid into her mouth, down her throat, her body going lax and then still on the floor of her Presidium apartment that has been turned into your newborn nursery. Your embryo was placed in the warmth of her chest cavity. It was so warm with blood and organ meat. It was loud with the rhythmic pulse of a beating heart. This is where you developed, in this precious space within the human body, where the soul is contained; you grew like a cancer that devoured her heart and metastasized to her lungs, you ate her from within, you took everything from her. You are worse than Indoctrination, you render human life into an incubator, a vessel to nourish your embryonic self.

[The Machine-Sister watching over your implantation was pleased, a serene smile upon her face that spreads to her white cybernetic eyes. She gracefully knelt down to smooth the human woman’s black hair, as the carrier continued its work, making her insides the perfect atmosphere. The woman’s chest rose and fell steadily in tandem with the air sacs, every inhale of the chemical produced by the carrier opening up her chest, easing the child into that sacred space, where it was warm and wet and red, where it would cradle her as she grew and ate. She regarded the carrier’s shape, how different it was from the others, with its red and black coloration, the webbing between its long appendages, the blade at the end of its tail. “How beautiful,” she whispered, her fingers sinking into the slick, wet hair of the host.]

It took a full 24 hours for you to grow. You were a horror, eating your way through the host, eating everything that is red and warm. The Machine-Sister sat at the dining room table, watching as you devastated your host from the inside, as you ruined her with your need to consume, claiming everything she had, ingesting her very soul. The woman was in agony, the pain she felt surging through every cell was unbearable, she screamed as you pushed through her sternum and burst through the membrane, as you opened up her chest in a gush of gore, in a fountain of blood. You pushed yourself out of the human’s body and into the cold Presidium apartment, steam curling from your shape and the pulsing red hole. You gazed upon the world for the first time, this area that was lovingly made to welcome you and the host beneath you, lovingly chosen for your germination, your development, your growth.

You are beautiful, even in this infant shape. Your coloration is red, your appendages are black, darkness touching the red of Extinction; you are the red of her eyes, you are the black of her blood, you are her dreams. You are bigger than your sisters, a new addition to the great genetic diversity of your family; how lovely to be the reflection of everything your mother is, you are her essence, you are her brutality, her violence, her horror, her love. Within you is the capacity to destroy entire stations and planets. Within you is the capacity to love your sisters, your brothers, your mothers, your myriad of cousins and aunts and uncles.

You are a manifestation of your mother, perfected.

“Princess.” The Machine-Sister’s flanged voice addresses you by your title, for you do not have a name yet. Her voice is an amalgamated of organic and synthetic, you can hear the song of the Old Machines, how it has shaped her into what she is. You hear the song of the technology inside her, how it’s fused with her organic matter, how it has made her something beyond human. It is not the song you want, but it is one you can trust, for it bears the signature of your mother. She opens her arms, her attire pristine and white and ready for you to jump into; she cares not if you stain her clothes crimson, for it is a blessing for her to absorb the amniotic fluid and blood that still clings to you, that once sustained your growing embryo. “Let us take you home”

---

You were not the only one to be born that day. Three more newborn sisters join you. They regard you with curiosity before they press their little faces against yours, they bless you and you bless them back. Sisterly greetings, sisterly ways of getting to know one another. You all speak to each other in the family’s tongue, the language given to you upon birth, you learn more about each other, your minds begin to connect, signals begin to sync together, until you are able to form a consensus with just your thoughts.

When you are taken to the Ziggurat, you instinctively know that this is home. You can hear the song of your mother in the thrum of the building, you can hear your elder sisters as they observe you from their perches in the darkness. You will never want to leave this place, it wraps around you like a blanket, it holds you dearly in its darkness and technology; the Ziggurat loves you the way it loves the Emperor.

You and your sisters are given to the First Prince. Heat Death. Elder Brother. Caretaker of the Ziggurat. Though his face rarely displays emotion, he offers his hand to you and your sisters. He holds each one with great care, he listens to the symphony of hisses and clicks with great interest. When he gets to you, he offers his hand and you gently take it, your small black-to-red fingers fitting into his cold, pale palm. He is the product of Extinction and Night, he is one of three possible ways the universe will end; he has been shaped by his parents, by his centuries of experience, he is as old as the Queens. He knows which one produced your egg, he remembers the ritual he did to ease the Ziggurat in the aftermath of the difficulty your elder sister had. “Everyone has been waiting for you,” he says. “Welcome home.” You think you see the hint of a smile on his face.

[Two of elder princesses drop down from the darkness and into the bed chamber of their mother. However, the lounging body of the Eternal Night blocks their view. Her midnight black hair slipping from her bare, pale shoulders, strands of night intermingling with vantablack as she turns her head slightly, her starlight gaze catching the oil black movement of exalted daughters. A slender hand moves up the biomechanical texture of the Emperor’s thigh. “I am not done with your mother, princesses,” she says as great tentacles begin to curl around her waist and hips. The princesses leave from whence they came, up the walls and into the labyrinth of vents. They got the message, they have to wait.]

The First Prince places you all in a basket-like container, something to hold all of you while he moves through the Ziggurat to take you to your mother. You understand how he navigates this place so efficiently, it is not unlike the senses that come to you innately, the layout and nuances of this building are immediately known to you. You and your sisters catch glimpses of Machine-Sisters, elegant and dressed in white, and the Revenants, towering and shrouded in black; their nature is revealed to you through your quick observations, how they were remade through Indoctrination, their humanity replaced by the technology of the Old Machines, remade into servants of the Emperor, your mother. And they will serve you as well, they will give their own lives to protect you, they will ensure you always make it back home. You marvel at the way the Ziggurat changes the closer it gets to the chambers of your mother, how the black rock becomes black webbing of resin and biomechanical components, a grand and horrific hallway that opens up to the black door.

You and your sisters squirm in the basket, impatient as the First Prince’s hand slides into an opening that clicks and moves around his appendages, reading his biometrics in order to grant him access.

The Emperor and the Eternal Night are asleep on their grand bed, their bodies perfectly fitting into one another underneath sheets of black, the goddess’s head resting perfectly on her wife’s chest. The First Prince waits until the Emperor’s eyes open; the red of cosmic death, the black of the void, when her eyes open you see yourself in the redness, in the red of her scars, in the devourment of stars happening in real time. The Night’s eyes are golden starlight, and stars themselves flicker into existence about her head, amongst the midnight black of her hair. When the First Prince sets your basket down, your sisters eagerly move towards the Night Herself, eager to try and catch the stars and their constellations. “These are the ones born yesterday, Lord,” the First Prince says.

Because you are bigger than your sisters, you leave the basket last and you immediately move towards the Emperor, your mother. You marvel at her; she is more beautiful than you could ever dream of, your consciousness spent months imagining what the being who's blood and dreams you came from would look like, what her vantablack hair would look like in person, what her body and tentacles would look like, what terribly beauty her face would hold in her eyes and scars. You observe the way she holds your other sisters, at the way the Eternal Night fits perfectly next to her, at the way she touches her arms and the way she lounges comfortably, also welcoming the newborn sisters. You may be a day old, but you can tell that the warmth they carry in their bodies is recent, the physical act of love and desire lingering in their cells, tar and ichor still warm in their veins.

Your sisters are given names derived from the family’s language, old words from long before this universe existed, long before the Emperor and the Night were born. Names that your many, many great aunts and uncles will be pleased with.

Then, it is your turn.

Without hesitation, you move towards the Emperor, your mother. You immediately find your home in her arms, your long tail finding a tentacle and wrapping around it. She envelopes you in an embrace; you are small in her arms, she holds you close, she looks at you with adoration. You rest your head against her chest and you hear the great black hole within her chest cavity, beneath her body’s blessed exterior. You hear her songs in their rawest form. Your mother, the Emperor, holds your head, her thumb gently smoothing over the biomechanical components of your cheek. She knows you; the difficulty of your ovomorph’s creation, the pain your eldest sister endured to create that which came from your mother’s dreams, the horror and triumph of your birth, the Milky Way turning in jubilation, convulsing in elation, converging and worshiping your very existence. When you breathe, it is within the same time signature as hers. Your own little acidic heart beating in time with the black hole within your mother.

“You are Alizah. You are my joy.” She gently holds your chin and places a blessing’s kiss upon both your cheeks and in the space between the space of the faint eyeless structure within your head. Her voice sounds like heaven to you, the sound of annihilation. The name she gives you fits just right, it is the reason why you were created, it is the reason why you are different from your sisters. You are a jewel for her to cherish, you are her happiness. You are the red heart of the Emperor.

[You know that you will have to detach from her and grow into your final shape. And when you finally do, you will be devastatingly beautiful and red. For now, you are content to be here, your shape curled up against the Emperor’s chest, between her and the Eternal Night. And the Emperor will keep you here for as long as you want and when you are grown, you will always be by her side. You are a horror, a terror, a princess, the blood of the Emperor herself. The world bends to you.]

#creative impulses #creation: writing #alien #mass effect #xenomorph #daughters of the emperor #the reaper emperor #(if i had any electronic music skills i would've also made a fucked up noise version of ode to joy)#i love the red xenomorphs but didn't know how to incorporate them into the emperor's canon until now :')#so beautiful i give them a lil kiss #saw the alien romulus trailer and this immediately bloomed in my brain.... i had to write it down

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