The Unmaker

One night, after her father retires early for the night, little Dahlia spots her mother lounging on the roof of their house. Curious, she climbs up and sees a mountain of books surrounding her mother—most of them written by her father, and she knew her mother wasn’t very good at reading.

Her mother notices her and waves her over, and little Dahlia plops down in her mother’s lap.

“... No playing with friends today?” Eria asks, stroking and trying to straighten her hair, and little Dahlia shakes her head vehemently in response.

“What are you reading, mama?”

Eria harrumphs softly, placing her bandaged hands on her hips. “All of papa’s books on insects, of course! Even I can sit and read properly when it comes to something that’s on everyone’s mind!”

“I can read, too!”

“Can you, now?” Eria teases, flicking little Dahlia’s nose. “I hear that’s all you’ve been in Bug-hunting school recently. Instructor Biem told me. That’s no good at all, you know? You have to play with your friends once in a while–”

“What’s your favourite insect, mama?”

Little Dahlia is unfazed by her comment. Eria blinks, wondering if her daughter’s going to grow up a recluse, and briefly her expression turns into one of disappointment—above all else, she couldn’t possibly let little Dahlia grow up alone.

But then she remembered she had Sanyon, and the orphanage children he’d been donating half his salary to, and realised: if anyone was going to go within little Dahlia’s lifetime, it was going to be her.

Each day she spent with her daughter might very well be her last.

“... What’s your favourite insect, Dahlia?” she counters, letting go of her encyclopaedia. Little Dahlia immediately looks so proud of herself, smugness hiding underneath a look of feigned ignorance.

“I like silkmoths the best!” little Dahlia says, prompting a tilt of her head from Eria. “The bug trader in the Bazaar told me about it today! He says it’s a moth with wings that don’t work, but that’s because all the blood that normally goes to its wings goes to its legs instead! It can bleed at will and turn its blood into silk, and then it can use its silk to do all sorts of things! The silk is supposed to be stronger than spider silk as well!”

Eria smiled nervously. It seems the bug trader just told little Dahlia something completely outrageous—there were no such insects as ‘silkmoths’, after all—but she plays along and nods, looking almost surprised to play the convinced part.

“Well, do you wanna guess what my favourite insect is?” she asks, on her lips her usual smile, but the glint in her eyes is mischievous… she hoped. “How about this: I’ll give you hints, and if you guess it correctly before I tell you all of them, I’ll lend you some money to buy bloodberry candies.”

Little Dahlia’s face lit up. “Okay! I’ll guess it for sure!”

Eria chuckles; little Dahlia didn’t know what was in store for her.

“... I am teardrop-shaped, usually black, brown, red, or orange,” she began, and little Dahlia’s face starts puffing up like a mushroom. “I am always warm, never cold. No blues, no pinks, no purples. I hate the cold and thrive in humidity. Like most other insects, I make sound by rubbing its proboscis—stridulation is the official term—but unlike most other insects, I don't rely on this to discourage my enemies. What am I?”

“You’re a… uhh… you’re a–”

“When I kill, I am proud,” she continues, unfurling her bandaged hands and tightening her fingers into claws, growling at little Dahlia teasingly. Little Dahlia giggles, shuffling around in her lap. “I like to cleave. I like to dismantle. When I kill, I wear the parts of my enemies and strut around with their wings. Pity a moth that can’t fly? I’ll pick apart a butterfly and take its wings. Pity a beetle that can’t turn itself over? I’ll pick a cricket apart and put its legs on my back. Pity a spider that’s lost its arms? I’ll pick a thousand spiders apart and have as many arms as I want. What am I?”

“Something that can fly… something that can turn itself over… something with a thousand arms–”

“I… don’t exist anymore, I don’t think,” Eria says, smiling softly, wistfully. Her mind doesn’t know if what she’s saying is true; her heart knows it is. “I am hated. I am despised. I carry the carcasses of a thousand enemies, and I never let go of them. I am the butcher and the grave. I cannot let the dead rest in peace, I construct imaginations, hallucinations, and I pretend they live to free me from the guilt of slaughter. I bring down worms and monsters, I bring an empire to its heels, I fight on par with a Great Mutant, and I…. I am…

“...

“... I am of the Hemiptera order, and my name comes from ‘remnant’ for all the bugs that remain on me,” she finishes, placing a hand on frightened little Dahlia’s head as she did. “I am known by many names, but all mean the same thing. I ambush. I assassinate. Sometimes, I do it in broad daylight, and nobody can stop me. I am terror incarnate, and the world that stands before me is made for me to unmake. What am I?”

“...”

Little Dahlia looks directly up to stare at her, eyes faint, bleary, and weary.

Eria caresses her daughter’s head softly, a wide, triumphant grin pulling onto her face.

“Can’t figure it out, hm?”

“N-No!” little Dahlia says, turning around and pounding her thighs with teensy, tiny fists. “Just… give me a few seconds! I’ll figure it out! Teardrop-shaped, black, wears insect carcasses on its back, and is super scary to look at… why do I feel like I’ve heard… or seen it… before…”

But little Dahlia doesn’t finish her sentence. It’s quite late, after all, and she has had a long day training in school—heaving, Eria stands and picks her up, carrying her back down to the living room.

She is about to lay little Dahlia down on the sofa when she spots Sanyon sitting by the dining table, tinkering with a pocket watch.

“... I thought you were sleeping?” she asks, pulling a blanket over little Dahlia. Sanyon grunts back, leaning back in his chair as he drops his chisel and hammer.

“It's her birthday coming up again,” he says, sighing as he gestures vaguely at the watch in front of him, rubbing his eyes. “I've hit the limit of my capabilities. I can't dismantle this and start over without destroying the internal array. Damnit, I thought I could make a watch that also functions as a hand warmer when she’s really cold, but if it’s proving to be so troublesome, maybe I have to settle for something less–”

Eria takes one look at the watch, and her vertical irises narrow. Her bandages tear as she flicks only her left hand out, each of her claws moving with a mind of their own—by the time Sanyon finishes rubbing his eyes, the pocket watch is already dismantled, and its components laid out neatly across the table.

“... Is it your eyes, or is it your hands?” he asks, craning his head back to look at her. “If I guess correctly, can you buy me bloodberry candies, too?”

She raises a brow. “What do you think?”

It’s… your hands. Your assassin bug claws move on their own.” He muses for a moment, holding his chin. “You know, if you had four hands, wouldn’t you be able to dismantle this house in an entire second? Why don’t we pick apart this house and move next to the garden so we can fish tomorrow?”

“...”

Then she whacks him on the head, smiling slyly.

“... Go to sleep already.”

- Scene from Sina Household past