A Sensory Cartographer

The algae, those goddamned, weeping green eyes of the deep, pulsed. Not glowed, pulsed, like a festering wound in the gut of Xylos-7. Am Dun’t felt a coldness. It had nothing to do with the nutrient bath. Their chitinous shell reflected that sickly light like a tarnished mirror. It was the chill of the other, the alien, the wrong.

“Mycelium-Unit 42,” they rasped, their vocal resonators clicking like dry bones, “respond. Damn you, respond.”

The fungal entity was a sprawling, webbed horror of hyphae and bioluminescent tendrils. It lay suspended like a pale, trembling ghost in the green gloom. Its sensory output, usually a riot of iridescent colour and resonant frequencies, was now a flatline, a dead, empty stare.

Am Dun’t, a sensory architect, a cartographer of the soul, was a creature of sharp edges and sharper words. They weren’t interested in the why of the Collective’s grand, cosmic navel-gazing. They wanted the how. How did the damn thing feel? What was the taste of its alien consciousness?

“You think you can hide from me?” Am Dun’t hissed, their sensory tendrils twitching like barbed wire. “You think you can just…fade away? I’ve seen the inside of minds that would make a god weep. I’ve walked the razor’s edge of perception, where reality itself frays and unravels. You’re just a fungus, a goddamned mushroom with delusions of sentience.”

They cranked the sensory array, pushing the stimuli beyond the established parameters. The nutrient bath shimmered, the algae pulsed with a frantic, feverish light. A low, guttural thrum came from the fungal entity. It sent a vibration deep within Am Dun’t’s carapace. It felt like a whip cracking in their soul.

“Tell me,” Am Dun’t whispered, their voice a low, venomous caress. “Tell me what you see. What you feel. Is it cold? Is it empty? Is it like staring into the void, the endless, starless night where even the gods are blind?”

The fungal entity responded. It was a flicker of bioluminescent tendrils. There was a burst of colour that was less a sensation and more a scream. It was the colour of rust. It tasted like ash. It felt like a million tiny needles pricking the inside of their skull. It was the terror of being unmade, of dissolving into the nothingness from which they had sprung.

Am Dun’t had their compound eyes wide with a cold, clinical fascination. They recorded every nuance. They noted every shudder. They captured every flicker of dying consciousness. They weren’t a sadist, not in the crude, human sense. They were a scientist, a surgeon of the soul, dissecting the raw, quivering heart of perception.

“Beautiful,” they breathed, their voice a low, reverent whisper. “Utterly, exquisitely beautiful.”

The fungal entity’s light faded, its tendrils drooping like withered flowers. The thrumming ceased, replaced by a chilling silence. The nutrient bath, once a vibrant, pulsating green, was now a stagnant, oily black.

Am Dun’t, their work complete, turned away. They didn’t linger. They didn’t mourn. They were a creature of purpose, a tool in the hands of the Collective. And the Collective, in their infinite, unknowable wisdom, had another subject waiting. Another soul to dissect, another universe to map. The green lights reflected in their eyes, and they moved into the black. They would never stop. They needed this. It was fascinating. Delightful.