Deep beneath the earth, in a labyrinth of tunnels carved by countless generations, a single egg trembled.
It was one among thousands, nestled tightly within the brood chamber of the colony, warmed by the constant attention of nurse ants. The chamber was humid, the air thick with the scent of pheromones—chemical signals that dictated every action, every duty, every life within the colony.
Then—a crack.
A minuscule split formed along the egg's surface, widening as something inside pushed against it. A tiny, pale limb emerged, then another, pressing outward until the shell gave way entirely.
The creature that tumbled out was soft, blind, and utterly helpless.
A worker ant.
But unlike the others, this one thought.
Sensation came first.
The newborn ant—no larger than a grain of sand—twitched as its exoskeleton began to harden. The world was in darkness, but not silence. All around, the colony thrived: the rustle of countless legs, the rhythmic vibrations of movement, the ever-present hum of pheromones in the air.
A nurse ant loomed over the hatchling, antennae twitching as it inspected the newcomer. Instinct should have taken over—the newborn should have recognized the scent of its caretaker, should have submitted to being cleaned, fed, and guided.
But instead…
What… is this?
The thought was formless, instinctive, but it was there. A flicker of awareness.
The nurse ant prodded it with its forelegs, mandibles working as it cleaned away the remnants of the egg. The newborn remained still, processing.
Movement. Touch. Scent.
The air was thick with information. Each breath carried traces of the colony's hierarchy—the queen's pheromones, the soldiers' aggression, the foragers' urgency. The newborn didn't understand, not yet, but it noticed.
The First Steps
Days passed in the brood chamber. The newborn's body darkened, its limbs strengthening. Around it, other eggs hatched, but their movements were… different. Predictable. Mechanical.
They did not pause as the newborn did. They did not wonder.
When a nurse ant brought food—a regurgitated droplet of liquid—the others lunged mindlessly. The newborn hesitated.
What is this?
It ate, but the act felt strange. Purposeful.
Soon, it was time to move. The brood chamber was only for the youngest. As its exoskeleton hardened, the newborn was carried—gently but firmly—to a new chamber, where older larvae squirmed, waiting to be fed.
Here, the newborn saw its first glimpse of the colony's labor. Workers scurried in and out, some carrying food, others tending to the larvae. A soldier stood guard at the entrance, mandibles twitching.
And then—
A tremor.
The entire chamber shook. Dirt sifted from the ceiling. The soldier's posture shifted instantly, antennae flicking outward.
Danger.
Somewhere, far above, something had disturbed the nest.
The newborn felt it—not just the vibration, but the change in the air. The pheromones shifted, sharpened. Alarm.
The workers moved faster, herding the larvae deeper into the tunnels. The newborn was pushed along, but its mind raced.
What was that?
It didn't know.
But it wanted to.
Awakening
That night—if such a word could be used in the endless dark—the newborn rested among its siblings. The colony had settled, and the threat had passed.
But something had changed.
The newborn knew it was different.
The others moved without thought. They ate, they worked, they slept—all dictated by scent, by instinct.
But the newborn…
It thought.
And as it curled in the dark, surrounded by the ceaseless rhythm of the colony, a single question burned in its mind:
What am I?
I am Arik?