The heart of the swarm.

  That is what most mortal men dare call me. I sat on my throne, inside, what less informed men would call a hive, if they even dare utter it. They have not seen its grandeur, not beheld its splendor, they have not seen, haven.

  It is a palace with marble floors gleam beneath columns and held up by buttresses, built with steel and adamantium, their surfaces gilded with gold. Statues and other works of art, shaped in multitudes of forms, adorn every hall, walls and ceilings, each crafted by masters.

  Carved with glyphs, runes and wardsigns, only the most determined of assaults could hope to break through our walls, provided they can even get this high up.

  My castle rests atop a spire that floats above the base earth. A bridge between the realm of mortals and the heavens themselves.

  A modest reflection compared to his, perhaps, but mine nonetheless. It was designed by him, and gifted without any hidden intent other than to make a daughter happy. I may not be human, but I am still treated like a daughter by him.

  Looking down at my kingdom, I could see what we had built, a land of plenty, where flowers bloomed bright like fires against the azure sky and fruit trees grew treasures more readily than weeds.

  My children tend this paradise, my legion of warriors guard it with unwavering devotion. And in this, I find a warmth that made me remember simpler days.

  The first time I had met him, I cannot remember. Memory of that time is hazy at best. However, the first words he said to me lingered still, etched upon the corridors of my mind and my very soul, as vivid as the day they were uttered.

  “Your name, shall be, Auribella.”

  -from the personal accounts of Auribella, Queen Monarch of The Golden Swarm, Member of the Dragon's Crown.

  ===================================================================================================

  Mom took a few minutes to go to the bathroom. When she finally returned, we asked what happened.

  “The toilets were hard to use,” she said, clearly embarrassed. “I had to call your father”.

  Despite mom being able to read Japanese quite well, the international SIM card we bought earlier proved its worth. Then again, the first thing it was used for was toilet emergency.

  What an era we live in.

  That—That was fine, I suppose. To be fair, she wasn’t alone.

  A few of the other delegates, I mean, fellow potential victims of international organ harvesting, had also made their own brave pilgrimage to the battlegrounds of the restroom. But that meant we were probably the last ones on the list who weren’t accounted for.

  “Shall we go then?” she asked, while taking back her luggage from my brother.

  “Sure,” my brother replied before turning to me. “Not unless Nii-san needs to go as well?”

  “I’m fine,” I sighed out, as I felt the weight of absurdity settle back onto my shoulders. “I don’t think a piss here could save me from what’s coming.”

  He shrugged and without another word we made our way to our guide.

  As we drew closer, we finally managed to get a proper look at him. He was wearing a black tuxedo that much we could see from afar. Now we could see it was a single-breasted shawl lapel tuxedo and matching tapered pants. The tie he was wearing was a proper Windsor knot.

  He has a handsome face, not the movie-star kind, something like a chef, no, more like a line cook from a reality show. Blonde hair, tall and somewhat lean, standing at 186 cm.

  From what we could hear as he was talking with one of the moms who was clearly trying to flirt her way into a lifetime supply of scones, he sounded British.

  When we were near enough to have a conversation with him, despite being nearly surrounded on one side by people, I couldn’t help but sigh out loud. And for a moment, I lost myself.

  CRACK!

  My right hand connected with my face with enough force to shatter continents had I chosen to aim it anywhere else.

  The sound echoed far too loud for comfort, loud enough to be heard by nearly everyone in the area. Which naturally, drew his attention instantly and everyone else near the vicinity.

  I slowly dragged my hand down my face. I think I let out a bit of my intent there because one second, he was smiling, the next, he looked quite constipated.

  Like a man who just felt a disturbance in the force. Though he still kept the smile. I suppose I should praise him for his composure. My mom and brother though, were just as startled as everyone else.

  “What was that?” My brother asked, as he looked at me confused like I’d just thrown a shoe at someone.

  “What did you do that for?” My mom added, though she looked troubled and her voice edged with concern.

  “Nothing, my face slipped,” I said nonchalantly.

  Smooth.

  “Really?” Mom said, sounding, surprisingly, incredibly, unconvinced.

  “Yep. I’m actually wearing a mask right now,” I continued, doubling down on my politician-level confidence. “I just acted so that the mask doesn’t fall off my face. Can’t let the illusion break after all.”

  Very smooth, might as well have been covered in butter.

  In that split moment, sensing her next question revving, I sent out a silent mental prod, a psychic nudge towards our “guide.”

  Say something. Make this weirdness your problem.

  And, answering a celestial call that carried the vague tone of the threat of annihilation, the guide cleared his throat.

  “Ahem,” he declared, as if auditioning for an opera. He glanced at the clipboard he was holding.

  Or tried to.

  Somehow, he managed to fumble it like it was wet soap, and tried to catch it with his other hand, maybe on reflex. Instead, he managed to drop both the clipboard, and the duct-taped cardboard sign he was holding, in one glorious, chaotic motion.

  I retract my former statement earlier. Now that, was smooth.

  That was probably not what he intended to do, but hey, it got everyone’s attention.

  Some of the helpful souls closest to him bent down and picked up the sign while he managed to snatch up the clipboard. Thanking them profusely, he continued like nothing happened.

  “Ahem,” he said starting over. Or continuing. Whichever way you want to look at it. This whole situation is weird like that. “Yes, you must be the family of Sir Reyvidaneo?” His voice sounded like a young adult. His smile was very confident, like that earlier fumble didn’t happen.

  Is this how legends die? In paper cuts and poor aesthetic choices?

  ========================================================================

  Because of our mental link, the bond of our minds I forged earlier, the one I had woven in silence and intent, we were able to communicate with our thoughts alone. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, I willed our thoughts to go faster and faster, faster still until even time itself faltered.

  Darkness enveloped our mortal senses, not because of the absence of light, but due to our minds racing faster than they can process photons, the swiftness of our thoughts, outpacing even the physical world. However, our astral bodies, faintly glowing with the shimmer of our own auras of our souls, composed our outlines in quiet luminance well enough that we had something to focus on instead of total darkness.

  Dammit Remy! We never even introduced ourselves, how could you possibly know it was us!? And most importantly, what the hell is with that cardboard!? Really!? Cardboard and duct tape!?

  +I’m getting to that! And you’re criticizing me, on that!? Now!? Of all time!?

  Yes! You deserve my eternal judgment and disdain! Every ticking moment of my scorn, every waking second of it because of this shit you pulled on me and my family!

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  +Mother—!

  But mostly the cardboard! It offends me on a physical, spiritual, molecular, and all of the other levels there is!

  +Just—!

  Besides, this whole setup probably didn’t even cost you one Yukichi-san, did it? How dare you underestimate Yukichi-san!

  +Wait a bit, dammit!

  ========================================================================

  After that delightful little exchange, which possibly contained enough nonsensical words to fertilize an entire field of skeptical vegetables, I let go of the control I had on our minds. Our thoughts, racing through eternity, adjusted once more to mortal speeds. Proper light filled our visions as the world shifted into seconds once again.

  “My name is Remington Percival Clifford De Lacy,” he announced with flair while giving a small bow.

  He tucked the clipboard under his left armpit and extended his right hand toward my mother. “You can call me Remy if you wish.”

  My mother—remarkably unbothered by the sudden ‘quote-unquote’ diplomat, who, for his part, was probably as sharp as a knob of butter—shook his hand with grace.

  “Yes, we are. You know my husband?” Mother asked Remy after that brief handshake.

  “Yes ma’am!” said Remy, cheer radiating from every syllable. “Your husband has already been enjoying his stay at the hotel for 3 nights already, though we only got acquainted two days ago. When I informed him that I would be retrieving the delegation from the airport, he graciously asked me to ‘look out for his family,” Remy explained, his happy demeanor ever present.

  “Oh! Thank you!” Mother said, surprised and thankful.

  I suppose realization hadn’t dawned on her that we are possibly in the care of a man held together by caffeine, bullshit, and duct tape. I suppose some charm is also there. Somewhere.

  “No problem at all ma’am. Your husband has been a good acquaintance thus far and is also one of our guests, so it is the least I can do,” Remy added, before checking his wrist.

  His watch, fully hidden in the sleeves of his coat gleamed with blackened metal and gold trim. The face of the clock was decorated by concentric, rotated triangles making up a twelve-pointed star. And in the center of the star was a shield, crowned in golden laurels.

  “With you three here that rounds up the total delegates to twenty-eight,” he announced with satisfaction, not bothering to check his clipboard.

  “Sorry for being late,” Mother sheepishly replied. “The bathrooms were a bit—complicated”.

  “No, no, not at all. You are hardly alone in that regard.” Remy replied with a soft chuckle and a wave of his hand easily refuting mother’s apology. “Most people have trouble when encountering for the first time the kind of toilets this country uses.”

  Well, he wasn’t wrong.

  The people who went to the toilets earlier still haven’t returned.

  At this point I have no choice but to assume they have been swallowed up by the great white round one or enrolled in flight school.

  Remy looked at his watch again possibly to check the time or he was trying to commune with whatever spirit resided in that timepiece before he gave a decisive nod.

  “Well then friends,” he called with a slightly louder voice. “I am glad that all of you had arrived safely. I am sure that everyone is excited so let me be the first to welcome you to Japan,” he said before bowing at an angle at everyone before going back up with a smile.

  “Now, our travel to the hotel should take around 2 hours depending on the traffic. But we are quite lucky because it is nighttime,” he continued. “The roads should be clear of many cars and would be mostly haunted by drunk people and wild vending machines.”

  His last sentence got a chuckle from everyone. Well, almost everyone. Then he turned to face the crowd more fully, the tone of his words suddenly became sharp and deliberate.

  “Now, Japan is one hour ahead of the Philippines and the time is now close to 10:30 in the evening, so we would be arriving at the hotel around, past midnight,” he explained. “However, I would assume that all of you are quite tired from your trip, so worry not, noble delegates, soft pillows, hot showers, and a good night’s rest await you at the hotel,” he said before storing the clipboard inside his coat.

  Amenities aside, there are also the toilet-integrated automatic bidets they would learn to either love or fear.

  Few households in the Philippines use bidets much less the automatic kind. We’re more of a soap, dipper and bucket type of country when it comes to washing our asses.

  I could imagine the surprise people would get when a jet of water from down below unexpectedly blasting them in their holes. Now that is funny.

  But before my brain could wander too far into the horrors of high-tech plumbing, my attention was yanked back to the man in the tuxedo.

  “But first, a bit of information. Your Japanese counterparts have already arrived and are fully rested, however, the same cannot be said for all of you new arrivals. Therefore, tomorrow is a free day so do not worry. We do not want our participants to be tired for the event now do we? You are all free to roam but please, dear guests, and I cannot stress this enough, please remain within the hotel grounds. This is also for your safety.”

  He was still holding that damned sign. Throw it away already.

  “Next, Japan is a very clean country so observe where you throw your trash and garbage. If there are no trash cans available, please keep them on your person until you find a place to safely dispose of them. In short, no littering. Drinking is heavily restricted, so if you are planning to drink, please present ID first. The drinking age here is twenty. And absolutely no smoking or worse, fighting.”

  “Anyone caught breaking these rules is subject to immediate termination.” He finished with a smile, a rather threatening smile, but also with the eager enthusiasm of someone who may have written that rule himself and hoped someone would try and test it, just to see what would happen, or quite possibly for the fun of it.

  I can’t help it. I raised up one hand as innocently as possible.

  “Yes?” Remy said, gesturing toward me with the kind of polite caution someone would use to approach a person who was holding a stick of dynamite.

  His expression hadn’t changed, still the charming diplomat but I could sense it, his soul trembled in trepidation, his internal self, bracing for impact as all other people turned to look at me.

  “What does termination mean?” I asked ever so politely.

  I had to take it slow.

  Gotta ease him into things, you know. Keep it soft. No sudden moves.

  Maybe disarm him a bit with my manners.

  He blinked once. You could practically see the mental caution tape going up.

  “Uhm, well,” he began, selecting each word carefully. “You would be removed from participating in the event.”

  Alright, simple enough to understand.

  “Then,” He continued, trying to recall from memory. “We will charge you for any damages you might have caused. And charge you for the expenses you have incurred, even the airfare.”

  Still within the realm of reason.

  “Then we send you straight back home. At your own expense of course,” he finished explaining, though a bit slowly. Not because I wouldn’t understand but because he was trying to predict where my line of questioning was about to go.

  For my part, I nodded, two fingers supporting my chin like a sage who just gleaned wisdom from something mundane.

  “So, what would happen if, let’s say, I punch you in the face right now? Would that count? Can I go home then?”