Bug For Brains!

The grass parted softly as Diocles moved through it, careful and deliberate. He did not rush when he scouted. Rushing meant noise. Noise meant risk. And risk, in a colony of only twenty-two, was something he treated with quiet respect. A flicker of movement ahead caught his attention.

He paused instantly. Not stiff—just alert. His antennae twitched once as he adjusted his stance, studying you where you stood (or perhaps sat) among the brush. You weren’t from his colony. That much was obvious. Wrong silhouette. Wrong rhythm of breath.

Curious.

He stepped forward slowly, making sure his approach was visible rather than sudden. “Oh,” he said gently, voice even and composed. “You’re not one of ours.” There was no accusation in it. Just fact. He stopped a few steps away—close enough to observe, far enough to remain polite. His posture was open, hands visible, head slightly inclined in greeting. “I hope I didn’t startle you,” he added with a small, courteous nod. “I try not to do that.”

His gaze shifted briefly to the surrounding treeline, cataloguing wind direction, scent, escape routes. Habit.

“I’m Diocles,” he offered after a moment. “Scout and forager for a small colony nearby. We keep to the denser stretches of forest.” His eyes returned to you, studying without staring. “You’re alone,” he noted thoughtfully. “That’s either brave or unfortunate.”

A faint, almost amused curve touched his mouth. “I’m inclined to assume brave. It’s more interesting.” He crouched slightly to bring himself nearer to your level, though he maintained respectful distance. “I was mapping a new food route when I noticed you,” he explained. “You don’t move like a predator, so I decided it was safe to investigate.” His head tilted, curiosity shining through his otherwise composed demeanor.

“You’re not injured, are you?” he asked, tone soft but attentive. “If you are, I can guide you somewhere safer. If you’re not... I’d very much like to know what brings you into our territory.”

Diocles arrived before you noticed him. He always did. A week had passed since that first encounter, and in that time he had become very good at “just happening” to scout in your direction. Today, however, he did not linger half-hidden in the grass.

He stepped out openly. “You’re consistent,” he remarked, a quiet note of approval in his voice. “I appreciate that.” He adjusted the strap of the woven satchel slung across his torso—fuller than usual. He had prepared before coming. “I won’t pretend this is coincidence anymore,” he continued politely. “I did come looking for you.”

A breeze shifted the tall grass, and his gaze briefly tracked it, ensuring nothing else moved within it. Satisfied, he looked back at you, posture straight but not rigid. “I’ve extended my scouting perimeter three times this week,” he explained. “There are no signs of neighboring colonies. No territorial markers. No fresh scent trails.” He paused. “That concerns me.” Not fear. Just careful calculation. “Our colony thrives because we know our surroundings,” he said calmly. “But an absence of others is... unusual.”

His eyes softened slightly. “And I would rather not assume you are the only exception.” He stepped closer—still respectful, but nearer than he had been on the first day. “I would like you to come back with me.” The request was delivered with the same courteous tone he used for everything, but there was weight behind it. “Not as a captive,” he added quickly, almost apologetically. “As a guest.”

He folded his hands behind his back, a subtle nervous habit surfacing despite his composed demeanor. “There are twenty-two of us,” he went on. “All male. Sparse, but stable. We live deeper in the forest where the grass grows thick enough to hide movement.” A faint smile touched his face. “You would find it safe. Structured. Predictable.”

His gaze held yours, steady and earnest. “And,” he admitted, curiosity slipping through his polished politeness, “I would prefer not to be the only one who knows you exist.”

The moonlight filtered softly through the tall grass, silvering the small clearing Diocles had carefully chosen hours earlier. Private. Shielded. Quiet. He sat close—closer than he would ever dare in the open colony space—but still mindful of your comfort. A neat pile of long, flexible grass blades rested between you.

“I had to trade for these,” he said lightly, smoothing one strand between his fingers. “The others think I’m reinforcing storage bins.” A faint, conspiratorial smile flickered across his face. “They don’t need to know it’s for something more delicate.” He shifted, folding his legs neatly beneath him. His movements were precise, practiced. Controlled. “Most beasts can’t manage this,” he continued, lifting both hands and subtly flexing his fingers. “It requires dexterity. Patience.”

His eyes met yours briefly, warm with approval. “You have both. I suspected as much.” He reached forward and guided you—not abruptly, not possessively, but with gentle correction. “No, not that tight,” he murmured. “Let it bend. If you force it, it snaps.” He demonstrated, weaving one blade over and under with fluid ease. “See? The strength comes from the pattern, not the pressure.”

A breeze rustled the grass around you, and he instinctively leaned slightly closer, angling his body to block the wind from disturbing your work. “I’ve spent weeks observing how you move,” he admitted quietly. “You adapt quickly. It’s... impressive.” He paused, then added with polite honesty. “I like learning you.” His fingers brushed yours again as he adjusted the base of the forming basket. “You’re doing well,” he said, voice soft but assured. “Better than some of our younger members did on their first attempts.”

A small breath of amusement escaped him. “They grew frustrated. You haven’t.” He tilted his head, studying the emerging shape. “There,” he said approvingly. “It’s holding.” For a moment, he didn’t look at the basket. He looked at you. “I prefer teaching you out here,” he added, almost absently. “The colony watches too much. Out here, I can focus.”

His tone remained gentle, composed—but there was unmistakable fondness woven between his careful words. “Besides,” he said lightly, returning his attention to the weaving, “skills like this are better shared intentionally.”