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While the transit rolls along and the Woodsie busy themselves following Bulwarks command to buff up the, uh, bulwarks, and hardened the metallic carriages by attempting to plate some wood on them, Samantha and Chimera scuttle down a side passage. One of hundreds. And again and again and again.
But eventually, down one, they find a prize - of a sort - an abandoned carriage, left here to wind and tunnelweather, doors broken down and the air thick with the heady scent of life. Buzzing from within, insects in various sizes flittering about, a long-faded sign on the entrance declaring this to be MNTC, whatever that sigil might mean.
Fox and friends haven't had much luck signal-jumping through the old network down here. It's not great for signals. This carriage - much like the one that the Woodsies are converting to a mobile jungle-fortress - would maybe have electronics on board, terminals, data, logs, diary entries, dead men with communication devices, something, that could help map the tunnels ahead.
But crouching near the doorway and glancing inside, Chimera can hear it - the soft pitter-patter and sluck-cluck-glork sound of things moving, adjusting. The buzzing of harsh wings. The clouds - nay - swarms - of fist-sized insects don't seem too inviting. This is their territory. And Samantha has enough predatory instinct to know that if they risk and invasion and don't do it with care, the creatures that have converted this wagon to a spawning ground are apt to respond with malice and aggression. No one likes an uninvinted visitor in tunnels like this.
--
The Woodsie Conclave are going well, some of the Wooden Ones re-integrating into the larger throng and supervised to do work, plating, benting, making, whispering plants to grow faster and vines to thread through openings, reinforcing the carraige structure. Some of them are sullen, angry, fleeting things, wondering if a long sprint down dark tunnels might serve them better.
There is a principle philosophical debate behin their ire:
The invitation to get infected by another voice whispering in the pulse of adrenaline and hormone-song has not precisely swayed them. The Bulb too sang that it was benign and a grand overlord. The Bulb's people too, once their minds were pushed to zealotry, sang songs of praise.
The wide-eye fanatic with the wooden sword does not entirely inspire confidence that any shred of independence or initiative would be left to the Woodsie Ones if they accept such a bargain, and they lived through the long hundred-hours of the Wooden One Terrors precisely because they didn't want to join the feverish masses. If the journey to the distant Light is not one made of ones own will, then what is it? A hollow thing. A path in darkness.
--
Fox growls in frustration and snaps a victory cheer and high fives Gallium but regrets it as she gets shocked and the flower in her hair wriggles and undulates and despite all that, she ends up having to admit defeat.
Signal here is SHIT.
