CREATURE
It never knows, really, how to define itself. Its bearer was the same as Creature (and its sire, a dark god – but that is irrelevant, for their paths have never crossed), but the ones whom it grew up with were not, they were shaped as the thing before it is.
When asked what are you? - and it has been asked this, before – it only gives its name. Perhaps the name was a kindness, or a mockery – it doesn’t know the difference. Not really.
It listens to her laugh, a clear and pleasant noise. It is tempted to mimic this, too, but it knows already it cannot. It has a sense of humor, certainly, but Creature’s laugh is a different, trilling thing, and it knows from experience that the noise is not always recognized as mirthful. So few of them can distinguish the language its distorted mouth knows easily, so instead it labors and it learns and maybe, someday, it can become.
It does not try to repeat her name, but nods, to show understanding. Its head tilts to watch her further, still caught by the colors, the shimmer, the memory of changing that she carries so easily. She asks more questions and this one it knows.
“No,” it says – another easy word, short, breathed out, then, “real.”
It moves closer, and, daring, it reaches to touch her, to brush its warped maw to her. To show her, best it knows how, that it is real.
“Real,” it repeats, withdrawing, satisfied with the answer.
and what rough beast, its hour come ‘round at last
slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
