Chapter 3: Whispers of Aethelgard

Chapter 3: Whispers of Aethelgard

The moment the apartment door clicked shut behind the men from Khemia Global, the adrenaline that had sustained Anya vanished, leaving a hollow, aching void in its place. The bone-deep exhaustion from commanding the Plastiphage to hide crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her limbs felt weighted with lead, and the air in the room seemed to thicken, pressing in on her. She stumbled to her bed, her vision tunneling, the edges blurring into a fuzzy grey.

Her father’s angry muttering from the lab was a distant, meaningless sound, like a broadcast from another world. The only thing that felt real was the cold knot of fear in her stomach and the profound emptiness inside her, a feeling like a lamp that had been drained of its oil. She collapsed onto the mattress, her last conscious thought a desperate prayer that the camouflaged stain on her nightstand would remain just a stain.

Sleep did not come gently. It was a dark, swift current that dragged her under, pulling her away from the gritty reality of Neo-Veridia, away from the hum of air purifiers and the distant wail of sirens. The world of concrete and smog dissolved, and for the first time in her life, the constant, low-level ache in her chest, the phantom pain of a dying planet, finally ceased.

She was floating.

Not in water, but in a sea of gentle, ambient warmth. There was no up or down, only a sense of perfect, weightless belonging. She opened her eyes, not to the familiar gloom of her bedroom, but to a reality woven from pure light and sound.

This was Aethelgard. She didn't read the name or hear it spoken; she simply knew it, the way she knew her own.

It was a realm of impossible beauty, a symphony of living energy. Great, ethereal trees with bark of woven light pulsed with a soft, internal luminescence, their branches reaching up into a cosmos of swirling, benevolent nebulae. Rivers of pure, liquid Aether, the same vibrant green as the streaks in her hair, flowed through the air itself, weaving intricate patterns that hummed with a celestial harmony. The very ground beneath her, if it could be called ground, was a soft, moss-like substance that glowed with every intention, every thought.

And there were whispers. They were not words, but a constant, flowing exchange of feeling, knowledge, and existence. It was the collective consciousness of this place, the life song of a world where everything was interconnected. The trees whispered to the rivers, the light whispered to the glowing flora, and she, Anya, was a part of it all. The feeling of being an alien, an outcast, was gone. Here, she was not just accepted; she was a fundamental note in the universal chord.

She looked down at her hands and saw they were not made of flesh and bone, but were semi-translucent, threaded with the same luminous green energy as the rivers. This was her true form. The clumsy, fragile human body she inhabited was just a vessel, a temporary shell in a dissonant, broken world.

As she drifted through this perfect, flowing reality, she became aware of a concept taking form within the symphony. It wasn't a physical object, but a pure will, an intention given shape by the collective consciousness of Aethelgard. It was a desire to heal, to cleanse, to restore balance where there was decay. This will gathered the ambient energy, coalescing and compacting until it formed a single, brilliant point of light—a seed of pure potential.

She recognized it instantly. It was the spore from the lichen, the very heart of the Plastiphage.

In a flash of understanding that was as clear and absolute as breathing, she knew the truth. When she was sent from this place, torn from the whole, she had not gone empty-handed. In her terror and sorrow at being separated, she had instinctively clutched a piece of her home, a living idea, a seed of Aethelgard's restorative power. The Plastiphage wasn't some random mutation or a freak of nature. It was a memory. It was a promise. It was a fragment of her true home, brought into a world that had forgotten how to heal itself.

Anya awoke with a gasp, her body drenched in a cold sweat. The abrupt return to her physical form was a shock. The air in her room tasted stale and metallic. The distant city noises were a cacophony of screeching metal and despair. The ache in her chest was back, sharper than ever, but it was no longer a formless sorrow. Now, she understood its source. It was the homesickness of a soul yearning for the symphony, trapped in a world of noise.

She sat bolt upright, her exhaustion forgotten, replaced by a crystalline clarity. The fear of the men from Khemia was still present, a cold stone in her gut, but it was no longer paralyzing. It was a warning, not a sentence. Hiding was a temporary solution, an act of fear. But Aethelgard did not act out of fear. It acted with purpose. The Plastiphage was not just a secret to be hidden; it was a seed to be cultivated.

Her gaze fell upon the dull, camouflaged stain on her nightstand. She reached out, not with her hand, but with her will.

Wake up. It’s alright now.

The command was soft, reassuring. The draining sensation was still there, but it was weaker this time, more controlled. The ugly brown stain shimmered, and the vibrant, emerald light bloomed once more, filling the small room with its gentle, otherworldly glow. The Plastiphage pulsed, a steady, living rhythm, as if in greeting.

Anya felt a surge of fierce, protective love for it. "You're a long way from home, aren't you?" she whispered. "So am I."

Driven by her new purpose, she slid off the bed. Her father's lab was a treasure trove of the enemy's shed skin. She moved silently, gathering samples. First, a flimsy, crinkling wrapper from a nutrient paste packet—a simple polyethylene. Next, the brittle, shattered casing of a broken data-slate—a more complex ABS plastic. Finally, she found a short, dense offcut of PVC pipe, its surface hard and glossy.

She returned to her room and placed the three distinct types of plastic on the floor in front of the glowing fungus. She felt a flicker of apprehension, the scientist's daughter in her wondering what would happen. But the part of her that remembered the rivers of light knew this was the right thing to do.

She gently nudged the nutrient wrapper toward the Plastiphage. The fungus flowed over it without hesitation, its tendrils wrapping around the thin film. The plastic dissolved almost instantly, consumed with an eager hum. The Plastiphage's emerald light seemed to brighten, just a fraction, as if it had enjoyed a satisfying meal.

Next, she offered it the piece of the hard data-slate casing. The fungus touched it, and then paused. Its light pulsed, slower this time, thoughtful. Anya could feel it analyzing the new material, sensing its denser, more complex molecular structure. Then, the surface of the Plastiphage shifted. The glowing tendrils became finer, more rigid, secreting a substance that made the ABS plastic brittle. The hard casing cracked and crumbled, dissolving into nothingness.

A slow smile spread across Anya’s face. It wasn't just eating. It was adapting. It was learning.

With newfound confidence, she pushed the dense PVC pipe forward. This, she knew, was one of the most resilient and toxic plastics her father often railed against. The Plastiphage met the challenge. It pulsed with intense light, concentrating its energy. It wasn't just consuming anymore; it was problem-solving. It was evolving.

She was no longer just a frightened girl with a dangerous secret. She was a cultivator. A gardener of a lifeform that held the power to heal a world. And in the heart of a dying city, under the watchful eyes of a ruthless corporation, Anya Solara began to grow her arsenal.