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The summoned religious one showed up to the room, fungal underskirts lightly releasing spores. Her chest, hidden beneath soft membranes, breathed heavily from the quick trip. Her milk-colored hands shot forward, hovering over his breast.

“My name is Darmon.” He said, intimidated by all the attention.

“We know. You’re a scientist, and you’ve studied fungus before,” Cebunk responded, writing a quick note on the back of his hand, using ink directly from the finger writing it, “we want to know how you can survive, and that information can save your flush.”

“My… what?” Darmon responded, eyes following the hypnotic movements of the religious woman’s hands. Gerna. How strange that he can concentrate and know her name so easily.

“Your people, the others. Humans, as you would put it. They are dying. Our Orren can keep spores out, just as he was able to direct spores into this room for our test. But your people have inhaled a lot on their trek here,” Cebunk’s eyes were serious, “Sorry about the risky test, by the way.”

“I never thought about that. I’ve never had too many problems with the air quality,” Darmon began to feel guilty that he didn’t consider how bad it would be for the others.

“No, it’s not your fault. We didn’t know how badly it could affect your people either.” Cebunk responded to his unstated guilt.

“He contains a beta spore,” Gerna announced suddenly. Orren’s walls burbled with intrigue before settling down quickly to hear what she says next, “but it has grown. They are one.”

Intrigue led to confusion. Spores kill surface dwellers. A spore had latched on. But it wasn’t long until they asked the spore why it’s with Darmon.

Darmon nearly felt compelled to speak. An intrusive thought sparked, then became his words, “I’m comfortable.”

Velvet’s jaw dropped, her hand rushing to her bark-like chest. It heaved a deep breath. The spore had an interesting choice of words. She felt a pull towards the spore, seeing its bright, yellow fluorescence blink happily. It’s surrounded by those who care about it.

The veil in front of Gerna’s face moved slightly away from it as she leaned over the patient to peer from underneath the veil at Darmon, or rather his chest.

“This is no longer a spore. This shall be known as a mote, and it is recognized as fungal life. The human-mote is a lichen. We have spoken.”

The clinic all responded, “we have spoken.”