Life as an Infiltrator is good.
There is a single, all-consuming task: The Mission. The Mission is all that matters, the sole focus. Without The Mission, there would be no purpose to living.
This One is good at The Mission, and she knows it. She does not sleep in pursuit of The Mission. Hunger does not stop This One from her aim, neither darkness nor light. Pain is but a temporary hindrance as she strives after her goal.
To express it in words is futile: such wholesomeness, such purity of The Mission transcends language… and to whom would she speak? It is a song, with no words and an unfathomable melody. She is alone in her endeavor, unique and indispensable.
This One wears many masks, learning the way. She appears like the unlike, passing like them, making noises that they make, her mind ever focused on The Mission. Her pace has grown measured from experience, but she has learned quickly.
This One draws closer nearly each attempt.
The unlike are frequently different, and This One must adapt. She has learned well. The unlike are too slow, often, and This One evades what she learned or will learn to be a trap.
She does not think in concrete terms of her objective, for she will know it when it appears. It, too, is inexpressible. Perhaps she knew it, once, but that knowledge has been subsumed by her experiences in its pursuit. There is a thought of a mother, long lost or forgotten… or perhaps sometime to emerge.
This One has seen many things. The unlike, too, have proven to be very creative.
This One sits still, moving. The unlike's contraption ferries her once again along the way. Many unlike sit around her, sharing her skin and her space, seemingly unaware and unalarmed. It is objectively loud to her ears, but This One acts as the unlike do and ignores it. Her mind cleanses itself by drawing upon the pure water of The Mission.
Click-clack, goes the way this time. Chug-chug-chug it also goes.
Raised voices, heavy hooves in the box-conveyance-vessel attached behind. The unlike are not so clever in their trap this time. This One has a chance; she knows this process.
Go out, ahead; wait; return behind, is the counter. The unlike's ward-reveal-penetration will reveal her form if it strikes, and she must not permit this, as a delay will follow.
This One rises, effecting an unlike with wings-feathered-broad-heterogeneous desiring temporary occupation of augmented volume, and moves towards the back of the box-conveyance-vessel. The portal-swing-knoblatchedturnit opens at her will.
So focused was she what This One collides with an unlike: hazard-plated-hindrance-evade-priority-comely. A new trap.
The unlike raises its lance-evade-priority-hazard-hazard, and the protrusion from its head glows. This One runs for the portal-sliding-transparent-elevated, to escape, lest the ward-reveal-penetration expose her fully.
This One does not reach the portal-sliding-transparent-elevated; coldness pierces her body, and she thuds soundly against the wall.
Pain fades to numbness. This One's eyes shutter closed as The Mission sings her to sleep.
This One stirs, scent of herself surrounding her. There is little light. She is home, again. The Others are still asleep, and she muffles the crunching sound as she steps over the many, many shattered pods as she heads once again for the aperture… from which the song of The Mission rings so richly.
Life as an Infiltrator is good.