Sep 14, 2022
We peered over the ridge. The sight was unimaginable. Our slaves had constructed an impressive spanning bridge. We, champions, considered the most ferocious, prepared to cross over it.
Wait, we were instructed. Wait for what? We never waited. Now, we did. This unusual instruction was a test of patience for our girls. As soldiers, we marched, we fought, we pillaged, and we did it endlessly, tirelessly, from the day we had the ability to do so, until the day we became obsolete and died.
The thick haze signalled for us to cross. The moment had arrived, time for us to battle in our never-ending forays, and by the look of things, this was going to be fierce.
We stormed across. Our unwavering confidence in our new bridge would be dumbfounding for any other army. Hard and fast was how we did things. By the time I got to the mouth of the bridge, thousands of others had already advanced over. Across, we could hear the stridulations as our soldiers rose, thousands of feet pounding, more soldiers preparing, it was maddeningly ceaseless.
I proudly served in the most impressive army in the world, which had survived thousands of years of battles, defined as a phenomenal force of nature. Regardless of their numbers, their size, and their weapons, foes trembled at the mere sight of our scouts, and most scampered long before our offensive had even started. We lacked ego amongst the ranks, and no distortion of individual leadership to contend with, thus eliminating self-importance. We were sternly briefed on our tasks. Bearing that orientation, our highly organised blitz was concretely imprinted into the very existence of our adversaries.
The disposition we followed was simple. Once we identified a quarry, we mobilised and everything required for the venture was prepared. Our queen was not involved, not that her opinion would matter anyway. As it were, ability and competence were key. Inefficiency was never forgiven.
With our troops, we crossed over, with no sense of fear. Cowardice had never existed in our history. When we got to the archway, the strong smell of the skirmish excited us. The gnashing, the crushing, the devastation, this was the rhythm of our horde. The enemy drones were struggling to fly out, caught unaware by our covert operations. For them, it was far too late. The larger enemy possessed weapons we could never counter, and for that, we would suffer numerous casualties, we considered the slain as fodder. However, for every single enemy defender, we could front thousands, if not millions of attackers, so, regardless of their armaments, they knew the minute we strode in, it was all over.
Chaos dominated. The squirming bodies grabbed onto whatever was available at that moment, while others struggled to free themselves. The carcasses strewn everywhere defiled the arena. The deafening, brutal sounds created an unending thrill. Our instructions were clear. Loot. Plunder. Pillage. Relentlessly. The carcass to my left would be my start. I wasn't ready to brawl with a live opponent, so mutilation and transport would be my speciality. My victim lay on the floor, mortally wounded. We decided to eviscerate her, hacking and grabbing and sawing, while her fluids sprayed everywhere. The anarchy persisted, while more columns of soldiers continued pouring in.
The rout forced the last of the lucky laggards to withdraw, knowing they could never return. Capitulation! We began to gather the spoils, to bring back to our bivouac. Everything of value made it to sanctity, and for me, only long enough to discharge my load, before returning to do it again, and again, and again, in a near-endless ending cycle. Not once did we pause, not for a drink, not for a break.
We lugged everything, the dead drones, their eggs, larvae, honey, wax, we took it all apart, with the comb dismantled to reinforce our own settlement. Our enchanted slaves participated unwillingly, dominated by our pheromones, in servitude to our commands. Our army demanded that they serve or be killed and cast away. As the wasp hive died, our queendom would thrive from the spoils. The melee drew to its eventual conclusion, victors in the name of our queen and colony, whom we all served loyally. This was our life. We settled in for our brief routine break, while the quartermasters computed and stored our takings. The scouts were already out hunting for our next opponent. Any moment now, it would all begin again. We were the marabunta.