Reincarnated as a Mushroom?-Chapter 62 - 61: Memory of the Basilisk Strain — Echoes from a Flesh-Wet War

Chapter 62: Chapter 61: Memory of the Basilisk Strain — Echoes from a Flesh-Wet War

Chapter 61: Memory of the Basilisk Strain — Echoes from a Flesh-Wet War ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com

The moment I stepped off the void swimmer and onto the bio-flesh of the Hive cruiser, that familiar, almost eerie silence swallowed me whole.

It was always like this.

A queasy stillness—oppressive in its peace—that settled over the vessel the second we entered. All non-essential bio-forms dropped into energy-preserving torpor the moment they were secured inside, leaving only a handful of warriors, the living ship’s digestive rhythms, and the slow squelch of internal organs to break the hush.

No idle chatter. No footsteps. Just the heartbeat of the Hive ship itself—pulsing deep below my soles like a leviathan dreaming in dark water.

I’d specifically requested no drones on this trip. No caretakers. No attendants. Just me, a few elite warriors, and Kimchi to keep things interesting. Which meant, to my mild regret, that the silence was thicker than usual.

Kimchi walked beside me, her hand entwined with mine like a clawed vine around a favored toy. Her touch had a pulse of its own—warm, possessive, smug. She always walked like she was escorting cargo she was very willing to kill for.

She was, in a way.

It took over an hour to reach my quarters—even on one of the smaller Hive ships, which was still a modest 8 kilometers long. But I didn’t mind the time. Kimchi flirted the entire walk, brushing her tail against my leg, teasing psychic pings into my skull like sensual Morse code. I threw a few back, enough to keep her hungry and hopeful.

By the time we arrived, she was vibrating.

My room was located near the aft of the vessel, a nice cozy dead-end so I could sulk, sleep, or self-reflect without being psychically flashed by an overzealous Freethinker. The interior was standard Hive-gothic: walls of fibrous tan chitin, slick and warm to the touch, faintly luminous from embedded hemolymph arteries that pulsed with every heartbeat of the ship.

There were a few personal flourishes, of course.

A bed—huge, soft, alive, and just the right level of decadent. Technically it was engineered to adapt to my spinal curvature, but mostly it was just there for naps and Kimchi-related chaos.

A small rack of clothes, which would probably be abandoned once I reached my destination. My plasma minigun and compressed power armor rested at the foot of the bed, waiting like loyal dogs.

And, tucked in the corner like a sacred relic: my Osmium weights.

I grinned at the sight of them.

The memory came unbidden.

I’d once asked Crystal to fabricate some dumbbells that resembled the ones from my previous human life—normal looking, familiar. She asked for dimensions. I gave them. She nodded, pleased.

Then, when they were finished, I went to pick one up like a casual gym bro showing off.

And nearly tore a muscle.

Osmium. Dense as a neutron star’s daydream.

Apparently, Crystal had metric tons of the stuff lying around—too soft and inert for ship bonework, too heavy for standard forms. So when I asked for heavy gym weights, she just... used it. Why not? She liked the aesthetic.

Now I had these sleek, completely normal-looking dumbbells that could pancake a rhino just by existing too close to its airspace.

It was beautiful.

I flopped onto the bed with a groan of appreciation, stretching every bone in my back like I was trying to fuck the mattress by proximity. Before I could fully melt into the comfort, Kimchi climbed into my lap, her hips practically humming with ulterior motives.

I gave her a deadpan stare.

"Woman. We just spent forty hours in an orgy so intense half the Hive still can’t walk straight. Cool your cunt jets. I’m tired."

"But—but Kimchi only received fourteen hours, forty-seven minutes, and thirty-one seconds of direct mating," she whined with the lethal sincerity of a horny accountant. "The remaining time was Queen-favoritism. Kimchi merely desires balance. Equal allocation. Shared privilege of dick."

Her eyes sparkled with weaponized cuteness as her hand crept toward my now mildly traumatized crotch.

I groaned. Heroically.

"You are a menace. I mean that lovingly. But I’m seriously about to black out." I shoved her gently to the side. "Once we hit the Psionic Tendril, I’m sleeping. Not negotiating."

Kimchi pouted.

Not for long.

I leaned closer, letting my fingers trail up her thigh, stopping just shy of her biological prize.

"But," I whispered directly into the ear-spot I knew made her twitch, "we do have two weeks of faster-than-light boredom ahead. No comms. No hive noise. Just us and a lot of bedsheets."

She froze like a glitching drone, brain caught between calculations of lust and strategy.

Then she shuddered. Full-body. Feral.

I left her there—stun-locked and fantasizing—and wandered over to one of the living ship’s observation membranes. It pulsed faintly as I approached, shifting to transparency like a sleepy eye opening.

Through it, I saw Hive Home.

My home.

Growing smaller. Shrinking into the distance like the memory of a heartbeat I’d already outgrown.

I activated the ocular imprint Crystal had placed behind my retinas—a personal psionic circuit that linked me directly to her. Not as a command. Not even as a signal. Just as a feeling. A presence.

I could sense her watching me. Even from orbit. Even from that distance.

She felt like the weight of stars leaning into my chest.

I kept the imprint active until Hive Home vanished into the warp-fold shimmer of the Tendril. The instant the planet disappeared, I shut the connection down.

And so did she.

On her end, Crystal sighed and released a frankly terrifying reservoir of psionic energy she’d been stealth-prepping for my grand departure gift. She hadn’t dared ignite it while I could feel her—too risky. I’d notice.

"Such a nuisance," she muttered, mischief curling around her tone like velvet claws. "But to see that precious, dumbfounded look on his face? Worth it."

The build-up would require isolating a twenty-kilometer radius around her to avoid collateral vaporization.

As always, her love language was "cosmic overkill."

---

Back on the ship, I decided to take a stroll.

Mostly to escape the heat radiating off Kimchi’s brain.

I wandered until I found a warrior tending to some wall-seam biogel. Mid-sized, armored, cute enough to nickname.

"Hey, cutie. You mind giving me a hand?"

It turned to me, clicking curiously, and began doing what I could only describe as a very aggressive interpretive leg-dance.

"Cool, cool. So... any idea where the spare bed-covers are? I left Kimchi unsupervised and I know there’s gonna be a swamp when I return."

The warrior beckoned, clearly understanding the severity of the situation.

As we walked, I studied her.

She was tall—about two meters. Sleek. Strong. Her eyes were subtly different from the baseline warrior morphs: vertical pupils, deep violet hue. And her mouth was a little too wide, a little too hungry.

It hit me.

"...You’re a Basilisk strain, aren’t you?"

That was the human term we’d used, long ago, when Kimchi’s original morphology had first horrified the science team.

The warrior made a pleased chittering noise and lowered her head.

"Oh, you wanna show me something?"

I placed my hand gently atop her carapaced crown. And opened my mind.

Lower-caste Hive can’t speak, not like the Freethinkers. But skin contact? That’s a shortcut. Memories. Pure, unfiltered psychic experiences.

They hit me all at once.

The first memory exploded into my head like a dropped grenade.

I—she—was tearing through flesh. Prey. Gun-wielding, fire-spitting scum. She rended them like wet paper, her mandibles slick with gore. Then, in a moment of chaos, she felt it.

Me.

The scent.

The echo.

Her entire body froze.

Her mind erupted in pheromonal chaos. She released scents she didn’t know she could make. And while her moment of reverence got several allies slaughtered beside her, she didn’t regret it.

If this was the day she died, she’d die having felt me.

The second memory was quieter.

A battlefield, hours or days later. Thousands of bio-forms. Carnage.

And me—tiny, cradled in a Freethinker’s chest cavity, a little infant godling with wild hair and crying lungs.

I wailed. The warrior panicked.

How could she help? How could she soothe the tiny sacred thing?

An Agitator calmed me. The Hive calmed.

The warrior never forgot that moment.

Other fragments followed—passing glimpses of me in corridors, battlefields, psychic storms. The time Crystal rode me for six hours and the entire Hive climaxed in feedback? She remembered that too.

When it ended, I stood quietly. My palm still resting on her head.

I felt something ancient and bone-deep settle in my chest.

This warrior had been with me since the beginning. Watching. Fighting. Protecting. Yearning.

And I’d never noticed.

I reached into my pocket.

Smiled.

"I’ve got something for you."

---

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