The man who used to be Charles Reed hunched intently over a table. A dead fish-mage lay atop it, its scaled body perfect and unmarred. The smell of salt hung heavy in the room, and the faint odor of decay had only begun to punctuate it.
Much like the man, the details about the dead fish-mage were unimportant. The man's eyes were not his own, nor were his fingers or the rest of him. He and the mage had that in common.
The man that was Charles ran his fingers over the fish-man's scalp. It was a sign of reverence as much as it was exploration. Though his fingers touched scales, they felt much, much deeper than that—
They flowed through the gaps between scales like rainwater through ancient rock. Seeped through folds of muscle and gaps in bone. Sought the intricate folds of brain tissue.
Psychics were seen as unnatural and terrifying, but to those that saw through Charle's eyes, psychics were as natural and beautiful as rain.
Surface thoughts came unbidden, emanating like fragrant steam. Walking through a crowd of people was as invigorating as walking past downtown street cart vendors. To peer past those surface thoughts was like peeling the skin on an orange. Once past the skin, reading a person's inner monologue was like savoring the fruit nestled inside—vibrant and crisp.
To say nothing of their intimate thoughts: A buffet of pleasure that was never quite the same. Just the thought of such a feast was enough to send ripples of joy through the many minds tethered to Charles.
But the task lying on the table was different.
It required careful consideration and the utmost focus—
Not because the subject was dead. Dead did not mean useless. Dead did not mean isolated. Just because the door was locked and bolted shut didn't mean that it couldn't be pried open.
The mage lying on the table required so much attention because they were different from Charles and the others. Different from anyone else that the collective minds had touched and tasted.
In the collectives' experience, most humans didn't give adequate consideration to other minds being different from their own. Even if two humans were close in age and shared an upbringing, they weren't the same—so many disagreements and miscommunications stemmed from the assumption that two people had the same knowledge, the same background, and therefore should arrive at the same conclusion.
How dare this person not think like I do!
Psychologists even had a name for this: The False Consensus Bias. People assume that their own beliefs and experience are commonplace.
Humans even do this to animals. It's called Anthropomorphism—assigning human characteristics and behaviors to animals and even inanimate objects.
Make no mistake, these creatures and things do have wills of their own. And they are not human.
A rock and an heirloom magical artifact both have wills of their own. The rock's is immeasurably small and quiet, while the artifact's will typically represents a singular purpose. A magic sword might be imbued with the duty to protect a bloodline. This purpose is distilled throughout the generations and years until it is so potent and defining that even a non-mage can see it. If the sword has a sense of self-preservation, it is only so that it can fulfill its purpose.
A living creature is infinitely more complex.
Imagine, for a moment, visiting the zoo and peering at an ape through the glass. The man that was Charles was doing very similarly. Except that both he and the dead fish-mage were the glass.
The collective peered through Charles and the mage and stared intently at the alien mind on the other side.
The hive-mind collectively known to humanity as the Deep Ones.
Billions of eyes stare back, as bright and dense as the stars on the clearest night. Except that this starry sky lies on the bottom of the ocean.
There is a mind hiding behind the veil of stars. A singular consciousness.
To the collective mind behind Charles, this is a foreign idea. Their mind is an amalgamation, always bubbling with unruly people. On the best days, their mind is a chorus. On their worst, it is a discordant mob.
They are not one.
But the Deep Ones are different. Millions of years have refined their voices. Molded them into a song. Much like the sword, they move with singular purpose.
For a brief moment, the darkness at the bottom of the sea parts. Their cities rise from the bottom of the sea, monuments grown out coral-like and fossilized into intricate stone work. There are cauldrons where the Deep Ones have harnessed their own biology.
...The cauldrons have changed recently. The ancient cauldrons were few in number, made for experimentation and for creativity.
Outside the towering cities, new cauldrons litter the sandy ocean floor. Entire fields of cauldrons extend out into the darkness. These make weapons. Only weapons.
The collective weeps as it peers through the glass. An artist millions of years old has turned from the brush and picked up a gun. A god of life hath become a god of death.
As the collective peered mournfully through the glass, suddenly the Deep Ones' hive-mind became aware of him.
Imagine again, visiting the zoo and staring at the ape behind the glass. For just a moment, your eyes lock. You stare at the ape and it stares back at you.
You and it are not the same, but just for a moment, you share something unspoken. You might even believe that you understand each other.
Perhaps the ape misses the jungle. Perhaps it is bored and wants stimulation. Perhaps it recognizes a kindred spirit in you—you are not zoo-captive and zoo-visitor, but long-lost siblings.
You smile and the ape smiles back, solidifying this unspoken bond.
Then you're reminded that for all primates, save humans, eye contact and bared teeth are a threat.
The alien mind of the Deep Ones turned its gaze toward the glass. The metaphysical weight of a billion creatures and millions of years of condensed purpose. The alien mind didn't bare its teeth so much as level a sword.
Those who looked through Charles' eyes had never known that kind of fear.
They backed away from the glass so fast that they severed the connection. The man that was Charles dropped to the floor, dead.
For the next several minutes, the many minds of the collective waited. Scared that the ape would break through the glass. But it didn't. Thankfully, the ape didn't come after them.
Still, the collective didn't trust the glass, not completely. Soon the bodies would be cremated—their doors utterly demolished so that the ape could never come through.
Then the collective savored and digested what they had found. Recognition... Shame... Awe... Jealousy.
Recognition of a similar mind.
Shame that they were on opposite sides of the war.
Awe of their power and singular focus.
Jealousy of the same.
What they would give to be that powerful... To usher the world into a new age where everyone was a fragment of a greater whole.
One day.
If the collective learned one thing from the Deep Ones, it would be patience.
~ ~ ~