Aĉaĵego

I: A Monster's Birth

The first thing it remembered was hunger, the insufferable gnawing sensation, something it tried to satisfy by chewing on grasses and trees, but could not manage. It was a miserable few years–or was it decades, or centuries, or mere days?–before it sunk its head into the ocean for a drink and came up with a mouth full of fish, and finally discovered what would calm its aching belly.

The continents formed, mountains and valleys took shape before its eyes, and the being traveled the world in search of food. At first it only existed; it had no self-awareness or aspirations beyond filling its stomach. But, as new forms of life came into existence, the being found in itself a new kind of hunger, a hunger in its head.

It watched the fish swim in the ocean, with their brilliant and colorful tails, and then it ate them. It flew among the birds in the sky, listened to their whistling and squawking, and it ate them, too. Many different kinds of creatures evoked this head-hunger. Ants, who seemed too small to even be alive, but who could communicate and collaborate on complex tunnels. Lions, who fought and hunted viciously but tenderly cared for their cubs. And the humans, with their complex and inconsistent social dynamics, the tools and artwork they crafted from wood and stone, and their vocalizations, so expressive and so complicated. It observed the creatures, and when it hungered it ate them, but eating did not satisfy its curiosity.

Centuries passed. Humans learned how to fight back. They launched claws into the air to pierce and lodge into its flesh. No other creature had managed to hurt it so. Humans were the only ones who could scratch the Aĉaĵego without getting close enough for it to restrain.

This did not stop it from hunting humans. But it did learn not to linger in human settlements - instead, it snatched up its victims and flew away to the mountains, where it could play with and eventually eat its prey in peace. Sometimes the creatures it took tried to communicate with it, which was how it started to slowly piece together the mystery of human language.

Then came the day when the humans realized it could understand them.

The first thing it remembered was hunger, the insufferable gnawing sensation deep inside, something it tried to satisfy by chewing on grasses and trees, but could not manage. It was a miserable few years - or was it decades, or centuries, or was it merely days? - before it sunk its head into the ocean for a drink and came up with a mouthful of fish, and finally discovered what would calm its aching belly.

The continents formed, mountains and valleys took shape before its eyes, and the being traveled the world in search of food. At first it only existed; it had no self-awareness or aspirations beyond filling its stomach. But as new forms of life came into existence the being discovered in itself a new kind of hunger, a hunger in its head.

It watched the fish swim in the ocean, with their brilliant and colorful tails, and then it ate them. It flew among the birds in the sky, listened to their whistling and squawking, and it ate them, too. Many different kinds of creatures evoked this head-hunger – ants, who seemed too small to even be alive, but who could communicate and collaborate on complex tunnels. Lions, who fought and hunted viciously but tenderly cared for their cubs. And the humans, with their complex and inconsistent social dynamics, the tools and artwork they crafted from wood and stone, and their vocalizations, so expressive and so complicated. It observed the creatures, and when it hungered it ate them, but eating did not satisfy its curiosity.