Absolute Symbiote Chapter 14: Newborn Symbiote?

Chapter 14: Newborn Symbiote?

(Thomas's P.O.V)

I sat cross-legged on the floor, fists pressed to my knees, staring into the dark inside my soulspace where Carnage should’ve been. Hours of reaching, clawing, calling—nothing. Not even a twitch. Just dead silence.

“Fine,” I growled into the void, voice flat. “Stay asleep, you lazy sludge. Don’t care anymore. But if we die, I’m blaming you.”

No answer.

When I opened my eyes again, the faint morning light had shifted through the narrow window. And there, sitting neatly on the window frame, was a small bundle Diana must’ve dropped off without waking me—a couple of folded cloth diapers and a steaming bottle marked with rough handwriting: goat milk.

I let out a tired breath, almost a laugh. “Guess Auntie Diana’s got my back.”

The baby stirred at the sound of my voice, fists opening and closing. I picked it up, careful not to disturb the fragile illusion cloak wrapped around it, and pressed the warm bottle to its lips. It latched quickly, drinking with hungry gulps. For a few minutes, everything was quiet. Just me and this tiny thing.

Then it stopped, pushing the bottle away with a little grunt even though its stomach still growled.

I frowned. “What’s your problem now?”

A soft probe into its mind answered me. What it wanted wasn’t milk. My eyebrows rose.

“You little freak,” I said, but there was no malice in it. “Alright. Let’s see if you’re serious.”

I brought my hand to my mouth, bit into my finger, and let the blood bead. The baby’s eyes lit up like it recognized the smell, and the moment I touched the bleeding finger to its lips, it latched on. Drank greedily. Like this was what it had been waiting for.

I should’ve been disturbed. Instead, all I could think about was how my daughter once refused normal food for weeks and lived on nothing but mashed bananas. Kids and their strange diets.

The cut closed faster than I expected, and I had to pry my finger free of the baby’s little mouth. It fussed, letting out a hiss that made my skin prickle.

“Yeah, yeah. Relax. Still more goat milk later.”

A sour smell hit me next. I sighed. “Perfect timing.”

The diapers Diana had left were a blessing. As I changed the soiled one, the kid decided to laugh and, just as I got the fresh cloth in place, pissed on my hand.

I groaned, staring up at the ceiling. “Be grateful Auntie Diana thought ahead and brought two. Otherwise, you’d be rolling in your own filth right now.”

The baby blew a raspberry at me, drool stringing down its chin. I lifted it up, holding it at arm’s length.

That’s when it happened.

A thin tongue snaked out of its mouth and licked across my eye. Not a baby tongue. Too long. Too flexible.

“…Was that a tendril?” I whispered, stunned.

I pinched the tongue between two fingers, and in an instant, thorns erupted along its length. Sharp enough to draw blood. I dropped it immediately.

The baby hissed again, eyes flashing with something too sharp for an infant. Then it calmed, cooing as if nothing had happened.

“Sorry, sorry,” I muttered, finishing up the cleaning with more care than before. My thoughts raced.

Had I done this?

I closed my eyes and reached into its body with my mind. What I found made my stomach knot. There, fused to its cells like a shadow stitched into flesh, was something new. A presence. A consciousness budding beside its own.

Not entirely separate. Not entirely the baby either.

A symbiote.

I sat back, stunned. Up until now, I’d thought Ruin was only about taking, absorbing, consuming. Not creating. But here was proof—a new life form, born from a drop of my blood.

I watched how it pulsed along with the baby’s nervous system, how it strengthened weak points, how it didn’t fight for control but instead merged seamlessly. Gentle. Protective.

“Not malicious,” I realized. “Maybe even good.”

But not yet strong enough. It would take time before this… child of Carnage could defend its host. Until then, the baby was still fragile. Still something I had to hide.

I strapped it gently into its symbiote-woven carrier, brushing its abnormally fast growing silver hair back from its forehead. “Looks like it’s just you and me for now, kid. Try not to sprout any more tongues while I’m gone.”

Minds stirred at the edge of my awareness—familiar, unpleasant ones. Ursa and Izah.

I tucked the baby into a discreet corner of the bed hidden by the cloak, checking twice that the illusion held, then stood and pulled the door open just as the guards raised their fists to pound on it.

“Morning, ladies!” I said with mock enthusiasm. “You’ll be happy to know I’m absolutely ready for another glorious day of shoveling horseshit.”

Ursa’s lip curled. Izah snorted. Neither answered.

I shut the door behind me, falling into step with them as if nothing at all had changed.

But it had.

Big time.

The stables stank like always—damp hay, piss, and the ever-present weight of manure baked into stone. By now, I’d gotten used to the rhythm of it, spade scraping, muck piling, my mind wandering somewhere else entirely.

And today, my mind was circling one thing: Ares’ cell.

The scroll hidden back in my quarters gnawed at me. If there was even a grain of truth in those words about Amazonia’s rise and fall, then the one person on this island who’d know for sure was the God of War himself. Problem was, his cage wasn’t just guarded—it was sealed by layers of magic older than any empire. Artemis and her sisters rotated shifts outside it day and night, warriors whose minds I couldn’t penetrate no matter how I tried. Even reaching for Ares’ mind turned up nothing but silence, like he wasn’t even there.

Still, I wasn’t going to ignore this. If the answers were locked in that cell, I’d find a way to pry them loose. Even if it meant waiting until the island slept.

But waiting wouldn’t solve my other problem. Without Carnage at my back, I needed to sharpen myself as fast as possible. No raw symbiote edge, no reliable backup. That meant finding another shortcut to power.

I leaned on the spade, looking at the two guards posted nearby. Ursa, hard-faced and bitter. Izah, younger, sharper, with that kind of smug laugh that grated on nerves. They were easy to read. Easier still to prod.

“So,” I said casually, wiping sweat from my forehead. “Which one of you is stronger?”

Both their heads turned at once. Ursa scoffed. Izah smirked. The bait was too obvious, but pride is funny like that—it doesn’t care if you know it’s being played.

A few nudges with my telepathy was all it took. Whispered thoughts, planted doubts, fanned flames. Within minutes, their bickering escalated into a full-on fight, fists swinging, swords unsheathed.

And me? I didn’t even need to move. I just watched, eyes half-lidded, as their muscle memory unfolded in perfect detail. Every strike, every counter, every stance—the knowledge imprinted itself into my mind. Amazonian swordplay, spearwork, bare-handed grappling—all filtered through me like I’d spent decades training alongside them.

At first it was clumsy, just surface-level mimicry. But even basic scraps of Amazonian combat knowledge were worth more than months of training elsewhere. With time, I’d digest it, refine it, make it mine.

The fight escalated until walls shook, hay scattered, and horses screamed in panic. The clash of steel and roar of voices filled the stables until the heavy tread of armored boots cut through the chaos.

Diana.

She strode in, face like thunder. One sharp command, and both guards froze mid-swing, swords dropping to their sides. Her eyes cut to me, already knowing I’d been the spark.

I raised my hands innocently. “Don’t look at me. I was just cleaning.”

She wasn’t buying it.

Her gaze lingered on me, hard, disappointed. “Enough. Back to your quarters. Now.”

I tried to flash a grin, but it fell flat under her stare.

So, much earlier than usual, I was marched back up the tower. My little experiment had paid off, but it left her watching me closer than before. That would complicate things.

Once locked inside, I leaned against the wall, exhaling. The baby stirred in its hidden nook, cooing softly. I crouched beside it, brushing my hand over the invisible cloak that masked it from sight. “You’re safe. Don’t worry.”

After feeding it some of the leftover milk minus blood, I anchored a new illusion to its breathing. With each soft snore, an illusion spread outward carried by sound, weaving into the room. Anyone walking in would see me asleep in bed, nothing more. A simple glamour at first, but effective. And more than that—it was sound-based. A whole new channel of manipulation I hadn’t even known I could touch.

“Guess I’m better at this than I thought,” I muttered.

The baby burbled in its sleep.

By the time night fell and the island settled, I was ready. My form shimmered, bones and skin reshaping, wings sprouting until I was a bat. I slipped out the window and into the dark sky.

The air was cool, the island quiet. I flew low, using enhanced echolocation to map out the world in pulses of sound. That’s how I found it—the cell.

From above, it looked like just another block of ancient stone. But when I skimmed the air around it, the sound bounced back warped, broken. Layers of magic pulsed invisibly over the surface, so dense and knotted it was like trying to peer through steel.

I landed in the trees nearby, claws clutching a branch as I peered down. There she was.

Artemis. Red hair cropped short, shoulders broad beneath her armor. She leaned casually on her spear, stoking a fire where a kettle hissed with steam. No tension in her posture. She looked almost relaxed. But her mind was sealed tight, like the hooded figures from the forest.

The High Priestess, Agatha's faction. Man-haters and child killers. A part of me couldn't picture Artemis as part of them. She was too much of a loner in that regard.

If there were detection spells woven into the cell, any attempt at slipping closer would light me up instantly.

So I stayed where I was, wings folded, hidden in shadow. Waiting. Watching. Hoping for a crack in the routine.

If there was going to be a chance, it would come during a shift change.

And I had all night.

(General P.O.V)

The tavern of the Amazon guards wasn’t much to look at—wooden beams, stone walls, firelight dancing on shields mounted for decoration. But it was always full. The clatter of mugs and roar of voices echoed long into the night, warriors winding down from their drills or shifts.

At a table near the wall sat Ursa and Izah. Both looked worse for wear—bruises swelling along their jaws and ribs, clothes singed where steel had sparked off steel. They nursed their aches with mugs of mead, throwing each other half-glares, half-laughs.

The door opened, and the noise lowered a notch. The High Priestess entered.

Agatha.

Even here, among hardened warriors, her presence bent the room. She walked without armor, robes flowing around her thin frame, silver hair spilling past her shoulders. No weapon in sight, yet no one doubted the weight she carried. She was tradition itself, a voice sharpened over centuries.

Ursa muttered under her breath, “Old hag,” but Izah elbowed her to be quiet.

Agatha’s sharp eyes caught their bruises anyway. She drifted to their table as though fate had pulled her there. “Sisters,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the room without effort. “Tell me. Who shamed you so thoroughly?”

Ursa grimaced, but Izah spoke. “The man.”

Agatha’s lips curved in satisfaction, though she feigned sorrow. “Yes. Him.”

She didn’t need to say more. She turned from their table, facing the tavern as though it were a pulpit, and raised her voice just enough for all to hear.

“My sisters, you drink here in pride, in honor of your battles, while your Queen and her daughter betray you in silence.”

A hush swept the hall.

“Why is the outsider still here?” Agatha’s words were sharp as flint. “Why is the man allowed to walk our paradise, to breathe the air of Themyscira, when the Gods themselves forbade such contamination?”

Someone muttered, “Because the Princess protects him.”

“Because the Queen has grown weak,” Agatha corrected. Her voice swelled, bitter and commanding. “It is not love of tradition that guides them. It is a sickness. A sickness of craving what we are not. To want to be women instead of Amazons. To crave a man’s touch rather than the bond of sisters. To become whores instead of warriors.”

The tavern bristled, discomfort rippling through the warriors. But no one spoke against her.

Agatha pressed on. “Do you think it ends here? No. First, one man. Then more. And when the Queen’s judgment fails entirely, the gates of Themyscira will be flung open to outsiders, and our paradise will rot. Your daughters, your sisters, your blood will be tainted until nothing remains of us but ashes.”

Her words cut like a blade, carving fear into loyalty.

Then she softened, just a little. “But despair not, my sisters. The Gods have spoken. They have shown me the cure for this illness. And it begins here, with you.”

Her eyes lingered on Ursa and Izah.

The two guards shifted under her gaze, mead forgotten. Agatha gave the faintest smile and turned to leave, her robes whispering over the floorboards. By the time the door shut behind her, the tavern was buzzing with murmurs, anger, and unease.

Izah leaned close to Ursa. Her voice was low, steady. “She’s right. The man is the cause. The fight. The shame. Everything. The only way to end it is to end him.”

Ursa grinned despite her bruises. “Cold revenge sounds better than warm mead. Tonight, then.”

They left the tavern with purpose, slipping out into the night. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, and Ursa laughed at the omen. “Even the goddess of the moon agrees with us. She shrouds us in her shadows.”

When they reached the tower, Izah gave a nod to the guards posted outside. She lifted her wrist, showing the curved “A” tattoo burned into her skin—Agatha’s mark. The guards exchanged a look and stepped aside without a word.

Inside, the chamber was quiet. A figure lay bundled on the bed, soft snores filling the air.

Ursa smirked. “Finally. The eyesore dies.”

Izah drew her blade. “Once we cut him, we’ll cut off his man-thing and feed it to the dogs.”

Ursa chuckled. “Shame, though. He’s got the face and body for a perfect slave. I wouldn’t have minded trying—”

Izah slapped the back of her head. “Focus.”

“You thought it too,” Ursa teased.

“You’re drunk,” Izah snapped. “Let’s finish this before the Princess or her lapdogs find us.”

Ursa shrugged. “Fine. On three, then.”

They both raised their swords, voices in unison.

“One… two…”

Before three, the bundle exploded.

Red hook-tendrils shot out, fast as lightning. They pierced through armor, through flesh, sinking deep into muscle. Ursa and Izah froze, terror locked in their eyes as the tendrils pulsed.

Their blood drained instantly, siphoned away until their bodies collapsed into husks—skin and bone, shriveled and dry, barely recognizable.

By the time the moonlight broke through the clouds and spilled into the chamber, only two corpses remained. The figure on the bed lay still, snoring softly, untouched.

The illusion hadn’t wavered once.

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Wordcount= 2600+

Had to trim down 2 chapters into 1 long version. Anodite updates later on today.