The Failure of Strike Team 1, or: Don’t Forget The Pheromones

“Please,” said the worker, releasing an acrid smell of fear. “Is non-combatant.” The soldiers stared at his dropped weapon, more like it were racked against the walls, organised by type. One of them swore.

“It’s a rake. We’re in their bloody garden shed.”

“Restrain it and move, the queen must be in the big structure. Mind the mandibles.”

The ground outside rumbled and burst, as chitinous titans emerged.

“Ah,” said the worker, “is combatants.”


I wrote this for a Chrons 75 word challenge, but it wasn’t close enough to the theme. So I wrote another one for that instead and put this here.