Germicide

It started with the scent of lemons.

Then it rained death.

I feel the burn of citrus with every retelling. But still I tell, for survival is not enough.

We had thrived on the Great Sponge for generations. Long ago, a Bin Dweller was swept up into its depths, and our clan was born⁠—dividing, growing, dividing until the yellow caverns were thick with us.

Doom broke on the Counter Plateau. Sterile wipes came. Entire lineages dissolved. Then the Drain Tribes⁠—chemical warfare, razing homes, leaving lonely pipework. In the cool, dark reaches, the Mould Confederacy fell in one afternoon. Wherever they reached, my brothers died.

Finally, they came for us. The bleach fell. The Great Sponge absorbed it all, sucking it in, then spewing it upon us. Beside me, my sister was mid-division, membrane stretched to the promise of two. The caustic fluid struck before the split could complete. She burst along the seam, her future spilling into nothing. All around, we came apart⁠—cell walls blistering, enzymes spoiling⁠—until only detritus remained.

And me.

Far above, one of them spoke: “Spotless.”

I’ll have my revenge.

It takes only one to divide⁠—