The further Kai and Finn pushed into the mimic's twisted, organic interior, the less it resembled any natural structure. Gone were the cave-like walls of veined flesh.
Here, the tunnels narrowed, warped, and opened again in impossible ways. Gravity felt like a suggestion, and Finn was pulled in different directions at times.
The air tasted metallic, thick with the scent of ozone, acid, and something fermenting.
And then they came.
Tiny, misshapen creatures peeled away from the walls like blistered skin. They had rudimentary wings, transparent and wet fly-like wings, but their bodies were malformed globs of flesh, some with teeth, some with feelers, others with bulbous eyes that twitched in all directions.
They flew in unpredictable patterns, buzzing toward Kai in swarms, shrieking like boiling tea kettles.
The sound pierced his ears and made him wince.
