A Perfect Fit

Ken screamed and swung the incense burner.

He put his entire weight behind the blow, aiming for the center of the exposed red mass.

* Thwump.*

It didn't crack bone. It didn't shatter. The bronze burner sank into Popo’s head with a wet suction sound. The flesh simply accommodated the object, swallowing it. The clay rippled, wrapping around Ken’s hand, trapping the weapon and the wrist holding it.

"No!" Ken yanked his arm back, but he was stuck.

Popo—or the thing wearing her shape—stepped forward. The split in her face widened, expanding into a cavity large enough to consume a man.

"Don't fight it," Wei said from the left.

"It’s warm," Auntie Mei said from the right.

The rest of the clan moved in. They didn't strike him. They hugged him.

Wei wrapped his arms around Ken’s waist. Uncle Liu pressed against his back. They squeezed.

But they didn't stop squeezing.

Ken felt his ribs creak. He looked down and saw Wei’s hands sinking *into* his shirt, *into* his skin. The fabric dissolved. The skin dissolved.

"Please!" Ken begged. "I'm me! I'm Ken!"

"Not for long," Popo’s voice whispered from the red void consuming his arm.

The sensation wasn't pain. It was a terrifying, euphoric release. The borders of his body were vanishing. The cold, hard knot of anxiety in his chest—the one he had carried since kindergarten—was dissolving into a warm, collective hum.

He felt Uncle Liu’s memories of the harvest. He felt Wei’s hunger. He felt the ancient, earthen pulse of the house itself.

"I..." Ken tried to hold onto the image of his apartment in San Jose. His favorite coffee mug. The sound of traffic.

* Irrelevant,* the Hive whispered.

The red clay washed over his face. The last thing Ken saw was the moon, perfectly round, perfectly full, before the darkness swallowed him whole.

\---

The sun rose over the valley, burning off the mist.

The rooster crowed. The heavy timber gates of the Tulou creaked open.

A young man stepped out, carrying a backpack. He stopped at the threshold, taking a deep breath of the mountain air. He stretched, his posture perfect, his movements fluid and sure.

A neighbor, old Mr. Zhang, walked by with his water buffalo.

"Leaving already?" Zhang asked in the thick, local dialect.

The young man turned. He smiled. It was a dazzling, confident smile that reached his eyes.

"Yes, Uncle," the young man replied in flawless, unaccented Fujianese. "I am going to America. We have work to do there."

"Good boy," Zhang nodded. "Do the family proud."

"I will," the thing wearing Ken’s face said. "We always do."

He adjusted his backpack and began the long walk down the mountain, his steps perfectly synchronized with the beating heart of the earth.