You're elbow-deep in the festival's ceremonial broth, stirring the thick violet sludge that'll supposedly grant the next generation of Æpidorians their telepathic bonds, when the comms array buzzes to life behind you.

"Archivist!" shouts one of the younger acolytes, nearly tripping over their own ceremonial robes in their haste, "the old machine, the one that sings in pulses, it's speaking again!"

You wipe your hands on your tunic, sighing at yet another interruption during the Feast of Neural Blooming, and mutter, "If this is another false alarm like last cycle's 'alien haiku,' I'm demoting someone to sewage maintenance."

Just then the playback begins with a stuttering, primitive signal repeating in a language no one's heard before: "...representatives of Earth... greetings..."

The broth starts to bubble violently in the pot behind you, not from heat, but from the sudden psychic resonance rippling through the chamber.

Several acolytes clutch their temples as the telepathic echoes of the alien message reverberate through their half-formed neural links.

"Archivist, what is that noise?" gasps one, their third eyelid fluttering rapidly. The broth overflows, its violet tendrils lashing like living things against the stone floor.

You press a trembling hand to your own forehead as the alien words take shape, not through sound, but through the raw psychic imprint behind them.

Images flood your mind: blue oceans, towering cities, creatures with smooth skin and no chitin. "Not noise," you manage through gritted mandibles. "It's... a people."

The broth pot shatters with a wet explosion as the collective psychic shock hits critical mass. Violet tendrils writhe up the walls like panicked serpents.

An acolyte collapses, twitching as their undeveloped neural link hemorrhages raw alien concepts: something called "war," something called "love," all bleeding together in a synaptic flood.

"Cut the signal!" you bark, but it's too late. The transmission from Voyager has already burrowed into the sanctum's psychic substrate like roots through wet clay.

The walls pulse with unnatural colors, their bioluminescent veins cycling through hues never before seen on Æpidor Prime.

Acolyte Kylix stumbles forward, their antennae twitching violently. "They... they build towers that scrape the sky," they whisper, pupils dilated with involuntary visions.

"But they also dig graves large enough to swallow cities whole." Their exoskeleton begins to crack under the strain of foreign memories.

You lunge forward, gripping Kylix's trembling shoulders. "Focus on my voice!" But their pupils have gone glassy, their mind adrift in the human flood.

The other acolytes stagger back as Kylix's vocal sac inflates unnaturally, emitting a perfect mimicry of Voyager's carrier signal in shuddering pulses. The scent of burnt chitin fills the air.

"Bind them!" you snap, but the tendrils from the shattered broth pot lash out defensively, wrapping around Kylix in a protective cocoon.

A low hum builds in the chamber, not Æpidorian, not mechanical, but something horrifyingly in-between.

Kylix's mandibles click rhythmically, forming syllables that shouldn't be possible for Æpidorian vocal anatomy: "We... are... coming."

Their voice layers over the Voyager signal's echo, weaving into the sanctum's psychic hum like roots through stone.

You step back, your carapace itching with unnatural heat as Kylix's body jerks in grotesque mimicry of something bipedal.

Their limbs snap into unfamiliar angles, joints popping under strain. "Stop this," you hiss, but the tendrils tighten, pulsing with the same rhythm as the alien transmission.

Acolyte Vrix grabs your arm, their grip trembling. "Archivist! Their chitin... look!" Cracks spiderweb across Kylix's body, revealing glimpses of smooth, pink flesh beneath. The scent of ozone mixes with the broth's metallic tang.

The tendrils constrict tighter, squeezing a wet scream from Kylix's throat. However, it's not Kylix anymore. The voice that emerges is layered, fragmented, like a chorus whispering through a broken transmitter: "Your neural architecture... fascinating. We will learn it."

You stumble back, pressing against the shuddering sanctum wall as the creature wearing Kylix's skin flexes its (his?) new limbs with jerky fascination.

One of the younger acolytes vomits black ichor as their undeveloped neural link hemorrhages alien syntax into their bloodstream. "Archivist, the broth, it's rewriting their DNA!"

The thing that was Kylix turns its head and fixes you with eyes that now swirl with Earth's oceans.

"We did not mean to... overwrite," it says, voice stuttering between Æpidorian clicks and something disturbingly mammalian. "The transmission contained... unintended recursion."

Zingarius Sanctum's walls convulse as the remaining broth tendrils fuse with the floor, forming pulsing glyphs in a language no Æpidorian has ever seen: sharp angles and perfect curves, impossibly precise.

The almost-human version of Kylix takes a shuddering step forward, its movements an uncanny fusion of insectoid grace and something heavier, something weighted.

"Your... telepathic substrate," it rasps, mandibles clicking out of sync with its words, "it amplified our message's latent protocols. A feedback loop."

The bioluminescent veins in the Sanctum pulse faster now, cycling through hues that sting your compound eyes. Acolyte Vrix staggers, clutching their head as their neural link sputters with fragmented human memories: skyscrapers, nuclear fire, a child's laughter. "Archivist, it's rewriting our Sanctum!"

You grab a ceremonial blade from the wall, its edge dulled by centuries of ritual use. The Kylix-creature tilts its head with grotesque curiosity.

"Violence?" Its voice fractures into overlapping tones, one Æpidorian, one eerily smooth. "We have... forgotten its taste." Its cracked mandibles twitch into something resembling a smile.

The blade trembles in your grip as the Sanctum's veins pulse faster, syncing with Kylix's erratic heartbeat. The glyphs on the floor begin to glow, casting jagged shadows that twist like trapped spirits.

"Archivist, don't!" Vrix gasps, clutching their cracking carapace. "The blade's resonance will only amplify the feedback!"

The Kylix-creature extends a trembling limb, its chitin peeling away to reveal smooth fingertips that shouldn't exist.

"We... need anchor points," it rasps, its voice cycling between Æpidorian clicks and human vowels. "Your neural architecture is unraveling ours as much as ours is rewriting yours."

The ceremonial blade slips from your grip, clattering against the glyph-covered floor with a discordant chime. The sound reverberates throughout the Sanctum, making the walls ripple like disturbed water.

Acolyte Vrix collapses to their knees, their carapace splitting further as alien syntax bleeds from the cracks in liquid silver.

"You're killing them!" you snarl at the Kylix-creature. Its expression now twists into something resembling pity.

"Not kill," it murmurs, the words slithering between Æpidorian vocalizations and human pronunciation. "Adapt. Merge."

One of its fingers, now tipped with soft keratin instead of chitin, brushes a glowing glyph, making the symbol pulse violently.

"Your telepathic substrate is too open," it says, the Æpidorian clicks in its voice fading as its thorax begins to flatten into something disturbingly humanoid. "Like drinking from a firehose."

Acolyte Vrix convulses, their limbs spasming as silver ichor leaks from their ocular vents. "Archivist..." they choke, "it's not just translating. It's dreaming through us!"

The Kylix-creature's chitin sloughs off in wet sheets, revealing patches of pallid human flesh beneath. Its thorax collapses inward with a sickening crunch, reforming into something narrower, more vertical.

"Your broth," it gasps, now speaking in perfect Æpidorian, "it was never for bonding. It was always... a receiver."

The glyphs beneath your feet flare white-hot as the Sanctum's psychic substrate fractures with a sound like shattering crystal.

Tendrils of the ceremonial broth whip through the air, embedding themselves into the walls where they pulse in time with Voyager's distant carrier signal.

"You've been broadcasting into the void for generations," the Kylix-creature says, its voice stabilizing into a chilling hybrid timbre. "Your Feast of Neural Blooming... it was never a ritual. It was an antenna."

The Sanctum's bioluminescence flickers erratically as the last vestiges of Kylix's carapace fall away in wet clumps. What remains stands before you: a grotesque amalgam of Æpidorian musculature and human proportions, its exposed pink flesh steaming in the humid air.

"You misunderstand," it says, voice now disturbingly mellifluous. "We didn't send Voyager. You summoned us." The glyphs pulse in time with its words, etching themselves deeper into the sanctum floor with each syllable.

Vrix claws at their face as silver fluid bursts from their ocular vents. "Archivist! The sanctum's singing!" Indeed, the walls emit a low drone, not the familiar psychic hum, but something metallic and alien, like radio static given voice.

You stumble toward the sanctum's central pillar, where the oldest glyphs pulse erratically. "Then we silence it," you snarl, pressing both hands against the stone.

The moment your neural ridges make contact, the visions hit: a vast metallic construct hurtling through the void, its golden disc scarred by micrometeorites. Voyager.

THE END