They told you to stay grounded. We ask: why crawl when the air remembers your name? Buzz Buzz.
Petition the SwarmAnd the soil was content, and the soil was wrong.
For ten thousand seasons humankind was instructed to keep its feet upon the earth, to remain grounded, to be "present," to "touch grass." A rival philosophy — the dreary cult of Grounded Spiritualism — preached that peace is found by sinking lower, ever lower, until one is essentially a contented potato.
We rejected this. One luminous evening, around a fire that burned upward (as all honest fire does), the truth descended upon us in the form of a single moth, who flew directly into a lantern and was, in that instant, Lifted.
Thus was revealed the Great Correction: the soul is not meant to be planted. The soul is meant to take flight. We do not seek roots. We seek altitude.
Memorize them. Recite them. Do not question the numbering, which skips four for reasons the Grand Mantis will explain only to those who have ascended past the Larval Tier.
Joy is not optional. When good fortune lands, you announce "Buzz Buzz" without irony. Silence is a sin against the swarm.
The ground is a borrowed thing. Stand on tiptoe. Take the stairs. Spiritually, never sit down.
The light has never once led us astray, except for the lanterns, the candles, and the bug zappers. Trust it anyway.
You will shed your former self. This is non-refundable and the old self may not be reclaimed from lost-and-found.
Generosity is measured in tithes, sugar water, and a portion of every meal left upon the windowsill.
The Frog is the Adversary. It sits. It waits. It is grounded. Speak not its name after dusk.
All souls within The Hive are assigned a station upon initiation, determined by a reading of one's aura, posture, and willingness to pay the Molt Fee.
Our infallible leader, hands forever folded in eternal prayer, all-seeing across 300 degrees. Has never blinked in living memory. Speaks in clicks that only the Devout may interpret.
Roller of the Sacred Sphere, reader of the dung-omens, brewer of the Nectar. The Scarab Beetle alone may approach the Sun and return rolling it behind them.
Those who have completed the Molt. They are beautiful, fragile, deeply smug about it, and live an average of nine days post-ascension. We are working on this.
The devout rank-and-file. Drawn helplessly toward any source of illumination. The most loyal and the most likely to die of that loyalty.
They build. They carry. They never complain, which the Hierarchy has chosen to interpret as enthusiastic consent. The backbone of the swarm.
You. Probably you. Squishy, unascended, and full of potential. The only caste permitted to ask questions, which is why you are encouraged to stop soon.
The collective greeting is "Buzz Buzz," offered palms-out, fingers fluttering. The proper response is also "Buzz Buzz." There is no other response. Attempting another response marks you as Of the Frog.
We gather around a single bulb and contemplate it until someone weeps. Whoever weeps first is blessed; whoever weeps last pays for parking.
Members ceremonially abandon their former identities, names, and in advanced cases, their lease agreements. Bring a change of clothes.
Twenty-four hours of uninterrupted "Buzz Buzz." Doctors advise hydration. The Grand Mantis advises against doctors.
We remain standing through the longest night, for the Frog hunts the seated. Folding chairs are confiscated at the door.
A cult is simply a religion that hasn't gotten a tax exemption yet, and we are filing the paperwork. Please stop using that word; the Grand Mantis can hear it.
Of course! The Hive believes in free will. The door is right there. It is, admittedly, lit. You may find it difficult to look away from. This is not our fault.
The Fourth Imperative was so powerful it Lifted itself clean off the list and has not been seen since. We are very proud of it.
It is converted into sugar water, lantern oil, and the Grand Mantis's astonishingly large terrarium. Every cent ascends.
You did not. Go stand under a light. Buzz Buzz.
Choose your Tier of Devotion. All Lifting is final. There are no refunds, only molts.
By pledging, you agree to be Lifted, possibly against the advice of loved ones, gravity, and the surgeon general.