hey im roman. you may remember me from such things as '''pornography''' or '''fanfiction'''. this is my oddworld quarantine blog where i contribute to an autistic extended oc universe with @lair-of-the-white-worm
âŁď¸this blog will contain toxic yaoi, dark themes, grimdark backstories, and horny cannibalismâŁď¸
also i am not here for discourse. ppl seriously calling themselves 'anti/proship' in the year of our odd 2025 will be laughed out of the room. if i find out you're into underage/incest i am sniping you
additional links under the cut:
other places you can find me on are:
@theelderscrotes on bluesky (NSFW)
@theelderscrotes on pillowfort(NSFW)
@romaine-arts, my sfw art
@crudecore, my tumblr-compliant nsfw
@mentalismmaria, my archive of our own page (NSFW)
@romaine, my furaffinity (NSFW)
@victoryroadburnout: pokemon blog
@relmyna-verenim: elder scrolls blog
@tarnished-doll : elden ring blog
ft. nasty loveless darling/molluck sex, mentions of past SA, molluck generally being horrible
Who the hell even shows up to their own wedding these days? Molluck felt like a fool, while his fiancee boldly arrived in one of her creepy little robots to sign their marriage contract. You mean he could have done all this slegshit without having to leave the office?
It was an important ceremony, once; back when it was a union of houses rather than bank accounts. Back when you swore loyalty to one another, rather than signed a contractual agreement not to murder one another for the insurance policy. That was when it warranted your physical attendance. If May was going to flake on him, then why the hell was he invited to show up in the first place?
The handservant that always accompanied these Mayven-bots was there, and knowing May, she probably gave her special blessing to sign everything on her behalf. The trust she put in that mud was beyond what heâd call appropriate; not to say he didnât have his own favorites, but those were private matters. They always remained nobodies, he didnât go out of his way to introduce them to a meeting board and let them sit with him like they were some kind of person.
The handservant, however, didnât have the vacant, frightened look of a scrub pinned underneath their master. She was one of those uncanny, over-done crimps from the lower levels of Nolybab; her face was sharp and elegant, her eyes cold and intelligent as she looked through him. Any Glukk who demanded respect would have lashed a mud that dared to look them in the eye out of turn. Molluck, instead, stared her down.
It was funny, the Mayven on those shitty little screens hobnobbing with the shareholder witnesses never felt like the one he would speak to in private. Though, as with any Glukkon versed in maintaining a reputation, she held a very different private persona. She didnât engage in small talk. She didnât beat around the bush. But they did talk, for hours; more engaged than he had been outside of work meetings.
Where was that May?
While his fiancee piloted the Shrink core around the room, the handservant approached him of her own accord. âMay I hand you a drink, sir?â
Molluck cleared the tar from his throat as he looked her over. He wasnât such a fan of those model-types, himself; but he liked âem slim, and blue. Since it was harder to reverse the emotional discoloration of a Mudokon, the crimpâs skin had been toned into a pretty, uniformly light blue; flecks of silver dermal mods brought a sparkling sheen to it. As always, she wore something that mimicked her Mistressâ wardrobe; like she was a smaller version of the Prima Glokka that couldnât be here in person.
âHmph. You still remember what I like, crimp?â
âBlack Tonic no.5 on the rocks, stirred.â The crimp replied, then added out of turn, âI wouldnât forget your preferences. Especially if weâll be seeing more of each other, âMasterâ.â
Molluckâs lip curled over wretched teeth. âEchh. Donât start with that âmasterâ shit, kid. You can stay Mayvenâs pet all you want, my muds are employees.â
âOf course, sir.â The crimpâs smile remained reserved, her expressiveness no doubt hampered by all of the extensive surgeries. âThe contract still details the sharing of certain assets, of which I am a part of. Mizz Mayven has given her blessings in advance, as condolences for her absence.â
âTypical May.â Molluck squared sharp, exaggerated shoulders under his confining suit. The handservant gave him a polite bow, and left for his refreshments. The Glukkon watched her leave, his eyes trailing unsubtly down her body. She held her back straighter than a common scrub; her hands and feet remained dainty, both from being docked and from what was probably a lifetime of hormone treatments. Her legs were lasciviously bare, slender blue stems, their shapeliness accentuated by the proud posture her heels forced her into.
Molluck was so focused on the mud that her Mistressâ Shrink core gave him a start. The slightly off, fuzzy video feed of Mayvenâs powdered face gave her an almost ghostly appearance. The millisecondâs delay between her mouth moving and her words added to it.
âWhy, Monty! Iâm so terribly sorry for not being able to make it - these Fangustan contracts are far too delicate not to handle them in person. Iâm sure you understand.â
Awkwardness washed over the Glukkon husband-to-be. Talking to her like this never stopped feeling weird. âRight, right. Itâs fine, May, besides: youâll be makinâ me moolah too.â
They both shared a brief, fake laugh. Mayven fluttered her eyelashes from behind the screen, her video feedâs framerate briefly dropping from the sudden movement. âPlease, do enjoy Darlingâs company for the evening; think of it as my treat. I donât know the next time Iâll be in Nolybab, after all.â
âYeah, yeah. I donât visit my own city house all that much.â Molluck shrugged it off. It was all too common for Glukkons in executive roles to have a âwork homeâ and a âvacation homeâ, with the former often being a part of the factories they ran. It was more common in the Central Mudos Industrial Park, where the rural area could only be accessed by train.
Molluck scoffed under his breath, as something amusing crossed his mind. âHell, if I knew we were pimping out our star employees for the honeymoon, Iâd have sent mine over in advance. But I think youâre a little classy for factory fodder.â
Mayven tittered. A band of distortion passed down the screen, and the feed stuttered again. Her expression was different in an instant. âThat wonât be necessary, dear. Between you and me, I prefer my private company to be more, ahâŚâ
She trailed off, the Shrink core turning to put its remote pilotâs attention towards her servant returning. Darling had brought two drinks with her, though Molluck only recognized the foul, oily concoction she held up for him, straw at the ready.
The Glukkon made a pleased sound deep in his throat as he leaned in for a sip. It was only after he finished that the Mudokon took a drink from hers; it was a bold move on her part, when a handservant wouldnât have been allowed to even drink water while on the clock like this. As she briefly locked eyes with him, Molluck almost swore she was daring him to say something about it.
Predictably, he found the chilly look in her eye intriguing; she was a breath of fresh air from the simpering and harrowed looks of the usual fodder he bent over his desk. There was a pristineness to her - it wasnât virginal by any means, but it gave her an air of untouchability. Truthfully, the only Glukkon who was probably touching her in the first place was Mayven, and she was continents away.
Molluck waited until the Mayven-botâs proverbial back was turned, and leaned in closer to violate the crimpâs personal space. âThis couldâve been a fuckinâ videofone call, so you better make it worth flyinâ all the way out here, birdie.â
âI am worth it,â Darling answered without missing a beat.
Before Molluck could react with so much as a sneer, the Chronicler overseeing the contract signing properly called the wedding into attendance.
Glukkons and other witnesses from either side of the union filed into their reserved seats at the conference table. Molluck took his traditional spot as a groom across from Mayven, on the far ends. Only, it wasnât Mayven who was facing him in the brideâs seat.
It was Darling.
The Slig valet that Molluck brought with him held a golden pen up for his boss to replace his cigar with. Darling clicked an identical pen, at her seat. The Chronicler held the papers in one set of hands, and a traditional stamp and ink pad in the other.
âLadies, Gentleglukks, representatives of the Magog. We are gathered here today to forge a most lucrative union between two companies, and the joining of their owners in this sacred contract. By signing this contract, you are agreeing to the terms and conditions that apply to this union upon verification.â
With deliberate meandering, the slim officiate sauntered over to Molluckâs side of the table. The folded, lengthy scroll of a marriage contract was presented to the Glukkon, a spindly finger helpfully pointing out the dotted line.
âMontgomery Molluck, please sign here.â
It was only a few strokes of the pen, the sheer muscle memory involved making its importance barely register for him. What was marriage, if not another piece of paperwork?
With deliberate sluggishness, the Chronicler strode over to Darlingâs - Mayvenâs - side of the table. There was something⌠perverse about seeing a Mudokon in a Glukkonâs high-backed leather chair. Holding her Mistressâ pen, writing her Mistressâ name in a perfect copy of her signature when prompted by the officiate. The witnesses present seemed to also find it unsettling. A Conglomerate representative chuckled quietly to himself, amused by the sneers of disgust the Glukkons shared. A second Chronicler, a record keeper, scowled in the corner as he typed up the minutes of the meeting. Nobody was happy about this, but it was still going on, and it was still left unquestioned.
Molluck was starting to find he may have underestimated just how much power Mayven had, compared to him. All of this was set up by herself, even though she wouldnât be present for it. She offered to even pay for it, a borderline chivalrous gesture that Molluck would have been offended seeing a lady make for him, if he wasnât already an enormous skinflint. But she knew that already.
No, Darling knew that already, didnât she?
After the papers were stamped by the symbol of the Magog Cartel, and the tithes were collected for the witness fees, the meeting became just another investorâs social. Molluck ordered another drink. Mayven remained detached and distracted, more focused on catching up with her colleagues in the fashion industry than interacting with her freshly minted husband. That suited Molluck just fine, of course.
He relaxed in the corner of the room and sipped his black tonic through a straw, as he watched the delicate, perfectly poised crimp follow the modified Shrink around the room. Her eyes werenât dull like an overworked scrubâs. When she caught him staring, she stared pointedly back until Molluck had to be the one to avert his eyes. Ballsy little thing. She had clearly become a little too bold from working on behalf of her Mistress; exactly why Molluck never took on handservants or pets himself. He didnât like them getting cocky.
A Mudokonâs place was on the factory floor, not at someoneâs heel, or their bed. Molluck, of course, indulged with keeping his own favorites in those places himself, but hypocrisy was a known Glukkon virtue. He didnât blame Mayven for having her own little Vykker-sculpted doll to use as she pleased, but she could have disciplined the bird more. Well, that would be just one thing to bring up to his new wife.
It was going to take some getting used to, calling her that.
He wasnât sure if Darling approached him of her own accord, or by the suggestion of her Mistress, but she approached him alone.
âMy Mistress noticed that you didnât bring an entourage of your own,â the crimp observed. Molluck withdrew from the awkward lean over the side of his chair made to reach his drink.
âDidnât think it would be a fuckinâ party, if we were just signinâ papers.â
âMizz Mayven had the ceremony and the guestlist planned out many months in advance, anticipating her available attendance. So it goes with the conflicts in her schedule.â Darling looked, briefly, disappointed in her mistress.
âSo she bites off more than she can chew, and makes her bots and handservants pick up the slack.â Molluckâs shoulders shifted with his sardonic chuckle. âSome businessglukk.â
He failed to stop himself short of saying that; the drink and the odd ease of talking to the servant caught him off guard. Darling didnât look offended on his mistressâ behalf. In fact, she gave him a knowing look.
âMizz Mayven devotes her life to the sprawling megacorporation of Mayvenne Industries. But she does spread herself - and myself - thin.â She paused, and gestured vaguely to where Molluck sat on a Glukkon-suitable lounging chair. âMay I join you, sir?â
âErr, yeah sure-â before Molluck could process that there were no other seats next to him, Darlingâs meager bodyweight plopped onto his forearms. The Mudokon sat in his lap with the overfamiliarity of a street-crimp who had just been slipped a fifty.
âMy Mistress will be concluding her business and powering down her pilot core shortly. I am instructed to entertain you, as is⌠tradition, with in-person marriage contracts.â
Molluck subconsciously pulled away slightly from the invasion of his personal space. Had this been a more private, informal setting, he would have welcomed a dainty little thing like her crawling into his arms. But this wasnât a circle of cigar puffing investors fighting over the âprovided entertainmentâ like slogs; these were Mayvenâs people. And this was Mayvenâs pet.
âRrgh. Canât it wait until we get to the honeymoon suite?â
The suite in question was included in the exhaustive planning by Mayven for the occasion. Glukkon couples usually used suites and hotels to meet in person, whereas inviting a partner to your home - or Odd forbid, live together - was considered eccentric at best. They were distrustful around their own kind, but permissive of the presence of handservants and chattel. The difference being that one of these parties could be directly controlled.
Darling was not his servant, so Molluck vaguely felt like he lacked that control, in the moment. There was that feeling again: the sense that the crimp leading him to bed was the real Prima Glokka in the room. And if she was, then what was Mayven?
Every movement the handservant made was careful, poised, almost rehearsed in the deliberation of how she seduced him. Her knees barely made a dent in the mattress on either side of his elbows. She craned her neck and allowed him to unceremoniously shove his tongue into her mouth.
Her mouth was smaller than a conventional Mudokonâs; no doubt altered to make it look more dainty on her narrowed snout, or to enforce small portions when eating. She didnât gag, even if the suction-cupped Glukkon tongue would have overwhelmed a Mudokon that would have still been able to breathe around it. It wasnât too dissimilar to shoving past the stitches on the mouth of his usual whipping boy, come to think of it.
When they mutually pulled back from the kiss, there was a duller look in her eyes. That was more like it. A posh little crimp can think sheâs better than everyone else all she wants, until the festivities are over and she has to go back to being just another mud on a leash.
Molluck licked a trail of slobber along Darlingâs surgically sculpted jaw, the suction cups lining his tongue pulling at skin stretched taut over fiberglass bone. No scars or wrinkles, no wear and tear from the hardships of an average Mudokonâs life. She was a doll in every sense, save that dolls didnât move, nor take initiative to slowly undress the Glukkon before her.
Molluck let her get as far as loosening his tie before growling, âNo, no. You strip.â
Darling wordlessly obliged, pulling the hem of her short, form fitting dress up over a narrow, curveless frame. There were no visible ribs, no visible sinew or dehydrated muscle; just smooth, soft, blue skin. She had the body of a worker, but without the toning of hard labor she looked particularly weak and delicate. Vulnerable, as Molluck preferred. As every self-respecting Glukkon preferred.
Molluckâs eyes trailed down the body of the mud before him, licking at the aftertaste of a cigar that lingered in the corners of his lips. âThatâs it. Shoes too.â
That was the first time he saw the crimp hesitate. She quickly said, âIâm heeled.â
Molluck scoffed. âI know. Take âem off.â
He never really got the appeal of crippling your chattel even if it was for âaestheticsâ, but he had to deal with this uppity little bird all evening, and the flash of anxiety in her eyes was satisfying. She reluctantly slipped off the stilettos that squeezed her feet into an uncomfortable narrow wedge shape.
She wouldnât be able to walk, but she wasnât exactly going to be on her feet tonight anyways. Darling kept her feet pointed in a graceful, uncomfortable arch without the support of her shoes, the shortened tendons in her ankles forcing them into the position. It made her movements awkward, less confident; more satisfying to him, now that she couldnât somehow look down on him despite being half his size.
âGood girl. Now, pull âem out.â He glanced down to indicate the buttons of his suit, where the crotch of his shriveled body was hidden. It was rare for a Glukkon to get completely undressed for anyone, with the social faux pas that came with revealing their underwhelming anatomy. Darling eased his claspers out with a distant look that made Molluck chuckle at her expense.
âWhatâsa matter, birdie? Not used to seeinâ a pair?â
Darling blinked, and returned to the same cold, calculating look in her eye as she dared to make eye contact. âI know my way around them. Shall we?â
âSit on âem.â
Molluck leaned back, and enjoyed the sight of a willowy little mud slowly easing herself onto the soft points of his cocks, a docked hand holding them together to fit both of them into her ass. The squeeze made his eyes flutter; a tight fit without the resistance of struggle, a rare hole he wasnât forcing open. In the confines of his suit, his underdeveloped hips lifted weakly into the sensation.
Darling moved in a slow, deliberate manner, the ministrations of someone who had done this countless times. But, for whom? No doubt Mayven had this crimp do the rounds on her subordinate managers; it was common workplace culture to do so in her industry. Mayvenâs girls were well known for that already, but this was her personal mud. The only one who had no doubt seen and touched his wife before he ever could.
Molluck watched Darling ride him, and sneered at the way she still stared him down, even now. âYeah, yeah, I know I ainât May. Is that it?â
It was probably the countless surgeries that made her face so devoid of emotion. It was all centered in her stare now, boring into him despite him boring into her. She answered by slamming down onto his claspers more forcefully, drawing out a gasp from the man underneath her. Molluck let out a guttural sound, half-growl, half clearing the tar out of his throat. Darling herself was silent the entire time; no fake moans or awkward dirty talk, like a lot of crimps were taught to perform for their johns. He wasn't a fan of it, anyways. It was more authentic when they screamed, or begged.
âDo you give May the same silent treatment, or do you put on more of a show for her?â Molluck smirked when he got a silent glare in response. Darling placed her hands on his shoulders to steady herself, but it also looked a little like she was considering strangling him.
âOh câmon, Darlinâ.â The Glukkon leaned in too close for comfort, licking his lips. âYou better get used to it, âcos youâre gonna be seeing a lot more of me. Maybe youâll even end up being my first anniversary present.â
That drew no more than a soft, frustrated huff from the crimp, who focused solely on getting him off and getting this over with. Molluck wasnât going to make it any easier on her, twisting his arms under his suit to buck her off of him. âGet on the bed, anâ spread âem.â
He righted himself with a lurch, old bones creaking, wet claspers dangling lewdly out of his suit. Darling silently laid on her back, their positions essentially reversed.
Her cloaca was surgically opened, gaping hole that Molluck eyed greedily before awkwardly trying to shove a clasper in. Darling grimaced, as much as her face could allow, glaring up at the ceiling before shutting her eyes tight.
âLook at me,â Molluck growled. She only did so under his orders. Even her eyes were probably altered in some way, since they werenât the bloodshot yellow he was used to seeing in his employees. There was still a lack of fear in them that he wasnât used to; it was jarring, almost, to see in a mud. Heâll take hatred, sure, but even the most hateful of his victims still had the fear of Odd put into them whenever they were alone together.
He made sure she was still looking when he finished half inside her, the other clasper impotently squirting ink onto her pristine, pale blue stomach. It didnât get so much as a blink out of her, which was disappointing. He liked it when they shuddered in disgust afterwards.
Darling waited for him to sloppily pull out of her before letting out a soft sigh, a hand trailing down to touch the mess he left. Molluck straightened up with a creak of his elbows, stretching out as much as his suit allowed.
âAlright. Now clean me up.â
-
Videofone was still the only way to reach her; Molluck had seen Mayven in person maybe once, and that was a decade ago. It wasnât even on purpose, they just happened to be scheduled for interviews on the same show. They made smalltalk, talked shop about their businesses. Molluck flexed his yearly profits, flirting more out of social obligation rather than wanting to entice her. Mayven seemed more interested in poaching the studio staff, picking out a runt and making him take off his hat to inspect his feathers.
Molluck then spent the next fifteen years barely thinking about her, until the videofone call. A Maven that was laser focused on closing a deal was on the other end; she was making new ventures, and she was interested in his side business in selling the leather from his livestock. Business deals turned into actual conversations, conversations turned into actual flirting. She had a sharp, no-nonsense air about her that he found refreshing. A cold and calculating look in her eye that she didnât give anyone else. The public-facing May that bobbed around in her remote-controlled robots seemed very different.
Molluck was almost glad to see the real May again, in private. She was easier to talk to. Her smile seemed more natural.
âI hope the honeymoon was good for you,â The Prima Glokka purred from the other end, an ironic half-smirk curling her painted lips. Molluck scoffed, shewing on a fresh cigar.
âI sent your bird back limping. She was kind of a cold fish in the sack; I think she missed you.â
âOh, donât worry about her.â
On the other end of the call, behind the bright glare of a holographic projection, Darling twisted her expression. The small preview window of the recording showed how it translated onto Mayvenâs face; an almost perfect recreation, its flaws masked by the film grain and occasional frame drops, all added in for the sake of authenticity.
Darling mimicked the tone of his mistressâ voice perfectly, after a tweak of the voicebox used to give her a more âflatteringâ tone. The rest was all her mannerisms, all her particular inflections learned through years of being around her. It helped that not many people got to see her in person as much as she did.
âSo, now that the ceremony is out of the way, why donât we discuss business? Are we still on board for the purchase?â
âOf course,â Molluck replied, the shoddy quality of his own videofone footage being much more likely because he was all the way out in the Central Mudos Industrial Park. âGot surveyors scoping out the property next week.â
âPerfect.â Darling had to exaggerate her smile, so that it would read better on the hologramâs more expressive face. âLooks like we might be neighbors soon.â
FangBanger92: tracing art from a deceased ex friend
There's an iceberg of issues behind this person but I wanted to highlight a recent one.
FangBanger92 ( aka xFangBanger92x xFang-Banger92x etc) has laid claim to an OddWorld fan character and rather than simply create her own art of the character, she has instead traced art that was made of that character years ago by someone who used to be a friend of hers.
Worse is that he is no longer with us and he cannot defend his own work. And she knows this.
If you see this character named Lysander aka Lolli or Lollipop, just know that this piece of art, possible others, is stolen from a deceased man.
If you guys noticed that I haven't posted much lately, this is why. I was in an art block for a bit and Oddworld managed to inspire me enough to make this guy!
He lost his legs in an accident and decided to use this as an opportunity to steak from a Slig soldier and assume a fake Slig identity just to survive. He looks up to the legends of Abe from the south and wanted to make his own mark. But due to him not having the same powers, he's sort of stuck being the chauffeur for Matilda.
The Un-Queening of Abraham Lure (AKA the most important headcanon to us)
It felt right that I would be the one to articulate this idea, as it's lived in my mind for many yearsâsomething deeply personal, something Iâve carried since I was young. When I introduced @this-game-has-themes to Oddworld back in November, I chose to share this headcanon with him because I knew, instinctively, that he would understand not just the concept itself, but the emotional truth behind why it mattered so much to the story of Oddworld. This idea isn't just a passing interpretation; it is foundational to us. It shapes how we understand Abe, how we write him, and how we breathe life into every story we tell with him. For us, this isnât speculativeâit is truth. It is our canon.
The industrial exploitation of Mudokon society, particularly through the subjugation of its queens, has led to profound cultural and biological ramifications. This analysis explores that Abe, the central figure in the Mudokon resistance, was intended to be born as a "princess"âa term in Mudokon culture denoting a young female rather than implying future queenship. The industrialists' interventions, aimed at maintaining a docile workforce, have suppressed Abe's inherent identity.
Mudokon reproduction is centralized around queens, such as Sam, who are capable of laying eggs that determine the future of their society. In their native culture, Mudokons possess an intrinsic awareness of the nature of their offspring, including the ability to sense when a "princess" egg is about to be laid. This is a sensitivity underscoring the spiritual and communal bonds within Mudokon society.
However, under industrial captivity, this natural process has been grossly manipulated. Unhatched eggs are subjected to chemical interventions designed to ensure they develop exclusively into workers. This practice stems from the industrialists' fixation on supply and demand; the emergence of additional queens would disrupt the controlled production of a subservient labor force. The price of labour eggs would drop if Queens were able to hatch from them. By chemically enforcing worker status, the industrialists effectively curtail any potential for Mudokon autonomy or societal regeneration.
Despite these measures, Abe's birth (hatching) deviated from the industrialists' intentions. He emerged exhibiting characteristics indicative of a partially developed queen; most notably, newly hatched princesses are inherently more vocal than their worker counterparts, a trait that manifested in Abe's frequent crying. Sam intervened by stitching his lipsâa poignant act aimed at protecting him from punitive actions that such disturbances might provoke. He could be killed or worse; have to suffer a similar fate as her. Sam sought to safeguard Abe, as her previous daughters born had been either euthanized or sent off somewhere unknown.
The industrialists' surveillance mechanisms eventually identified Abe's atypical attributes. Upon discovery, the Interns reported their findings to the Vykkers overseeing Nursery 1029. In a desperate bid to protect her child, Sam lied and asserted that Abe was incapable of maturing into a queen, leveraging the Mudokons' reputed intuitive knowledge of their progeny's potential.
Following Sam's assurances, Abe was subjected to a regimen of chemical treatments analogous to castration, involving a combination of steroids and puberty blockers. These substances were administered to arrest any queen-like development, effectively forcing Abe's physiology and psychology to align with that of a worker. He did not grow breasts or body fat upon adulthood. His cloaca developed outward instead of inward, similar in vein to clitoral growth due to testosterone. His sexual organs remained practically undeveloped and vestigial, just like his worker brothers.
The ramifications of this intervention were profound, disrupting his emotional equilibrium and natural hormonal progression. By the time he reached maturity, Abe was rendered indistinguishable from other workers, his true nature meticulously obscured by industrialist machinations.
Abeâs unawareness of his own biological divergence persisted for much of his early lifeânot due to personal denial, but as a direct result of systemic deprivation. Slaves in RuptureFarms and similar facilities are deliberately denied any form of education surrounding anatomy, reproduction, or identity. Sexual media, reproductive knowledge, and personal autonomy are considered liabilities by the industrial overseers, as any self-awareness among workers could pose a threat to the production model. Abe, like many others, was raised in a world that deliberately obscured not only gendered knowledge, but the very idea of the body as a site of identity. In this vacuum, Abe internalized the role of âworkerâ as a default state, never questioning the nature of his own body until much later, when spiritual awakening and resistance forced him into deeper confrontation with his origins. This ignorance, manufactured by design, became another layer of the industrialistsâ controlâa form of epistemic violence intended to erase identity at its root.
Abeâs androgynyâhis coexistence of male and suppressed female traitsâplaces him in unique alignment with traditional Mudokon spiritual archetypes, many of which venerate maternal protectiveness as a sacred force. Within native Mudokon cosmology, gender is not a rigid binary but a fluid spectrum of spiritual roles and ancestral echoes. Those born as "princesses" are often believed to carry a deeper sensitivity to the emotional and psychic landscape of others, especially in their ability to nurture, intuit, and defend the vulnerable. Although Abeâs queenness was chemically stifled, this deeper maternal resonance persisted, emerging in his extraordinary empathy, his instinct to protect his peers, and his near-sacrificial commitment to the well-being of his people. The maternal spirit within him, though artificially suppressed, found expression in leadershipâgentle, furious, and uncompromisingly protective.
Abeâs experience as a biologically stunted queen does not lead him to identify as female, nor does it align him with the industrialist-imposed category of "woman." In Mudokon culture, gender is not a strict binary but a living spectrum informed by oneâs spiritual role, communal function, and connection to nature. Biology indicates purposeânot identity. Queens, for instance, are revered as mothers and life-bringers, not because they are âwomenâ in the human sense, but because they fulfill a specific ecological and ancestral duty. Likewise, workers are not âmenââthey are caretakers of land and spirit, nurturers of rhythm and harvest. Drones are not âhusbandsâ but partners in the ongoing cycle of creation, begetting new life without the hierarchical possessiveness seen in industrialist marriage structures. These identities are fluid and communal, not individualistic or gendered in the colonial sense.
The term âbrother,â often heard among workers like Abe, is a gender-neutral signifier of unity and kinship, not a marker of maleness. The industrialist colonization of Mudokon society imposed the binary framework as a mechanism of controlâan alien system designed to fracture traditional roles and force assimilation into the exploitative caste structure of the factories. Adapt, or die. Many Mudokons were forced to internalize these binaries for survival, but their ancestral culture holds deeper truths. Abe does not identify as a woman, not because he rejects his queenness, but because womanhood, as defined by the colonizers, was never his to inherit. He is not a womanâhe is Abraham. A guardian, a nurturer, a liberator. His identity transcends what was done to him, rooted instead in the deep memory of who he was always meant to become.
