First Fanfiction since ever. Hopefully I'll be able to continue this thing so a lot of things here make sense.
Fuse, and fuse, and fuse, until there was nothing left to fuse with.
Multiple gem fusions beyond eight were widely considered to be the ultimate form of taboo, which ultimately brought them to greater, and greater public curiosity. After all, if you wish to get people interested, tell them to never do something. And so, octahedric fusions and up became the talk of sub-intricates, basics, and other lower to mid class folk. Some were certain they've seen it, in crystaline houses worn smooth, flailing masses seen in windows that were supposed to be closed. Others thought the concept of it was impossible, but still, despite their supposed nonbelief, continued to talk, and talk, and talk about it. Sill others said they tried it, some stating that, while it was fun, they wouldn't ever do it again for reasons unheard of, others saying they barely made out of it without the memetic thoughts of other gems whispering into their ears.
In essence, nobody knew what was going on, and had trust in the Administrators to prevent this problem from spreading. They'd dealt with similar perversions, similar disgusting things that had no place in the Grand Society they would all be living in. Empathetic, Perverted, Misshapen, Diseased, and Uneducated folk were properly dealt with, and who could blame the Administrators? After all, they do such ignorant, dangerous things like octahedric fusions...
However, a select few, some dumb, some desperate, some depraved, felt like it was their only option.
One, an intricate-class artisan, smiled happily as she stood in the center of the room, practicing and working on her pirouette. After having fused with a single gem for the longest amount of time, she had found herself abandoned, however, she still heard and felt the slightest wisps of consciousness in her addled, effectively split in two mind. She had fused voraciously with others since then, sometimes for around seventy-two seconds, others for up to three months. Nothing, however, could scratch her itch. Nothing could bring her back to the feeling of being whole, and maybe, hopefully, a more desperate measure could fix her.
Another, a basic-class worker, flat nosed, dull eyed, and grinning stupidly, watched in the corner of the room at the nervous, worried, and feverishly practicing eight others. She calmly held a torch to the side of her head, making her red, rough, and unpolished skin glow a bright, white-yellow color. Frying her silicon-built mind, she felt calm and collected. Forever chasing the dragon, she figured this would be a satisfying enough high. Her body was to be dismantled soon, melted down to become part of a Kindergarten, so, why would she worry about her consciousness?
A few three were grouped together, two figures, one masculine, and the other female, huddled up and nuzzling each other close, desperate for warmth. If the two started to do the introductory steps of a dance, the third would stomp on whatever extremity was available to her. A former triptych themselves, the two had notably awful cases of post-fusion anxiety, the third happy to exploit. She was barking orders at the two, pointing to random gems in the nine pointed, ashen colored room that she demanded they fuse with, the two nodding their heads but wishing they had the ability to shake their heads. Forced fusions, and rampant fetishists with a habit, they were already an example of the depravity that the new Administrators wanted to stamp out. So, they treated this like if it was Rome's last days, one final burst of defiant, hedonistic pleasure before they're forced to be Scratched, melted down, or otherwise be made moot.
The other four, various rough-class semi-morons, weren't there for their intelligence, their good looks, or their personality. They were simply there to add bulk to the fusion. They'd probably end up with a case of PFA, and definitely end up forcibly shattered due to the crime of disobeying a direct order of health from the Intricate Administrators, but, however, their urge to follow orders stuck with them strongly. They were warming up themselves, roughly hewn, tribal figures made with a minimal amount of material dancing in jerky, awkward ways, a side-affect of having poorly molded joints, cheap, unpolished ball and sockets clicking as they formed a slowly rotating circle. (Or oval. Keeping proper formation was not their strength.) Sometimes, they'd eye the higher class gems, keeping a big, wide, plastic smile with misshapen teeth, eyes black as sin with eggshell-white dots focused on ideal targets. The submissives would avert their gaze, the Intricate would misstep to turn away, the Basic would simply stare back with milky, unfocused eyes, but the dominant refused to acknowledge them. One of them licked their lips.
The group would awkwardly stall, and waste time, until finally, the abuser grabbed the feminine gem by the hair, tugging on her golden glowing locks and slowly pulling her towards the basic-class. The basic class smiled wide, taking her hand and starting to forcibly lead her into a sort of waltz. One-and-two-and-three-and-a-four...
The steps were developed, rather cleverly done, especially for a basic class, the instigator assertive so that the partner had no choice but to follow in perfect step to avoid a dislocation or otherwise marring of beauty. Choosing between bent, useless arms and legs or an unwanted fusion, the feminine accepted the cheaply built worker.
Spurred on by the now mixing form, the semi-morons pulled the abusive Sub-intricate into their circle with plenty of protest. However, she was far from built for strength, and they could lift girders onto their shoulders. They'd continue their dance, a stray arm, leg, or torso always there to keep the dominant in the circle. Then, they began to pick, the Sub-Intricate's fragile crystalline structure steadily snapping apart with even the slightest bit of stress, hands taking away fingers, delicately pulled and modified additional structures peeling off with the slightest tug, engravings coming away as they continued their dance, their skin slowly becoming marbled with the amber-orange of the Intricate, their own arms steadily melding together, the circle becoming a wall of melded, half formed bodies, stained and streaked with a slowly growing splatter of orange. It was simple fusion, crude fusion, a rough melding and mashing together of bodies. No dance, no art, no romance, just simple cannibalism until the dominant was barely anything, the walls of flesh and limbs melting into each other, struggling to take form. A trunk-sized limb would sprout from one area, only to recede as the mass lifted itself with a spiralling, multicolored pillar, the colors bleeding together and steadily turning a sick, unhealthy looking black-brown.
The masculine gem, two paces from the door, watched as the taller form of the fused worker and feminine intricate dug its multiple limbs into the semi-solid, glistening blob, attempting to do the same waltz. It was almost comical, really, the masculine gem barely stifling an uncomfortable laugh as she watched the blob collapse on top of the more stable fusion. There was a lump in the middle of the blob, and then, steadily, the lump melted and spread throughout it. The Intricate, seeing beauty in the glossy, throbbing blob as the colors of the previous two shook through it like ripples in a pond, did one last dance, an old favorite, with simple steps, one she learned a long time ago when one didn't necessarily need complex and acrobatic steps to attract a partner. She thought about her other half as she danced and circled around the blob, until her foot was caught and she fell in, feeling the slightest bit of relief in her head as her consciousness joined seven desperate others.
As seven became eight, the masculine felt disgusted, looking towards the door. Hands shaking from the thought of being without her two thirds, she cradled herself as she went to the exit, before turning around to see the large, empty black void churning around the room, dark as night sky. She wondered if it would be comfortable. No need to manage her PFA, no need to find a new partner before she'd be considered unfit and be Cracked, there would be no more work in the foundry deep below the glittering, crystalline lights. She wouldn't need to worry about a great warrior being considered MIA in a backwoods planet. She wouldn't have to worry about war, or death, or training, or being an upright citizen or a Crystal sympathizer or...
She noticed she was already knee deep and getting deeper, watching as her green melded in with the black. Oh well, maybe it'd be nice if the other eight did the thinking for her.
And so, nine became one, the blob pulling and tugging at every angle to do something, to escape, but ultimately, it found its body and each mind was unwilling to cooperate with each other. It crawled up the walls, becoming a coat of dark, dripping paint in the confines in the small slum-house. Nine became one, and then one became nothing. Nine unwanted Gems, some only a month or so away from being considered unfit for being citizens, were forgotten. Workers were replaced, other Semi-Intricates were trained, and other Artists fell into the spotlight. Gem Society was stronger than before, and all it took to remove a few outliers was the act of telling people not to do something. An Intricate Artist smiled wide as she saw the news report on a screen by her desk. She wondered if this would mean an additional raise for herself, or potentially an official letter commending her efforts from one of the Precious gem's. She smiled herself sick until her desk beeped loudly, signifying that she hadn't been working for more than the allotted time. Opening up her pad again, she began working on another plan, another gimmick to further strengthen her society, and she couldn't have been happier doing so. She felt no sorrow for the gems that had been forced into such a bitter scenario, having no mouths, yet begging to be able to scream. She knew everything was going to be okay, the Intricate Administrators wouldn't dare ruin their perfect, organized, faceted society.
All was well, and all would be better.