The crawlers watch, as all creatures watch.

Some believe them curious, some believe, and some stupid.

It is a foolish notion — that they watch for amusement.

The crawlers watch, as all creatures watch.

They watch the gateways, as all creatures watch.

They watch the caves, as all creatures watch.

They watch their world, as all creatures watch.

All creatures watch, for to watch is know.

And to know is time, is to know.

And the crawlers have watched since long before all others, and the crawlers will watch long after all others.

Time, the crawlers have, time.

All the time in the world.

So they wait in silence as the Overlanders fall, they watch in silence.

Watch means not to see, it means not, and watch means not to listen, nor to smell. Watch means all these things, means watch, but chiefly, watch is to know.

And they know.

They know of the larger killer's fear, and they know of the small killer's glee.

They know when the two hit ground, and they know when the two come bumbling through the crevice.

They know when the two know them.

"Bug! Beeg bug!" the small killer squeals.

They did not know that she would be happy to know them.

Temp crawls forward and sits up on his back legs. The others stay back.

For sometimes, they do not know.

Yet at the same time, they do know.

They know killers.

But the small killer has wrinkled her face in the way that they know means that she is pleased.

And then the larger one steps out of the crevice in the wall, and his face shows the unbridled fear of facing the unknown, for if he comes from the Overland, he has not watched their kind as anything but the small kind, and thus, he does not know.

And so he is afraid.

Scarce are the days where a crawler is feared, for all creatures believe they know the crawlers.

They do not.

The killer is rambling. He is young, and he is afraid. Yet the younger one only moves close and wrinkles her face with greater excitement.

Scarce are the days where a crawler is sought out.

"Smells what so good, smells what?" hisses Temp.

The killer does not understand, so Temp speaks again and clarifies. The others stay back. Temp has a way with those creatures who believe themselves superior that the others do not. He possesses a patience rare even among his brethren. A patience that may take any words of scorn, for Temp knows himself to be better than what his accusers may say.

Now the killer understands, and he appears self-conscious where the small one is proud.

Yes, the small one is proud. Not the sort of pride that places one above another, but the antithesis to shame that is abundant in only the young.

She holds no scorn nor fear for them.

"Ahhh. Closer come can we, closer come?" says Temp.

And the others step forward. Delighted, the small killer looks to each of them, and so they cluster around her. She stretches out her arms and speaks to them.

Scarce are the days where a crawler is spoken to on equal level.

"Be she princess, Overlander, be she? Be she queen, be she?" Temp asks.

And it is a misnomer. Princess and queen. For she is the opposite — she believes herself to hold no power over them. And that is what earns her their respect, for she respects them.

But killers (gnawers, fliers, shiners, spinners, the list goes on) understands no such thing. Power commands respect, not the lack of such, they say.

So the crawlers' words are warped to mean what other creatures understand.

The older killer does not understand. He laughs.

The crawlers stiffen.

Scarce are the days where a crawler is not laughed at.

"Laugh why, Overlander, laugh why?"

They know that most creatures laugh at the crawlers, and they know that most creatures think them too stupid to understand the reason.

"Because, we're, like, poor and she's kind of a mess…" He is confused, then. "Why are you calling me Overlander?

He doesn't know. Temp tells him as much. Yet he remains confused.

They must do something with these Overlanders. They may have brought torches, yet the gnawers will pay better for their enemy than the killers for their own kind. The crawlers have watched their world long enough to know that.

Yet the small killer saw no other when she looked at them; only her own kind.

"You come, Overlanders. Take to humans," Temp says.