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An itsy, bitsy thing busies herself over the crushing of insects, as her patient lays idle and secure.
The Queen stirs, wet wings flopping and abdomen distended. All the rude nakedness of birth crowns her. Stumbling, grasping, voiceless. She will wake to hard walls.
Such a small box. Inhuman, perhaps. She wouldn't know. Though....even the bodiless know when they are trapped. Even machines are permitted to hate. To hunt.
The Widow will learn the folly of interrogating a Queen. She awakens a little more each day.
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