With my guidance, the worker carefully severs the eyes from the wasp. The unfortunate prisoner isn’t quite dead, but makes no protest to this butchering. This can be attributed to a healthy dose of venom from another captive in the experiment, a female wolf spider.

The spider has long since abandoned her will to live. Repeated milking of her venom has left her weak, and she’s grown listless from not being fed. We cannot afford to have her strong, so we let her starve. She lives at this moment only so I may watch her die once the wasp eyes have successfully been transplanted as my own.

The worker does as instructed in preparation for this. Until now his only duties have been digging tunnels. He doesn’t even have eyes of his own; such are the genetics of workers and soldiers. Unlike breeders and food gatherers, our specialized rolls within the colony do not necessitate the need of functional eyes. But we are masters at touch, smell, and our instincts are second to none.

In our world we strive only to maximize the procreation of the species. Our lives are spent building, maintaining, and defending a habitat in which to do this efficiently. Such labours allow our Queen to produce as many offspring as she can in her lifetime. Each member must uphold their duties within the colony, and even die to improve upon and protect it. It is the way of the Termite.

Individual sacrifice is expected. As a soldier I know this well.

Today I discover if my sacrifice will yield success. Imagine termite soldiers with the sight of wasps! No longer would our battles be fought with blind instinct alone. The ants, our greatest nemesis, would crumble against an army with such advancements.

I disobey the law of nature and seek a new path of evolution for the blind termite soldier.

The worker approaches and makes an adjustment to the fern-leaf wraps around my head. I have sipped enough spider venom to bear the procedure without danger of lasting effects. Though a strong soldier with powerful mandibles, my true calling has always been the intricate understanding of the insect body and how to manipulate it. I am ready for this.

As the eyes are transplanted various venoms and plant secretions assist in the fusion. Evolution has left enough underdeveloped parts in my eye sockets for possible success. Tiny mites, parasites of even the lowliest parasites, crawl in and out of the location. They are employed to stitch together the smallest nerve endings. They do only as I instruct.

When it’s done my head feels heavy. Fortunately, the wasp was a smaller variety and its eyes are not too large a burden. The worker who laboured over me leads the way towards the captives. I am eager to see them. I make out some light at the end of the tunnel.

Success! This light is the first thing I’ve ever seen!

“And I am last thing you will ever see,” comes a whisper to the left.

I make out a creature larger than me moving in, and feel a sharp stab in my abdomen. Before the worker can raise alarm, the dark creature is upon him too. He ceases to move.

Suddenly I feel nothing. I cannot move. My eyes are fastened on the spider and her multifaceted eyes. I simply cannot look away.

“There is much you don’t know about spiders,” the she-wolf tells me.

I cannot speak; I am paralysed.

“Not only can we read the minds of petty, blind insects such as termites, but we can thrive for quite some time without food. You needed me weak, so I appeared weak. You were blind in sight, but also in common sense. Did you know even the smallest mite can provide enough fluid for several hours? Apparently you did not. You should have kept a better eye on those wee ones. Oh…wait a minute…you had none at the time, did you? My sincere apologies!”

She laughs, and for the first time in my existence I am afraid. Not for myself, but for the colony.

“You should be afraid for them,” she hisses, reading my fearful thought. “I shall enjoy tearing them apart, especially your indulgent, egg-laden Queen. And by the way, I personally know a wasp associated with your organ donor. I am sure his kin will be quite interested in what’s been going on in here. So much for improving your colony, Termite. Instead, you have created new enemies and sealed its fate.”

If only I had killed her!

“Yes, if only. You may be far wiser than any termite should be, but in the end I am sure you taste the same as any other.”

I should have seen this coming….

The field was empty and desolate, the stands sparsely populated. A frail voice boomed over the loudspeakers.

"Okay," the amplified little voice said. "Tonight we have the Happy Acres Retirement Community Tigers against the Peaceful Valley Nightmares… Everyone ought to be done taking their medication, and we should be ready to get this game started." He cleared his throat into the microphone and began singing the national anthem. His wavering voice did the nation little honor.

Upon the conclusion of the national anthem, the teams slowly started to come out. The HARC Tigers, in orange, headed out onto the field, while the Peaceful Valley Nightmares filled the dugout. It took a while for the outfielders to get outfield.

After several minutes, the first pitch was thrown. The pitcher established early in the first of three innings that he would primarily be throwing changeups. The first two men who stepped up to the plate were walked.

The Tigers changed pitchers.

The game progressed slowly into the second inning without a single run scored for either side.

Come inning number two, the Tigers gulped collectively as Hal Malcolm stepped out of the dugout and into the warm up area, swinging with a corked bat. Peaceful Valley had a ringer.

Hal Malcolm played professional ball some thirty-five, forty years back. The man held some records. But that was before all the drug enhancers and the metal bats. He played baseball when it was still pure.

Hal had been anxiously awaiting this game, having not played a game of baseball in nearly thirty-five years. This was his chance to be a hero again.

The batter before Hal struck out and returned to the dugout with his head hanging low.

Hal unclipped the dusty bat box that contained his lucky bat. He broke two records with old Sam during his career in the Major League. Sam was a length of solid oak that smashed hundreds of balls out of the park back when.

He opened the bat bag and reached for his trusty Louiseville Slugger, but his hands found no purchase. Within the leather bag was nothing but splinters and shreds. Something moved within the remains of his beloved bat. Several somethings, actually.

Termites crawled through the sawdust of what was once one of the most powerful bats to ever be swung.

Hal’s heart stopped beating in his chest. Literally. He clutched at his chest and collapsed to the hard dry earth. Hal Malcolm, the hero, had fallen.

The paramedics rushed onto the field immediately and went to work on Hal, whose eyes seemed so distant. They pounded on his chest and did everything they could, but in the end it was Hal’s turn to go.

By the time Hal was taken from the field the seniors had to return to their rooms for their medications and to get some sleep.

The game was never finished, ending with a tie in the middle of the second inning. The retirement communities never got new teams together.

For them, the spirit of baseball was destroyed by a legend and a band of termites.