There is a place in some cities. Usually in countries that are quite poor, ruled by people with rather unpleasant views on the rights of men, and women in particular, or just led by plain idiots. These places have boxes where the unwanted children can be deposited. Children born because cruel idiots willingly ruin the lives of the innocent. Children born because they have a destiny, and thus no force in the universe can prevent their birth. Or just children that in better situations could be loved, but because of complex reasons outside the control of the common man, there won't be a place for them at the home of their parents. All these infants are taken into the warm, comfortable, soft box. And then someone on the other side takes them and gives them a chance at life. In some places, these boxes are run by charities, by religious organizations, or state-owned hospitals. But in some rare, out of the way, places, these boxes are run by us. We take in all manner of children, mortal, immortal, of mixed mortal-immortal parentage. And give them all the love we can.

In the old days, this was simply something we did upon finding an abandoned babe in the woods. We took them in, raised them among our own children in our hallowed halls. But in ages past, the world changed and we had to make a deal; a powerful and important deal with powers that cannot easily be toppled, in order to remain attached to this reality. Now we take in all of those who cannot safely stay in the realm of the mortals. All of those who would be without home and life should they not be safely kept in our bright home; they are raised to live with us, and if they so desire, we can even upon their ascension to adulthood make them like us. Otherwise, we give them wealth, magic blessings, and a portal out of our pocket-reality. But they are of course always welcome to return and visit the hive, whenever they so desire.

In the hive they are raised by us. We teach them the language of the Hive and of their home or kin. We teach them of our history and of theirs. Of the numbers, the medicines, the plants, the making of nutrients most pleasant, and of the care for the ill and the young. Many who leave our halls seem to find homes as nurses and caretakers in the realm of mortals. Here, fleshy humans play and learn alongside the moon-bonded Lupines, the unwanted mixling-whelps of the dwindling dragons find a place here as do such elves that are deemed unworthy by the capricious leaders of that race. And our children, the brood of our eggs, are enriched by such a diverse and fascinating group of friends. I pass through the Hall of Boxes, where the bright shining orange lights keep the unwanted spawn of the other-realms warm. Today there are but few active amongst them, and I have been sent to collect from one of them. I hum-buzz a calm-speaker song that was taught to me when I was but a small larvae, and it is such splendor in the tones that the infant inside the box gurgles happily. It does not fear the sight of me, though to its human eyes I must look quite the stranger.

Picking up the warm thing, I look for any sign that the parents left something for them. It is a commonly seen practice, that some people leave a little note for the child, for when they come of age. A hasty explanation, an apology, or just a note assuring them that they wish them luck, and love. Besides the infant, wrapped in a silken shroud, there is nothing. It is an empty box. Hum-buzzing as I walk, I turn towards the nursery of the hive. There they go at first, when they are too small to think, or still eggs in need of hatching. When they can think and walk, they go to the schooling halls. But there will be many turnings of the golden wheels of time before the one I carry shall leave the place where I now walk. I pass by some of the drones, who seek to cleanse the boxes for the night. It must be done. And it is a job they do well.

The walls of the nursery are adorned with many unusual colors. Years ago, one of our children, who ate the joining-honey and became of us in flesh and chitin, spoke eloquently about the importance of colors for the young. They remade the walls, floor, and ceiling with a furious energy, and made it the most vibrant part of our home. Personally, I like it, though many of us find that it can get distracting, and we sometimes have to remind the drones of their tasks, lest they spend all day guzzling food and staring at the intricate artwork. ''Hatch-Director Ma-En-Tal. Last child for the night?'' I nod at Jennifer. She has also accepted the joining-honey, but she prefers to use her chosen name, rather than the traditional hive designation. There is room for individualism, if it does not hinder the efforts of the hive to grow, or to become stronger. ''Human male. Recently hatch-birthed. Dimensional box 62-TA. No observable geas, preordained destiny, or Doom placed upon the child. No personal items beside one silken shroud, colored purple, color hex code #66023C. I've sung the hum-buzzing to him, and I have listened well to the way the sound passed through his body; no health issues, though he might get hungry soon.'' The young scribe-hiver nods, and writes down with joy the information. ''Last one of the night?'' I nod and flutter my wings with relief. It has been a long day. It will be good to sleep.

But first, I walk into the nursery's feeding area. The human babe twists curiously, and perhaps it smells the special nutrient jelly that is prepared for such as him. Perhaps he simply wants what we cannot give, his blood parents. Whatever the case, he eats happily from the offered jelly. As he is fed by my work, my single-mind thoughts, those that are mine and mine alone, outside the Hive's collective, begin to wander. Long ago, when I was new at this task, merely a recently grown caretaker, I used to think of those who could have possibly left behind these infants. What manner of story would result in a dragon egg being left in the warm box. Why would the last spawn of the sirens be laid into one? Who had been so busy running, that they had had to place a demigod or a half-angel in there? This child is to me odd. It came from one of our least used boxes. One that opens to a land of plenty. A place where there should be every opportunity to keep a child for themselves. Who would leave a perfectly healthy baby in our care. We get more sickly children, who are not expected to survive. But in our care all illnesses can be cured. And thus, none who might have died in their worlds are ever lost here.

The child is done, and fed well. The feeding leaves them tired always, and while hugging the small form close to the front of my thorax, I seek out an empty nest-crib. He needs rest, and so do I. Close to my cell in the honeycomb structure of our home, there I find a suitable resting place for the small human. Tomorrow, the nurses will name him, as we do to all those who we do not know the birthing-name of. But for now, this child will rest. And so will I. It is not a rule to place the children that you, yourself, have found close to your own sleeping-pod, but most of us who work with them tend to make sure that we are close to those that we ourselves have extracted from the boxes. I place the child down on soft warm cloth, and place upon his body a healthy and strong spider-silk duvet. The crib closes, and the child watches me through the sugar-spun glass, until his eyes close, and his breathing becomes the calm regular breaths of sleep. The crib is enchanted to warn us, should anything unusual happen, but it rarely, if ever does when they contain humans.

My own sleeping-pod beckons, and I succumb easily to its kind embrace. As I sleep, I dream. We did not always do so, but the children did, and in dreaming here, in this place, the idea of dreaming seeped into the walls and the foundations. Now our kind dream, and even if we sometimes find it hard to deal with these many children of many worlds, the ability to dream is something worth all the trouble we've ever had a thousand times over and a thousand times stronger. It, second to the joy we feel upon seeing our outworld-children learn to love us as we love them, is the greatest gift we've received because of this specific deal.