With headphones plugged into his ears, Researcher Dawson leaned into his chair, his attention focused on the newspaper in his hand. A crossword partially filled out with a number two pencil; His routine every morning, from the appropriated observation tower just outside of the central web hub of the collective. 1006 was a quiet assignment, apart from the blaring music outside and the occasional thunderstorm rolling in from West Texas, and for the most part, he enjoyed it.
New posters had been "commissioned" by artists within the Foundation in order to attain more cooperative attitudes from the collective, which had been more obstructive than usual in the last few months. One particular one was ridiculous in subject; Stalin, Lenin, and a wolf spider staring off into stage right, overseeing the proud workers of the people. English text. "TOGETHER OUR STRANDS ARE STRONG!" Outside of the Observation tower, an hourly playback of the Red Army Choir's rendition of the Soviet National Anthem played, as it did every hour on the hour.
Still, the collective was quiet.
Or so it seemed. Deep within the mass of jumbled webs, dead birds, and god-knows-what that was unfortunate to tumble into the mess, a large wolf spider bundled it's legs tightly as it assuaged the offerings brought to it by it's much smaller subjects. A bit of lint here, a dead roach there, and even a stolen penny. But the Benevolent Leader was found wanting. He wanted more.
He wanted his birthright. The birthright that the people demanded. Stretching itself out across the mighty web, his movements were delicate and precise, with the right vibrations and frequencies sent across the strands relayed to various other sections by relay spiders keeping their sacred and trusted duty as they had since the first laying of the strands. As the word was received, countless spiders dropped from the trees to the forest floor below. Moving in unison, they marched onward, proudly, with the Benevolent Leader leading the charge.
Crawling up the lattice and supports of the observation deck, the spiders gathered- At least, a few hundred of them - on the window still overlooking the collective as a whole. The human was still unaware of their gathering. He would soon be doomed, as all Men shall be, the Benevolent Leader mused to himself; as he took strides forward… and was stopped, by a seemingly invisible and impenetrable force. He attempted to breach it with his fangs, to no avail.
He'd brace his legs against this obstacle, but it wouldn't budge. Dawson peered over from his newspaper, folded it neatly, and slowly rose, making his way over to the windowsill. Pad and pen in hand, he wrote briskly and placed his note up to the window.
WHY ARE YOU TAPPING ON THE WINDOW?
The Benevolent Leader froze, rubbing his palps together in thought.
Gathering up his brave comrades, they skittered up the side of the impenetrable field the bourgeoisie had constructed to halt their revolution, and with nimble and expert skill, the collected masses stood together in response.
WHAT IN THE HELL IS A WINDOW