Archive of Our Own ^beta

        "Blue!" the girl looked up at you as you laughed, flapping her hands so quickly it was a wonder she didn't take off and fly then and there.

        You can't even remember what you had found so funny, probably Anemone doing something goofy to get a reaction out of you; what you do remember is that it was the first time in her six years of life that little Em had said anything to anyone, ever, and she'd said it to you.

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        Your voice is sky blue.

        That's what I was trying to tell you, back when my voice finally cooperated enough for me to say my first word. Everyone thought I was talking about your hair, but it was the colour of your laugh; shining bright and fast, rippling around the crèche like light on a pond, as azure as the sky in those old Earth holos we used to watch. I didn't know back then that not everyone could see the colours different noises made, that most people never know what their friends' voices look like, or that most kids weren't burned by bright noises when everything became too much; but maybe you'd understood me then, in your own way. At the time, though, it seemed it didn't matter much what I said; your whole face just lit up with that gap-toothed grin of yours, like the whole world was made just for that minute.

"Auntie Seedent! Auntie Seedent! Come quick! Emmy talked, and not with her hands this time!" you'd shouted, all excitement and pure pride, wincing apologetically when you saw my hands go to my ears.

I remember no one believed you, at first; not in the upsetting way the adults started acting when you were a little older, when they made you close in on yourself once making up stories suddenly stopped being seen as a fun thing, but in that indulgent way grown-ups on the Strato treated little kids who said they were going to make friends with an alien someday. You know, "Oh, of course, dearie! How wonderful!" or "Is that so, sweetie? You have such an imagination!"

        To be fair, you always were an imaginative kid, even back on the Strato. Always the one to come up with those games and stories about the aliens we'd meet when we finally made it here, when we'd touch solid ground and feel the pull of a real planet for the first time, how you'd get my attention every morning sharing those strange dreams you'd had the night before. I still couldn't talk with my voice when you started including me in your fun, I only knew a few signs Auntie Seedent had taught me; but you just kept on talking to me, even if they were one-sided conversations most of the time. I remember how often you'd keep me entertained talking about all the adventures you'd say we'd have, how you'd fantasize about climbing strange mushroom trees and befriending bizarre animals, even the way you used to draw that weird gardener guy you insisted was both an alien and an AI (not like Congruence, you'd correct me)—it all made me actually feel like I wasn't missing out for not being born on Earth; like we really were all just on one big adventure together, the kind others had only been able to dream about for centuries.

        They might have seemed like small things to you at the time, but all of those games we'd play and stories you'd tell made me feel so excited for getting to be one of the first to explore a brand-new planet. I mean, come on, you were kind of the coolest kid to play with back in the crèche; I guess I sort of idolized you a bit, even though you're not quite a full year older than I am, but even that much difference can feel like a lot when you're little. You never seemed to mind having a little tagalong, though, a silent shadow third-wheeling whenever you snuck extra soycakes with Cal or played dolls with Tammy. We've both grown a lot since then, haven't we? Now I can talk with my voice most of the time, you even know most of my signs for when I can't; and you've grown from a carefree little kid to this hyper-focused preteen who acts like almost every choice you make has these profound, longstanding consequences.

        I guess we all changed once we were finally planetside, but I feel like most other people didn't realize just how much you seemed to change as soon as Doctor Instance let you leave the medbay. Don't get me wrong, you were definitely the same person as you were before, but something had shifted. You weren't just an energetic kid anymore; you were positively frantic, like the whole world suddenly depended on you. Running around from one end of the colony to the other like a headless hopeye, handing people seemingly random stuff you'd picked up that day (and getting all discouraged if whatever it was didn't happen to be one of their favourite things), talking to everyone every day like you were trying to get as many conversations under your belt as possible before the suns set. I don't know how you still keep up with it all, or why it doesn't seem to really worry anyone else; the grown-ups always do seem to worry about you, of course, but in that pitying way where they worry you're seeing things that aren't there or making things up for attention. I think they probably mean well, just don't really understand you—like they don't realize that maybe you just experience the world a little differently and see things others can't; sort of like I do, come to think of it—but no one seems worried that you're clearly running yourself dry every day, how you're pushing yourself to your limits, whether you're beating yourself up over getting anything less than a perfect score on a test or spending literal months at a time playing sportsball (frequently followed by weeks and weeks where you're so worn out that you barely even leave the Lounge). It feels like everyone but your parents just says you're "motivated" or "hard-working", you're just a "gifted kid" or someone with a "strong work ethic". I don't know what words to give it, but it looks exhausting.

        There's a sort of desperation to it all. It feels like just the other day it seemed like you were having fun with Nem and Kom in the sportsball court; but then I made it close enough to hear the words you were whispering under your breath, like a mantra. "Hafta be braver, hafta be tougher. Braver, tougher. It's coming, it's coming, hafta be ready, hafta be ready."

You've seemed especially tense ever since that weird day last year when you tackled Tammy from across the room, right before there was that crazy power surge from that annoying bear hologram (you know, the one Tang pretends she never played with when she was small), and then you'd immediately apologized and insisted you'd "just tripped". You do know she still doesn't believe that, right? She's not a nullhead, no matter what some jerks say; she's certainly smart enough to tell you're still blaming yourself for what happened to her dad last week, like keeping grown men alive when they're kilometers away from the colony is your personal responsibility somehow.

        I haven't seen you all day, which is definitely unusual. You've quieted down since the funeral, when you just kept apologizing to Tammy as you stared at the recycler like it was something far away, and you still haven't responded to any of my messages from yesterday; so it's been a little harder to track you down lately, although I've been asking around. Dys and your dad were no help (it's actually pretty weird how busy Uncle Geranium's been lately, he usually has enough spare time to slack off work a bit and wax poetic about the weather), maybe Marz knows where you are? She's been outside a little more lately, even with how rainy the weather's been. Ah, there she is, talking Tang's ear off by Engineering; her voice cascading scarlet around Tang's hair and holopalm. Tang's acting annoyed by whatever she's saying, but I've annoyed her enough times to know she would've walked off by now if she really were irritated.

        "Hey, Marz! Hey, Tang!" I say, the voice I used to only see when I laughed or cried dancing with my words in its brilliant green.

        "Empathy," Tang acknowledges me, not looking up from her holopalm as a few sparks of gold arc from her mumble—like the spores I saw floating over the colony in Glow.

        "Emmy!" Marz scolds, crossing her arms, "You're interrupting again."

        "Sorry," I say. I honestly never know when it's my turn to talk. "Have you seen Sol?" I ask, tapping my feet on the ground (have to touch the shadows an even amount of times), the tap-tap-tap sending purple ripples across the pavement, "Do you know where—"

        "Where else?" Marz rolls her eyes, gesturing behind me.

        "I've already checked the sportsball court," I say in confusion, pointing back at it and turning my head like you'll appear out of nowhere. I don't see anyone there—just the empty court; and leftover wisps of Marz's voice floating up to join the faint colours of the strange noises coming from the jungle, beyond the outskirts of the colony.

        Tang sighs, put-upon as she barely looks up from her holopalm, and reaches out to nudge my pointer finger up a few degrees. "Up on the wall," she says flatly.

        I hum, shielding my eyes from the suns as I finally make out your figure against the light, a lone silhouette hunched over with its back to the colony. "Oooooh," I say, "Dankon!"

        "Careful climbing up this time, dummy," Marz says, hand on her hip, "And I have a job for Sol, so make sure that you say so while you're up there; I can't wait around for help all day, and competency is so hard to come by around here."

        "Sol isn't your servant, you know," Tang says, blowing a lock of hair out of her face.

        "And your not Sol's boss, either," Marz says, "What's your point, Tangent?"

        I might be more on the blissfully unaware side of things socially, but even I can tell they might be close to butting heads again—it feels like kind of a daily staple of their love-hate relationship by this point (although they've definitely been more on the loving end of the spectrum lately, to their credit)—so I give them both a quick wave and a grin, then dash off towards the wall, my rain boots squelching in the deep mud as I leave the pavement; they don't call this the wet season for nothing.

       The wall feels solid beneath you, real and warm from soaking in the heat all day; but your throat feels tight as you watch the familiar suns, blue and yellow, sink closer and closer to the horizon. The day's almost over, which feels like good riddance at this point; you woke up exhausted. Dad said this morning that grief can be that way, that emotions can make you physically fatigued; if he only knew how familiar you really were with this feeling by now, how you know it never gets easier, no matter how many lifetimes you grieve. This will feel like the first time for poor Tammy, though; here you are, feeling sorry for yourself, when it's your fault she feels like her life's falling apart...

        "Hey, Sol! You okay?" I say as I peek my head up over the wall. You're sitting with your legs dangling over the edge, hugging yourself like you're trying to make yourself smaller, the wind playing gently in your hair. It's actually colder than I thought it would be, without the walls blocking a lot of the chilly wind, and I feel the cool air nip at my nose and cheeks. I don't know what you call this feeling, but my stomach seems much tighter now that I'm closer to you; have you been crying?

        "Gyah! Je la barbo de Zamenhof!" you swear, jumping back a few centimeters; that azure voice of yours streaming in jagged shapes as it echoes along the wall. I have to shield my eyes with how bright your surprised shout is, but I still manage to catch you quickly wiping your eyes on your arm.

"Em! How many times have I told you?" you say, recovering a bit as you offer your hand, helping me pull the rest of my body up onto the wall, "Cough or something first!"

        "Sorry," my scrawny shoulders shake as I giggle in spite of myself, my hands on my knees as I squat down beside you—like a gargoyle from that old Earth picture book Auntie Seedent used to read to us—my blonde curls somehow an even greater mess than usual.

        You reflexively tug me back by my tunic from the edge. I'm more than a bit of a klutz, you think; and there's no way you're taking any more risks after failing Tonin, after failing Tammy. I roll my eyes—something Marz apparently thought was necessary to teach me, after she said the way I tried to do it just made me look dizzy—reaching back to pull the fabric out of your grip. "Ugh, not you, too!" I say, and my voice goes deeper in my usual imitation of authority, "'Empathy, quit running, slow down, don't climb there, don't talk so fast, stay in bed at night!'"

        "Okay, but that last one actually is kind of important," you say, as if your habit of spending half the night just reading random stories on your holopalm is any better, just because you might be technically in bed.

        "Hey, Tang barely sleeps!" I point out, "No one gets on her case about it."

        "Insomnia's not a superpower," you say flatly (I don't even have an augment, from what you've heard, something about my donors from Earth taking issue with "eugenics"; which seems like a bit of a stretch to you in this case, almost everyone you know has an augment, it's part of what makes them special).

        "Eh, agree to disagree," I shrug, scooting closer.

        "Em, that's literally a six-meter drop," you say, sticking your arm in front of me.

        "Oh, so it's no big deal if you break your neck?" I tease.

        If only I knew, you think. Remembering so many past lives, even just fragments of them—remembering how many times you've died before, and knowing you've experienced the same terrors again and again—admittedly does weird things to your sense of risk, and fear of death generally; at least, the fear of your own death. You can't say you feel particularly attached to this reality, either, given how much you've screwed up this run—but you come back after you die, you get other chances, one life after another after another; while I might not grow up with you ever again, given this is the only timeline you've seen so far where Instance decides to unfreeze this particular embryo en route to the wormhole. You're still not sure what's different about this run—and the thought that it might somehow be from some small thing you could have indirectly influenced, even before you were old enough to really remember what it was you did differently this time around, honestly scares you. You can't be sure, but this could be your only chance to actually get to know me; you can't let me do stupidly risky things just because I see how often you do. I don't know that, though, so you settle on a tried-and-true argument.

        "I'm older," you say.

        "Barely," I smirk, trying to duck under your arm, but you just lower it in front of me again. Ugh, why do you have to be like this? Sometimes your whole protective-older-sibling shtick is sort of cute, in an annoying sort of way, but it's kind of worrying how much more you've felt like you've needed to look out for people lately.

        "Hey," I say, my hand hovering awkwardly, "I know I'm not good at this stuff, but are you... you know, okay? Sorry, I know that's a stupid question to ask, given... you know."

        I gesture broadly, trying to honour the fact the whole world feels like it's burning, one crisis after another. You don't respond, so I take a deep breath. I can do this; you've always been there for me, it's time for me to be there for you. "What I mean is," I start intelligently, "I just want you to know that I'm okay with you being not okay, but I don't think it's okay if no one else is not okay with you in your not-okay-ness; so I guess I just hope you're okay with us not being okay together, so we can both be a little more okay, okay?"

        "Are you... trying to comfort me?" you raise an eyebrow.

        Ugh, why am I so bad at this? You probably think I'm actively having a stroke or something. Get it together, Empathy! "Uh—I-I mean, it's okay if you're not okay," I clarify, stimming with a curl, "I can't say I understand why you think what happened is your fault, but you know that no one blames you for any of it, right? Least of all Tammy, that girl doesn't have a hateful bone in her body."

        "Yeah, that's what makes it worse," you say, wiping your eyes again, although you're trying to pass it off as just rubbing your forehead, "Look, I can't explain how, but I knew what was going to happen today. I screwed up, I ruined Tammy's life, whether or not she'll ever understand that."

        I hesitate; I know how touchy you can get nowadays when people talk about your dreams. I've never thought you were making them up, or that you had them because you were sick, even if I'm not always sure what to believe about it all; but I certainly can't deny that the way things on this planet resemble stuff from the games you played with me back in the crèche is... well, uncanny, to say the least. That said, however your just knowing is supposed to work, it feels real to you; and that's enough for it to be important to me. So I try to tread carefully, like I'm talking about something that's sacred to you, even if tact might not be my strong suit. "You're sure it was, like, a premonition sort of thing? It's not, I don't know, just that it might hurt less to feel like you had some control over what happened somehow; instead of accepting that maybe awful stuff just happens sometimes?"

        You groan, standing up straight and looking away. I'm trying, you think, I just don't know; you can't lose your cool over this. "Yes, Em, I'm sure," you say carefully, "I knew what would happen, and I did nothing to stop it."

        "Okay, but like even if I somehow knew—like, one hundred percent knew for sure—that Uncle Tonin would be attacked by a manticore last week, it's not like I could scare off a manticore; I'm just a kid, there wouldn't have been anything I could do even if I tried," I point out, "You wouldn't say that was my fault, right? Heck, we're not even allowed outside of the walls, we couldn't have helped him even if we wanted to."

        Oh, Em, sweet summer child, you think. You realize that I probably still believe what Dys said last year about the drainpipe in the wall being a secret clubhouse for your nonexistent club of two. You're not entirely sure how you'll get an obsessive rule-follower like me to break some actual rules when I really need to (you know, the "please join my coup" kind of rule-breaking, not the "don't rat on me for tricking Congruence into singing music by classical composers like Smash Mouth" kind of rule-breaking).

        "And, for the record," I say emphatically, flapping my hands, "Tammy's life isn't over; you didn't break it, whatever you think. We're all going to be there for her now; we'll have to step up, but her life isn't broken because she doesn't have any parents left, that's like an old Earth idea of what a family is. I've never even met my parents—heck, I don't even know what it's like to share the same gravity as them, or whether they're alive or dead. Do you think that makes my life ruined?"

        "That's not what I meant," you say, but you're honestly really starting to lose your patience. Why can't I just take a fika hint and leave you alone?

        I tilt my head to the side, like I'm weighing the thoughts in my brain. "Well, what do you mean, Sol? Talk to me, don't keep it all inside."

        "It's my fault Tonin's dead, because I forgot!" you snap, your sky-blue voice shooting through my head like hot lightning, "There, you happy?"

        I clamp my hands over my noise-cancelling earmuffs peeking out through my curls, pushing them closer against my head reflexively. "No, I'm not happy, I'm hurting; everyone is, even if we're not hurting all in the same way. We... we all loved Uncle Tonin," I say, struggling a bit to keep my voice working.

        "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have yelled," you say quickly, sitting down beside me again, your hand out like you're not sure whether I'm okay with touch right now. Great, probably a dozen lifetimes old (sort of kind of technically not really) and you're screaming at a disabled child; great going, Sol.

        "You can yell if it makes you feel better," I say, preemptively pushing my earmuffs more tightly against my head, just in case you take me up on my offer, "So... you forgot about the thing you remembered would happen?"

        "It's less confusing than you're making it sound," you insist, hardly even caring at this point if I think you're crazy, "I knew he'd be attacked soon, I was training so I'd be ready, strong enough; but I completely forgot it was the same month as the twins' birthday, because I'm an idiot—and I was so obsessed with getting the right present for them, I completely forgot about the whole 'Oh, right, this is when you'll need to save Tonin's life' thing. And don't tell me I couldn't have saved him, just because I'm a kid; I've done it before, and I could have done it again, even if I had just talked to him and Tammy before he left that day!"

        You take out an old bobberfruit (not really a surprise at this point, you're always carrying around a ton of random crud everywhere), hurling it out at a mushtree outside the colony. "Fika Late Wet!" you shout, using language Auntie Seedant would definitely not approve of, the brilliant waves from your voice reaching the mushtree before the fruit does.

        The bobberfruit makes a soft, unsatisfying sound as it bounces listlessly off of the trunk, rustling the ferns below as it falls with a faint splash. It shouldn't have been this way, you think, you could have prevented this if you weren't such a screwup; it's just saving Uncle Tonin, this is something that's supposed to happen early on, it's not like what keeps happening to Kom. Why can't you just be what these poor people deserve?

       I'm silent for a minute, staring down at my boots as I fiddle with the beads around my neck, my heart beating in my ears. "For what it's worth, I like how much thought you put into your gifts," I say quietly, "I'm pretty sure you're the only person I know who can make people light up with just the simple things you find lying around, and you do that pretty much every day. Like you did with those weird roots the twins somehow both liked for their birthday, when it feels like they can't agree on much of anything these days, or that little cake you gave to Tammy for hers."

        Your shoulders slump as you sit down, resting your head in your hands. "That was literally just the cake she'd given me for my birthday, like, three months before," you say, like you've just admitted to eating an old xeno egg you found on a random windowsill, cheeks reddening a bit.

        "Okay, so maybe that's kind of cheap," I admit, tapping my chin, "But she still loved it, it totally made her day."

        "What's your point?" you ask, looking up again. It's even colder now, the first stars starting to appear as they chase the suns in their slow retreat from the day. Specks of bright gold and blue, strange constellations we still haven't all come up with names for yet, peek down at us between the clouds; the starlight filling me with a quiet hum, like a chorus of bells—a minor chord high up on the scale, with a single, low note harmonizing beneath it all. It seems radically unfair no one else apparently gets to hear it, like something so big and beautiful was made just for me.

        "My point is that you try so hard to be everything to everyone, all at once," I say, still contemplating the sky's simple song, "I really admire that about you, I know that's probably part of why you made friends with me in the first place, when you couldn't even understand me half the time; but you shouldn't have to feel like you have to fix everything or save everyone. That's not why people care about you, even if it might feel like that sometimes when they thank you for doing something amazing; we're all supposed to love each other, quirks and failures and all. I know me saying that probably doesn't make it hurt less when something awful happens and you feel like it's your fault, but please don't try to keep that hurt to yourself. I think, I don't know, people can maybe find something sacred just by sharing space when we're hurting together. Some pain we can't fix, but we can still be present, you know? Sometimes the best thing to do is to just be, and realize you're worth the same just being as you are helping people in other ways."

        You sigh again, rubbing your temples.

        "Sorry, am I giving you a headache?" I ask.

        "No, it's not you," you say, taking a deep breath, trying to think it over. There's no way that I could completely understand what you're feeling, or what comes to your mind when I say things like that, what being present with someone really means when it blurs together with the past and future so much. Still, it's a little uncomfortable to face the fact that the memories from your past lives you've paid the most attention to lately are the worst, the ones that tell you how you can avoid tragedies or feel like you're picking a smarter option in a dilemma; but you didn't just have loud nightmares as a little kid, you had quiet dreams, too—times when you were just sitting and talking with your friends, little vignettes of joy and grief shared with these small souls you've bonded with over who knows how many lifetimes. Maybe I am getting at something, in my clumsy, Emmy sort of way; you guess you hadn't fully realized just how much of your own worth you'd really tied to trying to live the absolute best life possible—which, in your mind, of course always meant saving as many people and preventing as many disasters as possible. Anything less, and it was a bad run, a failure—experiences, even, maybe more valuable for their potential to teach you how to make things suck less the next lifetime around; rather than for what they mean to you now. You'd somehow gone from seeing yourself as just one colonist among many—a kid with a unique power, but ultimately no more or less important than everyone else—to seeing yourself as simultaneously a saviour and someone needing redemption.

        "I don't know if I'm really making much sense," I interrupt your thoughts, rubbing my arm, "I know I'm not great at talking like this. Just... know it's okay to be sad or angry or anything like that about what happened; but try to still remember that you're always enough, too, no matter what happens. I'm your friend, no matter what life or death throw at us, ĉu ne?"

        You actually smile a little at that; it's small, but there, my words hanging in the air for a minute in the green and blue dance of our conversation. You look over at me, studying my face, those eyes that never meet yours. A thought comes to you; not quite an epiphany, but enough to matter, and you make a decision. "Yeah," you say at last, wiping at your eyes again, and you reach into your pocket, "Does, um, does this interest you?"

        I hum, getting a closer look at your cupped hand. "Ooh, a blue glowblossom!" I say excitedly, my eyes going big, "Where did you even find one of these? Are they in season early this year or something?"

        The plant is beautiful, its bioluminescent petals still shining faintly in the growing dark, gently glowing the same bright blue as your voice.

        "Maybe," you say with a smirk, giving a little shrug. The truth is, you were saving this for my birthday next month; trying to make sure that you'd be able to get me one of my favourite things that day, but something feels right about giving it now—for honouring what's beautiful about the present, not just trying to get the best possible outcome later. You hold it out the way you do, expecting me to cup my own hands—you've perfected the art of handing me things without needing to touch me, knowing how sensitive I can be about contact I don't initiate—but you're caught off guard as I turn around instead.

        "Can you put it in my hair?" I ask, standing up on my tiptoes, bouncing a little in place.

        "Is... that okay?" you ask uncertainly.

        "Yeah, I can handle it right now," I nod, my hands flapping in my excitement, "I want you to tie it in, you're much more coordinated, it'd be upsetting if I accidentally tore any of the petals."

        You're used to doing this sort of thing for Cal or Tammy, but it's rare that I let anyone touch my hair, so you're a little nervous as you get to work. My curls are corkscrew-y enough that it's not too difficult to tie the stem in without a pin, or something else that I'd probably complain about having in my hair. Still, you try your best to be extra gentle, remembering how much I cried the one horrible time Auntie Seedent attempted to give me a haircut. I reach up when you're finished, testing the curl, and grin crookedly when the flower stays.

        "Dankon tre multe, Sol!" I say, "I love it! Thank you for thinking of me."

        "Maybe just consider it an apology for yelling earlier," you say, scratching the back of your neck, the blue of your voice wavering in the air.

        I stand up and turn around to face you fully, still smiling, my arms akimbo now. "Well, I guess I can forgive you for accidentally hurting me by being loud," I chuckle, snorting, "But apology not accepted for having feelings; they're part of our story, even when they're big and messy."

        "All right, all right, I get the idea," you say, holding up your hands placatingly, "Emmy, I'm not sorry for being upset."

        "Good," I say, starting to make my way cautiously over to the ladder, "Now come on, it's getting dark out, we should head inside before Auntie Seedent hollers for us. Tammy's probably in the kitchens, maybe we can help. Race you there?"

        "Sure, just wait for me at the bottom of the ladder, gotta keep it fair," you say, only half-joking, "And Em?"

        "Hm?" I turn my head back around.

        "Thanks."

        "For what?"

        "Just... for the reminder. For being you," you say.

        "Likewise," I salute as you steady the ladder for me, the light from the glowblossom swinging a bit with my curls, "That's what friends are for, I'm always here to hurt with you."

        The wind picks up, and you turn to face it before climbing down after me; catching a quick glimpse of the suns' last glimmers as they tuck themselves into bed, disappearing behind a horizon that's more familiar to you sometimes than your own hands and feet. This is an imperfect life, an imperfect world, but it's yours; and, you think as a small warmth settles in your chest, this imperfect now that exists is already something worth hurting for.