Chapter Text
Grace shot straight up.
Carl.
He remembered him now.
"You know who you are. You'll figure it out."
It was him. No wonder he woke up with a million and one Skittles on the ship and four bags of Twizzlers and a pair of stupid sunglasses and a billion other things.
But Grace had never known where it had come from. But know he knew. And now he knew that he had to go back. To make amends, to reconnect, even if it may be 30 years late.
He yanked on his cardigan and unfolded the xenonite suit from his drawer. He clumsily stepped inside it — xenonite wasn't exactly the most flexible material — and trudged out the door.
He ran to Rocky's bundle of rocks he called a house and banged on the makeshift door. "Rocky! Rocky, open up!"
"What do you need?" Rocky said from behind him (how the fuck did he get there?)
Grace spun around and fell to his knees in front of his arachnid friend. "I remember them. All of them." Tears fell down his face as he crumpled further and further into the sand.
"Carl, Lokken, Stratt… I remember all of them."
Rocky tilted forward in shock. "What do you remember?"
"He'd said… he'd-" Grace hiccoughed and shook against Rocky. ""You know who you are. You'll figure it out." That was him! He left the stupid Skittles and the glasses and the Twizzlers… it was all him…"
"What is a Twizzler?"
"It's- not important."
Grace stood up, scrubbing the dirt off of his knees. "I have to go back. You said they repaired my ship? I have to go back, please."
Rocky tapped against the floor. "Are you sure? I don't want you to do anything rash —"
"You told me to think about it. I have. For thirty years. I've made my mind. Please, Rocky, please!"
The crashing waves from the faraway biodome slurred the silence.
"Give me a week. We'll have it ready by then. It'll be a long trip; you sure you can survive so long by yourself?"
"Yeah. I'll —" he wiped his nose on his sleeve and sniffled. "I'll be okay. Thanks. For everything."
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A week came and went. Grace spent the days packing, pacing, panicking, and bursting into tears as every little memory surged through his head.
Finally, the day of launch arrived.
He started as the Eridians dragged Armando and his luggage aboard. Next to him, Rocky was fidgeting.
"Grace?"
"Yeah, pal."
"Thank you. You have given us everything."
Grace looked down as he felt a warmth snake around his ankle. A hug. His eyes watered as he bent to Rocky's level.
He circled his own arms around the xenonite-covered carapace and pulled Rocky as best he could towards him. "No. You gave me everything. I would've gone insane on that ship if it weren't for you. Thank you."
Eventually, Adrien scuttled over. "Grace? Ship ready, statement."
Grace looked up. The Hail Mary — or whatever parts of it survived reentry through Erid's atmosphere, was patched with xenonite to a ship similar to the Blip A.
"Aim to leave now. Can wait Iλ minutes before time go."
"They means 30.76 Earth minutes. They're not quite used to Earth yet."
"I don't blame her," Grace shrugged. "I barely understand Earth anymore, I doubt I'll understand it when I get back."
"Do you want to wait?" Rocky tapped one leg on the dirt.
"Waiting will just make it harder to leave. I've made peace with it, pal."
"Last time you said that, you didn't mean it."
Grace laughed. "I'm serious this time. Promise. Fist bump?"
"No."
"Tiny fist bump?"
"No."
Grace smiled. He extended one arm, and rubbed his fist against his forearm. "Goodbye."
About 50 Eridians mirrored him. Some chirped sorrowfully, some others were fully thrumming in melancholy.
Rocky was the only silent one.
Grace sat and braced for his ship to rip through Erid's atmosphere.
He was sat in the Hail Mary portion of the ship. He just hoped that the metal wouldn't —
. ⋆ ✮ ⋆ .
"Grace!"
"No hear heartbeat."
"Grace, please…"
"Rocky."
"Wake up, Grace. Wake up."
. ⋆ ✮ ⋆ .
Erid, for the first time ever, was completely silent. Even the waves had ceased their efforts, completely still and hushed.
They watched as Rocky tore Grace's crumpled, brittle body from the wreckage in charred clumps. His fox sweater was stringy and detached at the seams, and his hair fell into the grains of sand and dirt beneath the steaming rubble. The beige sky glistened against the scalding metal. Almost tauntingly, the xenonite was in near perfect condition.
. ⋆ ✮ ⋆ .
Rocky walked back and forth between the biodome tunnels for hours, picking up all of what was left of Grace and leaving it in the small cottage, the closest to home he could rest.
This was his home now, even when he didn't want it to be.
Why didn't Rocky think to tell him? He always believed that Grace knew everything. But he didn't. Neither did Rocky, actually.
Goodbye, Ryland Grace.
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Carl couldn't escape him. Ever.
He could hear his voice late into the night. He could feel his presence in every sip of alcohol. He could see him in every mirror, in every dark hallway, in every dream. The stupid part — he always believed it at first. He always believed that Grace was truly there, that he even wanted to come home.
He was always going to be a hopeful idiot.
Some of the dreams were at the cafe, drinking the tasteless, amorphous, somehow still crap coffee until he distorted and rotted and crumpled and screamed. Some of the dreams took place in his own kitchen, with his vibrant plants named Tom or Lila or something, and the grey cat (or was he actually orange?) and the weird lack of whiskey bottles along his counters, until he distorted and rotted and crumpled and screamed. Or when they'd be in the lab and they'd be setting up the Venus box until he distorted and rotted and — yeah, you get the idea.
So, he started refusing to sleep, not willing to face his mistakes.
It had been about two days — or maybe it was just one night — and Carl was absentmindedly stood by the deep fryer, tossing in the same batch of chicken nuggets over and over as he stared at the brick wall.
He hadn't believed that he would've actually pulled of a night with no sleep. He was both drunk and hungover at the same time, and he hadn't even slept (is it possible to get hungover without sleep?)
"Hey, Carl?"
He was such a jackass. Why couldn't he have just left after the Project got taken to the fucking ocean? Better yet, why did he sign up at all? Stupid Carl. Stupid, stupid Carl.
"Carl, are you alright?"
He should've just killed himself. He should. He should kill himself, like how he killed Grace. He didn't care then. Why would he care now?
He had no immediate family. He didn't even have a dog.
He was just some stupid man in his sixties working at a McDonald's with rotting plants and a cat carcass in his garden and a flask in his pocket at any time, flipping the same chicken nuggets seventy times in the deep fryer and ignoring his superior. Who even was his superior? —
"CARL!"
Carl jumped, lurching forward and tripping on his own foot. His forearm tipped into the scalding oil, immediately blistering a patch of skin on his right arm. With the basket laying forgotten on the floor, he pushes himself off the hot metal and yells in burning pain.
He recoiled backwards, slamming into the workstation like a cartoon and sending it crashing to the floor.
Janine stilled in shock, staring at the state of ruin in front of her. Why do they keep hiring such stupid, incompetent stoners?
"Go home, Carl."
Carl stood, cradling his arm, and drove himself home.
He was shocking his scabbed arm under freezing cold water when his phone buzzed with an email.
He tapped the screen awkwardly with his elbow and read the preview.
"TERMINATION — EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY. Dear Carl, we regret to inform you that, after recent work-related incidents, you have been effectively let go fro…"
Stupid Carl.
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Hey. Me again. Colt. You know who I am.
Who am I even talking to? Myself, I guess.
I kinda forgot about this. I made a Thai stir-fry that night, if you were wondering (no, you weren't.) It's been about a week, so Jod had to tell me to pick this shit back up again.
I hate talking about myself so much — I lied, I love it. I just hate the fact that I'm talking about myself, to myself.
Do you remember Carl? The guy that watched the tapes with me on my TV? The guy that bought my brother a million Skittles? Yeah, that guy.
He called me up yesterday. Said that he got fired, and had nowhere else to go, and needed somewhere to stay for just a few nights.
Now, would I be a dumbass for letting him crash on my couch for no other reason than the fact that he knew my brother for five minutes thirty years ago, and I miss him so bad that I think that the slightest connection to who he was would make me feel whole again? Yes.
Am I a dumbass? Yes.
Yeah, I let him stay in my house. So what? I've got more oodles of money than I know what to do with, might as well help someone who can't help himself just yet. It's not like he's gonna be living here for months —
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It had been a few months since Carl had made a desperate cry to his dead "friend's" brother.
He had to admit, his pride was a little hurt. But he tried to help out when he could. The dreams persisted, but he had given up fighting. He hadn't fought for thirty years.
"Carl? Could you grab the groceries, please? There's a list and a couple bills on the counter." Jody said, half paying attention to what she was saying, and half mopping the floors.
Carl heaved himself up on the couch. "Yeah, sure."
He stood up, grabbing the money and the list and putting it in his pocket.
He strolled through the aisles, pushing the crappy cart with the janky wheels. Why were shopping carts always so shitty? Surely they could afford to repair them or buy a couple more, they are billion-dollar companies —
He was dragged from his thoughts when his cart smashed into another, pushing the handle into his diaphragm. "Oomph-""Carl?"
Carl's head looked up from his aching midsection. "Lokken?"
The woman in front of him had a bushel of curly grey hair and glasses hooked to an eyeglass chain drooping around her neck. Her face was definitely aged, and he thought that she would've been dead by now (What? It's true.)
"Carl. Hey, hi. Uh… God, I haven't seen you in a while." She pulled her cart back and rested her arms on the handle.
"Yeah. I, uh… I thought you went back to Norway?"
"I did. But then they hated me. So I left and came back here. And then I met my husband, so? I stay here."
"Ah, I see." He nodded slowly.
Yikes, this is awkward.
"So, uh… can I ask you something?"
Lokken nodded, tipping two cartons of yoghurt into her cart.
"Do you, uh… okay, so. Hypothetically, right; do you… feel bad about what we did?"
"Why would we? The Project was a success. We saved the world."
"No, no… not the Project. With, uh… Grace."
Lokken stiffened, dumping a block of cheddar into the basket a bit harder than she meant to. "I… sometimes, yes."
"I don't know how to explain it, but… I feel like —"
"Isn't this violating your NDA?"
Carl's eyes widened. "You- you know about that?"
"Yes. I worked very closely with Stratt, second only to Ryland."
"Well… yeah, I do. But it's just related to the inner workings. Y'know, all the… sketchy stuff. Public knowledge is still on the table."
"Hm." Lokken nodded, finally looking him in the eye before occupying her sight with a table of nutrients on a cream cheese packet. "Go on."
"Well. Uh. I don't know how to explain it, but I feel like I… see him. Sometimes. In the corner of my eye, in my… my dreams, I hear him. He's everywhere. I don't know if it's just my guilt, or —"
"No, I…" Lokken straightened up and cleared her throat. "I know what you mean. I've been… feeling the same thing. Started about a couple weeks ago."
"Me too. And when my cat —"
"Got sick?"
"Died."
"Did you…" she trailed off. "I keep finding red, stringy crap in my house. Anything it touches seems to just… die."
Carl felt a pit form in his stomach. His heart clenched like a crevice was opening up and dropping anything and everything into an unending pit of sadness and regret and shit and —
"Do you think this has anything to do with…?"
Lokken locked eyes with Carl, his own fears reflected on her face.
"Grace."
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Carl walked home (not even his home; not even his house) like a zombie, placing the bags onto the table and slumping against the countertop.
"Carl?"
Carl looked up as Grace — Colt, sorry — sat beside him.
"You okay, bud?"
Carl looked at Colt. Sure, he was greyer, more facial hair… but it was like looking at a memory plucked straight from his brain, dissected in front of him.
"You look so much like him. I'm sorry, I know you probably get tired of hearing it —"
"I would never tire of getting complimented." Colt shrugged with a smile. "I mean — getting compared to my brother who saved the world? Score."
They sat in a comfortable silence. Then —
"Y'know. I never asked you, really. What made you come here? You don't have… I dunno, family, or anything? Closer friends? I mean, no offence, but I didn't really know you very well until you came."
Carl stared at the carpeted floor and dragged out a long sigh like the drag of a flask.
"I think I just needed the comfort of knowing some part of him is still alive. I don't really know what else there is to it."
What else was there to him?