Chapter Text
Dr. Ryland Grace had been born as the only child to Abigail Grace (née Jordan) and William Grace. Both with master degrees in pharmaceutics, they’d ironically first met while working in a ballet studio as the star dancers. They’d done enough shows together, a diamond ring had been on each of their fingers by the time they finished college. After seven years of marriage, Ryland Grace was born to the couple in their mid to late thirsties. Not an old age to have children, but not the norm in the circles both adults lived in at the time.
Ryland Grace had been a star student in his entire academic record, with clear and complete support from his parents. There’d even been evidence of being briefly pulled out of college due to mental burnout and emotional distress, something commonly ignored in that era. For two adults to have taken it so seriously despite the lack of research in the area spoke volumes for the love they had for their son. They died around three years after Ryland Grace achieved his doctorate, a car accident during a ride home, returning from the grocery store. Ryland Grace was the only one available to cover the expenses and assist for the funeral.
By the time of their deaths, Dr. Grace had long since been an independent adult. He’d been conceived in the most basic sense possible, so there was no chance of a medical error resulting in switched identity. His parents were still married when they died and had no history of separation or dating other parties. Abigail Grace should have been the only person in Ryland Grace’s life who could have claimed the title of his mother.
So what is this woman saying?
Stratt can only stare as the person who claims to be Dr. Grace’s mother continues talking. “You know, when Ryland first told me of his involvement in your project, I warned him to be careful. People as single-minded and driven as you are rare; the ones willing to do all the worst actions for the right reasons are rarely given the power.” Lime-green cloth keeps pooling to the floor as she leans further in her seat, the chair creaking beneath her in protest. “Society has this way of kicking him down constantly. He’s a genius, and he knows it, but has lost all faith he will be genuinely heard and comprehended by others. It’s not an easy habit to shake off.”
Stratt feels a chill down her spine as those dark eyes meet hers.
“And a dangerous one at that. Because when one loses all belief their opinions could hold sway over matters, one stops seeing their importance. And when one stops seeing their own importance, it’s much easier to squeeze from them every drop of energy and hard labor because ‘oh, it was nothing, just something I did’. Isn’t that right, Eva Stratt?”
There’s no doubt that this woman has some personal vendetta against Stratt. But whether it was during his teacher days or under the project’s shadow, Dr. Grace barely had any presence in the outside world. It was part of the reason why he’d been the perfect candidate for the astrophage first contact and then choosing him as tertiary scientist. Dr Grace should have no one who cares about him outside the Project. There should be no one outside who would fight for him when push came to shove, because everyone inside the project perfectly knew what was at stake.
Who the fuck is this person?
Stratt folds her hands together over lap, her face the blankness she has perfected for years. “Who are you?”
There’s a small smile playing on the woman’s lips. “I thought I already answered that?”
The annoyance is familiar, but not the anger as she snaps, “Your name.”
“You may call me Eva.” Whatever face Stratt makes is enough to send her bursting into rambunctious laughter, a sound coming deep from her belly and echoing off the walls. “Oh, how was it again? ‘Not good at jokes?’ I apologize, but that is how some people address me, though it depends from person to culture.” She continues laughing, coughing a little.
The woman hasn’t been sitting there for twenty minutes and Stratt can already feel her patience frying at the edges. It’s not often something leaves her so shaken, to the point she cannot maintain her composure. The last couple of days have been getting to her, and this problem in human form has done nothing but worsen those edges.
“Oh, don’t look so down. You really are quite terrible at jokes. If you must call me something, let it be Tara. She was quite the lovable character in that movie about the little people; my Ryland cried so much the first time we watched it. I think he was studying for his Master’s at the time? Trying to convince a grad student such as Ryland to take a break is the true Hail Mary, I’ll tell you that.”
“Tara,” the name is ash on Stratt’s mouth. She doesn’t call anyone by their given names. It’s unprofessional and she is close to no one in the project enough that calling each other by their first name would better fit.
She has no friends left.
“I will not insult you by comparing you to the politicians I need to deal with daily,” Stratt begins, “but your ability to become a nuisance to my work has come closer to rivaling theirs.
“I don’t know what game you are playing, and at this point I frankly do not care. The man you so callously call your son, the most bold faced lie I’ve ever heard in my life, is missing. My one last chance to give this project a fraction of success, of giving this planet a chance of survival, is gone, we can’t find him and launch is in less than two days. We need to send a scientist up that ship and there is no one qualified left. I am not in the mood for whatever blackmail you think you have, because unless you can make the fucking earth split open and bring Ryland Grace back, I do not want to hear it.”
Tara looks at her. Even in the face of Stratt’s loss of composure and her desperation, the other woman isn’t moved at all. Not that Stratt expected her to. Tara may wear teasing smiles and laugh, but Stratt doesn’t miss the hard edge of every word. Impatient, waiting for the chance to attack properly. What exactly she’s waiting for before doing so is beyond Stratt.
“And if I could?” Tara’s face is serious. When she tilts her head, a little braid by the nape comes loose. Stratt notices two rocks, one brown and one turquoise, hanging by the bottom. “Why would I ever do it? Allow you to sacrifice my son for your world. I’m a mother who loves her child, Director Stratt. There’s nothing I am not willing to sacrifice to make sure he is safe, even if that includes me.”
Stratt scoffs. “I have the fate of this entire world on my hands. I’ll do anything and everything necessary to give it a chance.”
“Humans.”
“What?”
“You have the fate of this entire world in your hands, but everything you are doing is solely for the humans. Not for the animals, the plants, the home that houses all life. Just humans.”
The statement is so familiar and out of left field from this conversation, Stratt can’t help but the roll her eyes whenever someone brings up the damaging things he has done to the planet. Like Antartica, as an example. “If I cared for anything beyond humans, I’d get nothing done.”
Tara smiles. And with that same smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling, she says, “If your scientists were so important, you would have been more careful with them. All your talk about doing everything to save your world, and you had your two best options blown off the map and scrambled to use my son like a gambler in chin-deep dept selling his own daughter. I can’t help but notice how infinitely stupid that was on your part.”
Standing up so fast, the chair crashes down behind her is no surprise. She cannot make herself care for it or the documents she spills as she grabs at the radio. Giving your back to an enemy as you walk away isn’t probably the smartest choice, but Stratt’s life for the last couple of years has been nothing but taking unconventionally dangerous choices, all for the desired result.
“I wouldn’t recommend doing that,” Tara says, tone unfazed. There’s a sound like tinkling bells, maybe metal bracelets, as she probably shifts on her seat.
Stratt ignores her.
“Carl,” turning on the radio to his channel is not even muscle memory at this point, just another daily function, “I need you to escort an intruder out of my office,” she looks pointedly at Tara, “preferably to one of the interrogation rooms.”
“Stratt?” Confusion is not a tone that one associates with the bodyguard. Stratt frowns slightly, but makes no comment. “Did you say your office?”
“Since when have I ever needed to repeat my orders to you?” Now this is annoying. She huffs. So close to launch and nothing goes to plan. Everything has to go wrong. They have to lose something, always one after the other, until they have nothing. And then have to deal with those who think of themselves as the gods of the universe. Stratt grits her teeth. “Get her out of my office.”
A beat of silence.
“But there’s no one in your office.”
Stratt stares at the radio.
“Excuse me?” It comes off as a whisper. She’s so tired. “I would know damn well if there was someone in my office-”
“Stratt, there’s no one in your office because I am in your office, and I have been for the last ten minutes.”
Don’t bother knocking.
The words ring through her bell like a broken bell.
Carl is probably the most efficient guard Stratt could have possibly hired since the start of the project. He never ignores his radio unless he has a legitimate reason, accepts orders without question, and knows they don’t even have seconds to waste when working for the project. If Stratt had told him to go to her office, he would have dropped whatever he was doing to follow orders as soon as possible.
It shouldn’t have taken more than twelve minutes to walk from the infirmary to her office, any delays included.
How long has she been here?
Stratt takes a shaky breath.
“Is there anyone else with you?”
“The other guards who were present during the incident. We are standing by the walls where your bookshelf used to be.”
There’s nothing by those walls. No shadows, no spots, no mirages. There’s nothing there.
“What can you see outside the window?”
“Stratt-”
“Answer me.”
There are two guards outside, one standing over their coworker, who is crouched on the floor with his face hidden behind his hands. Going by the shake on his shoulders, he appears to be crying-
“There’s a guard crying outside the window. He’s been comforted by a coworker.”
A cold, vice grip on her throat.
“What can you see of my desk? The chairs around it?”
“The same as ever,” a moment of hesitation. “Though there is a potted plant I haven’t seen before, it looks like an orchid. Was it a gift?”
Taking a deep breath, very slowly, Stratt turns around.
She has never had potted plants in her office, or even owned one at her house. They require more care and nutrients than she has either the time or materials to provide. Anything that is not official documents, pens, seals or folders have no place on her desk’s surface.
It’s a Phalaenopsis Orchid. Her mother’s favorite. She used to have paintings of the yellow flower with pink veins all over the house, because even with the most meticulous care, they wouldn’t survive even in the greenhouse back home. They could be potted, but her mother always said most orchids were a type of vine, and would grow by wrapping themselves around tree trunks for stability.
It is curling around Tara’s wrists like a snake. The way Tara’s fingers caress it, though, is so gentle and casual. As if it were a regular occurrence. And with the way the flower petals close around Tara’s finger pads like chicks eating from their mothers, Stratt realizes that it is.
Stratt stays where she stands. She only becomes aware of the shaking overtaking her body when the radio clatters to the floor, the channel dead silent.
The invisible hand around Stratt’s throat keeps closing, pressing closer, cutting off all air. “Y-you,” she gasps out. Nothing makes sense anymore.
She whispers. “This is impossible…”
Tara turns to Stratt with a smile on her face. The gentleness in it is a stark contrast to the emptiness in those dark eyes.
“Are you finally ready to have this conversation?”