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Night is what lighthouses were first made for, but when the seas they marked have long since evaporated, when the filament in the bulb no longer burns, when the roof cracks open to let radiation spill in… well, a lighthouse was made for function, not disrepair. This thought rattled through Buddy’s head as she ran a shaking hand across the stones that composed the lighthouse that was to be her berth for the night. Was it truly useful anymore? Was she?
She’d brought with her the bag she’d taken to carrying with her for these expeditions. First-aid, water, and a coat for Vespa when she showed up, along with a notebook and pen. She was unused to spending time without her better half, still. (It was worse when she was alone. She was always alone.) The notebook was there for two purposes: keeping her company, and keeping a record of reality. Vespa would show up soon, she was certain of this. But as if her hands were guided by the scarred, nimble ones she craved in her palms, she found herself grabbing materials to document her nights. It was not worry, she adamantly thought in response to a voice that was not there- a voice that was not her own, but also not imagined, a voice that was simply missing. It was habit.
And so, it had been three days since she took up residence in the Cerberus Province’s tallest wreck. Her love’s words echoed in her ears, Vespa’s certainty that they would soon be separated, and she thought for the millionth time in so few days separated that perhaps if she had listened… but there was no use in that. She had to document her surroundings. When she first came to the lighthouse, weeping openly, still bloodied from the gunfight, she had talked to Vespa as if she was there, told her about every stone she was turning down to find any sign of her lover. But by the third day, she thought it dangerous to speak to anyone who was not there. She had to be sharp when Vespa came, and she did not want to succumb to the effects of the radiation poisoning early due to her own lapse in judgement. So instead, she opened the notebook and wrote down today’s symptoms, tagging off another day with a clean tally-mark. A bit unconventional to handle this on paper, but this method had to be radiation-proof, and sometimes the oldest methods were the best ones. Today’s symptoms were nothing noteworthy. She’d started feeling nauseous on the first day, but managed to steel herself against it, and nothing came of it. Her temperature rose a few degrees on the second, and she’d spent most of this third day curled up in a corner, breathing evenly and deeply, waiting for sunset. What parts of the day she had not spent in this state, she had spent losing what little remained of her rationed lunch. Three days, she supposed, was not a bad amount of time to make it with her digestion untouched. “It is possible that I may be less affected by the radiation than others. Despite the dizziness and nausea, I have not experienced any symptoms of delusions or psychosis. The full effects of the nausea have taken three days to set in. This may prove useful in further missions.” What else was there to say? With a new wave of pain wracking her abdomen and pulsing in her self-stitched gunshot wound, she decided that there was nothing else quite so noteworthy that it required the notes’ immediate attention. Sleep, she thought, may be the best option. She had slept the night before, but it was both fitful and somewhat unintentional- 48 hours awake, panicking and entirely unsettled, did not sit well with a person, and she’d been overtaken by sleep at some point in the night. This time, she prepared, dragging herself to a corner and leaning up in what appeared to be the most comfortable position she could manage, pained and surrounded by stone as she was. She left the coat on her legs so it could be grabbed by Vespa, and before she knew it, sleep had come once again.
The Lighthouse did not have many of the delights of modern Martian life. It did not have walls reinforced with titanium- it simply had iron-and-stone walls, much of which had rusted away. It did not have electricity or running water, the latter of which became problematic when Buddy’s thirst became unbearable despite her legs giving out underneath her. It did not have a roof, or at least, it did not have an intact one, simply an iron-and-glass cage with huge scars torn by the sand and sun that let said sand and sun in to roam. However, the room Buddy had holed up in did have a door, and despite the fact that Buddy had not bothered to close it on her last trek to the nearest source of water, she still heard a polite, practiced knock before a set of heavy footsteps. She’d had the sense to keep her gun, and her hands flew to it even as the movement sent a wave of vertigo through her body, a wave of nausea up her throat that she swallowed down.
“Is anyone here?” A deep, plaintive voice echoed briefly. Now that was certainly unexpected, and Buddy found herself wondering if the fifth day was when her brain had finally decided to throw in the towel. She approached carefully from behind, as soundless as she could manage. However, that was not, it turned out, the actual standard for soundlessness, and as the leg burning with what might have been an infection fumbled on the sandy metal floor, the intruder turned sharply, and Buddy found herself face to-face with one of the tallest men she’d ever encountered. Deep brown eyes set into a scarred face, tan jacket spotless like he’d bought it that day, and, most interestingly, no gun. An odd visitor. An even odder hallucination. But one of those could kill her, gun or no, in her state, and she could not afford that, so she drew herself up to her full height, leaning on a crate.
“As a matter of fact, yes. State your business.” She spoke, realizing her voice came out in a rasp. She hadn’t spoken since she arrived, save a few mumbled swears through mouthfuls of bile, and she hadn’t been able to summon the energy to crawl down the tower for water in a day or so. She cleared her throat with all the menace she could manage. The man stared for a while, looking her up and down in lieu of an answer, before she repeated herself. “Can you speak?” A question she’d usually muffle with a “dear,” but her dearest was gone, and her throat ached like hell. A few more plaintive blinks and a grumble came before a voice.
“My apologies. I was simply attempting to find a place to sit alone for a while. I will move on.” And with that, the mysterious stranger gave her another thorough once-over before shuffling towards the door.
A strange interaction. She couldn’t shake her concern that he might be some manifestation of the radiation eating away at her brain, and she quickly wracked her brain for an inconspicuous way to verify the man’s identity before he turned around and looked at her once again. The two stood there for a moment, at a loss for polite conversation, until Buddy finally broke the silence.
“Darling, I know I’m rather striking, but a picture would last longer. What’s got you so enthralled?” The words came out like clockwork, without much thought behind her lilt.
“I am not looking due to any romantic attachment.” Buddy chuckled. He’d better not be. “I simply believe I recognize you.”
“I’ve been told I have one of those faces.” She circled him, all wounded lioness, waiting for him to disappear when she blinked. In an attempt to clear her vision, she shook her head once, twice- he was still there. Not conclusive yet. “Anyone I remind you of in particular?”
“A woman named Buddy Aurinko. A legend. But since she would have no cause to be here, especially not alone, I must be mistaken.” His eyes were placid, but his hands shook slightly. Pallor. Sweat. So she could still inspire fear. She took a deep breath, steadying herself against a box.
“You’re not. Rest assured, she has her reasons,” she spoke through a grimace. “And she’s rather curious about yours.” Stall for time. Watch his reactions. He paused before nodding briefly, still appearing almost totally unflappable, save for the sweat and his shaking hands. Whether or not that was a manifestation of her own state, she decided she’d rather not consider.
“I was simply looking for a place to be alone. Additionally, the lighthouse is a good vantage point.”
“What are you hoping to see?”
“As of yet, I am uncertain.” An answer she wasn’t expecting. Close to enough. Still, she’d like something more, some kind of physical confirmation… She pushed off the box and confidently strode toward the tall man, intending to grip his hand while biting out a menacing reply that would get this visitor, hallucination or no, out of her lighthouse. Instead, her vision went black for a moment, and she found herself thudding against something.
The floor. And that was that, she thought, eyes still shut. The man was imagined. She’d finally lost it. Five days was better than most. Vespa had better come soon, she would, she must simply be delayed. Thinking of tall buildings and kisses she wished she could have stolen, she let out a deep sigh into the floor.
And then the floor cleared its throat. Ah. She felt she’d been loaded into a slingshot and then misfired into the launcher’s face. She didn’t have to deal with the loss of her sanity and control, nor the fate of her love. However, she did have to deal with the fact that she just sighed into the chest of a stranger.
“Madam Aurinko?” The man who was certainly not the floor rumbled. It felt nice. She was so tired, she’d have gladly stayed on that rumbling chest forever. But that was a stranger’s chest, and additionally, she felt a wave of nausea rising. Being sick on this stranger was more than she could reasonably bear. She straightened, body still waving.
“My apologies. The floor is rather sandy.” This was true of most all the floors on ruined Martian buildings, and mostly true of this one, and thus, a partway-decent excuse. A polite explanation for a rather uncomfortable interaction. She’d spent so long trying to prove to herself that the man wasn’t real that she’d neglected to think of what to do if he was. But here she’d gone, managing not to drive him off, but instead to display… that, of all things? Weakness?
His face was unreadable as ever. Her still-swimming vision didn’t help. She groped behind her back to find a crate she was almost certain was there, and was relieved beyond measure to find it as she tried to sit with a modicum of composure. Her forehead was beading with sweat. She needed the man gone.
Unfortunately, he seemed entirely disinterested in leaving, sitting down cross-legged before her instead.
“Do you… require assistance?”
“Certainly not.”
A silence fell once more.