Chapter Text
Summer had settled heavily over the Colony, draping everything in a sticky, oppressive heat. The days stretched endlessly, filled with the relentless hum of cicadas and the distant whir of drones patrolling the streets. Life in the warehouse—their makeshift home—had fallen into a familiar rhythm, though it was marked by growing distance between them all.
Kowalski spent most of his days in his small workshop, a converted office crammed with tools, wires, and half-finished contraptions. Neighbors and friends would bring him broken radios, lamps, and other odds and ends to repair. He welcomed the distraction; it kept his hands busy and his mind away from thoughts of isolation or what he could be doing if life weren’t confined within the Wall.
Skipper had been gone for days now, his latest venture into the Redhats’ grueling training sessions keeping him occupied. It wasn’t unusual anymore. The sight of his neatly made bed untouched and his boots missing from their usual spot by the door had become familiar. Skipper didn’t talk much about his reasons for joining, but everyone knew. He wanted a purpose — he thought that was the way to protect them all, even if it meant being away more and more often.
But to Kowalski, it made no sense. The Redhats were little more than the city’s watchdogs tasked with keeping order inside the Wall at all costs. Their presence was as much a source of fear as it was of safety. They were strict, rigid, and fiercely loyal to the system Kowalski had long since grown to distrust. He couldn’t understand why Skipper, of all people, would want to be part of something so suffocating and cold.
Kowalski had asked him once — well, more like cornered him in the hallway, frustration bubbling over into a rare confrontation. “Why them, Skipper?” he’d demanded, arms crossed, his freckled face red from agitation. “Do you really want to be one of them? Do you think they care about people like us?”
Skipper’s response had been curt, almost dismissive. “It’s not about them. It’s about what I can do. What we need.”
The words had left Kowalski more frustrated than before. “We need you,” he’d countered, but Skipper had already walked away, shutting the door behind him and ending the conversation. Skipper had his reasons, Kowalski knew that. But understanding them was another matter entirely.
That memory sat heavy in Kowalski’s chest now as he sat in the quiet workshop, fiddling with the guts of a broken radio someone had brought in. The repetitive work usually calmed him, the soft hum of electricity and the smell of solder filling the air like an old friend. But today, his thoughts wouldn’t settle. He couldn’t shake the image of Skipper donning that stiff Redhat uniform, barking orders, and disappearing further into a world Kowalski didn’t understand.
With a sigh, Kowalski set the soldering iron down, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. He hated feeling like this—so powerless, so left behind. Skipper’s absences felt like cracks forming in their fragile little family and no matter how hard Kowalski tried to patch them, the gaps seemed to grow wider.
Rico had noticed too, in his own quiet way. Though he never said much, Kowalski had caught the way Rico’s gaze lingered on the door Skipper always left through, his face unreadable. Rico coped with the distance differently, retreating into his own world, vanishing more frequently and for increasingly longer stretches of time. Meanwhile, Private was too young to fully understand why Skipper was gone so often, but he always asked, “When’s Skipper coming back?” with a hopeful innocence that twisted Kowalski’s heart.
His joy was infectious and Kowalski always tried to listen as Private rattled off the day’s adventures, from how he learned to read a new word to the games he played with classmates during breaks. He’d come home with pockets filled with crumpled pieces of paper — childish drawings, notes from school, and sometimes even a small treat shared by one of the kinder teachers. His enthusiasm painted the room with a fleeting warmth, but that warmth always dimmed too quickly as Private’s energy waned and bedtime called.
But even as Private beamed and started chattering about what they might see, Kowalski couldn’t shake the hollow ache in his chest. The house was quieter now — too quiet. Private had his school, his classmates and his dreams of what lay beyond the Wall. Skipper had the Redhats. Rico had his own world of secrets and disappearances. And Kowalski... Kowalski had his tools, his books, and the gnawing realization that the bonds tying them together seemed to grow thinner each day.
The evenings had become a sanctuary for his solitude. As the house settled into silence, with Private already tucked into bed and Rico off on one of his mysterious ventures, Kowalski would find himself drawn to the window. The stars above the Colony were faint, their light dimmed by the glow of the Wall’s ever-present floodlights, but Kowalski knew they were there, waiting, as if holding secrets just out of reach.
In the window, his lanky frame barely fit on the worn ledge. He’d sit there with his knees drawn up to his chest, his eyes fixed on the sky. His fingers would unconsciously trace the scar on the outside of his forearm — a habit born out of frustration and longing, a way to ground himself in moments when the vastness of his dreams felt suffocating.
When the workshop became too cramped or the house felt too stifling, he’d climb to the roof, his legs swinging over the edge as he leaned back against the rusted metal vent. Up here, the world below seemed distant, muted. The constant hum of the Wall’s machinery and the faint buzz of drones faded into the background, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
His thoughts often drifted away, drawn to the mysteries of space that seemed so far removed from the confines of the Colony. There has been this book he’d stumbled across months ago, buried beneath a pile of faded magazines at a vendor’s stall. The cover, with its crude drawing of planets and stars, had immediately caught his eye. He’d traded three small batteries and a repaired flashlight for it, a bargain he was more than happy to make.
The book was old, predating the Wall by decades, but it was filled with vivid descriptions of meteor showers, lunar eclipses, and comets. Then, on a page near the middle, he found it: a long-period comet that appeared once every fifty-seven years, its path stretching far beyond the solar system before curving back toward Earth. The book described its brilliant tail, visible even to the naked eye, and how ancient cultures once believed it to be a harbinger of change.
He spent hours calculating its trajectory using the crude star charts in the book, cross-referencing them with his own makeshift notes and observations. His workshop became cluttered with sketches of the comet’s projected path, notes scribbled in the margins of the book.
Kowalski didn’t just want to see it; he needed to. The thought of missing something so rare, so magnificent, gnawed at him. It wasn’t just about the science, though that was part of it. It was the idea of witnessing something untainted by the world’s decay, something untouched by the Wall or the Colony or the ever-watchful drones. The comet represented hope.
He’d fantasize about what it might look like: a blazing streak of silver and blue across the heavens, its tail shimmering like an artist’s brushstroke. He imagined its light cutting through the murky haze of the Colony’s sky, a reminder that the universe was vast and limitless, far beyond the confines of the Wall.
But as the days passed and the comet’s approach grew nearer, despair began to creep in. He didn’t have the means to see it properly. Without a telescope or a clear vantage point away from the city lights, his chances were slim. He’d spent weeks tinkering with scraps of lenses and metal, trying to construct something passable, but nothing worked. Each failure weighed on him, the disappointment settling deep in his chest.
His frustration spilled out in quiet mutterings to himself, or to whoever happened to stop by his workshop. Neighbors who came to have radios fixed or tools repaired would hear about the comet, whether they wanted to or not. Kowalski would launch into excited explanations, detailing its orbit and the best times to view it, his hands gesturing wildly as he spoke. But beneath the enthusiasm was a hint of desperation—an unspoken plea for someone to share his longing.
Even Rico, in his fleeting appearances, wasn’t spared from the comet talk. One evening, as Rico lingered in the doorway of the workshop, Kowalski couldn’t help but bring it up.
“You know,” Kowalski said, not looking up from the wiring he was soldering, “if we had even a half-decent telescope, we could see it. It’s bright enough that even from here, with all this light pollution, it would still be visible. Isn’t that incredible?”
Rico didn’t respond immediately, his eyes fixed on Kowalski with an intensity that went unnoticed. When Kowalski finally looked up, he was met with the younger boy’s tilted head and curious expression.
“It’s a comet,” Kowalski continued, misinterpreting Rico’s silence. “Comet Arcturus. People won’t get to see it again for another fifty-seven years. Do you know how rare that is? Fifty-seven years…” His voice trailed off, his gaze drifting to the window as if he could will the comet into view. “I don’t want to miss it.”
Rico’s brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing. After a moment, he left Kowalski alone once again. Kowalski sighed heavily, running a hand through his ginger hair, now longer and shaggier than he usually kept it. That night, Kowalski finally gave in to the heat and exhaustion, letting his head hit the pillow and drifting into a restless sleep.