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In the first few, incredibly short-feeling, months of Nasha’s diplomacy, many pieces needed to fall into place under their new world. After the abolishment of the human printer, the council took great consideration in the ethics of the scientists and doctors who green-lit persistent torment on Mickey—constantly, unapologetically, and without question. The validity of his contract pulled back and forth for some weeks, while attempting to determine its merit under new circumstances and rule, the hearings droned on and on. There was also the question of if the great minds of Niflheim’s expedition breached hippocratic oaths from earth and if they even stand in truth on new soil. With much push as pull, resistance is cut like a tight cord and brilliantly released under the plain, moralistic sense Nasha tends to have. As well as her basis of strength garnered from the feeling she holds deep in her chest as she repeats moments of Mickey’s pulsing red skin and harsh breaths while nothing but rubber separates the flesh she used to so dearly pray to touch before he died. Again and again. After tapping into that, she is consistently able to decide between right and wrong.
The scientists and doctors of Niflheim are forced to suspend their studies indefinitely. Their entire lives shall be lived without written or spoken word of which they used to call a scientific marvel. Now it would be seen with contempt and shame for the disregard of life and defilement of the soul. These professionals, however, are to be permitted to utilize their expertise in situations deemed dire or necessary. Unfortunately, Niflheim’s springs yield a new beast of seasonal allergies unbeknownst to any of the new inhabitants. The intellectuals of the bunch take this work in stride, confessing to the court their crimes and their ignorance, presenting a much more useful outlook on mankind from now on. And the citizens of the new world claim their responsibilities to protect and honor the grandeur of life and existence itself. It’s not completely difficult considering Nasha’s overwhelming support from the people. Her steadfast silhouette beautifully tucked behind podiums and engulfed gracefully by her robes as each day spins onward. The people of Niflheim seem to model such gracefulness, etching steadily towards harmony.
Until one does not share such beliefs.
The first time a council member attempts to forward a proposal demanding separate rights on mankind and Creepers, spitting audacious phrases and prejudices once confronted, Nasha marks no hesitation as the person is thrown into reflective confinement. Then, promptly assigned the direct service of Creeperkind, being regularly monitored by a mature Creeper until it is clear that intentions have changed. The good news is that Creepers are quite stubborn folk to convince.
But the day the first person, clad in a stark white coat and a resentful glare, confronts Mickey about times of ‘greater progress’— a time when he ‘reveled’ in seeing the man hooked up inside a glass tube, recycled and reused, the barrel of a pistol has never met the temple of one’s head so fast.
She doesn’t shoot. But when her gaze dawned upon the glazed eyes and shaky hands of her lover, her finger tightened around the trigger.
Under no function of the new society Nasha envisions can history start with such hostility. Such a cancer that is allowed to fester, and in turn, become a silent killer of the people. Mickey doesn’t have much to say about the conundrum, he often finds lack of words to be one of the few assurances he has.
After events such as these, some nights are unfortunately riddled with the horrible feeling of watching Mickey try to use niceties to mask the grueling torment of being the only person in the world that has experienced what he has. The culprit was taken into the jail still embedded within the ship, a measure that has fortunately become less and less needed as months go by. Nasha sits atop their bed, the same room they have lovingly woven into each other in over the past years of space travel. At the beginning of her diplomacy, many suggested she take the presidential suite. Nasha declines and Mickey’s eyes widen with an acute look of dread at the suggestion. The room lies vacant, only infiltrated when the couple has the inclination to drink genuine earth whiskey and swipe it from the obnoxiously adorned collection kept up there.
As Nasha leans back onto her arms, she chews on her cheek while Mickey washes up in the adjacent bathroom. The scientist spat on his face as he yelled at him. It made him feel sick. He really does not appreciate that feeling nowadays.
She begins with a great aversion to the subject at hand, her tone light and airy, “Would you like to come to tomorrow’s crop evaluation? We’re trying beets this time.”
He enters back into the room, running his hand through wet hair, eventually tucking himself to sit beside her, his head nesting at the crook of her neck. He practically mumbles into her warm skin, “Can I?”
The corners of her lips turn up at the response, her fingers find their way into his hair as she makes soft patterns behind his ear. It is not a leisurely offer. They both know it’s not a leisurely offer, but he asked anyway. Because if Nasha’s there, he’d like to be as well.
“Are you feeling alright?” She says low, in a way that always feels like massage to Mickey’s eardrums. Her hair smells fantastic as well, something new and fresh, he drowns a bit into that.
His voice comes out broken, each word a mulled thought, “I feel a little.. funky , I guess. It’s a bit…"
As his words fade away, Nasha’s interest does not, “Bit what, love?”
He smiles and lets out a low giggle at the term of endearment, it still sends sparks of electricity pounding through his heart and down every limb, “Mm.. a bit too much .”
Her palm makes extra movements through his hair, “And what’s too much?”
His hands start to play with Nasha’s free one, tracing her fingers. Her skin will always be his favorite thing to touch, “Oh, you know, like… I don’t have much to do these days and everything feels like it hurts more than it used to. ‘Cause before, I used to know it may come to an end and it would start over but it all feels… itchy and bad.”
She recognizes exactly what he means. Oftentimes she plays with the thought of how she could completely rewrite Mickey’s data brick with the wealth of knowledge she has of him. Knowing him, entirely and authentically, “Would tagging along tomorrow help or hurt?”
He answers without much hesitation, “I just want to be with you, Nasha.” And it is decided.
She continues on with the assurance of having Mickey there, then leading to the agricultural issues presenting themselves in Niflheim right now. She expresses how she may not be doing enough. Mickey’s hand hooks onto hers while he, without a tinge of dishonesty in his voice, expresses an opposite sentiment of how she is the most incredible person he’s ever met. And Nasha has grown to know he is not one to lie.
Mickey doesn’t lie to Nasha. He doesn’t possess the specific cogs and bolts to properly execute something untrue. So when the following day rolls around and they stand side-by-side in a greenhouse of off-smelling dirt and pesticides, Nasha knows the words of that stupidly distasteful scientist pierced through Mickey’s soft exterior, she knows it deeply and well. The entire transition of the new world is still something she notices on those nights he is still getting used to. While he balls up the scratchy fabric at the hem of his longsleeve when he talks about 18 and finds solace completely wrapping around Nasha before he can sleep, pressing each miniscule pore together until his breaths become slow and natural, she notes each of his small idiosyncrasies.
A very boring botanist stumbles over reports of the very discouraging growth of beets. Yet, contrary to the constant flow of recycled and enriched air, Nasha can only direct her attention to the growing stuffiness that feels to be growing around her and Mickey. A rhythmic beep pulses through the room, one after the other. Some sort of machinery dictating a high pitched, absolutely mortifying beep every three seconds. The type of stuffiness that grows around accelerating uneasiness, and Mickey’s hands begin to scour for a comfortable spot to rest, his hips, folded together, pulling at his collar, front, back. It’s a slow dance that Nasha feels through him.
Her eyes narrow in a sharp glare towards the botanist for the conversation to be put to a halt, it does not. More beeping, and Mickey’s attention derails in the exact succession of each piercing tone. Before she can raise her hand and executively halt the interaction to turn and bring him back to the room, something clicks. Another beep.
It’s not very often one of these episodes spark up, and they are gruelling when they do. With a swift, stifled groan, Mickey makes a sharp turn around and out, his hands now clutching the hard corners of his elbows as he tucks into himself. Nasha follows.
They weave for a short time back up into the ship, Nasha taking only a short amount of time to arrive by his side.
In contrast to the frantic nature he presents, his breaths coming in fast and hard and his hands making tight fists around the fabric of his clothing, Nasha makes quick steps beside him, “Mickey, can you tell me what’s happening?”
He does eventually. It takes a couple hours of his face screwing together and Nasha’s arms holding him tightly around his waist to explain how he likes the smell of Nasha’s hair but the scent of dirt and sound of stupid beeping ruined it. Within those hours, Nasha finds it as simple as she does most things to perfectly rock and palm at Mickey’s body, deep and soothing. He isn’t fond of other people touching him, or being presented with an opportunity where he is expected to touch someone else, but the specific feeling of sensory abyss like in the glass tube can only be settled by the sensation of her against him.
And so they lie together, Mickey’s bare back tightly pressed onto Nasha’s breasts. The sound of monitor beeping or the revving of a chainsaw still taunts him even in consciousness. He still tries to find the right words to make it seem like he can puff up his chest and stand for himself like 18 did. One day he will master it. Or maybe he’ll always tuck tail when someone’s voice gets too loud and he’ll always freeze when he sees that familiar glare in each of the scientists’ eyes because regardless of dozens of apologies his mind will relentlessly reminds him of his murderers. Yet, he doesn’t know fear with Nasha, and tomorrow night he will hold her in his arms and there’s something acutely calming about such a promise that it singlehandedly saturates all the wonder that it is to live.