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Despite being a city built within the crack of an ice sheet, the Hycean Quarry is fairly warm. At a whopping negative thirty degrees all year round, it's a combination of heat wafting from chimneys and miles of frozen ocean insulating it on every side. Turns out, there are benefits to living in the pits of such a hellscape—at least, when you compare it to the frozen tundra of the planet's surface. One peek above ground and the frigid winds and ashy snow will leave your skin blue and your body in a shock so stark it can stop your heart.
Gabrysia's room, on the second floor of the Brine Pool, somehow feels just as horrid. The past week has been made up of arctic storms battering against the top of the quarry and sending waves of cold down the walls of the ravine. It leaves a biting chill even here, in the nursery she resides in, nearly a kilometer deep.
Clouds of white leave her mouth as she paces back and forth with her favorite plushie, Vine, held to her chest. It's a big, floppy thing modeled after a viscervid, a stag-like creature with thick clumps of dark red fur covering their large body and hanging from their mighty antlers in globs of sticky sap. From a distance, it looks like they're blanketed in gore—a bad omen for those up above, or so she's heard. She's never seen one in person, and likely never will, but she loves her little death deer.
Usually, it brings comfort, a watchful eye when she sleeps and a friend to hug when her mind swims with childish cries. With a freezing loneliness creeping through her bones, not even Vine's hugs are enough to sooth her. It's not the temperature that has her sniffling pathetically, however. She can handle the cold. She has handled cold far worse than this.
No, the shivers wracking her body are just the final straw of a very long, very frustrating three weeks.
It's three weeks of the others ignoring her. D'Angelo is putting on another one of his shows and it's all hands on deck, except for her. Gabrysia is never invited to these things. She doesn't get why; it's not like she doesn't already know what this place is. The Brine Pool is a theater masquerading as one of the many nurseries scattered around town—or maybe it's more accurate to say it was first a nursery, raising the children of the quarry, before its owner, Mother Maelstrom, fitted it with a secret auditorium buried in the ice.
Highly illegal, yes, and shrouded in pure secrecy, but Gabrysia been living her for a decade and hasn't said shit about it! At this point, there's nothing she can do to convince them otherwise. She can't even be angry with them because she knows she deserves the distrust. She just hates when everyone disappears and she's left wandering the big, empty manor alone.
It's three weeks of never getting warm enough. No matter how many layers she puts on or how many blankets she burrows under, she can't fight off the cold. Her potted plant is tucked away in her closet with as much insulation as she can muster. If it dies again, she doubts she'll be able to buy more seeds. They're too expensive and her work pays her in tatters.
Three weeks of not being able to regress, no matter what she does. Her headspace is fragile during the best of times, but she's never struggled so much to pass that threshold. It's exhausting and leaves her antsy and agitated, which only further pushes the others away. She's trying, okay? She's put herself to bed with Vine at her side, she's taken baths with a handful of toys she stole from the empty baby rooms, and she's sneaked into the back of the theater to watch D'Angelo perform in a flurry of pretty shapes and colors.
Short of tracking down her brother, she's tried everything.
Well, there is one thing left… the thing that has her pacing trenches into the floor.
Maelstrom is downstairs, likely stoking the fires and humming along to a song Gabrysia wouldn't be able to recognize. Out of everyone, he has always been the most friendly to her. Whether it be when she was a child, dragged on to the streets by the death of her parents, or when she'd been older and ruined what little good had been given to her, he extended her a hand when no one else would, and all she can repay him with is shame and bitterness.
She hadn't wanted to go to him when this started. Mael is the caretaker, the mother of this nursery, and it's his job to raise the children given to him into productive members of the quarry. She can't for the life of her figure out why that includes her.
Mael always looks at her so kindly, with an inescapable pity, and speaks to her as if she is one of the children he raised from infancy. Perhaps she is, in a way, but there is a very clear line between her and the others. There is no place for her here, and she does not deserve nor desire the gentleness of a mother she no longer has.
But she's tired, and she's cold, and she's lonely, and she misses her brother, and—
And she has never been very strong-willed.
Gabrysia holds Vine by the hoof and quietly creeps out of her room. Her dark brown hair is tucked into a fluffy hat and her coat is so heavy it makes each step more of a waddle than a confident stride. It's late enough that the others won't interrupt them—Sable in bed, Araceli in her workshop, and D'Angelo doing whatever the hell he does when there isn't a spotlight on him—but she hurries anyways. The last thing she wants is to run into someone with her brain hazy with a regression she can't fully sink into.
Mael is, as expected, making his rounds through the many rooms of the estate. Every day, he tends to the building. He cleans, he checks the pipes, he makes meals for its inhabitants, he pops his head in their rooms to make sure everyone's okay, and he keeps this entire nursery running single-handedly. They're all given a small list of chores to keep things maintained, but he tackles most of it, and he does it all with a small, content smile that only grows when he sees Gabrysia reluctantly stepping down the staircase.
"Hey there," he greets her, dressed in his thick, dark colored robes and arms filled with freshly dried blankets. It's a bit comical when he's as imposing as he is, muscular from years of carrying growing children and dark beard rounding out his face with age. He's folding the blankets into piles on the couches of the formal sitting room. "Didn't expect to see you out and about. Work call you in or are you just hungry? I have stew on the stove, if you want."
She hesitates, already overwhelmed. There is no malice in his tone, no resentment towards her that plagues everyone else she speaks to. You'd think after the last decade of hearing his honeyed timbre she'd be used to it by now, but the crack in her heart is just as fresh as it'd been when she was sixteen years old.
"Maelstrom," she says, her proper voice wavering. "I—"
What does she say here? What does she ask? How does she begin to explain?
Mael's attention sharply shifts from the laundry to her wilting form. He meets her utterly exhausted gaze before darting down to look at the blood colored stuffed animal hanging by her side. She clutches Vine's leg tightly.
"Gabrysia," he returns, soft around the edges. He tilts his head, considering. "Are you… feeling a bit small today?"
She doesn't know if it's the question itself or the way he asks it, all too knowing, but the fogginess that's followed her for weeks solidifies around her brain. It's not enough to push her under—because why would it be?—but it is enough to make tears well in her eyes.
Unable to answer that without actually crying, she asks, "Do you have a minute?"
"Of course!" Mael promptly abandons his task and mumbles something about it being something he can finish later. She already feels bad for interrupting him.
He guides her, without complaint, towards the section of the nursery reserved for him. Children aren't allowed back there unless there's good reason, and Gabrysia hardly thinks this a good reason.
Still, he has a large hand on her shoulder and a pinch of concern resting on his brow, the kind that perpetually lives on the face of every caretaker in the city. She huddles close to him, drawn to the familiarity of it, and shuffles into his quarters with a ducked head.
"Cold?" he asks her, nodding to her outerwear. The padded coats and layers of jackets are only ever necessary inside when the power's out or during storm season.
"Always," she answers. She can't remember a time she wasn't cold—maybe before her parents died.
Maelstrom wanders about the apartment searching for something. Though, it might be a bit of an exaggeration to call it an apartment. It's a large room, really, with a couple of doors leading to a bathroom and a side room full of cribs that hasn't been used since Sable arrived. There's a hefty bed, a rocking chair, and a small reading nook beside the fireplace. Otherwise, everything else he needs is in the common areas.
He drags the pad of his finger across a ball of wax and ignites it with a glowing touch that leaves his fingers a charcoal black, eerily similar to the look of frostbite. He places it in the fireplace full of flammable scraps and helps Gabrysia take off the top layers of her outfit, leaving her in only a wool pajama set. He doesn't ask if it's what she wants, but he silently checks in with her every few seconds. She's only regressed around him a handful of times over the last year or two, so he hesitates in a way he doesn't around the others. He knows them better, loves them more, and it's unreasonable how much it breaks her heart.
Vine is carefully set against the pillows and Mael lifts his plush duvet to let her worm her way under it. His bed is easily big enough to fit three or four grown adults comfortably, a custom gift from the company who owns this quarry. The mattress is perfect on her aching joints and, for the first time in weeks, she feels herself beginning to warm up.
The last time she found herself here was when she'd gotten sick ages ago, too small to bear being away from the only proper adult in the building and too big to voice how much pain she was in. Maelstrom reverts back to what he'd done then, doting on her and keeping her distracted with a quiet, one-sided conversation. This time, it's clear he hopes she'll actually respond.
"How long have you been regressed?" he asks, leaving her side to set some frozen milk from his storage to boil in the hearty fireplace. He gives her time to answer, though she gives him nothing in return.
He grabs a sippy cup, one much larger than the kind the company gives him. Araceli must've made it—it's a metallic pink with sparkles.
"Did something happen?"
He adds processed cocoa powder to the milk as it faintly starts to bubble and mixes it until its a deep shade of brown. He removes the pot from the fire and carefully pours its contents into the sippy cup with a steady hand. He screws on the cap, sturdy and insulating.
"Did someone say something to you?"
He says each question nonchalantly, but his blue-grey eyes flicker expectantly to her regardless of what he's doing. She hates what he sees: the sniveling little girl with cheeks red from cold and eyes far too watery for her age. She hates that she's too aware of it all, that she can't even enjoy being in a warm bed because her brain is refusing to shut down in the way she needs.
She almost wishes someone had said something to her. A sneer of her worthlessness would surely do the trick.
"Gabriela," Maelstrom says firmly but not unkindly, a parent using her full name to get her attention. He sits on the edge of the bed next to her and offers her the sippy cup. "Are you okay?"
Gabrysia isn't a weak person. She's not. She's been through hell, and she's likely going to die in it as well, but she buckles under his tone. The tone of an adult, a parent, asking that dreadful question. She sniffles pathetically, a sob caught in her throat, and pushes the sippy cup away with a surge of self-loathing.
"I'm not—I'm not regressed," she manages.
"No?" Mael asks, light. "You look plenty small to me, córunia."
Córunia—daughter, the apple of my eye. Gabrysia's father used to call her that and she would gloat because her brother would only get synek, which is way less adoring. Their mother made up for it by doing to reverse (calling her córeczka and him synuś), but they both knew Gabrysia was the favorite regardless.
It's not the first time Mael has used it for her, but she still doesn't understand why. She's never heard him use it for Araceli, or even Sable and that kid literally is his favorite.
"No, I'm not," she says, rubbing her face furiously. "Haven't been able to in weeks."
Maelstrom coos at her, everything clicking into place. "Is that why you came to find me?"
"Uh huh." She starts to cry and her lungs struggle to get anything more than a few shallow gulps of air. "I don't know what to do."
The sippy cup is forced into her hands and she blinks at the man. Warmth flows from the cup to her palms and she shudders as it travels down her arms.
"Take some sips and breathe, honey," Mael says, rubbing her shoulder. "Let's just start with that."
She obeys, shivering from something other than the cold. The hot chocolate is too sweet and on the edge of scalding, but it's perfect. Her bottom lip wobbles and she clutches the cup tightly.
Maelstrom nudges her to scoot closer to the middle and wiggles beneath the covers with her, sides pressed against each other. He wraps an arm around her shoulder and squeezes. He's about her height, taller than the rest of the nursery's inhabitants, but his bulk makes her feel tiny beside him.
"There you go. Keep breathing, you're doing great," he says. "I am so proud of you."
"I haven't done anything," Gabrysia whimpers.
"You asked for help." Mael's eyes twinkle with fondness. "I know how hard that is for you."
She scoffs wetly, pouting against the nub of the sippy cup and mumbling, "I didn't ask for anything."
She never does. In all the years she's lived here, she's kept her head down and stayed quiet. It was an undeniable fact that, should she cause any issue, Mael would surely kick her out. His generosity most certainly has its limits and his patience for the trouble she wrought would only save her for so long.
"You asked for a minute," Mael corrects. "You came down and asked for a minute of my time. That's all you need to do. That's all."
It's the way he forces her to look at him with a gentle finger to her chin, to understand the underlining meaning to his words, that has her finally breaking.
Gabrysia's face crumples into the cries of a child, her headspace washing over her hard and fast. It's a bucket of ice water being dumped over her, a series of memories she tries so hard to forget. Tears barrel down her cheeks and her chest heaves with each gut-wrenching sob.
Mael sympathetically croons at her and opens his arms, allowing her to fall into his embrace and nuzzle against his chest. He hugs her with one arm, using the other to take her cup before it spills.
"How long has it been since you last regressed? You said weeks?" he asks, bringing the hot chocolate to her lips and helping her take a few sips. It interrupts her cries just enough for her to take in a sharp inhale.
"I dunno," Gabrysia wails, fisting his robes in her hands. "Since—since 'Angelo started his show?"
Maelstrom nods with a hum. "I see… and everyone's been gone, huh? No one wants to let you into the theater."
"Mmm! Uh huh." The fire crackles in the background and she wishes she could huddle against it to try and fight off the frost inside her.
He goes quiet for a moment and, even at the ripe age of vaguely toddler, Gabrysia knows exactly what he's thinking. Despite it being his home, his nursery, and his theater, he can't just make the other three to invite her in on things. Even on the topic of regression, they don't like when she comes near. Araceli's grudge, D'Angelo's incessant need to keep the peace, and Sable's age leaving her impressionable means that all Gabrysia has is Mael, and he can't force anyone to do anything.
When the silence goes on for too long, she blinks up at him and asks, "… what do I do?" in a wet, little voice.
They both know she's asking for more than help regressing, and Mael looks painfully sad.
"I don't know, honey," he responds, rubbing her back. "But how about we start with what I do know, hm? I'm here and more than happy to take care of you when you need it. Next time you go too long without regressing, come find me and I'll help just like I did today."
"M'kay," Gabrysia accepts—because anything more would require ripping open wounds she isn't ready to address yet.
She curls up in his arms, rubbing her eyes to try and stop the tears. Mael's fingers run through her pin-straight strands of hair and he holds her close, which only ignites a new wave of tears. He brings her sippy cup to her lips and feeds it to her like a baby bottle.
"It's okay to need help, córunia," Mael mumbles, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "It's okay to need other people. I'm sorry I can't do more."
She's sorry too—for a lot of things. But speaking is hard when she's so small and busy suckling on her sippy cup. She just nuzzles into his chest and closes her eyes, grateful that someone's here for her.