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We watched Rocky first, of course. Full length films came quickly after I cycled through the Earth scenes and documentaries loaded into the ship's memory system. Rocky loved them all, chanting his very endearing amaze amaze amaze with every new sweeping scenery that filled the screen. I don't think it will ever cease to amaze me, really, how so much genius could lie beneath his stocky exterior. The crystalline camera device he holds in his hand can replicate the pictures on the screen as tactile ones, enough for his echolocation to pick up on! It was useful for the data screens, sure, but more importantly—it opened a whole world of human entertainment I can now share with him.
Time passed. Weeks, months, and eventually we were years into our travel back to Erid. Whenever I wanted to binge some show I'd seen a million times, Rocky would roll up to watch. When I booted up the emulator to play video games, Rocky unhelpfully criticized my every technique.
When I stupidly cried over It's a Wonderful Life on a day that was probably Christmas (the computer systems had been tracking Moscow Standard Time since I left, but with the power outages and the trickery of time dilation, I wasn't so sure it was accurate), Rocky trilled with partial-sympathy beside me. He also hummed a warbling low tone, the way Eridians sing a tease when he said:
But movie not real, Grace. Humans leak so easily! Silly silly silly.
"I know," I groaned, bringing my hands up in a pathetic show to wipe the 'leaks' from my eyes. "It's nice to feel so much emotion though, this movie especially." I remember gathering around the TV to watch it with family; I never cried then, but my mother always did.
I mostly avoid holiday movies after that.
Rocky is a lot more interested in sci-fi anyways. How fitting! Like a true nerd, he gleefully chatters about Star Trek with me as we work our way through the television series. When it comes up that Spock's planet, Vulcan, is from 40 Eridani, he spins his spaceball around with excitement. He really just looks like a hamster that got into a supply of cocaine. I laugh so hard I think I'm about to fall off my chair.
Spock is like brother to Erid! I am Spock, Grace is Kirk! Amaze! Rocky had come up with Eridian names for Spock and Kirk during the first episode, something that correlated with two different shapes. Shapes that could fit together seamlessly. It made sense to Rocky, I sorta get it.
I choke on the coma slurry a while later as I come across some enlightening Star Trek literature in the database. When Stratt copied the internet, she really copied everything. I guess it's an important aspect of human culture. It's stupid (who's even here to care? Rocky?),but I pretend that I don't notice the way my heartbeat speeds up as I peruse the works. Spock and Kirk, it seems, had a romance to rival all others in fiction.
When we end up watching The Wrath of Khan, Rocky is the one who 'cries'. It's not like a human cry—with our heaving sobs, whines, and 'leaks'—it's a slow tapping of his hands on the ground accompanied by an almost inaudibly low whistle. Maybe I shouldn't have put this one on. The rationing of the coma slurry has started to get to me, irritability and sadness are a cornerstone of the human body slowly working its way into a state of constant starvation. I cried too, obviously.
Spock on one side of the glass, Kirk on the other. Their hands pressed together through the barrier as Spock lay dying.
"The needs of the many outweigh—"
"—the needs of the few," Kirk finishes. I hear Rocky shudder beside me.
"Or the one"
It's a lot. Of course I know that Spock is resurrected in the following film—I'd be a terrible nerd if I hadn't seen these movies enough times to practically recite them word for word—but seeing Rocky like this, seeing myself like this, makes it feel like this is the first time all over again, being twelve and crying over the VHS tape in my parent's basement.
I look at him, through the xenonite barrier of his ball. He has a hand pressed against it, two fingers spread apart, the other at the side. A Vulcan salute.
Spock cannot die. Bad bad bad.
I think of Rocky's twenty-three crew mates. I think of Rocky's limp body in his enclosure, how I had no idea to know if he was alive or dead. How he saved me by sacrificing himself, knowing he could die. The needs of the many outweigh the one, that was why I was on the Hail Mary in the first place. Dang. This movie is too close to home. Bad bad bad.
"Can I spoil it for you?" I say, my voice tight. I don't know why I still try to stop myself from crying. It never works anyways.
Spoil like food question? His tone is still so low, so sad. My stomach twists, the minuscule amount of coma slurry sloshes within it.
"No like—I can tell you what happens in the next movie, but then the surprise is gone."
He thinks for a moment, then raises his carapace sharply, straightening his legs and humming higher chords now.
Grace spoil! I know what happen to Spock!
"But I didn't say—" I start, but Rocky cuts me off before I can say any more.
Spock cannot die! You know that Spock live!
I should be going to sleep soon, but as Rocky celebrates the spoiler, I find myself putting The Search for Spock on.
We celebrate Spock's revival almost like we did with the Taumeoba—albeit, with less of Ilyukhina's vodka this time around. Vodka on a pretty empty stomach would be terrible anyways. Keeping the slurry in my stomach is priority number one.
Rocky keeps his hand in the Vulcan salute against the xenonite, I hold my own against it. The heat conducting its way through the xenonite is nice, I can almost imagine it's his skin against mine. The burn on my arm is evidence enough that it's not, but a guy can imagine, can't he?
Kirk and Spock reunite, Spock says "Jim", the floodgates open in my eyes again, I can't help it.
Leak from happy question?
"Yeah buddy," I say. Gosh, I cry a lot nowadays. I don't remember this happening this much back at home. Its easier to cry in space.
Happy happy happy. Spock and Kirk back together, Grace and Rocky back together, he sings. His carapace fully leans against the edge of the spaceball. Hug, Grace!
It's awkward, as it always is, I manoeuvre my arms around the jagged ball. It's a bit uncomfortable, but man, is it worth it. Warmth presses back into me, Rocky trills with delight.
No more sad movies.
I contemplate showing him the Alien movies for a long time. On one hand, they're some of my absolute favourites, on the other—they're scary as heck. But no education on the wonderful world of science fiction would be right without them.
I suppose I did expect this outcome, but it still comes as a bit of a shock when I see what Rocky's fear response is.
No no no. Do not like. Do not like movie. Bad bad bad.
He had splayed out flat backwards when the facehugger jumped at Kane's helmet. Some sort of fight or flight reaction—one that made him play dead. Jumpscares work on Eridians it seems. Makes sense from an evolutionary point of view.
When he shook himself back up, he turned to curse me out for putting it on, missing the entire scene of Ash analysing the facehugger on Kane's face. The science-y bit of the movie is so good too!
"It's just a movie, remember?" I'm the one teasing this time. I scared myself so bad with this movie as a kid, I truly thought the xenomorph lived in my closet for a good while longer than was probably acceptable for a childhood fear.
Grace. He says my name with a warning tone, the Nostromo crew is in the cafeteria, the chestbuster scene is coming any second now. I can't help myself from grinning.
"I'm right here, it's fine! Just watch."
He goes limp again when the baby alien violently rips its way through Kane's chest. I shuffle closer to his ball.
Scary. He sounds less sure of himself, his carapace sways to the side.
I drape an arm over the spaceball, Rocky nuzzles up to me like a cat. A scaredy-cat, even. I laugh a little, much to the dismay of the still very terrified Rocky.
I am glad real alien are not like movie, Rocky says as the credits roll.
"Hey, you never know! I could eat you right now."
You would die. Grace stupid.
I sigh, pushing the thought of food from my mind for now. It'd have to get really desperate for me to try to eat him. I think I'd rather starve.
We're still pressed together through the xenonite, I think the comforting touch worked. Throughout the rest of the movie, Rocky certainly trilled with fear, but no longer did he slump over completely. Highly social pack animals are stronger together. We can survive as long as we stick to each other. Even light-years apart, the nature of the food chain imparts upon the same basic survival instincts.
You are like ♫♩♫♩♪
"What?"
Final human in movie. I name after friend on Erid, remind me of them too!
"Oh, Ripley, right." The proper noun thing will always be a problem, it seems. "I had such a big crush on her when I was younger. Still do, I guess."
Sexual attraction, question?
"Yeah, sure," I yawn, leaning more weight onto Rocky. I could probably fall asleep like this, if it didn't leave Rocky trapped and bored while he watched. He hadn't brought anything to tinker with in the ball.
Understand. If I human, I think so too! You are like Ripley. I ignore the insinuation. I don't think he means it like that, anyways.
"What's that make you then?"
Do not know. Cat, maybe. Not alien.
My mind conjures an image of Rocky with orange cat ears and whiskers, its very funny and very cute.
"Kitty," I stroke a hand over the xenonite like I would with a real cat. I don't really think Rocky likes being compared to a pet, and he says so shortly after he trills with annoyance.
No, Grace. Maybe I am wrong. Grace is cat, I am Ripley!
"Hmph, fine. Meow." I'm very tired now. I'm meowing. Usually not a great sign.
Grace sleep now, Rocky says, a command of sorts. He starts moving away from where we sort-of touch. The warmth begins to fade under my skin. I can't help but groan.
I make my way to the dormitory, trying with my failing and fatigued muscles to avoid the random things scattered across the floor. Rocky pushes me along with his ball, pressing it sharply into my calves when I slow my stumbling steps.
I want more slurry, but we haven't figured out a way to consume Taumoeba yet without it being a) disgusting and b) safe for me to digest, so I have to stick to the rations. It Suuuuucks. Capital S. The movies distract me from my stomach enough, I feel it the most when I try to sleep.
Once I'm splayed out flat on my chest, a blanket haphazardly kicked over my legs, Rocky goes to enter his side of the room. Something twists in my stomach then, different from hunger. Sadness, it seems. Seeing Rocky secluded behind partitioned walls Sucks. I wish things could be different, I wish we had the same atmosphere, I wish we didn't have to do all this. I wish he could sleep with me.
Wait. Not like that. Or—no. No. Can't think about that right now. I mean in a purely wholesome way. Totally.
It would just be so nice to simply touch, to curl up together. The pack animal brain yearns for touch, for connection beyond what they can give each other through the xenonite walls. I wonder if Eridians can get touch starved like this.
Rocky knows something isn't right. Of course he does, the dang genius he is. He hasn't gotten to work on whatever it is he would work on while I slept. He's tapping the floor gently, definitely enough to get a better picture of me fussing in bed.
Grace? He chirps inquisitively.
"I'm fine," I lie.
You are scared of movie question? If only it was that simple.
"No, it's not that." The lie slips away without much pushing from Rocky. What's the point, really.
I shuffle to put my arm under my ear. I consider getting up to find Ilyukhina's teddy bear, packed away with the rest of her personal effects. It could be nice, I could imagine it was a very, very, squishy Rocky.
You sleep, I observe.
"I sleep, you observe." I parrot. Despite the tiredness that threatens to pull my bones through the dang hull of the Hail Mary, I can't slip into that final embrace of true sleep. I haven't really struggled with insomnia like this since grad school, and that was entirely self inflicted. Too much RedBull is not great for your circadian rhythm. Hours seem to pass, Rocky just stands there, watching me intently, tapping occasionally. He doesn't even attempt to pick up a tool.
Grace? He calls again. You are awake question?
I mumble something in response.
Why not sleep question? Sickness question?
"Not really sickness. Can you just—" It would be so stupid to ask. I don't know why I think that, actually. Has Rocky ever denied me anything? His people watch one another sleep as a principle of life, why would this request be strange? Whatever. "Could you come here?"
Understand. Rocky hops up to the mattress, spaceball and all. I didn't really think this through. I'm pushed to the edge, his ball takes up most of the available surface area.
"Rocky can you—"
You are uncomfortable, I leave.
"No! Just— wait." I push myself further up the mattress, situating Rocky against my chest and stomach, curled in a fetal position—with a massive ball in the middle. Rocky shuffles nervously, tapping the xenonite to watch me in high definition. It takes a while, but I find something that works. One of my arms drapes over the ball, the other snakes it's way around the side. Rocky lowers his carapace, crossing his many arms below him to find his own comfortable position.
One of his arms stays raised, however, and he pushes it up to the xenonite where my lower hand is. Incidentally, it's also the burned and scarred one. My eyes grow heavy, but I keep them open enough to watch Rocky's hand move from side to side, up the length of my arm to the elbow, and then back to my palm. Petting me, just like a cat. The scar buzzes with pins and needles. It should hurt, the warmth against the burn, but it doesn't.
I'm pretty sure I fall asleep with a stupid smile on my face. Rocky doesn't mention it.