Chapter Text
After their uniforms, the next boxes to come out of storage were personal effects. Grace set aside Yao and Ilyukhina's boxes for later. He needed to be in the right frame of mind to open them: calm, steady, respectful. Even with no one watching, he still felt he owed them that.
He opened his own box. Right on top was a giant bag of sour Skittles. It was filled with a bunch of regular-sized bags- 80 of them, according to the packaging. It was the kind of thing he'd buy for handing out candy on Halloween, or for Spirit Day at the school.
"Wow. I must really like sour Skittles. Or maybe all three of us did."
Grace felt himself start to salivate. Well then. No harm in indulging a little before digging deeper into his own things- and, hopefully, his own memories.
It took a minute to rip through the layers of plastic and wax paper; his fine motor skills were still rebooting from the coma. Grace's stomach began to rumble. The ship trilled peevishly. There was that computer voice again:
"Warning: Digestive system is in recovery. Consumption of unscheduled food is not advised."
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered. Finally, he managed to peel open one of the candy packages.
That's when the robot arms descended.
"Hey! Those are mine!"
A flash of memory. Grace was taking off across an expanse of blacktop, painted with hopscotch and foursquare and a map of the United States. Was this the playground of the school where he taught? No- the surrounding jungle gyms towered over him. The children around him all stood at his eye level, if not taller.
This was his childhood.
"Hey! No! Colt! That's mine! Colt!" he panted.
A blonde boy peeled out ahead of him, laughing and shaking a pack of Skittles in his fist.
"Colton Grace!" boomed a man's voice from above.
Large hands descended, corralling both boys by the wrists. The boys collided, not in malice but from sheer inertia. They both landed on their bottoms. Tears welled in Ryland's eyes. (He had to call himself "Ryland" when the other boy was also "Grace.") With great effort, Ryland managed not to cry. Colt gulped and sniffled, clearly fighting the same battle.
The man above yanked them both to their feet. The boys only stood about as high as his waist. Ryland's stomach felt heavy, his throat went tight, and his gaze fell instinctively to the ground.
He and Colt were scared of this man.
His memories fragmented from there. The episode on the playground blurred into more habitual memories, echoes on themes. Wincing as he was yanked upward by the arm, or he heard a belt buckle whistle through the air. "Thou shalt not steal... He who does not work, neither shall he eat... For drunkards and gluttons become poor, and drowsiness clothes them in rags..."
But he also remembered laying beneath the tree at Christmastime, staring up into the lights. Pressing against the railing at the aquarium, angling for a better view of the sea crabs. Crawling around the yard looking for cool bugs. Slingshotting Beanie Babies off the porch with Colt's Therabands, but not before both boys counted down:
Five... four... three... two... one... blast off!
Running, grabbing, wrestling- sometimes while yelling in anger, sometimes while laughing. And always with Colt.
"I thought he didn't want em!" said Colt. "He wasn't eating any, just lining them up!"
Colt was much ganglier now than in the first memory. His movements were more controlled, his child-voice cracking at the edges. Ryland guessed they were around twelve years old this time.
Mom sighed. "C'mon, Colt. You know he always does that before eating them. Now give them back."
Colt pushed the Skittles across the kitchen table. They'd sweated in his hands, leaving Red #40, et al, across his palms. Ryland began to sort the Skittles by color again, but Mom chided him.
"Ryland? Ryland. Colt is apologizing. We listen when people apologize. Now Colt, what do you say?"
"Sorry," Colt huffed. He looked a little off to side- both boys hated how adults insisted on eye contact during apologies. Then he pushed his bangs off his forehead with the heel of his hand, leaving a streak of food dye.
Ryland burst out laughing. "You look like Simba!" He mimed wiping his own forehead.
Colt pulled his hand back, scowling for a moment. Then he laughed, too.
Armando pinched a corner of the opened Skittles bag in his silicone fingers like it was a used tissue. (Grace had decided just now to name the robot arms "Armando.") A small drawer popped out of the dormitory wall. Armando dropped the Skittles in, and the drawer retracted into the smooth metal surface.
Slowly, keeping his eyes on Armando, Grace fished out another mini bag of Skittles from the party pack. But he didn't open it this time. Armando remained still at his post. Grace scooted under his bed, in the fetal position facing the wall.
Then he opened the Skittles.
Armando hovered above the bed, whirring in robotic irritation. Grace felt unreasonably proud of himself. It was too dark and cramped down here to sort the Skittles properly. So he saved the red ones for last, and contented himself with motley fistfuls of the other colors.
"Mm!"
He puckered his lips at the first shock of sourness. The surface grit dissolved quickly, revealing smooth, sweet candy shells beneath. Grace knocked the Skittles around his teeth for a moment. Then he gave in to temptation and bit them open.
Sour Skittles were slightly softer on the inside than the classic ones. Funny how he remembered that. The candy innards melded together, forming a blob with a viscosity close to chewing gum, the texture of fine sandpaper, and the taste of childhood. Citric acid and sugar. Energy and creativity. As he pushed the candy against his cheek and sucked out the juices, Grace swore he could feel the glucose swimming straight up into his brain.
"The human brain runs on glucose, Colt. You need carbs, man! Even for the most basic cognitive functions."
"Oh yeah? Is that why you're such a fatass?"
"It's why you're so stupid."
Beneath his space-hammock bed, Grace popped the last handful of Skittles- all the red ones- into his mouth. His tongue was raw from sour flavor coating. His palm was stained with Red #40. He smiled with misty eyes.
He wasn't planning to dwell on his childhood. He doubted it would contain any mission-useful information. And the emotional threads had felt... complicated. (Just like most people's childhoods, he supposed.)
He was glad he remembered Colt, though. Despite the fights and insults, the thought of Colt had evoked largely positive emotions. Fun. Belonging. Loyalty.
That made sense, didn't it? They had the same last name, the same parents. Obviously, they were brothers.
No. More than that.
Colt was always there. They even shared a classroom in their earlier school years. They were in the same grade; they were the same age... They were twins!
And Ryland got the sense that he'd often looked to Colt for help. Not just for backup in fights and stuff, but to get a gauge on how he felt about situations. Because whatever Colt's face was doing, Ryland's face was probably doing the same. They had the same face. Which meant...
They were identical twins.