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The first thing Mizi thinks when she wakes up is that she’s returned to the ocean.
She wakes up fighting, fists thrown into the air and legs flailing. She’s drowning, drowning, drowning, can feel the oxygen bubble closing in around her so all she can do is thrash, but there’s no surface to be discovered because the ocean planet is vast and dark and all she has is her own thin skin.
Her lungs give out and—against her will—she sucks in a massive breath—and it’s—
“—okay,” a raspy voice whispers to her. A pair of hands grasp one of hers between their own, tracing stars and flowers into her palm. It’s grounding. “You’re okay, Mizi. It’ll be okay. You’re okay.”
Mizi feels her eyes well with tears—even as she breathes beautiful, wonderful oxygen—and she’s choking and coughing on her own spit. The space beneath her nose and chin are wet and sticky with snot and saliva, but she doesn’t wipe them away. She’s relieved—Great Anakt, she is so fucking relieved. She’s alive—the great nothingness has not subsumed her. Flyaway pink hairs get caught in her mouth and her eyes, but she cannot do anything besides shake and cry, until eventually she starts to laugh.
“…she okay?” Mizi hears a rich, womanly voice ask quietly.
“Shock, I think, right? She thought she was a goner, probably,” the same raspy voice responds. It sounds familiar, almost quite like the air she’s breathing. She’s grateful for the familiarity, although she’s not sure she would notice it otherwise.
Mizi chokes, then hacks violently, trying to dislodge the saliva that she’d breathed into the wrong channel. She hunches over, gripping what she now realizes are blankets over her lap, while those same hands migrate to rub soothing circles on her back. Tears blur her vision from the force of her bodily reactions, but she roughly rubs and blinks them away, trying avidly to convince her mind that she’s somewhere else—she hasn’t returned. When her vision finally comes into focus, she’s met with the face of a beautiful brown-skinned stranger with striking blue eyes. She turns to the side, trying to discern who has taken on the mantle of soothing her, and finds—
“—Till?” Mizi rasps out, then coughs.
Till’s silver hair is cropped close to his scalp, and he’s looking at her with those blisteringly familiar teal eyes, shining and hopeful. The familiarity of his face is both a comfort and a stab to the chest, because when she looks past him…
…standing in the corner of the room…
…is Sua, smiling, hands tucked cutely behind her back. She’s wearing her white dress, the one that she wore on that damned Stage, the one Mizi had held up to her chest and laughed because it was too small for her to fit into. She tilts her head at Mizi, the hair from her dark bob brushing her left shoulder, and doesn’t say a word.
“Don’t strain yourself, Mizi,” Till says. “You must be wondering—” He shudders, like electricity has zapped through his body, hands falling away from her quickly. He stammers a bit, before the words finally escape him, “Are you alright with me touching you? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep.”
Mizi only nods mutely, gaze trained on Sua. Till lets out a sigh of relief, hand lightly brushing her arm—a grounding touch.
“This is the human rebellion,” he explains. “Remember the stories we used to hear? You’re in the infirmary…”
Mizi is motionless as Till begins to explain to her where she is, who she’s with, and what has happened to her. The information registers somewhere in her mind, distantly, like that the woman in the room is named Hyuna, but she can’t bring herself to respond. She is cognizant of Till in her periphery, of his grounding comfort and touch, but all she can do is stare at the apparition of Sua.
She hasn’t moved, not even a simulation of the delicate rise and fall of her chest. They’re locked into each other’s gaze—but Sua is devastatingly, beautifully composed, while Mizi feels unmoored, the shaky foundations of her very being threatening to send her into collapse. Mizi feels the inklings of a phrase on the tip of her tongue, words crawling up her throat, questions desperate to be said. But all she can do is bring the blanket to her chest, tuck in her chin, and cough and hack wildly. Till places a steady hand on her back, patting when necessary to help her release the spit clogging her throat. All through it, Mizi still doesn’t look at him—or anyone—besides Sua.
Sua’s eyes narrow into those precious crescent moons, the corners of her lips ticking upward into her most practiced smile. Out of nothing, she produces a needle—points it to her neck, perfectly poised, and stabs straight through.
Mizi vomits.
Adjusting to life in the human rebellion is no simple task.
When Till had disappeared from his round and gone missing, Mizi had wondered, of course. Till, for all of his faults and their inability to truly be close, has always been a dear friend to her. She’d always admired his sensitive artist’s soul, and pitied his circumstances, as most did in the Garden. Now, she can see that Till has settled in well to the Rebellion. There’s more meat on his bones, more confidence in his gait. There’s a rosiness to his cheeks, too, that had never before made an appearance in the Garden.
Mizi hates him for it.
It’s selfish, she knows. She’s glad to see him alive, obviously. The loss of him on top of Sua would’ve surely sent her over the edge. But she can’t help the bitterness that grips her when she sees that he’s gained what she’s lost—which is to say, everything. Mizi had known happiness once, though fragile and ephemeral, destined to blow away in the wind like a rugged pile of leaves. Mizi sees now that Till has learned happiness—maybe even real happiness, this time—steady and wholesome and here.
Where the fuck is here anyways? Mizi is nowhere. And without Sua, she is no one.
Till sits with Mizi in her sleeping quarters, sketching quietly, on the floor and leaning against her bedframe. Perched on top of her bed, Mizi watches idly. Back in the Garden, she would’ve killed for the chance to watch him in his process, fascinated with the unending creativity that flows through his fingertips. Now, she can barely muster feigned interest. But it is movement, and it is a needed distraction from the grief that gnaws on her bones.
While these are Mizi’s sleeping quarters, they are technically shared between her and Till. There’s a second bed and a wardrobe full of his belongings. The second desk is littered with his sketches, scribbled lyrics, and other drawing utensils. He’d slept in the room with her for the bulk of her initial recovery, carefully there when she’d vomited or moaned out in pain or was otherwise in need of support. Eventually, when she’d healed enough, she noticed he’d slip out most nights, to the point where Mizi forgets it’s even a room designated for the both of them. It wasn’t for a while until she really put two and two together.
It’s Ivan. Mizi watches as Till fills in the curve of his thick brows. Till’s lover. The one he spends most nights with. The one he draws with such intention and care. And if Mizi’s being honest, Ivan is the one who Mizi hates the most.
“Can I draw you?” Till asks.
He didn’t used to ask, back in the Garden. Mizi knows she was his primary subject, his muse, for years. It both flattered and saddened her at the time, creating a distance between them she could never quite bridge, though not for lack of effort. Now, though, he asks. There’s been a shift in their dynamic, though Mizi isn’t quite sure what it means. Now, there’s a new muse, and a new home, and a new happiness. What is Mizi anymore, besides the ghost of a girl who once mattered?
She shakes her head. She doesn’t think she could bear Till’s gaze weighing heavily on her, tracking her every movement with scrutiny. Least of all, she doesn’t think she could handle seeing her face reflected back at her, nor whatever lens through which Till now views her. In the Garden, his depictions of her were always haloed with sunshine and reverence, gentle tributes to an opulence she never truly bore. She wouldn’t be able to handle it if it were the same, but the notion that it might’ve shifted frightens her more. She thinks Till knows, to an extent, the pain Mizi feels at her own reflection. He is, after all, the one who bandaged her fingers after she last saw herself in a mirror.
“Can I draw…?” Till trails off, leaving the rest of his question unsaid. Mizi knows what he’s asking though, of course. Sua—he wants to know if he can draw Sua.
He doesn’t often ask this one, though she knows he must have drawn her before. Before Mizi’s arrival, before the Rebellion even, before everything all went to shit. Since she’d awoken,the first time Sua’s name had ever tentatively left his lips, Mizi had curled into herself, fingernails digging into the skin of her arms and legs until she’d drawn blood. Till had cried while holding her, and tried to surreptitiously wipe his eyes while the vet—nurse, whatever—tended to her skin wounds. All the while, the apparition of Sua stood over her, pupils blown wide and smiling uncannily.
Now, though, Till is careful. He’s so careful with her now, to the point where Mizi wants to scream—if only she could.
Slowly, Mizi shakes her head, biting her lip. She scratches at her knees.
“Okay,” Till dips his head, ever respectful. He looks up at her, hesitantly, then offers his pencil and a blank page of his sketchpad. “Is there anything you want to say?”
Gingerly, Mizi takes the proffered materials. Scritch-scritch. She hands him back the page with two words neatly printed: PLEASE LEAVE.
Till’s breath hitches, and he nods. Wordlessly, he gathers his things and makes his way to the door. He slips out into the hallway, but not before turning back and saying, expression gentle, “If you need anything, please come find me.” Mizi only nods her head as the door clicks shut.
Sua appears the moment he leaves, chin dropping onto Mizi’s shoulder from behind.
He doesn’t love you anymore, she murmurs. He knows who you really are now. The words she chooses are always few and far between, always designed to cut through her completely.
Mizi hunches in on herself, feeling Sua’s cool arms wrap around her midriff. She wishes the touch was comforting, but it’s only a cruel reminder of her selfishness. What should be a hug feels more like a suffocation maneuver, and laid out in front of Mizi is the dark abyss of the ocean. Spots crawl into Mizi’s vision from lack of oxygen, until, finally, Sua releases her.
Mizi heaves a breath, the feeling of air rushing into her lungs a sweet relief. Meanwhile, Sua’s cool fingertips brush through her long, pink hair, twisting it into a loose braid.
What a waste, Sua declares, then yanks her hair like she’s trying to uproot the rot in Mizi’s soul.
Mizi has a new haircut.
“An undercut,” is what Dewey called it after Till had taken her to him to get it shaped. She’d yanked the hair out of her scalp, or at least that’s what Till said, leaving a bleeding, patchy bald spot by her nape. Mizi doesn’t really care what she looks like anymore, especially not after the Stage, but Till said it might help her feel a little bit more put together—and also a little changed.
“Hyuna noona likes to say that hair holds memories,” Till told her. “That’s why I cut mine— because I wanted a fresh start. Maybe it’ll help you, too.”
Mizi only shrugged. Nothing really mattered anymore. Might as well.
It is a change, though, one she might even think she likes. She wears her hair up more now, in ponytails and in buns, so that she can run her fingers through the short patches. Till even offered to shave a star-shape design into it, which she considered heavily. It’s nice to be vain again, but in an entirely new way.
“Has training been alright?” Till asks her. He’s sitting across from her, hip-to-hip with Ivan, in the dining hall. Ivan stares at her impassively every now and then, like he’s trying to figure her out. It feels raw and violating, but also she worries about what he might find. She’s not even quite sure what’s there herself.
Mizi spoons her porridge into her mouth, nodding slightly. She does like training. She likes feeling full and feeling strong. Maybe this is what she feels the most guilt over; in spite of her misery, she is grateful to be alive.
“I like this haircut on you,” Till says, smiling. “It suits you.”
Mizi only shrugs, but she can’t help the smile that ticks at her lips, and the subsequent hand that runs through her hair at the compliment. Till seems pleased by her reaction, turning to look at Ivan with a bright expression. Ivan drapes a casual arm over Till’s shoulder, squeezing him lightly in acknowledgement, and Mizi feels her stomach curdle with envy.
“Oh, Hyuna noona!” Till calls out when he sees the leader about to pass their table. “Come sit.”
Hyuna beams, placing her tray down next to Till’s, coming to sit on the other side of him. She gives Ivan a rough pat, which he fights off with a laugh, and knuckles Till into a brief headlock, causing him to splutter, before dropping down into the seat next to him. Unfortunately, Hyuna always comes with an unfortunate attachment.
Luka slides into the seat next to Mizi, directly across from Hyuna. Mizi gives him a sidelong glance, feeling tension creep into her shoulders. Ivan is impassive as ever, but Till is similarly averse to the Prince’s presence, he just has more incentive to put on airs for Hyuna. Mizi has no such qualms. She clenches her spoon in her fist.
“How are y’all doing?” Hyuna chirps, leaning against her elbows. She turns to look in Mizi and Ivan’s direction, “How’s the healing been?”
Ivan snorts, “I feel as though that is a question for you, given that you gave yourself no time to recover.”
Hyuna waves him off, “Yeah, yeah, whatever, workaholic, I don’t wanna hear it from you.” She looks at Mizi directly, “How are you though, Mizi?”
Mizi isn’t quite sure why Hyuna seems to have taken to her so deeply, only that she sometimes finds it a bit uncomfortable. There’s affection there, maybe mostly by proxy of Till, but also an interest that seeks to peel her back layer by layer. She does appreciate it, for the most part, so she dips her head in response. She pulls out her small notepad, flipping to a pre-written page. I feel better. How are you?
“Good,” Hyuna leans back. “I’m glad to hear it.”
‘
“You should learn to ask better questions, noona,” Till quips, then ducks to avoid a smack upside the head.
“Funny, funny,” Hyuna teases.
She, Till, and Ivan begin to quibble over nonsense that Mizi can’t keep pace with, nor does she feel particularly inclined to. It’s all just noise—noise with the airs of laughter, but only noise nonetheless. At her side, Mizi hears Luka sigh, bringing a cup of water to his lips.
“You’re quite pitiful, aren’t you?”
Mizi’s head jerks over to Luka, stupefied. This is the first she’s heard his voice in ages, since they encountered one another in the corridors of the Stage. Back then, he’d made a mockery of her with the simple upturn of his lips, the crinkle of his eyebrows. He’d seen her in all of her pathetic mourning, and reveled in it. Here, now, months and light-years away from the Stage, he dredges all of that ugliness right back up.
At Mizi’s glare, his mouth only curves upward, mocking. He sighs again, turning his spoon around in his bowl, then says, “What a waste.”
SMACK.
The sound of Mizi’s hand coming up to slap Luka in the face resounds throughout the dining hall. The whole area falls quiet— until now, there has been a delicate balance. Mizi’s initiation has, for the most part, gone under the radar, while Luka’s mystifying connection to Hyuna and her implicit protection has saved him from the majority of people antagonizing him. Luka is, after all, a perfect symbol of domestication, the antithesis to the Rebellion’s entire existence. But he’s had a tenuous bubble of protection surrounding him— at least, until now.
Luka’s head has snapped sideways, a red mark blooming on his pale cheek. Mizi breathes heavily, ears ringing, gaze honed in on the mark of her act of violence. It’s proof that she exists. She feels the heady thrum of her own blood pumping in her veins, roaring in her ears. Luka brings his delicate blue-tipped fingers to cover his mouth, and begins to laugh.
Amidst his cackling, Mizi swears she sees a vision of Sua, red-faced and beaming behind her bruises. Sua leans forward, presses her mouth to Mizi in a sweet kiss, and it’s this act of silencing that sends Mizi into a rage.
Mizi’s vision and hearing white out, the only thing she can recognize is the rhythmic THUD, THUD, THUD of her own punches. The snap and crackle of bones, of skin hitting skin. When she comes to, she’s hunched over a bloodied Luka on the floor, and Till is grabbing her by the arm. The dining hall is in uproar. Mizi’s arms fall limply to her sides, and she lets herself be hauled away from the scene, reticent.
Luka is still smiling as she gets dragged away.
“I’m not mad, Mizi, but why?”
Mizi is on discipline now, sentenced to a week of house arrest for her transgressions. Rather generous, quite honestly, but she supposes no one quite likes Luka very much in the first place. It doesn’t disrupt her routine much, only disallows her from venting her pent-up energy through physical exertion. Till, as usual, is her most consistent visitor.
Mizi shrugs listlessly, eyes averted.
“I know I’ve always been bad at listening,” Till says, his tone edging on begging. “But I want to be here for you, Mizi. Please, I just want to understand you.”
Mizi’s fists clench in her lap. What does it mean, to be understood? If Till — or anyone — ever found out who she really was, they’d discard her like she was nothing. She is poison, a sacrilegious devotee who thought she could dare to touch God— and taint her. Her fragile God, her universe, had always sought to bring her to salvation, uplift her from the dredges of her permeating rot and sin. And now in the aftermath, she is left in the wreckage.
“Please,” Till says. He gently places a notepad and pencil in her lap. Mizi can’t help but make fleeting eye contact, and the sharp earnestness of his teal eyes sends guilt abound in her chest.
Gingerly, she picks up the pencil, and writes. Scritch-scritch. Scritch-scritch. She tears out the page, and hands it to Till, who reads it carefully.
Neither he, nor I, deserve to be saved.
“Mizi…” and the pity in his tone is too much for her to bear. Mizi squeezes her eyes shut, covering her head with her hands, curling into a tight ball. Till seems to take the hint, quietly leaving and shutting the door with a click.
When she’s finally alone, she feels the tears slip out, unbidden, and the weight of Sua on her back.
After Mizi emerges from her punishment, Luka seems to disappear. In his stead, Hyuna seems to have taken an extra liking to Mizi, which is deeply perplexing, but she passively allows herself to get pulled along without any further questions.
Hyuna introduces Mizi to the wonders of alcohol, which makes Till grumble about bad influences, and drags Mizi out to the bar establishment regularly, especially after Hyuna finishes up with the majority of her responsibilities for the day. Mizi doesn’t exactly like the taste of alcohol, but the burning in her throat feels almost like absolution, and the inebriated feeling she gets reminds her almost of her bubbly childhood self. She’s quicker to smile, even laugh, and her propensity toward physical affection starts to feel less like betrayal and more like comfort again. She becomes acquainted with Hyuna’s casual ribbing and affectionate roughhousing, and finally repays Till’s endless patience with a barrage of hugs. She even dances, one night, with Ivan, before spinning out of his arms and sending a world-weary Till in his direction. She’s having fun. She thinks.
Tonight, though, in the dim light of the bar, it’s just Mizi and Hyuna.
“Ever since our message of hope got sent out, wild-humans have been flocking to different Rebellion factions,” Hyuna says, leaning back in her seat. Her feet are kicked up against the countertop, and with the cigarette hanging out of her mouth, she looks every bit the cool Rebellion leader that she is. Sometimes, when it’s just her and Mizi, she’ll talk about anything and everything. Mizi is uncertain what she’s done to justify such trust. “The movement is building for sure, we just need to develop the infrastructure to topple segyein domination for good.”
Why? Mizi writes.
“Ah, well, you see, without a method to our madness, we have all of these ranks of riled-up humans with nowhere productive to direct their energy,” Hyuna explains, taking a drag of her cigarette. “Our factions create networks that act in line with a goal. There’s power in collective action that we wouldn’t otherwise have when fragmented.”
Mizi shakes her head. That’s not what she meant. She points at her page again. Why?
“Why…what?” Hyuna says slowly. “Could you explain?”
Why topple segyein domination? Mizi writes, underlining the first word.
Hyuna blinks, then laughs, stuffing the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray on the counter. She slaps Mizi heartily on the back, “Mizi-ah, you always keep me on my toes!”
Mizi stares at Hyuna’s face, awaiting an answer. Hyuna places a thumb on her chin, pensive.
“Where to start, really?” Hyuna ponders. “Hundreds of years ago, humans had complete autonomy over our own state of affairs. We formed our own societies, and answered to no one but ourselves. We were free. We deserve to be free again, and decide our own fates—on our own terms.”
Mizi considers this for a moment, then asks: What if we hurt each other again? Even without segyein influence? What does that say about humanity? These are questions she is desperate to hear answered.
A shadow passes over Hyuna’s face, and she slips her sunglasses on over her eyes even though it is the dead of night, mouth curling into a smirk.
“Don’t we…” Mizi wheezes out, desperate. Her voice is roughened from disuse, “already… hurt each other… all the time?”
“Mizi-ah, you’re always asking me the hard questions,” Hyuna says lightheartedly. “Why don’t we get you some water? I’m sure Till and Nurse Nidhy will be happy to hear about your progress.”
The only person Mizi can really talk to is Sua.
“I love you,” she says, while Sua clasps her hands in between her own, pale and translucent.
“I love you,” she says, while Sua drags her hands to cup around the column of her throat.
“I love you,” she says, while Sua’s eyes shine bright with mirth and affection, a smile on her lips.
“I love you,” she says, and squeezes until Sua’s light dims, and Mizi is left with nothing.
Ivan never really seeks Mizi out, which is why she’s so taken aback when he barges into her training session. She’s giving a punching bag a really hard time, wiping the sweat off her brow with her arm, when he throws the door open.
“Hyuna didn’t want me to tell you,” Ivan says when she turns to look at him. “But I think you really need to hear it.”