Work Text:
I'm not sure what I expect to find in the bag of my belongings. I don't know how many clues to my identity could lie in a duffle bag but it's as good a place to start as any. The first thing I spot is the Saint Christopher medallion tucked behind my name tag. Patron saint of travelers— how ironic. I don't remember myself to be a religious guy, but I don't remember much outside of my name so who's to say I'm not. Tucked in next to the medallion is a fox keychain. A warmth fills my chest at the sight of it and a smile creeps across my lips. Okay, so I'm more found of foxes than I am of religious memorabilia— noted. Probably not religious then.
I set the items aside and unzip the bag. It has been filled to the absolute brim, clothes are practically falling out the moment they have the chance to. Sitting right on top is a pair of glasses in a clear case. Which— now that I'm aware of it— yeah my vision does kind of suck. I pull them out and place them on my face. The world comes into sudden, sharp clarity.
The glasses case joins the other items at my side as I begin to dig into the bag. Mostly it's filled with clothes. Shirts with ridiculous science puns seem to be the main staple of my wardrobe because that's the kind of guy I am, I suppose. I can't lie and say I'm completely unamused by them but the fact that I chose these to be my only pieces of Earth is— well it's certainly a choice.
Tucked in between layers of clothing is a stack of photos, similar to the contents of my late crew mates bags. We must have packed our bags together. My stack of photos is much smaller than theirs.
The first picture is of me alone in a nearly empty warehouse. I'm wearing a pair of jeans and a sweater that are currently residing in the pile clothes surrounding me and I look like I haven't slept in weeks. I'm scrawnier in the photo than I am now. I guess the muscles are entirely the work of my coma treatment, but that is about all I can gather about myself from that photo.
I look to the next photo in the stack. It's aged more than the previous picture, which makes sense considering, I'm significantly younger. Likely in college. I'm with two women near my age. One has dark skin and large, curly hair with a gap toothed smile. The other, a redhead with a wide array of freckles, placing a kiss on the first's cheek. They are both sitting on a couch and I am on the floor in front of them, holding up a peace sign with the hand that isn't holding my drink. The women don't feel entirely unfamiliar. I cannot find their names in the mess that is my long term memory but the sight of them conjures the pair in white dresses viewed through the teary vision of a very proud best friend.
My best friends are a lesbian couple. Am I queer as well or did I just happen to befriend a lesbian couple and they decided to let a straight guy stick around? Neither answer feels quite right but I guess it's not really important since I'm alone up here.
The next photo in the stack manages to throw off the entire impression I have gotten of myself thus far. The me in the picture is roughly the same age as I am currently. I'm wearing a stupidly tight Ghost Rider t-shirt that's meant to look old but clearly isn't and more notably I'm ripped. Like, maybe even more so than I am now. I'm flexing, which definitely emphasizes that fact, and there is a pretty blonde woman hanging off my arm. She's got her head thrown back in laughter and I have the stupidest, smuggest grin on my face.
Okay, I'm straight— or at the very least I engage in the most stereotypical straight guy flirting there is. I actually do work out it would seem.
I grab the first picture again. Based on my age, the pictures were taken around the same time. Meaning I lost a great deal of muscle mass in a couple years. Am I sick? Is that why I ended up here? Do I have some rare disease that needed to be quarantined so desperately that they launched me into space?
No, that's insane.
But then again so is waking up in space.
I set both photos down and look to the final photo in the stack. This one is another of me on my own. It's a mirror selfie. I'm buff again in this one and I'm in a superhero costume. Quicksilver! My brain supplies because of course I'm the type of guy who can quickly identify a superhero. The costume is insanely good quality, good enough that I look like I stepped off a movie set. There is fake dirt all over my face, a few what I hope are fake cuts as well, and my hair is longer than I seem to usually keep it and bleached white. I have the biggest grin on my face and I'm giving my reflection a thumbs up.
Something in my chest warms at the sight of the photo. A sort of affection for the me in the photo bringing tears to my eyes. It seems a silly way to react to myself in a dang costume. I can't even explain it. I don't remember the context of the moment to know what may cause such an emotional reaction but clearly something deep in my subconscious does. If I weren't so instantly upset, I'd laugh at the absurdity of such an outburst.
It's a mind boggling thing to sit crying and not be able to remember what it is making you cry. I let myself cry anyway. I've cried so many times since waking up, what's one more time? I sit with the picture clutched in my hands, hunched over, and cry for a life I may never know until the tears stop coming.
When I finally manage to get ahold of myself I throw the photos into the mess the rest of my things have created around me. I have three bags of vodka all to myself and I cannot keep thinking about my life before. At least not today.
I can't help but hope the alcohol will wipe the photos from my memory once more.
The photos still haven't left my head when I sober up, much to my dismay. My thoughts of them only grew more prominent after the send off I'd given my crew.
I've gained more memories. I know why I'm up here now. I know that I will die up here, alone in space. I don't know why I chose to join the mission. The idea of it still fills me with a dread that I am finding increasingly difficult to push away, but I will deal with that at another time. For now, I know that I need to complete the mission and that I know enough of who I am to start to piece things together.
I've gathered the photos from my bag and I've taken one of the whiteboards from the lab to help me solve the puzzle that is my reappearing memory.
I stare between the pictures and my 'who am I?' board. There is something so glaringly missing from my view of myself. Which, yeah, of freaking course there is; I know practically nothing about my own life before waking up 11 lightyears from Earth. But whatever it is, it feels obvious and fundamental to my being.
I have four picture of myself that paint two distinct different images of my life. One makes more sense with what has come to me about myself thus far: a scrawny, overtired scientist/teacher with very few close friends. The other: a confident, still somewhat nerdy man who woos pretty girls with my absurd muscles. Not a single memory I've regained has supported the latter. But I have photo evidence and an apparent strong emotional reaction to that me. Meaning he must have existed in some capacity.
Out of ideas, I hold up the two solo pictures side by side. It only takes a millisecond with both in my frame of vision for it to hit.
"That's not me."
I don't know what gives it away. The men in the pictures look identical but I'm suddenly so sure it's true. I pull the pictures closer to my face, squinting at them in an attempt to take in every detail. Aside from the obvious differences in physique, I am also able to spot some small tells in our faces. I have a straighter nose; his looks as if it had been broken a few too many times. People always had a hard time telling us apart but that nose was a dead giveaway. Colt had always been more reckless.
Oh my god.
Colt. As in my twin brother Colt.
The realization hits me like a ton of bricks, everything finally slotting into place. I felt so emotional when I saw the picture earlier because it was the picture my brother sent to me the first time he'd put on the full Quicksilver get up.
Comics had been something we'd bonded over as kids. We didn't like a ton of the same things. He'd been a Star Wars kid and I'd preferred Star Trek, he was a jock and I was a nerd, so on and so forth. But comics we agreed on. Our grandma would take us to the comic store every few weeks to let us pick out new issues and we'd spend the rest of the day engrossed. I think she was glad to get a break from the two rambunctious boys under her care.
I'd teared up when he'd broken his NDA to send me the picture too. I was so gosh darn proud of him. My brother was a superhero! How cool was that?
I don't understand how my mind could let me forget him. He'd been there all my life— been at my side at our mother's funeral as we sat too young to understand what was happening. In the seat next to me at our high school graduation, cheering absurdly loud after I'd made my valedictorian speech. And there again at our grandma's funeral when her time finally came. He was the only family I had left.
Had.
I didn't have anyone anymore. I'm never going to see Colt again. Not even in the womb was I as alone as I am now.
A sudden sob wracks my body, so violent it causes my stomach to churn. He's back on Earth suffering as the sun begins its slow death. Or maybe he's already dead. Maybe he went early on— it would be a kinder fate. It doesn't make me feel better. If he is alive, I am the only hope he has.
I can't remember our last conversation. I don't know if I told him goodbye. I must have if I knew I was going on this mission. Maybe he was who I'd chosen to be brave for. If given the choice, he would have done it for me. Did he trust me to save him? Or did he attempt to talk me out of it? The answers are out of reach. I may never know.
I don't know if I'm the person who can save the world. Heck, the mere thought of that weight had reduced me to this sobbing mess. I was certainly never meant to do it alone.
But I have to try.