Archive of Our Own

Space is supposed to be dark.

Space is dark, and cold, and hollow. This is one of the many beautiful facts of the universe, a fact about existence itself, and the only constant in Cadence's life. The universe is, universally, harrowing. And beautiful, always beautiful, like the shine of an onyx or the feathers of a raven or a freshly-picked blackberry. Space is all of it, and more. It can be everything, if you don't have any attachments to the ground.

Space is everything except purple.

Lavender, specifically.

It awakens her at 0300 hours, the pale light blinding her even beyond the dim setting on her windows. So much for finally getting to sleep, so much for getting rid of her insomnia. Everyone on the Eleos, it seems, suffers from insomnia, from the residents to the crew to the captain. Humanity has been in space for 400 years at this point, branched through to almost every star, but no one has been able to adjust to sleeping in eternal darkness.

There is a soft hum, barely audible, like a hymn for only her ears, and she cannot locate it for the life of her. A calming sound, peaceful, similar to the old meditation music her mother made her listen to every time she was stressed. Tranquility among the haze of violet that scorches her eyes.

And then the external shell of the Eleos closes over the window, blocking out both the noise and the humming, stifling the peace.

The high priority alert siren blares through the room, the emergency lights flashing bright red, on and off, on and off. Captain MacMartin's scratchy voice booms over the siren, making the whole thing almost intolerably loud: "All essential crew members to command center. High priority alert code Catherine. I repeat, code Catherine. Residents, remain in your quarters. If you are not in your quarters, shelter in place. Crisis volunteers, please report to your assigned decks. Thank you."

Code Catherine. Code Catherine.

There's something going on that MacMartin needs to keep quiet. It's a decoy phrase.

The real meaning of Code Catherine is - in MacMartin's words - "we are supremely, expotentially, horribly, unequivocally fucked, and you should be batshit terrified."

Cadence leaps out of bed, drapes her uniform around her, doesn't even zip it up, her braless undershirt visible for all to see. The doors to her quarters open without command, which registers as odd, but not odd enough to worry about during a situation like this. The halls are dark, like space should be, the lights dimmed down to a near-total blanketing of black. The noise of the sirens continues in the background, but the flashing lights aren't there. They're required for accessibility now, and MacMartin doesn't skimp when it comes to accessibility.

Something is very wrong.

She expects to see the other crew members running to their stations - the crew quarters are all on the same level, it should be more than just Cadence bolting to the decklift.

The decklift opens without command too, and when it opens, it opens to the familiar face of Mel, and her sister is the absolute last person in the universe she wants to see right now. She doesn't need this. She shouldn't even be here; so what if Mel is the best surgeon in this sector of space? She's annoying, and smug, and her favorite shade of lipstick is so red it makes Cadence want to punch something, because she's still wearing it even at this ungodly hour. It just isn't fair.

"What's going on?" she asks Cadence, taking her by the arm and shaking her to the point of dizziness. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know," Cadence replies. "But it sounds like it might be--"

The decklift opens to the command center. The command center is the highest level of the station, parked at the very top. It usually takes eight or so minutes to get up to command. It feels like reality is melting all around her, shifting between states with every step forward, evolving or devolving or splitting off into something else entirely. It feels like a wound to the chest, a centimeter away from the heart---a close call.

Command, in contrast, is bright. She feels slightly better when the doors open to each and every one of her crewmates dashing around the room, pressing buttons in a frantic haze. MacMartin stands at the closed viewing port like it'll make something different happen. She turns to acknowledge Cadence, gives her a heavy nod.

"Listen up, we're all here now," she begins, her voice even rougher than usual. "Grayson picked up an incoming vessel of unknown origin right before the flash you saw. After that, the readings began to indicate a lethal level of radiation in the surrounding area."

Mel’s blonde hair bounces behind her. "But we're not dead."

"Thank you, I think everyone can see that," whispers Cadence, and it gets her an elbow in the rib.

"We should be piles of liquid on the ground right now," explains MacMartin, and Cadence can see her hands visibly shaking as she brings a finger up to her mouth to chew on her nails. "We're not. And the light is still out there."

"Have you contacted Asteria for help?" Cadence asks.

"No, we didn't think of that," MacMartin replies, her words too sarcastic and sharp for her liking; her face falls, and she rubs her forehead in exhaustion. Shouldn't have said it like that. "I mean, I apologize, I meant... yes. It was the first thing we tried, but all channels are dead. When we started the call, all we got was a black screen, and this."

She presses a button on the side of Grayson's console. The Asteria Alliance logo appears for a moment, then fades away into a dark void.

The only presence the call carries is a strong sound like a broken harp, a soft humming so similar to the one Cadence heard in her quarters. But the noise isn't peaceful anymore; it's a discordant choir that grates against her mind. She stiffens.

In her right eye -- for just a brief moment, a silly flash of a second -- she sees her own death. She doesn't see when or where or how, she sees herself as a corpse floating in the fetal position, nude and surrounded by the stars, evaporating into the light of them. She watches as the particles of her body float and disperse across space, increasing their glow as the distance continues to pass, until they meet a nearby star and solidify into one whole being. She watches until her body has disappeared entirely, and then reality spirals right back in, drilling life back into her.

It doesn't feel real. Cadence doesn't die like that; somehow she knows this for a fact, the truth of it whispered into her mind by something… else. Maybe she won't ever die at all. The impossible feels possible now.

Everyone looks around.

"Turn that off," Mel screams, and Grayson's arm flails around for a few seconds until it slams the button off. Everyone gives a collective sigh of relief.

"What the hell was that?" Mel asks, panting her breath out. "Did anyone else see that?"

There's silence for a little while, and Cadence realizes that no one wants to admit to it. To whatever it is the humming showed them. She wonders if everyone else saw themselves in a dimension of transcendence, or if it was different for each person. What did Mel see? What did MacMartin see? 

What did Grayson see? 

Did he see her?

One of the newly-stationed engineers finally speaks up, his voice wet. "I think it was my birth."

"Oh?" asks Grayson. "For me it was the day that my daughter was born."

"Fascinating," MacMartin says, tapping her fingers on the side of the captain's seat. "I didn't see anything."

Her expression is blank. She reaches up to touch the dark scar over her lip, and Cadence is reminded of the last time they had a high priority alert. Space pirates that she only got rid of by tricking them into walking into the quarantine lab of the medical bay and sealing the doors until authorities arrived.  She had "accidentally" let it slip that substances were kept there, and her fingers had rubbed the scar the whole time the pirates argued about who should go down and get them.

It was the only time that Cadence has ever seen her lie.

Mel gives a sharp, impatient scoff from beside her. "So what's the plan? How do we deal with this when we don't even know what it is?"

MacMartin sighs. She takes a moment to consider this; Cadence watches her eyes close, watches her face scrunch up, watches the gears turn within. The captain of the only station in Astraeus should have better instincts, Cadence thinks, even in unprecedented situations.

"Cadence, you're our lead social worker. Take Grayson's second---hey, Robinson—take Robinson to the residential decks and help the crisis workers calm everyone down. Robinson will explain everything and you will help them cope with this so that fights don't break out. Melody, you will check in with all decks and see if anyone is injured. Grayson, you're with me. Everyone else, maintain your stations and continue to monitor the situation."

Grayson clears his throat, the lines on his cheeks forming a frown. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but closes it. He does this movement a few times before he finds actual bravery.

"I'd rather accompany Cadence," he says, finally, his tone laced with uncertainty. "Robinson can help you. He's been trained under me for a decade, he's basically another me."

"I'm sorry," begins MacMartin, "are you the captain?"

He stiffens. "No," he says. "But I--"

"Fuck," interrupts MacMartin, shaking her head, "I'm sorry. Not doing great under this kind of pressure." Cadence glances at Grayson, who gives her a confused stare in response. He runs his fingers through his graying hair, his gaze darting away moments later. He won't even look at Cadence long enough to appropriately convey the unspoken message here, which is what the fuck is wrong with MacMartin. Why does he want to accompany her if he can't look her in the eye?

"Go ahead," MacMartin continues. "Robinson, you're with me. It's your time to shine, don't disappoint me." She turns to Grayson. "I expect you'll be monitoring your communications bracelet for any issues."

"Of course, captain."

"Dismissed."

Cadence floods into the hall, Grayson padding behind her. She tries to walk faster than he can manage---she used to joke that his knees would go bad prematurely because of how passionate he was--and doesn't even feel bad about it.

"Cadence," he breathes from a few feet behind her. "Cadence! Slow down."

"I'm starting with deck 22," she replies, cold and firm. "We'll go to the Atmosphere first. I think they need our help the most." She pauses to think, the adrenaline within her shooting around like a game of pinball. She finally stops in her path and turns to Grayson, her expression drenched in discomfort. "Wait," she says. "Why didn't she have you just relay the explanations to all decks over the intercom? That would have been much easier."

When he catches up with her, he rests his hand over his chest and coughs. "If you don't want me here, I'll go back, just say the word."

“I—-“

Before Cadence can get any kind of sentence out, Robinson's voice blares throughout all decks, cacophonous in harmony. “Attention all decks. The situation is being investigated at this time, and we do not expect any harm to come to the Eleos. For the sake of the transparency you all have come to appreciate, we do not know the cause of the light, but our science officers are hard at work. Please remain where you are. Crisis volunteers will be approaching public areas and residential hallways. Utilize their resources if needed. We will continue to provide updates as the situation unfolds. Thank you.”

It’s a tiny act of rescue; Cadence isn’t entirely sure what to tell him, and there are more important things to focus on besides their former workplace dalliances. He’s always been a little bit… clueless.

“Well,” Grayson says, over the sound of Robinson's message playing on repeat. “I guess that solves that. What now?”

Cadence shrugs. “You can come with me if you want, but my focus is on my job right now. This is exactly what I was trained for.” She pauses. “I have to prove myself to MacMartin.”

“I think you proved yourself in the pirate situation last year,” Grayson says. “Just saying.”

“This is different,” Cadence replies, waving her hands, shut up. “And you know it.”

It feels like these readings will never calm down. She’s been fluttering around command, supervising each of her officers, giving the occasional order and the occasional comment to create a facade of competence. She’s been scrambling throughout the room, pacing back and forth, hoping that no one will notice her nervousness amidst the chaos. The Eleos is largely a research station, a home for the last resort, a place to study the peculiar. Every deck is full of either doctors, researchers, patients, subjects, or their families. It travels all throughout the galaxy when needed, to find new cures for unprecedented illnesses, but MacMartin isn’t a doctor or a scientist, isn’t trained, isn’t suited for this at all. While she’s technically in charge, her position has largely filled the purpose of existing as a figure rather than a leader.

Grayson handles the science and Mel handles the medical and Hall handles the technical and mechanical aspects of the station and Cadence handles the wellbeing of the station and MacMartin…

MacMartin panics.

She excuses herself to the bathroom, runs a flood of cold water over her face, tries to breathe deeply, in and out and in and out. She has to calm down. She has to be calm.

She looks at herself in the tiny silver mirror, watches the lines of her face curve and curl and dip as she feels each pang of anxiety slam into her. She shivers at the icy sensation of the water trickling over her cheeks. She closes her eyes and counts to ten, she tells herself that she can do this. She can do this, she can get them to safety, and if she can figure it all out, this might even get Asteria to take them seriously now, to give them better funding, to let them do some real good. The Asteria Alliance didn’t even want to commission the damn station, and if they’re the first ones to give a good explanation about the cause of the universe’s current weirdness, it could open up so many doors. This could change everything.

But it’s all in her hands. It all comes down to her. And she isn’t ready.

MacMartin turns - to leave, to find Dr. Melody Strangler and order Mel to relieve her of duty by virtue of her clear mental incompetence, to abandon her crew and everything she's worked for - but stops in her tracks when she sees another sliver of lavender light, this time radiating out of her palms.

"What the—hello?"

She looks all around, but the bathroom remains empty. She peers out of the door and back into command---the only light left is the light from her hands. She holds her palms together---no sensation, just light. She stares into the mirror again, and sees herself, unmoving. Frozen in her position from moments before, wet hands over her face, eyes closed tight. 

"Show yourself," she says.

A noise begins to bubble up around her, an indescribable, comfortable grating sound, like a church choir full of heavy smokers, or the collective yowls of hundreds of stray cats, or a thunderstorm inverting itself upwards and crashing lightning into space. Static, but abundant. It gradually becomes more and more intelligible---or perhaps she's just getting used to it--before it fully mangles itself into a coherent voice and talks to her.

"You... pilot this vessel... alone?" her hands say.

"Yes, I---I---I'm the captain."

"A tragedy," it replies. "But you need no longer fear a lack of existence. We were sent here for this purpose, it seems. We understand now. We will carry you."

She was never trained for first contact procedures; after branching out as far as they possibly could into space and finding only more space, humanity stopped believing in aliens. Pitiful. She tries to calculate a plan of action in her head, and comes up with:

"My name is Laurel MacMartin, and I am a human of the planet Earth. What is your name, and where do you come from?"

There's silence for a moment, and the light begins to flicker a bit, as if thinking.

"Name?"

"You don't have names?" MacMartin pauses. "A name is... a word people of my kind use to identify each other by."

"We have no such equivalent. We know no 'people', nor to 'identify'---there is only us."

She rubs her forehead with purple-tinted fingers. "All right, uh... you don't seem hostile, so what did you do to my station?"

"We will carry you," is all that the voice replies with. "Do not fear."

The light fades out, and MacMartin finds some little scrap of herself missing it.

"What?" she asks. There's no response. "Wait, come back. Please. I need to ask you more questions."

Again: nothing. 

How the hell is she going to explain this to her crew?

MacMartin splashes more cold water over her face, drowns herself in it. She can do this. She can do this. They’ll get through this. She will guide them through this.

She repeats her morning affirmations routine again, the words ripped right out of an old self-help audiobook: I am perfect the way I am. I can accomplish anything I set out to do. I make an impact on the universe.

 I am light.

When she’s completely dry, she walks back into command, her hands folded behind her back, and gives a loud clearing of the throat. 

“I have been… contacted,” she informs them, choosing her words with delicate care. “Now—-“

“The fuck you mean, contacted?” Robinson asks, laughing. “What, we’ve got aliens?”

“You always go right to aliens,” Mel interjects. “It’s never going to be aliens.”

They turn to MacMartin, their gazes expectant. 

“…I don’t have a lot of new information for you all, unfortunately. To be honest, I’m even more confused… in pretty much all ways. But I can tell you that the person—-people?—-who caused this are not hostile. They mean well. Somehow… somehow I can tell they mean well."

“Who are they?” Robinson asks, his mustache pointing downward in a frown that feels so uncharacteristic,  so far from his usual positive aura. “Captain, what is going on?”

“I don’t know,” MacMartin admits. “I think we just have to… wait and see.”

“You’re being a little vague.”

“Yeah,” Mel agrees, leaning closer to Robinson and whispering something in his ear.

“Look,” MacMartin continues, an exasperated groan, “I wish I had better news. Or, well… any news. But I don’t. Robinson, patch me in ship-wide.”

“You just said you have no news. You’re going to tell them what, exactly?”

“Just do it.”

He sighs, and flips a button at a nearby console.

The Atmosphere is the station’s one and only night club. MacMartin suggested its construction when she got tired of hearing both her crew and the ship’s residents complain about boredom. It has always been Cadence's first stop in a station-wide crisis, and once more that is turning out to be a very smart move—-everyone here is drunk, high, or both, all terrified, all trembling as they hide underneath tables. Fights have been known to break out here in times of uncertainty, especially when every single patient and subject on the vessel is here because they’re experiencing horrors and oddities that can’t be explained by current science. Things like that can stress a person out. Thankfully, though, it seems Cadence has beaten them to the punch—-literally.

She walks through the doors, ignoring Grayson sulking behind her, following at her heels. “Hey, everyone,” she says,  her voice raised. “Most of you know me from groups, but just in case you don’t, I’m Cadence Strangler, and I manage social services here on the Eleos—-“

“Fuck off with the customer service voice,” a drunken voice slurs out from beneath a table cloth. She looks over at Grayson on instinct—-his fists are clenched at his sides, his jaw closed tight and angry. She shakes her head at him.

“I’m going to ignore that, because I know we’re all scared. I just wanted to come in here and answer any questions I can about the situation. You may have already been visited by our wonderful crisis volunteer team, but I want to clear up any confusion and provide any support you guys may need. If you need to speak with me, you can call me over, wave at me from beneath the table; whatever you feel most comfortable doing. I also have our head of science with me, Dr. Winslow Grayson, and he can answer the more scientific questions for you if you want.” She pauses, waits, nothing. “I’ll be here for the next half hour so—-“

The speaker stutters to life behind them. “Attention all,” comes the captain’s voice from the wall. “This is Captain Laurel MacMartin speaking with a formal statement on our situation.” She clears her throat. “Today, at approximately 0300, a bright purple light penetrated the Eleos. Our readings indicated heavy levels of radiation surrounding the station—they also indicated a protective field around the vessel—-wait, how do I—-uh—-that has been keeping the station safe from harm. The light is still out there at present, and sensor output readings have honestly mystified us, but we—-I don't—-However, I have personally spoken to the… being… that caused the intrusion, and they have informed me that they do not wish for any harm to come to us or our station. We are currently waiting for further investigations to be completed before we take any action. You may move freely about the station now, but be advised to maintain caution. The station is now in external lockdown mode. I will provide another update as soon as we have more information. Thank you. MacMartin out.”

Grayson moves closer to her once the speaker turns off, whispers into her personal space: “That was a very awkward and verbose ramble, don’t you think?”

Cadence shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

Inside of this vessel it is dark. Nothing here can blossom. Nothing here breathes. Inside of this vessel, it is far too easy to sever oneself away from the rest.

It is lonely. 

Wander too far away from the others, and you lose them. Wander too far away from yourself, and you lose the ability to reconnect. 

Some had begged this one not to investigate. Others had encouraged it. 

IF THIS SUFFERING CAN BE STOPPED, WE MUST STOP IT. 

IT IS DANGEROUS TO APPROACH THE UNKNOWN. THE UNKNOWN IS UNKNOWN.

THE UNKNOWN IS SUFFERING. WE CAN SENSE THEIR SUFFERING. 

WE DO NOT SENSE HOSTILITY.

WE MUST ONLY WATCH.

WE MUST NOT GO INTO THE VESSEL.

DO NOT ENTER THE VESSEL.

DO NOT ENTER.

ENTER NOW.

DO NOT GO.

SAVE THEM.

THEY NEED TO BE SAVED.

WHY DID YOU ENTER?

BECAUSE THEY NEED TO BE SAVED.

"How, uh, is it going in here?" asks MacMartin, from the threshold of the door Mel had held open permanently with a thick medical textbook at its bottom. She stands, split in two; half of her appears in Mel's view, and the other half is obscured by the wall. It reminds her, in a way, of how the light had felt when it emanated from her---as if it originated deep within, as if it was something entirely natural and endlessly practiced, as if it was filling her sagittal plane up with violet. As if it belonged there.

She shivers, shakes it away. Dr. Strangler is bandaging a patient's arm up. She recognizes the girl, one of Dr. Strangler's favorites, afflicted by an odd disease where her hearing is fixed about forty-five seconds into the future, but her vision and the rest of her body remains in the present. Inexplicable, distressing for the patient, and just freakish enough to land her here.

Mel shows the girl a notepad reading THAT'S ABOUT GOOD! YOU CAN LEAVE NOW, AND TAKE A STICKER FROM THE CABINET ON YOUR WAY OUT IF YOU'D LIKE :)

She nods, and hops down from the exam table, twirling her hair around her fingers. When she reaches MacMartin at the door, she pushes past her in silence, turns to leave, and then stops, staring back at MacMartin as if haunted. Her eyes widen. Her mouth gapes open, her white teeth shining.

"Why can't I hear you anymore?" she asks.

"I don't---"

"You're just mouthing words, but I can't hear them," she continues, her horror melting away. "You might wanna get that checked out."

She turns and skips away, a spring in her step, as if the haunting had never been there at all.

MacMartin clears her throat, and walks fully into Mel's lab.

"It's going surprisingly well," Mel says, grinning as she cleans her workspace. "Only a few scrapes and bruises, and a few migraines from the light."

"Thank God," MacMartin says. "What happened to Emily?"

"Oh, she was halfway out the decklift when it happened, had a pretty bad fall, and the doors just pushed right into her arm, the poor thing. I tried to give her some light pain meds, because ow, but she refused."

"I hope she gets better soon," MacMartin says, her tone awkward. "Listen, Dr---Mel, can we talk?"

"Officially, or...?"

"As friends. Personally."

Mel sighs, nods. She turns to another doctor, hands the ropes over to them, and gestures for MacMartin to follow her into her office.

She stands behind her desk, equally awkward, and there's a moment of heavy silence between them before Mel coughs out: "What do you know, Laurel?"

MacMartin cracks her knuckles, picks at the skin around her nails. She looks away. "I think it was a misunderstanding," she says. "I am not... entirely sure. I was in the bathroom, and then suddenly, my hands were just... the same color as the light, glowing. They kept saying we didn't need to fear death, that they'd---" she makes a mocking gesture of air quotes "---carry us."

But Mel only looks at her, brows raised. "They? Your hands?"

"No, not my fucking---the---the whatevers. The beings. The aliens. They called themselves 'us'."

"Us?" Mel repeats, a frown growing across her face. "Are you sure you're not just really stressed? What did you watch on TV last night?"

"I'm serious."

She sighs. "Okay. Say there really are aliens. Why did they only reach out now? And why this way?"

"I didn't get a chance to ask. But, Mel---when I was giving that announcement, no one knew anything about a protective field."

"What are you talking about?"

"Somehow I just... knew it was there. And then Robinson adjusted the sensors a bit, and it showed up."

She gives a nod. MacMartin can tell she's considering it. "That's... so what do we do? I mean, obviously we have to write a report, but to do that we need outbound communications to work---"

MacMartin's bracelet zaps on. Robinson's voice blares from its speakers. "Captain, the light stopped."

"Acknowledged. Status report?"

"I... honestly have no idea what's going on, sir."

"What? Report."

"Captain, this is something you should see for yourself."

"All right, on my way." She clicks the bracelet off. "Hope things stay calm around here. Good work, Melody."

IS ANYONE ELSE THERE?

As this one moves through the inner walls of the vessel, the scenery within begins to change. No more darkness. Back home there are flowers that glow and stars that breathe and oceans that absorb pain. In this vessel there is pain and nothing to mop it up with.

The vessel's history flashes before this one's eyes. It makes the agony of separation float away almost entirely. The very first breath taken is taken when the vessel is fresh and small and covered in mush. The vessel is given to another, larger vessel, and that vessel stares down into this vessel and whispers, with slurred words, Hello, Laurel. I love you so much.

Memories continue weaving through. This one is informed of concepts such as touch and death and pets, concepts that sound both perplexing and mesmerizing when this one ponders them, concepts that this one would never have come up with on their own if they had not merged. Oh, to be touched. This one sees and feels every touch the vessel has ever received as they flash in and out and in and out, slamming into this one in a way that makes their light dim with each trace of fingertip. Who is this lucky? Who is lucky enough to touch her? Who deserves it?

CAN ANYONE HEAR ME?

Robinson wipes his sweat-soaked brow, his other hand plastered over his chest in shock. "There's no way," he says. "It can't--try comms now."

The communications officer presses a button on her console, and a mind-shattering static blares into command once again. 

Robinson plugs his ears with his fingers. "Turn it off--"

"We're picking up an incoming call," yells the officer over the grate of the noise. "Unidentified origin."

The noise continues on and on and on in the chaos of the background as Robinson shifts his essence between two feet. He stares out of the viewport in command and tries to wrap his mind around the meat of the situation, tries to swallow away his own fear and intrigue and apply himself to what is necessary, the job at hand.  Even as space around them ripples with vast violets and floral blues, even as the planet that now spins in front of them blinds on with its glowing surface, Robinson must maintain composure. He's doing better at it than the captain is, somehow, which doesn't feel very promising. 

"Respond but put whatever it is on hold," Robinson orders. "We should wait for MacMartin."

Another officer leans forward. Denison runs her fingers through hair that has been dyed a cheap, shitty navy color and buzzed down lazily between shifts. She doesn't talk much, which means this should be good. Robinson prepares himself for one of her usual macabre jokes---the only words she ever so generously gifts them with, outside of what is necessary for work---but instead her light eyes simply drill into his own and her lips quiver. Very few people on the Eleos, it seems, know how to maintain composure.

"Do you have any more information yet?"

Robinson shakes his head. "No," he replies. "Obviously we've been transported somewhere, but our readings say the closest charted planet is... so many light years away the number has more zeroes than the cost of my great great nana's transplant surgery."

"Great," Denison says. "That's wonderful."

"Hey, we can still get out of this."

"I wish I had your optimism, Robinson." 

Denison groans, hands running down her face and forcing it to mangle into a tired, drooping puddle of flesh. It's supposed to be comedic, maybe, or maybe she's given up on caring about whether or not her desperation is visible. Robinson's chest pulsates within as he watches her bite down on each fingernail, tearing off strips of white with her two front teeth. 

"It takes practice," he says finally. "I believe in you, though."

"I don't think belief matters much anymore."

Robinson throws his hands up. "So we're lost," he says. "So what? We have a garden, we have enough medical supplies to last us three damn centuries, it's not like we'll die... When they put together this project they knew it would be precarious, they prepared, they put in... precautions."

"Precautions for everything except encountering alien life," Denison corrects. "Because that was just too outlandish, of course. And don't forget how they had to be convinced to commission this place at all."

He feels an odd anger grow and spread and flux inside of him, clenches his fists and his jaw and prepares to wield his words, to cut her down, but the intensity of the feeling passes like the tide lapping away from the shore and then Robinson melts into a state of complete calmness he has never before known. He---

"Do you feel that, it's like---"

The decklift spreads open and MacMartin stumbles out. She takes one step into command, notices the planet in front of them on the viewport, and freezes like a moving toy with a suddenly depleted battery. Everyone stands at attention as she stiffens up along with them, the entire command center upright like body hair rising to its ends in terror, and Denison is the first one to tear into the silence. 

"You have a call," she says. "We don't know who it is. Also, we're now a gajillion light years away from charted space, and we're probably going to die before we even get a quarter of the way back to it. So there's that." 

Evidently, Robinson thinks, she did not feel it.

"Thank you for the update, Ms. Denison," MacMartin says, shaking her head and reanimating herself. She walks through and approaches her station, leans her weight over the back of her chair with her arms, and nods. "Put us on. See if you can get visual."

Robinson gives a deep exhale, puppeted forward by relaxation. He turns to the captain's station and puts a hand on MacMartin's shoulder, an awkward and honestly pathetic attempt at comfort. It lands about as well as expected; MacMartin looks down at his touch, her nose crinkles up, and her expression falls dead.

"Here goes nothing," says Denison.

She flicks a few buttons on her console, and a symphony of static begins to flood through the room again, the volume violent as it increases. It drills into their eardrums with needling pain, and threads relaxation through it all. When Robinson recoils to plug his ears, he realizes how hard he had been clutching MacMartin, his palms aching against the cartilage. 

"I am Captain Laurel MacMartin and I command this---"

"Indeed, we are aware of the tragic existence," booms a voice that forms out of the static like birthing the goddess Athena from the forehead. It swirls around them all and settles in, the cacophony finally fading. "We have never encountered your kind. You exist in... solidity. We find this very intriguing."

She exchanges glances with her crew. This is humankind's very first contact with alien life; they can't afford to screw it up. Their expressions allow them to communicate without words, and as their faces twist and tremble and adjust, MacMartin can understand what everyone is thinking in the moment. They chose the Eleos to explain the inexplicable; they all signed up for this. There is no room for fear.

"I don't understand," MacMartin replies. "Your kind... do you not exist in solidity?" She pauses. "I don't mean that in a rude way. We've never met anyone of a different... our kind, humankind, we only know each other. We weren't aware there were others out there in the universe."

"What is 'rude?'" the voice asks. "We assumed this when we found out about your tragedy." A pause. "Our planet exists in solidity. Our existence renders as light."

"You don't have physical forms," Denison says, realizing the implication. "You're, uh, noncorporeal or whatever the word is."

“This is correct.”

MacMartin cracks her neck from side to side. “Okay,” she says. “Well, it’s wonderful to meet you. Can I ask where we are? Have you taken our station somewhere else?” 

A silence burns into the other end of the call. More looks of concern spread across the room like a mass infection. 

She tries to read them all: a few are wondering if MacMartin somehow offended the beings, others seem to be trying to grapple with the fact that aliens actually do exist, and the rest are just nodding along with a futile hope that they aren't actually stuck out here. She was never supposed to be in a situation like this; Asteria Academy scoffs at the position that other life could exist. Maybe MacMartin is better off being stuck here---the thought is discarded and devoured and vomited into sewage as soon as it comes. This situation is unprecedented, but if presented with proof, surely they would believe her. Laurel MacMartin could make history. For a moment she allows herself to imagine it, textbooks and news articles and video segments about her discovery, talk of the sector, her image plastered on every platform. She could live a full life. She could leave the station that can function just fine without her.

If they get out of this, that is. They are going to get out of this. 

When the beings speak again, the viewscreen transcends its blank flickering gray, and an image fades in gently, gently, as if it is consciously shifting, intentionally giving their eyes time to adjust. She watches as two spheres of light appear, their "bodies" like glowing barbed wire sloppily crumpled into a ball, like thorned threads that cling to one another in a boundless internal spiral. The threads radiate the full spectrum of color, every hue the human eye can fathom. As the beings' bodies settle into view, the background begins to spread out, revealing vast fields of shimmering flowers behind them, petals of buttercup yellow and soft pink as far back as the scenery will give. MacMartin gives a sharp, enthralled inhale.

"We have taken you to our world," roars one of the beings; as it speaks the light emanating from its body pulses in intensity. "We have come to your aid."

"Aid?" asks MacMartin. "We were not in need of aid. From our perspective - no offense - we have been abducted."

"But you lack unity," the being replies. "There is only one pilot per vessel. We do not understand your perspective. For our kind, this is a fatal illness. Is it not for yours?"

"What do you mean by vessel? Our station is not piloted by one individual."

Robinson nudges her in the rib with his elbow. When she turns to glare at him for the insubordination, he adopts a sick, panicked expression, and mouths sorry.

"Um," he interrupts. "Sorry, Captain. Can I ask them a few questions?"

She takes a moment to consider it. "Go ahead."

Robinson leans in closer to the screen. "Hello," he says. "My name is Ryker Robinson. I work under Captain MacMartin and primarily help with scientific research." He gives a nervous sigh. "Our station is a specialized station for patients suffering from inexplicable and potentially dangerous medical conditions. We explore the universe searching for new technologies and substances that could potentially help our patients. We don't necessarily need aid, but we do provide it. I would be interested in learning more about your technology to see if it can help any of our residents."

"So you indeed recognize the illness," replies the light.

"You act as if we're all ill," MacMartin interjects. "I don't get it."

They seem to be growing frustrated. Their next sentence comes out with a crackle: "A sole consciousness. You identify as Laurel MacMartin. That vessel identifies as Ryker Robinson. We have evidence of our ancestors using a similar pattern of different noises to discern between vessels, but we could never parse the purpose of it."

Robinson perks up like a puppy. It's almost adorable. "You share a consciousness," he notes. "You can read each other's thoughts, right?"

"That's what you mean, isn't it? Did you take us here because you thought not being a hivemind meant we were sick?"

"It appears we have much to learn about solid existence," replies the being. "We have only encountered one other form of life besides ours. They also functioned similarly. Though we do not understand how you can be solitary, we recognize that we may have been wrong in our assumption. Perhaps you evolved under very different circumstances than we did."

"I think that's very possible," MacMartin agrees. "Is there any way you can return us to where we were? We have people who depend on us back home."

The radiance of both entities freezes for just a moment, their shifting colors stopping on a bright, rosy pink. MacMartin is smart enough to know that this is not a good sign; when they continue on with more silence, undoubtedly conversing amongst themselves in the hivemind, she can feel the others come to the same realization, can feel the tension begin to press down against her breastbone. One day you're running the most neglected station in the Alliance, the next you're running the most neglected station in the Alliance right into the ground and watching it crumble. There is no way they will get out of this, is there? Is there?

"The only way for us to move beyond our area of space in any meaningful sense," explains one of the entities as they begin to move again, "is by utilizing a portal that manifests in the same location once every seven days, for approximately one hour and fifty minutes before closing again. This is how we found your Eleos, but that portal has closed. The other side of the portal is never fixed; we are unable to predict where it will send us when our research vessels go through it. We only know that we exist in a… structurally unstable area of existence, and that is what causes the portal to manifest."

"So if your ships don't make it back through the portal in time, they're stuck too?" asks Robinson.

"Indeed."

He turns to MacMartin. "We could see if the next one spits us out somewhere closer to home."

She shakes her head. "Possibly, but if they've only met one other form of life besides us… I don't know. The universe is massive, and there's no guarantee we'll be anywhere closer to home if we do. We could end up even more screwed."

"As long as we make it back before the wormhole or whatever closes, we can go through and come back as many times as we like until we get somewhere, though. It's our only chance."

MacMartin gives a hesitant nod. "You're right," she says. "It might take a while, but right now we don't have any other way." She turns back to the screen. "I'm going to have Denison transmit our biological data to your end. Would you mind scanning the atmosphere and living conditions we require, and comparing it to your planet? If we were able to visit the surface and interact with you directly, things might be much easier to work out."

"We will do anything you wish in order to aid your journey home," the entities explain. "We experience great remorse for our actions here. We do apologize for the unintentional abduction. We will receive your data now."

At the cue of MacMartin's nod, Denison sends the transmission with shaking fingers.

"Your light seemed to protect our station from some sort of… intense radiation," MacMartin continues. "Radiation is lethal to us. Will this be a problem if we land? We're not detecting it anymore, but I need to be sure."

"No. That phenomenon exists only on the external side of the portal. Our flora has evolved to absorb the radiation we emit; if the information you transmitted is correct, there should be no adverse physical effects if one of your kind were to visit our planet. Though we do not require oxygen, we have the technology to alter the atmosphere of our main city to be breathable to you."

"As far as first contact scenarios go, we got real lucky," whispers Denison under her breath.

"We appreciate the accommodation," MacMartin says. "If it is okay with… you all… I'll put together my team and head down on a shuttle as soon as I can. We'll just need the landing coordinates for your main city."

"Yes. Transmitting now."

Grayson taps on his bracelet again. It's a little endearing how he thinks something's going to change this time around. 

"Grayson to MacMartin. Status report."

"Patching you in," the station's computer drones out for the fifteenth time tonight. "Connected."

The wailing doesn't flood through instantly this time, and it makes his face light up with joy, his wrinkles parting and swirling as he smiles. She follows his grin, and they almost allow themselves to feel proud before they realize that all they have now is a void of silence and notedly not their Captain.

At least it's something that doesn't sound like a widow's despondent sobbing. That was getting rather annoying.

"MacMartin, it's Grayson, report," he says. "I repeat, it's Grayson and Strangler requesting an update."

But: nothing, still nothing. He sighs, throws his hands up in the air, and leans back in his seat.

"I have no clue what's going on," he says. "I suppose this is progress, but... we should head back up to command."

"I agree," Cadence replies, but instead of standing her mouth only gives a slight drop, her head a slight tilt. She looks at him with short bursts of confusion, her eyes squinting and her expression tightening, and reaches over to take his hand. "Can I be honest with you?"

He looks down at her touch. "Of course," he tells her, his tone shaky and affected. "You---you can tell me anything."

"I'm scared, Winslow," she admits. He squeezes her palm at the words, gives her knee a soft pat in an attempt to comfort her. "I don't know what's going on. And the Captain... I don't know. Something feels off."

He gives a hesitant nod. "Something definitely feels off," he agrees. "I'm scared, too. But this is our job, Cadence. We deal with the odd and inexplicable on a daily basis."

"This is different. This feels different." She pauses, considers his words. "You? Scared? Really?"

"I might not sound like it, but I do worry about you."

"About me?" she asks, throwing her own hands up. "Not about MacMartin's anxiety, or... our patients who are suffering, or the fact that we may have just made first contact with alien beings, or the fact that we can't even get ahold of command---"

He takes her other hand, and she stops mid-sentence, melting into Grayson. He's doing a good job, he's doing well, he's comforting.

"Your job means you take care of everyone else. I can't remember a time I saw you off-duty doing anything besides work or panicking about work. So, yes. I worry. I care about you, and therefore, I worry. That doesn't mean I don't worry about other things, too."

She feels his hands in her own, notices the sweat of his palms and the warmth of his fingers, evaporates into the human connection he brings. A soft, defeated moan escapes her throat, and she finds herself inexplicably very grateful to have Grayson by her side again. Her head lurches forward, jaw pointing out---

Grayson's bracelet lights up, and he pulls away instantly. "We… I need to talk to you later," he says to Cadence, who gives a hesitant nod, a growing smile.

"I miss you," she agrees. "Let's talk later."

"Captain?" he says, bringing his wrist up between them.

"MacMartin here," comes a rough voice from between a continued wailing. "Meet me in the shuttle bay as soon as you can."

Cadence nods. They stand and begin their walk back to the decklift, her hands in her own pockets, his left hand plastered behind him, anchored to his back.

"What exactly is going on?" Cadence asks, picking up the pace of her steps. "You're going out there? Into the radiation?"

"No more radiation," replies MacMartin. "But we're keeping the station on lockdown until further notice. I'll explain on the way, but under no circumstances can we let any of the residents look outside. I'm having Denison and most staff from each department stay behind to ensure the windows stay shuttered, lockdown remains in place, and the station functions, but everyone else will be taking a bit of a trip with me."

"A trip," Grayson repeats. "Where the hell to?"

"That's why no one can look outside. Cadence, I already called the head crisis volunteer, so don't worry about informing her. I just need you as soon as possible. You're the closest thing to a diplomat we have."

"Diplomat?"

"MacMartin out."

Cadence clenches her fists. "I hate it when she does that."

It becomes almost depressing when this one senses the presence of another. They are entirely severed from the rest, now, but the sparkle of their own kind nearby is impossible to ignore, the call of a siren to the end. The idea of separation had previously been unfathomable, but oddly it has not been difficult to adjust to. 

No more contradiction. No more commentary.

Only her, beautiful her.

One day she might even notice.

The medical wing is one floor up from the shuttle bay, so it doesn't take Mel very long. She's the first one to arrive, and then it's just Robinson, MacMartin, and Mel, each hovering around with an awkward flutter, pacing back and forth in small strips. When Mel finally speaks, it's decimating.

"You suck at this," she says.

"Excuse me?" asks MacMartin, incredulous.

"You still haven't said anything. Where are we going? Is it safe?"

Robinson looks at Mel, rolls his eyes as pointedly as he can. “It’s safe,” he says. “The Captain wouldn’t endanger us in ways we aren’t able to handle.”

It comes out painted in tones of both sarcasm and sincerity. He rolls his eyes, MacMartin rolls her own, and Mel only looks away.

“This isn’t like anything we’ve ever seen before,” Mel groans. “And we’re the station dedicated to researching the things that are unlike anything we’ve ever seen before!”

“When Grayson, Hall, and your sister are here, I’ll fill everyone in at the same time.” MacMartin gives a slight growl and raises her wrist to her face, tapping her fingers along her bracelet until a blueprint of the station projects outward from the device. “Locate Drs. Cadence Strangler and Winslow Grayson. Locate Maryam Hall.”

The voice of the station's computer is barely audible. "Strangler, Cadence," it reads, "Location, recreational deck F, corner decklift B. Grayson, Winslow. Location, recreational deck F, corner decklift B." A silent giggle spreads between Robinson and Mel, and MacMartin has to glare at them with all of the fury her body can hold before she can manage to kill their amusement. "Hall, Maryam. Location, primary engineering lab external corridor, approaching engineering level decklift D."

"Will you two act your age?" MacMartin asks. "We just made contact with an alien species and you're gossiping about your coworkers' love lives?"

Mel only shrugs. "What else are we going to do? You won't tell us anything."

MacMartin's voice is gruff and grim when she speaks, hissing out Mel's surname between yellowed, unbrushed teeth. She gives a careful nod towards Robinson and pulls Mel aside, guiding her into the shuttle for more privacy. As they take their seats next to one another, MacMartin feels that old familiar panic thrum up in her chest, feels her consciousness shift to the right for just a moment. When she looks over at Mel, she realizes that Mel's soft features have become sharp with concern, and her hand is hovering with platonic-professional hesitation around MacMartin's back. 

"Are you actually okay?" Mel asks. "No offense, but you've been super weird since this whole thing started."

"I can always count on you to be honest."

Mel frowns. "Usually, when you say that, you mean it. Can you just be honest with me for once? I'm one of the most powerful people on the station, and I don't even---"

"When was the last time you talked to your mother?"

"Uh, I talked to her last Sunday on the way home from getting groceries. Why?"

She meets Mel's eyes, and pours her entire soul into Mel's body with a single begging look. When she pulls her gaze away, it drifts off into a far away nothingness, drawing memories on the backs of her eyelids with watercolor paint. She tries to remember what Rose Strangler had looked like, all those years ago, the day Eleos officially began operations. She had accompanied her daughters all throughout Asteria, she'd told MacMartin, and the tradition would continue until either she died of old age or they died in service. MacMartin had laughed, at the time. Hilarious.

"Laurel, why?"

"Do you remember the last thing you said to her?" she asks, closing her eyes in shame. "Because I don't. Remember what I said to my own mother, I mean."

Mel's voice is a rasp when she speaks. "When… was the last time Corianne reached out?"

Always so considerate, always so understanding, even in the most urgent and terrifying of situations. MacMartin keeps her eyes closed as she thinks about her mother, forces her mind into a stasis where nothing exists beyond memory, rallies each limb and organ system and tendon together to make the whole body stiffen. 

"I don't remember," MacMartin replies. "It was recent, but I can't remember the specifics."

When MacMartin opens her eyes, Mel is standing near her bag of medical tools, rifling through gauze and dermal stimulators and pain medication bottles. With her mediscanner in hand, she approaches. It almost falls through her fingers a few times as she floats through; the newer models are smaller, transparent card-sized screens with thousands and thousands of sensors that can penetrate and diagnose almost any known human affliction with a one minute scan. She points it at MacMartin, who pushes her away with an annoyed grumble.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Something is going on, and I can’t let you do whatever it is you’re about to do until I clear you. So sit still, or I’ll have to make some decisions.”

"Oh, I'm scared," MacMartin mocks, her voice high and singsong. "I don't think you understand---"

Mel lunges toward her, moving into scanning range. She holds MacMartin down against the chair with every shred of her strength as the mediscanner works; even as MacMartin refuses to struggle and remains frozen, she applies as much force as she can. When the device gives an infuriatingly cheery jingle, Mel finally recoils, leaving pale pink marks on MacMartin's forearm. She glances into the scanner like she's scrying, attempting to extrapolate meaning from visions in a crystal ball. 

"I'm fine," MacMartin snaps. 

"Actually, uh, you have a fever of 110 farenheit/43 celsius," Mel informs her. "I mean, according to this," she continues, matching MacMartin's singsong mock with a giggle. "It's obviously not true, because if it was, you'd be... I just have to try again---"

"You need to stand down and wait for further instruction," MacMartin says. "That's an order, Dr. Strangler. You'll understand when you're briefed." A pause. "I can't believe you."

"In my position, you'd do the same."

"What have I even done---"

MacMartin's bracelet hums with a notification from Robinson that Cadence, Grayson, and Hall have returned. She gives a final glare in Mel's direction and stands, smoothing her uniform down with her hands, adjusting the Asteria logo pinned to her collar. She swallows, bites down on the insides of her cheeks with her molars, clenches her fists at her sides, preparing herself to give the speech that no one ever wants to give.

Then she walks out, gives a comical jump down from the second step, and approaches her crew with an expression of empty determination. They're all deep in conversation and trying to make it seem like they're not; typical. She clears her throat.

"When I say this, I am going to give you two minutes to freak out, but when those two minutes are up, I need you to get serious, buckle up, and do your jobs. Okay?"

"What's going on?" Hall asks, sliding her dark hair into a high bun. "In engineering we had a sort of... I'm not sure. A symphony. It came from inside the walls."

"A symphony?"

"Well, like it sounded like classical music, the really old kind," Hall continues. "And if you sat and listened to it for too long, it made you..."

"Hallucinate?" Cadence supplies. "See your own death? Something like that?"

Hall's face twists. "No, not anything like that. Actually, what I saw was... I don't even know how to describe it. It was some sort of marriage ceremony... or commitment, I guess.... but I wasn't getting married to... I don't know who I was getting married to. Instead of a groom or bride, it was just... a star."

MacMartin taps her fingers at her sides. "Did that star look like a ball of glowing barbed wire by any chance?"

At this, Hall gives a slow nod. "Wh--how?"

MacMartin articulates herself slowly, as if speaking to a gaggle of children. "We have been transported a significant distance away from any sort of charted space," she says, feeling her heart flutter and pang in her chest, "and we have no reliable method of getting home at the moment. We were taken by an alien civilization that mistakenly thought we were in need of help. Now, they feel bad and they're going to help us get home as much as they can, but it might take us a while."

"I guess you were right, Robinson," Mel says. She squints in MacMartin's direction, using her gaze to slaughter and cut. 

"Yeah, well, this wasn't exactly the way I imagined it going," Robinson replies, but he laughs it off---what else can he do? He laughs, and Mel laughs, and the shuttle bay erupts in its own symphony of laughter, the noise like a bandage over a wound. MacMartin does not join in; she simply listens to the defeated ramblings of her crew and melts into each one of them, tries to merge her confidence with their lack of it. The laughter only dies when Cadence's hand flies to her chin and she gives an outward roar like a terrified lion: "Wait, so... are we going in the shuttle to meet them?"

WE HAVE MADE A DIRE MISTAKE. WE MUST DO ALL WE CAN TO RECTIFY THIS.

WE HAVE MUCH TO LEARN FROM THESE BEINGS. THE ROBINSON INDICATED WE MAY BE ABLE TO PROVIDE AID TO SOME OF THEIR SUFFERING.

INDEED. THE ATMOSPHERIC TRANSITION HAS COMPLETED. WE ARE NOW ABLE TO RECEIVE THE OTHERS. REPRESENTATIVES, ARE WE PREPARED? I SENSE THAT WE ARE. THIS IS GOOD. THEIR VESSEL IS APPROACHING.

WE HAVE NOT MADE PROGRESS ON THE MISSING ONES. 

WE MUST CONCEAL THE EXISTENCE OF THE MISSING ONES SO THAT WE DO NOT CAUSE ANY FURTHER DISTRESS TO OUR GUESTS.

THAT IS TRUE. WE MUST NOT INDICATE WEAKNESS, OR THEY WILL BE HESITANT TO ACCEPT OUR REMORSE.

IS THAT LOGICAL?

PERHAPS, PERHAPS NOT.

As the representatives float toward the landing coordinates, the human vessel gives a graceful landing on the launching platform. Their vessel bears no similarity to the vessels the representatives use; their vessel is a small container of metal with a singular chamber, an exterior of loose interconnected panels painted a chipping mint. It lands across from one of their own, a wheel-shaped ship with an automated control center in the middle that branches out into different enclosed console stations for each passenger. The other representative stops in their movement after it lands, and the rest of their kind start up with a mess of commentary, questions and confusion and judgement all piling up within until nothing at all is intelligible. 

IT HAS AN ODD SHAPE. HOW DOES THIS WORK. HOW DO THESE BEINGS NOT BECOME DISTRACTED BY THE PRESENCE OF OTHERS AROUND THEM WHEN THEY ARE IN THEIR VESSELS. WHAT MATERIAL IS THIS VESSEL COMPOSED OF. HOW DID THEY COME UP WITH THE IDEA FOR THIS SHAPE. WHY DO THEY FUNCTION SO CLOSE TOGETHER IF THEY DO NOT SHARE A CONSCIOUSNESS.

It can get overwhelming, at times. The noise swirls within both representatives, opinions shifting and mangling around, bouncing off of each wall and shattering into pieces. The representatives wonder if humans can ever keep one firm, static decision; the rest contemplate whether such unity is even possible.

Until: the missing ones.

The others flood out of the shuttle as soon as it settles on the planet’s surface, but Grayson stays behind for a moment, his face buried in his hands, his chest still buckled into the seat. Cadence hovers near the back of the shuttle, retrieving water from the shuttle’s dispenser, watching Grayson as he makes quiet whimpers into his fingers. She tries to wait until he stands up to make herself known, but the noises tug at her. She’s a social worker, she’s a helper, she has to help. It’s just never easy to help Grayson.

She puts her hand on his shoulder regardless.

When he jumps and shrieks, she doesn’t even feel bad. She only swivels him to face her and begins unbuckling him, her hands working him free from the straps. They have to keep going; they can’t afford to be stagnant.

“Don’t think this is the time for that, but I’m flattered,” Grayson says, tone flat. “Cadence, what are you doing?”

“We have to help the captain out,” she replies, giving his chest an awkward pat when she finishes. “I need to know you can do this.”

“I’ve been... through worse.”

“Have you?”

“Yes, because despite the fact that I’m lost, I am at least not alone.” He rubs his eyes. “I am fine, Cadence. I just. Samara. Her sixteenth is next week, and I was supposed to...”

“I know,” Cadence says, softening herself. “I’m sorry. I’m here for you. I am. But right now we have to do what we were trained to do."

"I thought you were scared."

"I am, but.. I feel a bit better knowing I'm not alone."

He gives her a hesitant nod. "Okay," he says, moving to stand. "You're right. Okay."

They exit the vessel together, hands brushing.

The surface of the planet looks like a fool's idea of paradise. The ground is a thick patch of stomped-down orange grass, dark brown vines branching across the landing platform. They seem to have landed in a central… park? There is a large tree in the middle of a field; where benches and playground equipment and water fountains would be on Earth, there are a few peach-colored metal cylinders scattered around the grass, each surrounded by a cluster of small abstract sculptures. The rest of the field is decorated with flowers planted strategically so that each row is a different color, reds flooding into pinks flooding into violets as it goes further down and further down. MacMartin cannot help herself; as she steps out of the shuttle, her jaw drops just slightly, her eyes widen just slightly, and her mind wanders just slightly.

It doesn't help that one of the beings appears in front of her as soon as her feet hit the grass.

"Ah--hello. Were you the, um," she begins, her voice trailing off as she realizes that every single member of their species heard the phone call; were you the ones I spoke to on the call means nothing to a civilization that doesn't individualize. "Nevermind, answered my own question. It's nice to meet you all in person."

They continue to shimmer rainbow, their colors shifting at a speed that seems to be increasing every few seconds. When they speak, it begins to sting MacMartin's eardrums, as if someone poured a devouring acid down the inner holes of her ears. 

"You have our missing one," says the being.

MacMartin only cries out, her fingers plugging her ears as she desperately claws at the cartilage. When Robinson approaches her with concern, dragging Mel behind him, the colors shift even faster.

"As do you," they say to Robinson. "Please explain."

"What?" MacMartin asks. 

"Two of our clusters disappeared when we came into contact with your vessel. The disappearance from the collective was felt similarly to one of your wounds. We sense the missing within the two bodies known as Laurel MacMartin and Ryker Robinson. However, we cannot re-establish communication."

Robinson and MacMartin look at one another; MacMartin's expression reads horror, while Robinson's expression never shifts from his blanketing calm. He sighs, places a hand on her back, and tries to spread that calm, to evangelize it, but MacMartin won't budge.

"You're saying one of your people is… inside of me?" MacMartin asks. Her hand rests over her lips. "In… in me?"

"Indeed. We assume this was unintentional."

"It certainly was. We never meant to do any of that, but… I guess we're even now, huh?"

"We do not understand."

"Nevermind. Remind me, Robinson, to teach these guys the concept of humor while we're here." She cracks her knuckles. "Okay. So you can't communicate with it… them… but can I?"

The being is silent for a moment. Then: "We are unsure."

Hall pulls her aside, and MacMartin finds herself drenched in gratitude for the rescue. She holds MacMartin's arm, basic warm human comfort. She smiles, but her smile carries an infectious concern. Seeing Hall, of all people, this worried….

"Try meditating," she offers. 

"Meditating?"

Hall turns to the being. "So," she says. "I know you don't have bodies, so this may be a long-shot, but is there somewhere she can sit or lie down? Do you have… chairs? Beds? Benches?"

There's another brief flicker of silence, and then the being begins to float away, leading them past the central tree and ducking beyond the scattered cylinders. They lead the group to a shaded courtyard with a fountain-like sculpture in the middle, a large swirl like a snail shell with water trickling out of the end, all captured in a basin below that floods back into itself. The top trim of the basin is thick and long—the closest thing to a bench you’re going to get on this planet, she suspects.

“Please exercise caution,” says the being. “This liquid is our…” 

“Hm?”

“The closest equivalent that you would comprehend is cerebrospinal fluid.”

“You keep your brain juice just open in a fountain like this?” Mel asks, shouting from behind them on the path, barely catching up as she pants from exhaustion. “Why? And why is it… just why?”

“Nothing has ever posed a threat to it until now. We do not possess the ability to harm it by interacting with it directly. We are unsure of what would occur if you were to touch the liquid physically.” It pauses. “This is where we truly exist. We are projected from the liquid. It is, in essence, our ‘body.’”

“Fair enough, I guess,” Mel shrugs. “So—wait. What happens when you leave the planet in your ships?”

“Our vessels are powered by this liquid. We are composed of the energy required to power them. Therefore, every ship contains a vial of it.”

“And that doesn’t hurt it?” Hall interjects.

“You will forgive our hesitation. We simply are unfamiliar with your biology. We do not wish to cause harm to our kind just as much as we do not wish to cause harm to yours.”

MacMartin gives a slow nod. “I would feel the same in your position.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

She sits on the trim of the basin, resting her head on one end and her feet on the other. Hall sits behind her head, legs swinging over the edge. She rubs MacMartin’s temples as MacMartin takes a pattern of deep breaths, inhale—in—-calm—-out—her chest rising and falling and her lungs pulsing. She leans into Hall’s touch as Hall massages her, and as Hall speaks, she finds herself fluttering away.

“Clear your mind,” she whispers. “Focus on your feet. Focus on each string of muscle. Feel it tingle. Feel the energy flow from your toes to your heels to your calves.”

MacMartin imagines a source of green light illuminating her flesh, energy enveloping each cell until her entire body itself is a tangled thing of light, a body like a glowing stick figure, a body that is barely a body. She looks into herself, inverts her eyes and falls backward into the eternal pit, shovels the dirt over her own grave. She falls and falls and falls into a dark nothing, and the dark nothing folds in over itself on an endless symmetrical swirl. When she opens her eyes…

IT’S SO BEAUTIFUL, she thinks. YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL.

Who are you? she thinks. What have you turned me into? Am I something new now? Am I something better? Am I wanted? 

Do I have a purpose now?

The light shines through MacMartin’s eyes and into her core. It shines every fathomable hue, and every fathomable hue penetrates her essence and transcends her into something higher. She sees herself, sees her own body, the stretch marks on her bare hips and the tattoo her friend did for her in the Academy over her right ankle, sees her naked self floating as light shines outward from her eyes, ears, and nose. The situation stops feeling like horror.

The light continues enveloping the body in front of her as she manifests in the darkness. It spreads across her until MacMartin's entirety truly is that light, her body merged wholly with the being that is light that is the being. She resembles a vaguely human-shaped puddle of green, now, and that green is — waving at her.

"Hello?" she breathes, into the vast. "Who are you? I mean… are you… are you one of them?"
MacMartin looks down, tries to stretch her hand outward to study it, some connection to the tangible world, but finds nothing, an absence of self. She feels her heart hammer on in her chest, feels her breath catch in the back of her throat, but sees no body, no physical form to touch with, to experience with. It is still waving at her, still trying to greet her.

I WAS, it replies. ONCE.

NOW I HAVE YOU.