kaikishoku

[kaikishoku]

(short story) atelophobia.

1539 words. for the prompt "write about someone whose desire to constantly improve something borders on obsessive." from reedsy.com

atelophobia: (n.) the fear of imperfection or not being good enough

"I know this... thing is important to you, but don't you think you're going a little too far?"

"I can honestly say I have no idea what you're talking about."

Amira bites her lip. Elodie stirs her tea with a swirl of her finger, stopping on the tenth turn and pulling it to her lips with a come hither gesture. 

She decides to try again. "When was the last time you slept?"

"This morning." Elodie sets the cup down with a little pat, pale green wisps of her magic disappearing beneath it. "For three hours. That counts, doesn't it?"

"Did you fall asleep," Amira asks slowly, playing with her spoon, "or did you pass out?"

Elodie's nose crinkles. Amira sighs, slumping back in her chair.

"Ellie—"

"It counts," she snaps, the shelves of dried herbs and powdered medicines jumping at her voice. "It does!"

"Alright! Alright, alright, it does, it does." It does not, but she isn't looking to get stabbed by a knife tied to her best friend's emotions—or worse, turned into a lizard. Again. "I'm just—worried, you know?"

"There's nothing to worry about. I'm almost done."

"If you're sure," Amira replies softly, and Elodie takes a loud sip of her tea.

The sun is on a downward spiral and she's about to leave when Elodie asks, her gaze cast towards the ground in faux disinterest, if she'd like to see for herself. Amira stares at the brightly lit avenue just outside of the hovel, surrounded by tall trees painted in the yellows and oranges of fall, the smell of the home's freshly re-stained leather suffusing the air, and shuts the door with a nod. They travel through the long boot of a house, stepping around piles of books and baubles that Elodie refuses to throw away no matter how many times they go through the song and dance of spring cleaning. Elodie's hand is warm when she helps her across a hole in the floor, almost too wide to jump but not quite there, not yet, and the warmth stays with her long after their hands are parted. Amira holds it to her chest as Elodie unlocks the stairs to the basement—a room longer in height than it is in width, the heel of a stiletto trapped beneath the ground—and only starts her way down when she's given the go-ahead. 

She always knew Elodie was better at magitech than her, but the gauntlet resting on the worktable in the center of the room just seals the deal. Slivers of pure silver wind their way through a bright copper coating, in and out like veins, culminating around a dark stone—black sapphire, she thinks—at the center of the gauntlet's palm. Every part of it has a purpose—the bronze clasps to make it easier for the joints to move, the steel at the end of the fingertips to soften the conductivity, the scratchings of runes on its underside where it would meet the skin. Amira lifts it with ease, marveling at how light it is despite its workings, and studies it as Elodie joins her by the table.

"It could be more efficient," she mumbles, brushing metal flakes from her workbench. "As it stands, one can only wear it for about six weeks before getting tired out."

"Six weeks!?" Amira turns to her, staring. "That's—that's a month and a half, Ellie, that's plenty efficient! Especially if that's all the time—no one wears this kind of thing all the time, twenty-four-seven, so they'd never hit that point!"

She pauses and looks down at the gauntlet, turning it over to get a better look at the runes. "What is this for, anyway?"

"It's to stimulate magic. Some witches are born with a strong seed of magic, but their thales are too thin for them to use it. This gauntlet—and its matching twin, once I'm satisfied with this prototype—should help to stimulate those thales and enable the user to use magic as easily and freely as any witch with properly working ones."

"Oh, that sounds like my problem." Amira stares at it, then looks up. "Are these for me?"

Elodie's ears turn red, but she says, "No, they're for—in general. Medical Arcanology is my major, Amira. I just—happened to tackle this problem that you happen to have. You aren't the only witch with terrible thales, you know, it's actually a— a pretty common problem, and—"

Amira cuts her off with a hug, burying her face into the other witch's shoulder with a sob. "Oh, Ellie!"

"D-Don't..." 

"Thank you," she whispers, her cheeks warming. "Ellie, thank you."

"It's just senseless that some of us are designed poorly." Elodie sniffs, but she returns the hug—it's tighter than Amira expects it to be for someone of her bony size. "Especially when those people are as stubborn about magic as you are."

Amira laughs, and they hold each other quietly for a few heartbeats more before they part, faces red. Elodie takes the gauntlet from her and sets it back on the table, clearing her throat and taking a small screwdriver from her tools pocket.

"Anyway—as I... As I was saying, it could be more efficient. It's just been difficult to synthesize the mythril I need for that in a large enough—and pure enough—quantity." Elodie pauses, tightening a screw on the wrist. "I've been dreaming about it lately."

"This is what I'm talking about."

"I am so close, Amira. If I can just get this to work, you'd—a general you, don't smile like that—you'd never have to take it off. You would always," she says on a breath out, knuckles white around the screwdriver's bright red handle, "have magic at your beck and call, at your fingertips, just like the rest of us. Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

It would be. Amira flexes her fingers, well-aware of how cold they are—a problem with her magic circulation meant her blood circulation was a little thin, too. She wouldn't have cold hands, cold feet, cold anything if she had working thales. She wouldn't need seven layers to go outside in the ever-chilly climate of Wornstone, and she wouldn't catch her death playing in the snow that came every season save summer... She'd be able to cast magic as effortlessly as Elodie did, as any of their peers did. It'd be a blessing. It'd be a miracle.

It isn't worth losing her best friend over. Elodie has always been thin, but she'd become aware of just how much thinner she had grown when they'd hugged. Her dark red eyes, her charm point, are sunken in, the skin around them dark with a lack-of sleep. Through her olive skin Amira can see her thales pulsing a ghoulish pale green, a sure sign of arcane sickness. Her normally meticulously kept white hair is unkempt and twisted, and her trembling fingers reflect the tugging and twirling she's done to it with sharp indents around them. Amira first takes the screwdriver from her and sets it down, then takes her hands and raises them to her mouth.

"Elodie," she begins, throat tightening. "Elodie, Elodie, Elodie. I really, really appreciate it—everything. But I promise you that six weeks is plenty of time. I promise that I don't have to wear it every moment of every day to be happy."

Elodie's eyes widen and she shoves her; Amira stumbles back with a yelp, but she keeps her hold on Elodie's hands and they both go down on the stiletto's basement floor.

"I am doing this for you!" Elodie's voice is strained, tears springing to her eyes. "And you're just going to reject me!?"

"I'm not rejecting you, I'm just—" Amira struggles with her, coughing as an elbow goes into her gut. "Ellie, I love you, I'm just saying that this is good enough!"

"It isn't! It isn't, it isn't, it..."

Elodie stops struggling in her arms and sobs instead; Amira breathes heavily, the weight of the other witch making it hard to get enough air into her lungs but not enough to make her feel like she needs to push her off. She strokes the white hair, untangling it with her fingers as she goes, and speaks softly into the space above them.

"If I could even match you for a day I'd be happy, Ellie. This is more than enough. No one says you have to perfect it tonight either, or even tomorrow. We have our whole lives ahead of us." She smiles, watching Elodie's shoulders shake. "Why not leave some of that work to an older, more experienced Elodie Masters?"

"As long as Amira Arima doesn't go too far from her side," Elodie replies, sniffling. "Will you promise to stay with me?"

"Always, Ellie."

"Then I'll stop. Just for now though," she continues hotly, sitting up and wiping her face. Amira breathes deeply, blessed air filling her lungs completely. "I'll continue once I've rested up."

"And you'll be reasonable about working on it from now on, right? Taking breaks? Eating?"

Elodie's nose crinkles. "No promises. But I'll try."

Amira sighs and closes her eyes. Better than nothing, she guesses, and she lets Elodie help her up so she can try the gauntlet for herself.

[kaikishoku]

(short story) first contact.

4312 words.

   Every day is the same as the last.

   5:30 AM: Wake up. Lay in bed for roughly half an hour staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the metal ceiling above, wondering how they're even still sticking after all this time.

   6:00 AM, give or take ten minutes: Get up and go to the bathroom. "Freshen up," as Sara might have said back on The Surface, with peachy toothpaste carefully pushed out of an almost-empty tube with the back of a transparent blue toothbrush that has definitely seen better days, taking the smallest amount possible on the tip of the brush and using it. Afterwards, splash cold water (which can't be made any warmer than the northern Atlantic ocean was rumored to have been back in the day) to both wash off any bubbly toothpaste residue, and to immediately get rid of any last final traces of sleepiness. Drag a brush through unkempt sleepy hair, struggle to get it into a ponytail, and then decide the loose bun is good enough for government work.

   6:15 AM: Say hello to the Founders on the way from the dormitories (occupancy: 1) and stand in front of the breakfast vending machine in the cafeteria attempting to decide what exactly to eat that day. Pancakes, waffles, overcooked scrambled eggs, toast, yogurt... The possibilities appear endless, but appearances are deceiving.

   6:30 AM: Sit down at the best seat in the house (the one by the wide windows depicting some city in the world; today is New York City, maybe, or Toronto; it's always been hard to tell those two apart in the movies, and there's no way to reference them in real life now) with the same breakfast chosen from the machine: two pieces of toast and banana cream yogurt.

   7:00 AM: Wash tray, then head to the second floor. First up: The Arboretum. Check the Temperate Zone 6 and see how the redwoods are doing, along with their associated flora, and then go around to the other zones in order from favorite to least favorite. Do the same for the botanical gardens, starting in the desert to see how the cacti are faring because they, like the redwoods, are a favorite.

   3:00 PM: Buy a pack of cinnamon gum and a bag of dill chips from the lunch vending machine. Continue plant research while eating.

   6:50 PM: Check message center. Empty, as usual.

   7:00 PM: Sit down at the master computer and record the log for the day, though the words are exactly the same as the day before. "Elia Myste, researcher and observer on the Regalia. Environmental studies continue to flourish, and while The Surface still looks rank as ever from the bridge, I have hope that reintroduction will succeed once I'm given the clear. Elia Myste, signing off."

   8:10 PM: Get ready for bed with the same routine and gusto as in the morning.

   8:30 PM: Lay in bed staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the metal ceiling above, wondering why anyone would stick them up on a ship destined to be hanging above The Surface in space anyway.

   10:00 PM: Fall asleep.

   Rinse and repeat. Even changing it up every so often, like getting a coffee to go with breakfast—something Elia decides to do today, crouching to take the canned drink from the vending machine aptly labeled BEVERAGES—doesn't make the day actually feel any different. The plants they take care of will still be alive and healthy, kept at perfect temperature for their needs and free of disease or pests; no messages will show up on the master computer when they boot it up; and the glow-in-the-dark stars that keep them company at night will continue to stick to the metal ceiling as if hot glued there.

   Despite that, Elia finds one of the stars fallen onto their bed when they stop back by their room to pick up a blanket. They stare at it, iced instant coffee numbing their fingers, and look up to see if they can figure out which constellation—none of them familiar, or even recorded in any of the station's books—it came from. The effort is a waste of time and completely fruitless; they don't find where it fell from, and the ceiling is too high for them to put the star back up without having to locate a ladder.

   "Well," Elia says to themself, turning the yellowish-white plastic decoration around and squinting at the smooth backside (how did it stay up there in the first place?), "I guess you're my new partner. Let's go, uh..."

   They pause, holding the star up to the cold, bright lights of the space station.

   "...Estella?" They try, then shake their head. "No, we can't have two E's on this station."

   'I must really be lonely,' they think after a moment, pocketing the piece of cheap plastic and picking up a red and orange blanket that's seen much better days. 'I'm talking to some old, crappy decoration that's been here longer than I have.'

   Elia still finds themself taking it out every so often throughout the day, adding something new to their usual routine; while it does not get any less ordinary or boring to look at, it does offer them something else to play with aside from their pen or the keyboard on their miniature laptop the institute had provided for record-keeping of the plant variety. They begin to notice little other differences in their day as well post-starfall, like a few new bright pink blossoms on a desert cactus that had seemed completely against the idea of flowers, a different color and swirl in the clouds on the planet below, and a new and picturesque view on the cafeteria's windows—the Pitons, located in St. Lucia. Elia vaguely remembers visiting them on a class trip before things had become completely unlivable on The Surface. It's enough to have them looking forward to the end of their day to see if the message center has any news waiting for them—something to tell them that it's alright to start the journey back down, or maybe a simple happy birthday for all the years they've been without congratulations...

   Disappointingly, though unsurprisingly, the message center is as barren as ever. Elia waits ten minutes, willing something to show up before they sigh and shove off to go record the day's log instead. Two clicks puts them in the application, a red recording light flickering on, and they withhold a second, longer sigh in favor of getting this part of the night over with so they can go to bed and resume their boring, everyday routine.

   "Elia Myste, researcher and observer on the Regalia," they begin, leaning back in the black office chair that used to be quite comfortably plush but has since been pressed flat with how often it's found itself occupied (and sometimes slept in, though it was more common back when they thought there might have been a chance at anyone contacting them). "Environmental studies continue to flourish. Three new blooms occurred today, and a new sapling was found growing in a spare space. While it's not going to live very long considering the root structure around it, the fact the trees can breed without the assistance of other animals or human intervention is a welcome sign of self-sufficiency. The Surface had a small change of color, at least in the part the Regalia is currently over, but we're still message-less over here—so I assume we're not ready for reintroduction yet."

   Elia taps the desk in front of them, then continues: "I have hope that it will succeed once I'm given the clear, however. Elia Myste, signing off."

   The recording light turns off with another click, and Elia starts to get up; a flashing icon in the corner of their eye makes them pause, and they slowly sit back down as they register just what app it is: an old messenger application installed on all systems located in the research facility. It had had its uses back in the day, or so they presume, but not once since working here had it ever shown any sign of life.

   Until today. They tap it quickly, heart so far up their throat they feel like either they might pass out from a difficulty breathing, or they might just get sick all over the expensive and irreplaceable computer in front of them. The first feels more likely as a cutesy bunny mascot pops up on the screen, juggling letters before they scatter across the application's screen, and the rabbit freezes picking them up—the logo of QuickMess, they guess, and they drum their fingers on the mouse impatiently as they wait for the UI to load.

   Four updates later, they can finally access the message, and Elia can barely hear the click of their mouse over the blood rushing in their ears.

      H.CASTI: Hi there! I don't know if anyone's out there, but I found this app on one of the old computers down here?

      H.CASTI: I'm Hiros B T W! Looking forward to a reply!

   It isn't a name Elia recognizes, but the message is fresh—extremely fresh, like this-was-sent-within-the-last-ten-minutes fresh—and they waste no time with a reply, grimacing at their typos only in the aftermath of it.

      E.MYSTE: holy siht are you fro real

   God, whoever this 'Hiros' person is was going to think them an uneducated idiot. That immediately doesn't matter as Hiros' next reply comes in seconds later.

      H.CASTI: O M G! Sure am! What's your name? What's it like above the waves? Have you heard from anyone else?

      H.CASTI: Oh, and what's your favourite colour?

   Elia doesn't even think they have a favorite color anymore, or if they did, it'd been quickly taken over by the fresh green that comes with the lushness of healthy, happy plants. They wipe their palms on their blue jeans, wetting their lips—they have no idea why they're so nervous when it isn't even like this person is here, and hell, maybe this wasn't even a real person but some kind of chatbot triggered after a certain amount of time to keep researchers from going absolutely stir-crazy with no social interactions. It seems stupid for it to only show up after all this time, but seven years might be its time limit.

   Whatever. Elia types their replies as quickly as possible, backspacing a few times with a swear when their mind goes faster than their fingers and fumbles another set of awkward, embarrassing typos. They aren't going to keep making mistakes like that—on the off chance it isn't some kind of bot, they really don't want to come off as a total idiot.

   Hopefully, they haven't already done so.

      E.MYSTE: elia

      E.MYSTE: cold and dark and kind of lonely

      E.MYSTE: you're the first hence the insane typing

      E.MYSTE: and green i guess

      H.CASTI: Oh L O L I see! Nice to meet you Elia! The Surface doesn't look dark though? On my screens it's proper bright, but I guess you might be somewhere with perpetual nighttime? I lived somewhere like that for a right bit. Guess that's why I'm so cool with it! Or cold L O L.

      H.CASTI: My favourite colour is vermilion B T W.

   The idea that it might be a chatbot takes root a little more firmly in their mind considering the way Hiros types—it's outdated and reminds them more than a little bit of their grandmother back when they used to keep in touch on "the social medias," as she had liked to put it. Elia is ninety percent sure that she had only called it that to irritate them, though. Frustratingly, it did every time.

   Their attention returns to the screen as they see H.CASTI is typing... again, and they're glad their coffee is long-since finished, or else they might have choked on it when Hiros stops typing, and the message flashes onto the screen.

      H.CASTI: Do you want to video?

      E.MYSTE: i

      E.MYSTE: yeah i do letme jsut grab soemthign to eahr with

   So much for making less mistakes and not looking like an idiot. Elia drops to the ground and yanks open the bottom drawer of the desk, rifling through it; as they do so, they hear a gentle beeping from the computer, and they bang their head coming back up with a pair of unopened earbuds. They cut the pad of their thumb opening it, but manage to shove at least one in before they hit to accept the video call. The screen goes black, three blue dots blinking one after the other in the middle of it as the signal struggles to connect, and they tap the desk, leaning in.

   "Come on, come on, come on—"

   The three dots all light up at once, and for the first time in seven years, Elia sees another living, breathing human being. Hiros is the palest person they've ever seen, even before boarding the Regalia; if they weren't in such a well-lit room, Hiros would look more like a rescue beacon than another human being, and Elia tries to match the bright, puppy-like energy Hiros directs to them with their own smile.

   It feels awkward instead, and Elia drops it; their reflection in Hiros' round glasses, frames almost too big for the other's face, mimics them. The next thing Elia notices is how red Hiros' hair is and, paired with their wide, hazel eyes, marks them as being of Irish descent—not to mention the peppy, jovial accent that rounds out their speech as they break the silence.

   “How're ya? Ya seemed frazzled o'er the chat-thingy here, so I thought ya might be a wee bit better speakin'.” Hiros leans into the screen, obscuring Elia's view of them entirely; their voice is soft but masculine, so tentatively, Elia assigns them as 'boy' for the moment. “Right pretty ya are though, aren't ya! Love your earrings—can't stand those long hangin' ones myself, get all caught up in my hair—right pain it is.”

   Elia finds their voice with a short laugh, covering their mouth with a hand. “Thank you. It's— it's nice to meet you, Hiros. I just can't believe it,” they continue, leaning back in their chair. “Someone else. How long's it been since you spoke to someone? Seven years for me.”

   “Oh, well, probably just about the same.” Hiros moves back again, pushing his shaggy red hair behind his ears; four piercings shine briefly in the light, three studs and one short crescent moon dangler. Warmth surges through them at the sight—it's nice to see the two of them match in some small way, as coincidental as it's bound to be. Hiros adjusts his black jacket over his cream white shirt, and Elia discovers it's easier to relax than they thought it'd be as they realize that he's just as nervous as they are. They put the other earbud in, resting their head against their hand as Hiros clears his throat and continues. “So? Surface? What's it like?”

   Elia blanks, then realizes it's a continuation from their conversation on the app. “I'm not on the surface—I'm on a space station. The Regalia. Heard of it?”

   “Oh!” If Hiros could grin any wider, they're sure he would be, but he's thankfully stopped by the constraints of the human face. “Regalia, yeah. Went up some time before I got shuttled down here. I'm in the, uh... What's the yoke's name... Sguaba Tuinne. Named after Manannán mac Lir's boat.”

   The grin wanes a little, and Hiros mimics Elia's position, slouched back in his chair. “Guessin' yer guess is as good as mine when it comes to what's goin' on up there—down there for ya, I guess—then.”

   Elia smiles in a way they hope is as apologetic as they feel and wishes Hiros would sit back up again so they could judge it in his glasses. Maybe it's time to add practice expressions in the mirror so you don't come off as a total weirdo next time to their schedule. Sometime before laying down to sleep, or more accurately 'trying to sleep', they guess.

   "If it's any consolation, I've got good news from up here. I don't know what they've got you watching over, but I'm in charge of—flowers, plants, trees, all of that. Every biome that existed on Earth before the whole..." Elia makes a circle in the air with their fingers. "Thing, yeah. Anyway, it's—it's going well. New blooms. Healthy specimens. Ready to replant whenever I'm given the go-ahead to land back down."

   "Ooooh," Hiros replies, leaning in; the screen casts a glare on their glasses, illuminating them like the moon and obscuring their eyes. "Meteorologist. Keepin' an eye on the weather up there from down here—lots o'storms, lots o'sun, lots o'changes. Would've had a station on the Surface if not for the whole—"

   Hiros grins as he mimics their air circle, his long fingers gracefully ducking in and out of the computer's bright light.

   "Thing, yeah."

   Elia's grateful for the dark color of their cheeks; not too many people notice when they blush because of it, and Hiros seems to be no exception as he settles back in his oversized office chair. A meteorologist and a phytologist—certainly two important types of people to have keeping an eye on things and working towards reviving the world. Hiros rests his cheek against his knuckles as he continues on, the screen shining off a ring on his right middle finger.

   "I watch air quality an' all that too—doesn't matter if the extreme weather up top settles down if we can't breathe it, yeah? Though yer plants oughta help a wee bit with that once they're rooted." Hiros smiles, but it's hard to tell how genuine it is with his eyes half-hidden by the glare of his glasses. "Ya keepin' tabs on soil quality too, Elia?"

   They nod shortly, instinctively moving their cursor to their second screen to bring it up; with some wrangling, they manage to pull it in view of the camera, the monitor arm behind it squealing in defiance at being used for its intended purpose at long last. It only occurs to them after a long moment of silence that Hiros probably can't read a thing on the screen, and they clear their throat, embarrassment making the blood rush to their ears again.

   "So, uh—if you look here... This one on the left monitors everything in the space station's nursery. This one's for the desert room, specifically for a shadscale zone—that's a zone with a high salinity, er, salt content, in its soil. Places like southwestern Nevada have this." They click through a few folders, different sections of the Great Basin Desert flipping before their eyes until they murmur a little ah-ha and select the one they're looking for. "And here's an area with a shadscale zone on the Surface itself."

   The colors couldn't be more different: while the one in the space station is a bright orange with yellow running through it, the one on the Surface is a pale, sickly white, its ridges mapped out in bright blue. Elia stares at it, half smiling, and traces the map.

   "So—there's a regular amount of salinity in the one on the ship—right temperature, right precipitation, right everything. Absolutely perfect, ideal, like I've got my own little piece of this particular desert... and I guess you can say I do. But over here," they tap the Surface's, not even sure if Hiros is following along but not willing to look over and see just how much they're embarrassing themselves, "here, it's all salt. Every single bit of it. Nothing's growing there—there's spots of that in this zone too, but it's not the whole thing, and the ones here flood every so often just like they're supposed to. Playas," they continue, pushing the monitor away a little bit. "They're called playas. Fascinating places."

   "Why's it called a shadscale zone?" Hiros asks, his voice peaking at the end in blatant curiosity, and Elia chuckles—it feels so much like when they'd assist their professor in university.

   "Shadscale is the name of a plant—also known as the spiny saltbush; it's commonly found around areas like this, especially salt flats. They're evergreen bushes native to the western U.S. and northern Mexico. Fun fact: they're in the same family as the amaranth flower."

   "Ya grow those too?" he asks, and Elia grins wider.

   "I said I've got everything up here, don't I?"

   They go through a few more zones and plants like that, Hiros asking questions and Elia's worry that his interest is purely out of politeness slipping away as quick as the time does from them. They only notice how late it's gotten when Hiros catches a yawn in his hand, eyebrows knitting together apologetically.

   "Not usually up this late," he says, his gaze darting to the corner of his screen; Elia does the same to theirs and bites back a wince as 10:51 blinks at them. "What's the time on yer end?"

   "Ten-fifty-one... at night. You?"

   "We're not too far off, are we? Not continents at least." Hiros stretches, the microphone catching the creak of his chair. "Closin' in on two in the morning here."

   "I sat down at seven..." Elia rubs their face, mentally counting the hours—their first contact with another person in years, and they'd spent almost four hours talking to them? It doesn't seem real—doesn't feel real—but the soreness in their throat surfaces to confirm their numbers. They cough, wishing they'd brought a water or can of tea over. "Sorry to keep you, especially with boring plant talk—"

   "Weren't borin' to me," Hiros interrupts; he's grinning when Elia's gaze snaps over, and they get the feeling he's been directing that expression at them for a while now. "I like watchin' people talk when they're passionate 'bout somethin'. They get a li'l twinkle in their eyes."

   He taps the left side of his head, then gives them a wink. Elia coughs and looks away, busying themselves with turning off their extra monitors. They stop when they get to the last one, the one with Hiros on it, and hesitates. Their hand settles back on the desk, just shy of the mouse, and they sigh.

   "Guess this is good-bye for now," they say, but they make no move to turn the communication off.

   "I'm guessin' so," Hiros replies, but he doesn't move either, and the two of them sit in a silence that feels like it's trembling. What if this is the last time they speak? What if something happens to one of them, or to the communications center, or the program itself? Elia curls their fingers against the desk, questions rising like the waves their newfound companion lives far beneath. They're almost certain that Hiros is asking himself the same questions with the way his smile turns a little sad, thick eyebrows pressing together.

   Elia sighs, counts to three, and banishes the thoughts from their heart. They smile brightly, knowing it's forced by just how awkward it feels on their face, and give a little wave.

   "Let's talk in the morning, okay? Or afternoon, whichever. You're a few hours ahead of me, so I'll let you pick."

   Hiros blinks, but returns their smile, drumming his fingers on his desk audibly. "Ten your time, one mine. I tend to sleep-in anyway—bad habit of mine. Never died after college. Ta-ta for now, Elia."

   "Ta-ta," Elia repeats, and their heart aches with the silence and loneliness that folds over them when the video call ends. The ship comes back into focus as their attention draws away from the computer screen: the hum of its engines as they stay in orbit of the Earth, the buzz of the lights above them, and the electric harmony of the systems that keep them alive so far from a home that would kill them to step back onto—

   And, most of all, the quiet that signals to them that they truly are the one and only person on this ship. Elia draws their knees to their chest and presses their face into them, taking in a deep breath and holding it until their lungs feel fit to burst. Did Hiros feel that way now, realizing just how lonely it was to be alone in the cataclysmic aftermath of human contact? Had he ever gotten used to the quiet, or did being underwater afford him company they could only dream of? Elia can't imagine that fish are very good conversation partners, but then again, neither are trees or the stars that send their light careening through millions upon millions of miles of pitch-dark space. At least fish move and react and feel alive. Flowers and trees move too, but it feels fundamentally different—active versus passive, maybe—and Elia sighs as they finally pull themselves from their chair and make their way to the washroom to freshen up for bed.

   Their loneliness slowly transforms into excitement as they crawl beneath their covers and stare up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on their ceiling, finally locating the spot Estella had fallen from—they'll have to put it back up in the morning, they decide. Tomorrow—tomorrow they could resume their conversation with Hiros. Tomorrow they'd see him again, first thing in the morning. It's difficult to get to sleep with that thought hanging around their head and making their heartbeat quicken—they think about what to talk about, if they should dress differently or do their hair differently to put out a better second impression, if they should bring a flower or two to show off their progress, if...

   They drift off to sleep as their thoughts turn to meeting up one day, somehow, some way, the blanket tucked tightly around them like a cocoon.

[kaikishoku]

(short story) alone.

3245 words.

(CW : animal death, related ideation)

    She hadn't realized how comforting the back parking lot of an abandoned shopping center could be. Ordinarily, she'd be terrified of being in a place like this—even now, cautionary tales drilled into her mind by her mother about the type of people who could or even did live here bounced around in her head endlessly, echoing off of each other, but the effect numbed her instead of making her anxious. Maybe she'd worn herself out emotionally already, too wound up from the day and its events. Her boss calling her in for a talk only for it to be about nothing at all had done a number on her mental state already; and then a customer had asked her for help and then hit on her after taking her polite, public-ready mask as interest; and finally, she'd missed the last bus that ran to the Dixie an hour off from her house. She couldn't call her parents (they expected things of her now that she had a job and could, in the mildest sense, fend for herself), she had no friends who'd drive out this far just to take her home, and she wasn't very close to any of her coworkers.

    And so: she walked, mentally drawing a map between the bus stop by her work and the next one over. That one had another bus that ran a little later, if she remembered right; it wouldn't take her exactly close to home, but it would be good enough. She'd already have to walk an hour to get there, and walking another hour and a half seemed just fine. If she was lucky, though, it'd be an empty bus, and the driver might be nice enough to go a little out of their way to get her home safe and sound. She'd been thinking about all of that as well as her day before, mentally replaying every remark she'd said to judge how irritating it must have been to hear, when her foot had caught on a curb and she'd tripped down an embankment. She had to have scared someone—she screamed like the Devil was after her, tumbling down a slight grassy decline; she felt even sillier when it was over sooner than expected, the embankment being anti-climatically short.

    That was when she'd found the parking lot. The asphalt was cracked from disuse, lightened in color by the unkind rays of the sun, though that had its perks: grass and dandelions and other plants had begun to spring up between them, the green almost a navy color in the dark of the coming night. The paint indicating parking spots was worn and faded too, and while most of the signs for special parking for those with disabilities were still standing, they were rusted and resembled distressed jeans if distressed jeans were parking signs. She only recognized the building across the parking lot had been a shopping center by its large windows and faded lettering across the top of some big name brand department store she might have been able to barely make out if it'd been the daytime, but had basically no hope of doing so in the waning hours. Still, it was enough—just as the faded paint lines had been—to determine what and where she was. 

    Most importantly: she was alone. Completely and utterly alone. There wasn't even a stray cat, or markings of any kind of life she could see from where she was standing—no sleeping bags or abandoned carts, no bags or cans, nothing like that. Quietly she made her way across the parking lot, eyes flicking between the ground (no cigarette butts) and the area around her (no beer bottles), until she at last reached the glass doors which were unopened in every sense of the world: they were closed, they were not smashed, and they were locked. The inside was dark, as if covered by a black tarp, and she turned around half-expecting to find someone standing behind her, having snuck up on her while she was distracted.

    Still: she was alone. With a sigh, she moved to the stucco-covered wall beside her and slumped against it, feeling it catch and drag on her jacket as she slowly dropped down to the ground. She stared out at the parking lot, heart settling in her chest quietly as her mind, too, fell silent in the hush of the empty space. She felt that if she spoke even a word that the spell would be broken, and whatever magic that was keeping the world at bay would disappear in an instance; it made her feel like a child again, watching the night sky stretch far beyond the large gumball tree that had sat—and, to her knowledge, still sat—in the yard to the side of the duplex she'd grown up in. Even then there had been the sounds of bugs chirping quietly beneath the stars, the summer nights of the south never truly quiet the way that someone might think they'd be no matter the distance from main roads and busy city streets. She took out her phone and turned it off for good measure, watching the screen flash then darken, the vibration that went with it almost imperceptible in her hand. 

    Completely, and utterly, alone. There was something freeing about the thought—no one knew she was here. No one could get in contact with her. There was only her and Nature, which had started to retake its land from the concrete fingers of the city that stretched further and further every year. She was utterly disconnected and, instead of being scared or anxious or on the verge of a panic attack like she was in her day-to-day life, she felt—

Content. A laugh bubbled out of her, so sudden that she startled at the noise before she realized it was her own. Blood rushed to her cheeks and she hurried to stand up, looking around again as paranoia crept up her back like the itsy bitsy spider and its waterspout. Her laugh had been loud, or maybe it had just seemed that way in the lonely, empty parking lot, but it gave her shivers to think it might have attracted the unwanted attention her mother often warned her about. Her steps quickened as she made her way back across the parking lot, back up the small hill that separated it from the main road, and down the sidewalk to the next bus stop. Her heart pounded in her chest as she sat at the bench beneath the stop, clutching her bag, and stared at the times listed beside her until the bus pulled up, and she quickly made her way in with barely a look or even a word to the driver.

The next night, she stopped at the same spot she'd tumbled from and peered at the parking lot and the old, decaying shopping center from her spot on the rise. It looked the same as it had before—quiet and empty and alone, and she gave the handle of her bag a firm squeeze before she carefully made her way down the embankment and into the parking lot once more. The world seemed to vanish around her as soon as she had—the noise of the road faded away behind her, replaced instead by the calming silence of the abandoned parking lot, and like the night before she crossed the lot and sat down against the shopping center's stucco wall. She pulled her bag into her lap, cradling it against her chest, and after a long moment spent surveying the area, she leaned her head forward and closed her eyes. Quiet, quiet, quiet—but not quiet in the way that it was truly completely silent. As she focused less on her busy mind and more on the area around, she began to hear them: the soft flap of wings, the gentle chirps of crickets, the light crunch of dead leaves as animals picked their way around the outskirts of the parking lot. It came together like a nighttime symphony, something only she could hear—that she and she alone was allowed to hear, the rest of the city too busy and absorbed in their own lives to stop and listen for—and the tension of the day slowly, slowly, slowly faded from the knots in her back, releasing the soreness from her shoulders. She sighed into her bag, rubbing her fingers over the rough brown burlap, and grimaced when her fingers passed over a fraying hole. Another one to repair, adding to her bag's already colorful patchwork visual. Her older coworkers and her family always had something to say about it, but privately she liked how her bag looked; it was different, and she felt like it fit her.

Just as she'd been touched by so many people and things all across her life, so too had her bag. It didn't matter that no one else knew where she'd been or when her bag had gotten one patch or another—what mattered was that she knew. It didn't shield her from the barbed hints that she should look into getting a new one, disguised as idle questions or looks of surprise when she arrived at another gathering with her bag slung around her shoulder, but it reassured her in the peaceful, buzzing quiet now. 

Snap. She hit her head on the wall behind her as she straightened up, goosebumps covering her arms. A growl started up from the bushes far in front of her and she held her bag defensively, heart beating in her ears. Snap. Snap. Snap.

A gangly old dog stepped out, head lowered and hackles raised, its lips drawn back to show off what few teeth it still had left. She froze, trying to remember what it was you did when faced with an angry dog. Make yourself look bigger and fight if you can—no, that was for mountain lions. Slowly wave your arms and make it recognize you as human—no, that was for bears. Back away and don't make any sudden moves—that was it. She stood up slowly, taking one step to the left and then another, sidling along the wall of the building and keeping the dog within her sight. Its head raised as she moved away, the snarl disappearing from its muzzle, and it didn't growl again when she sat at the corner of the building instead. Its untrimmed claws scraped against the cement as it stepped up to the mall and turned around twice before dropping down onto the ground; after a long moment, it laid its head on its paws, and she let out the breath she'd been holding. 

That dog became her new friend. It was there when she left, acknowledging her exit with only a turn of its floppy ears, and it was there again when she came the next day. She sat at the corner of the building again, cautious of the old mutt, and she closed her eyes to enjoy the quiet. She did this when it was sunny and when it was overcast; she came when it rained, the old black umbrella working in tandem with the hood on her windbreaker drawn over her head to keep her from getting too wet; and she came when it began to grow colder, and the trees started to shed their leaves for winter. The stray dog was there most of the time, and when it wasn't, she would sit in its spot instead.

On her way home that night, trudging through the leaves swept to the side of the road by cars screaming through the dark, she saw the mutt on the side of the road, splattered in dried blood and limbs askew. It was stiff when she nudged it with her shoe, and a faint, indescribable odor rose from its body. She shed her jacket, wrapped the mutt in it as best she could, and took it home.

There was no question about it: she couldn't and wasn't going to keep it like this. It was dead, struck by a car and dragged off the road like it'd just been an opossum or squirrel or deer, instead of someone's pet and companion at some point in time. She decided she'd go in the morning to the abandoned parking lot and bury it before her parents woke up. She'd give it a proper funeral, and then she'd go to work. In the meantime, she put its body still wrapped in her jacket into a black garbage bag, set it down by the front door, and went to bed, her pillow growing wet with warm tears beneath her cheek.

The ground outside of the parking lot was riddled with the roots of bushes or flowers intent on taking back the black asphalt behind her. It was cold, too, making the ground hard to break through and her fingers stiff around the rubber-coated shaft of her garden shovel. At first, the hole she made for the dog was too small and too shallow; then it was the right size, but still the wrong depth; and by the time she was satisfied with the grave there was only an hour left until she had to go into work. She stared at the numbers on her phone, bright and clean beside her dirty nails. If she finished the job properly, she'd be late for work, but it felt wrong to just throw the bag into the hole, haphazardly cover it with dirt, and rush to the store so she could wash up and be ready to face the day. This dog had been her companion for weeks, even if it had never stopped growling at her when she came too close, even if it hadn't shown her any curiosity or kindness. It had been there in the quiet, alone together with her. The least she could do is let it know someone had appreciated it in its final days. 

She carefully laid the bag in the grave and spoke as she scooped dirt back into the hole—she thanked it for letting her stay, for the company. She told it about her days and how the sight of it curled up in that spot time after time cheered her up even when she felt like crying and giving up. She patted the dirt when she was done scraping and scooping it back into the grave and stood up, staring at the spot where a corpse in a bag had just been. It wouldn't be a grave without a marker, she decided, and she was already late to work—she would already be taken aside by her manager and thrown frustrated looks by her coworkers—so she took her time finding rocks to lay at the top of it in a small pile. It was better than nothing; it was better than it would have gotten ordinarily.

She wondered if anything happened to her, if she was hit by a car in the night or if she suddenly passed away, if someone would do the same for her? Would they bury her with as much care, and would they be able to say any kind words about her? If they were a stranger who saw her every day, would they do the things she had done for the dog that had kept her company day after day?

Probably not. She crossed the parking lot and climbed up the small hill, taking a moment to stand on the cracked sidewalk and watch cars pass by on the road in front of her. She looked behind her at the abandoned mall, then dialed the number for her work and quietly informed them she was quitting. She turned her phone off right after, her stomach tying itself into ribbons and bows as she sprinted back down the hill and landed hard in the parking lot, knee bending with the force, feet and ankles sore as she ran across the black asphalt and turned left at the wall as she reached it. She followed the building as far as she could, slowing to climb over broken old generators and piles of garbage, and she yelled as a pothole in the asphalt on the other side of the mall caught her right foot. Pain exploded in tiny bursts all across her body—her elbows and knees, her right ankle, the crown of her head. Her vision swam in front of her as she pushed her herself up and found the culprit for the aching of her head: a rusted piece of metal that must have belonged to a shopping cart or something at some point, one of those motorized ones; it was larger than her head, and she reached up to feel wet, warm blood on her forehead.

She closed her eyes and laid her head back down, temple against the cold asphalt, trying to catch her breath. Her heart pounded in her chest and she breathed in, breathed out, breathed in, breathed out, just the way her first grade teacher had taught her to calm down her anxiety. Slowly she pulled her legs towards her chest and turned on her side; she rolled her ankle to test it and hadn't moved it much before a sharp pain shot through her leg. She sucked a breath in through her teeth and waited for it to subside before she sat up, taking it slow. Her ankle was definitely broken, and a concussion wasn't out of the question. She checked her phone and laughed hoarsely when she saw the screen cracked beyond saving; she managed to turn it on, but trying to swipe it to unlock it left her with shards in her thumb and a blood smear.

Missed calls from her manager popped up one after the other; another showed up as she sat there, picking glass from her thumb and wrapping the bottom of her shirt around it to stem the blood when she was sure there was none left. She watched it ring, ring, ring and time out when she didn't pick up, and she turned the phone off with her other hand. Back into her pocket it went; back to walking she went, putting as little weight on her right side as she could manage. The back of the mall was almost identical to its front—almost, because the parking area (calling it a "lot" would be a stretch) was smaller and dirtier than the other side's. The bottles strewn about and tags spray-painted on the walls said it wasn't as desolate or abandoned as the other side, and a broken window close to the front confirmed this. 

She carefully climbed in and stood by the window for a moment, not sure what to do—she hadn't had any idea what she was doing when she started running in the first place though, to be fair, and so in the still quiet of the mall she once again let the rest of her decide: she sat down, closed her eyes, and  listened to the silence that rested in the building like a blanket of snow on a cold winter morning, the throbbing in her ankle slowly slipping from her mind, the ache in her head slowly dissipating as she rested back against the wall.

She sighed one last time, the gentle crinkling of leaves outside of the window warning her of the breeze before it swept past her cheeks, cooling them.

Peace. She was totally and completely at peace.