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“It’s odd. I guess…” Jan stops.
Doctus squints behind her glasses in irritation. “You guess what?”
“I guess I don’t need to worry about you anymore.”
“You? …You worried about me?” Is she supposed to be touched or offended by that?
“Of course.”
“…”
“What?”
“Did you worry about all your subordinates, or just the troublesome ones?”
“…Excuse me?”
“Was it everyone—or just the ones dumb enough to get themselves killed?”
“I never said that—“
“Shh. Just answer the question.”
The old man turns to look at her. He hasn’t aged a day in over 100 years, and it frightens her a little. But then again, in a way, she hasn’t either.
“…You were a bit wild.”
“Mmmhmmm…?”
“No, that’s not right—you’re probably more wild now.”
“I’ll try to take that as a compliment. Go on.”
“…But my point is—you’ve grown. Your politics may be have been…”
“Underhand?”
“Yes. Underhand—but not reckless. You’ve always had a… code for yourself—but you’ve extended it to those who follow you. You’ve become a leader—no—you always were a leader. You’ve just… shed your… your timidity.”
“…Ah.”
“You’re confident now, Melisse.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I’m…sorry.”
There’s a long pause between them. Their hands are folded neatly. Their eyes still aren’t meeting, despite the intimacy of the conversation they’ve fallen into. If you split a rock in half, it’ll come cleanly back together. But if you weather each piece on its own…
“…Where are you now?”
Of course, it comes back to this.
“The ‘real’ me?” Jan nods. “This is the real me, old man.” He stops, finally catching her gaze with a glare colder than she even remembered. “Fine—no jokes…” She presses her knuckles to her cheek, pensive. It’s quite the internal debate at hand—this isn’t information she likes to disclose, even to friends as old as this one.
“Well?”
“…Why do you care?” She spits. “You want to stare at an old woman in a tank? You’ve become a bit of a creep, Captain.”
“That’s not what I meant.” His words are soft, but his face seems to carry a bitterness he can’t express with words. Does she disappoint him…?
“…There’s a ship.” She says it quickly, almost hoping that he won’t catch the words. “The Themis. It’s smaller than a speck of dust--” She cracked a smile “—And it’s a miracle it survived our little ordeal.” She shakes her head in a glorious disbelief. Even if the gods are dead, they still showed her some favour.
Jan doesn’t say anything. He looks away, and it’s only fair. He deserves some time to process all she’s throwing at him.
“You want to see…?”
“No, it’s not that…” He mumbles. “I don’t care how I’m speaking with you—if it’s flesh or circuits—it makes no difference. As long as it really is ‘you’ there, does it truly matter…?”
Oh. How perfectly ‘Jan Sauer.’
“Then what is it?”
“It’s nothing,” He shakes his head. “It’s just… odd.” There’s that word again—he’s starting to sound like a broken record.
“…We’re all becoming robots,” She sighs, trying to finish the thought. “Look at us. We haven’t spoken in how long? And we both ended up heading in the same direction—we burn our human flesh, and shed our skins again and again, until there’s hardly anything left of the original person below.”
This hits him harder than she anticipated—it’s enough to ignite a worm of guilt in her chest, until he finally answers: “…But we both circled back, didn’t we?”
“Ah.” That’s… that’s true? “…Fair enough.” Yes. He’s right. She’s taking a step by talking to him. And he’s… he’s alive. Memories in-tact. She supposes that’s more than just a good start—they’re moving in some direction, be it right or wrong. They’ve been alive too long anyway—the least they can do is rediscover their humanity.
“How do you do it?”
Now there’s an unexpected one. She likes it—keeps her on her toes. “Scientia… obviously has had trouble with creating a proper network. However-- it doesn’t mean we haven’t found… other uses for our discoveries.” She cracks her knuckles one by one—oh this body had become a home indeed. “Consciousness projection is among them. It’s simple—well, in layman’s terms.Ppop a body in stasis—let the mind go. Boom.” She flares out her hands. “You ought to give it a try.”
“I’ll…pass.”
She gives a hearty laugh— 100 years could be a beautiful thing. Melisse Ortus would never speak like this to her Captain, but Doctus--!
“…100 years has made you bold and crass…” He mumbles. It seems Jan has similar thoughts.
“Good or bad?”
“Both.”
“Well then,” She counters. “100 years has left you still as a rock. At least I’m going somewhere….”
“I… must agree.” He looks down, a sudden melancholy spreading over his face. Oh no—not again. Too far, too far…
“…Captain. I…” For a split second, Doctus is not Doctus. She has brown hair, bobbed to her chin. She has trembling hands, and a fear rooted so deep in her stomach that she cannot contain it in words. She has a gun at her hip, and is barely out of childhood-- she’s ‘Melisse.’ She reaches out, caution holding her down like a film of honey, and touches the top of his hand. It’s cold and metal, but she swears she can feel the Captain underneath.
“Don’t call me that.”
She swallows. “Jan…Zigguart…” She grimaces, and sputters: “—Ziggy. – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go that far.”
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t answer. He’s strung out in a field of tension and about to snap—but instead of breaking that wire, he softens. He lets it slip from his system and into the air.
“It’s fine.” He replies. “…It’s good to see that you still care about people.”
---
She can’t believe she’s doing this.
She doesn’t want to look in a mirror—she knows the result will only frighten her. She’s worked so damn hard to build up her confidence—her image—now is no time to let it shatter.
But she does it anyway.
Stasis is more kind than cruel, really. She’s frozen at 45—hair still brown, face still smooth enough. She’s lost weight in there though—she doesn’t like it. Her cheeks look hollow, and her hair looks flat, and her muscles hurt so much, she can barely stand, but—
It’ll be worth it.
The door slides open—instinctively, her hands go to her thighs to smooth out the wrinkles in her trousers, and maintain that air of perfection she always used to chase after. It’s funny—she thought she had kicked the habit long ago, but it looks like muscle memory was a more powerful thing than she had figured.
Jan Sauer used to walk like a cat. You could never hear him coming, no matter how much you practiced. It was the curse of her squadron—letting your guard down was out of the question when your captain could be behind your back at any minute.
Ziggurat 8, on the other hand, clomps. He’s loud—not clumsy—but the metal of his feet makes a racket. She knows he could find a better—lighter—body, but for whatever reason, he sticks with this, stomping his way from place to place.
“Hello…” She greets. Her shoulders draw up in a tight shrug— she hates it. She hasn’t felt so self-conscious in years.
“…Hello.” He replies. His face moves ever so slightly—that’s a world of expression for such a statue.
She walks up to him, praying to her dead gods that she doesn’t trip and sway. She feels like jelly in such a gross little body—and part of her fears she’ll turn to just that. “I never got any taller,” She says with a laugh. “154 centimeters. Not a hair over, I’m afraid.” She laughs, trying to sound bitter, but it ends up only good-natured. “I added a good twenty to my artificial body though, so I guess that makes up for it, eh?”
Ziggurat shakes his head. Is he really… nervous? “No… you’re fine. You look beautiful.”
She snorts. He looks away, apologizing: “F-forgive me. That was an…awkward thing to say.”
“Oh no!” She waves a hand, leaning casually against a nearby console. Or at least, she hopes it looks casual—she’s just trying not to fall. “I appreciate it—you always were my type.” She wrinkles her nose. “…Not you specifically though.”
For the first time in ages, she hears him laugh. It’s a rare sight, even in the days of Jan Sauer—but it somehow feels even more precious now. Time takes its toll once again. “Of course.” He pauses—eyes fixed on her to the point of marked discomfort. What is it now…? “You don’t need to look ‘cool.’ Stop pretending—you’ll wear yourself out.”
“What?”
He loosely gestures towards where she stands. “You’ve been in near-permanent stasis for at least… fifty years, correct?”
“…Longer than that, cupca—“ She catches herself. Pet names feel wrong when she’s in this body. “—Ziggy.”
“Then your muscles would be weak from lack of use.”
“…Oh. Would they now?” She gives a crooked grin in a sorry attempt as a last stand—before promptly dropping to the ground. A jolt goes through Ziggy’s face—but fades as he watches her sprawl out her legs, and rest her body against the console.
“…Are you all right?”
“Fine, fine… just fine…” She mumbles, leaning her head back against it as well. “This…. feels much better.”
“I’m certain it does.” He walks back over to her, shaking his head the whole way, and--- unexpectedly—sits himself down beside her.
They’re silent for a few minutes. They stare at the wall with only the whirr of engines and the sounds of their breaths to accompany them. It’s tense—but easier than saying anything. Then:
“Why are you doing this? Showing me…”
“Showing you ‘me’?”
“Yes.”
With a sigh, she rolls her head back and forth, cracking it with a great deal of satisfaction. “I don’t know, to be honest. It simply felt right.”
“Right…?” Ziggy echoes.
“Yes. Right. ” There’s a bubble in her chest about to pop—she’s scared—honest-to-god scared. She’s getting sentimental, and sentimentality has done nothing for her. It’s the very thing that ripped her apart again and again—it was her flaw in the field, the thing that could make her break, and it was coming back for the first time in decades—“I suppose I just wanted,” She speaks quickly, spitting out the words before she can regret them. “To see you with my real eyes.” She clamps her mouth shut, buries her chin in her chest, and refuses to look back up.
A hand touches her shoulder. It’s not particularly confident—it has the air of someone who has no idea what he’s doing—but it’s Jan—her Captain—Ziggy—whoever. It was comfort of some kind—and that’s all she needs.
“Thank you, Melisse—Doctus.” His gentle voice stutters as he corrects himself. He’s honestly sorry this time—it’s a proper mistake.
“No…” She shakes her head. He has no reason to be the one apologizing. “Melisse is fine. For now, at least.”
“For now?”
“For now. Until I go back,” She tilts her head towards the door at the back of the room, where her other self lies waiting. It’s a shell right now—no different from the state her current body usually occupies. It makes her shudder—life never feels quite so frail as when she’s thinking about such a thing.
“Okay. Melisse it is.”
“May I call you ‘Captain’ then?” She asks, quiet. “It’s only a fair trade.”
He doesn’t respond with words—only a short nod before he leans himself against the console next to hers.
They don’t say anything after that, they don’t need to. They drink in the simplicity of company, until Melisse slips away to the next room, and comes back out wearing a different face and a different name.