Work Text:
For twenty six years the world held its breath and prayed.
From the Vatican to the decrepit table of the working man, humanity prayed to every deity they could think of. Avatars, gods, prophets, saints, messiahs. Religions around the world and religions long dead prayed for one singular thing.
Salvation.
And the pockets of humanity had prayed for such a commodity in the way they have been doing for thousands of years.
Together. ‘Pack-species and all that jazz’, Stratt imagined Grace would say.
Holidays were celebrated with a surge of gusto. Churches over flooded with chilly feet gathering warmth from being shoulder to shoulder. Candles for menorahs frequently ran out of stock and acts of devotion were enacted fervently. Hellenists offered everything they could think of to their pantheon, talks of rebuilding two specific temples in Delphi and Corinth were frequently in discussion. Many argued about the waste of resources just as many argued about the need for hope.
And wasn’t that what devotional statues, monuments, and buildings represented in the end anyways? The depictions of divine likeness carved with worshipping hands are but a representation of people putting their hope into something, anything. The hope that an entity or system more powerful than oneself will bring happiness and safety where the mortals could not.
So supporters argued that the resplendent gold and ivory would reflect the chariot’s slowly chilling sunrays towards the heart and ignite that fire of faith, warmth, and hope in people's souls.
The hope that Lord Apollon and Lord Helios would shine with a vengeance before the year where Her Majesty of the Underworld returns to her kingdom and her mother’s grief freezes all.
But before there was any government action, shrines were constructed and well attended.
Shrines for Aphrodite, Helios, and Apollo unsurprisingly got the most attention. People desperately begged the goddess of love to purge the parasites on her surface so Helios could shine bright once more. And for the two gods to just preserve their sapping strength.
And then after twenty six years humanity's prayers had been answered, in the form of four tiny little pings a NASA intern heard at 3:25pm on a Tuesday.
Rapture erupted.
Cities named, statues erected, holidays made, biographies written, medals awarded, festivals thrown, you name it, humanity did it in Ryland Grace’s honor. The most noble exigence.
Bronze, silver, pure gold, temperamental metal, copper, steel, cast iron, marble, statues of all materials that could make the cut were sculpted in reverence. Thousands upon thousands.
Anywhere and everywhere. In embassies, city capitals, on top of mountain peaks. San Francisco particularly boasts a whole Central Park with Ryland Grace smack in the center.
However the most important statue to Grace resided right here, in front of the entrance to Clover Public Middle School.
Not to say the other statues and honorific memorabilia weren’t extravagant or important, but Stratt knew this one would have meant the most to him.
She could see it now, his face flush and his shoulders tense as he slightly doubled over and curled in on himself, a truly pathetic attempt at keeping his composure before an arguably more pathetic sob was dragged out of him like overwhelmation had dug fishing hooks into his lungs and yanked the emotions out of his throat.
His glasses would slide down his nose and he would fumble to catch them, smearing the lens badly enough that later he would attempt to clean them with his t-shirt before realizing it the textile was too abrasive of a material that ended up smearing the lenses further. Then he would sheepishly turn to Stratt to see if she had a cloth of some sort.
She did, but she wouldn’t give it to him without berating him for his lack of preparation at least a little bit.
But before all that he would sob, clumsily sob into his hands while awkwardly holding the handle of his glasses and continue sobbing with small lapses as he struggled to get through the messages carved into the base of the statue by each and every student he’s ever had.
There were too many to fit so another stone panel was made just behind it with the rest of the them.
It was Abby Miller who determinedly scoured for her old classmates, flipping through yearbook after yearbook, and diligently recording government names, last known addresses, and the emergency contacts of Grace’s students before setting off to greet them all.
All while a twenty six year old ziplock bag was tucked into her pocket, dutifully occupying the space even when the sharpie ink and the scent of jelly beans had long since faded.
Oh Grace would sob, he would become overwhelmed, flustered, and a bit embarrassed at all the other honorific statues and cities but this would make his knees buckle while his already fragile sense of composure disintegrated faster than astrophage to an IR light.
He was sentimental and emotional like that.
Weak like that.
. . .
Human like that.
Abby and the rest of Grace’s students had one goal in their depiction of his likeness.
To remember their dorky teacher.
The rest of the world showed Grace as this untouchable holy genius of a figure, being the savior of two planets will do that to you, an overall air of confidence and honorability. His pose and demeanor exuded dependable, larger-than-life safety. Eyes kind but strong.
God how ridiculous, ‘strong’ and Ryland Grace should never have been in the same sentence but once again, savior of humanity.
So while the rest of the world had their rose tinted glasses on, his students wanted to remember Grace as who he was to them.
Not the savior of Earth and Erid, well still that, but their favorite science teacher. Their lovable, kind, bit of a pushover science teacher who made an effort for them.
Never downgraded any of them and lifted them up not only in academics but as people.
The one who settled childish disputes with a teasing yet kind voice, the one who always made sure each and every student understood the lesson inside and out, and never got tired of reiterating a concept over and over again in various different ways until you got it.
Visual learner? He’s got diagrams upon diagrams, color coded appropriately.
Auditory? Well Grace never had an issue of not rambling away, along with a seemingly endless supply of analogies. (Apparently a mother of three with a baby inside a supermarket cart seat, her other kid running down the same aisle, and the last kid three aisles over with the question of who’s more likely to get kidnapped is a great way to teach kids about ionization and energy levels)
Kinesthetic? As long as you don’t break the handmade clay miniatures and detachable plastic models, fiddle away.
Reading and writing? He’s got a text explanation on the board and three other variations, copy whichever clicks best.
And even if you tried to take the easy way out and sheepishly nod, he would trap you in his classroom and make you explain the concept back to him and until he was satisfied with your understanding before finally letting you go with an ‘I’m proud of you!’.
They wanted to remember the man who occasionally lost debates and was outsmarted by middle schoolers and was more than willing to lend an ear when you're feeling down.
They wanted to remember the man who threw jelly bean bags at them when they got a question right.
So that’s what they carved.
This Grace was more accurate to the Ryland Grace Stratt knew.
He was mobile for one. Grace hardly ever remained stone cold still, not like her.
In the middle of meetings, at least one body part was moving discretely under the table, a bouncing knee or fiddling hands. It annoyed her endlessly but eventually without it, a part of her started feeling off kilter. Waiting for movement in the corner of her eye where empty space remained.
His clothes and hair were wrinkled and slightly swept back as he was frozen in the motion of throwing a ziplock bag of jelly beans that hadn’t left his hands quite yet, to the onlooker.
He was smiling, a goofy grin plastered on his face and exuding joy. His eyes were elated, bright with pride, and affectionate with slight cornrows in the corners.
You had just successfully managed to answer the difference between indigenous and sedentary rocks or whatever middle schoolers learned and he was so, so proud of you.
That’s how his students remembered him.
That’s how they remembered those eyes.
Stratt stood in the nominal temperature of the day under a spiderweb veil of shadows cast from the trees. Her ironed hair and gray pantsuit was ruffled by an ice cold wind that splashed into her like a river current splashes and parts around a rock. The motion swept up the verdant and amber leaves across the playground and sidewalk. One of them getting caught under her heel.
Thirty five years ago she would have been sweating her ass off in this summertime sun but 4 years ago she would have had to wear a scarf and gloves so she would take the slightly chilly temperature. After all the amount of comfort she was in was only because of the effort of the statue before her.
The statue with prideful, kind eyes.
No matter how long she stared, how long she held Grace’s gaze and bored into the marble, mapping out every detail and committing them to memory, no matter how long she tried to burn this image, this kind joyful image, it wasn’t enough.
It wasn’t enough to scorch out the sight of those eyes filled with entirely different emotions.
She knew what those eyes looked like defeated, she knew what those eyes looked betrayed, desperate, and hysterical.
She knew what those eyes looked like full of poisonous hatred mixed with saltwater. Livid, pure undilluted venom in his gaze. A glare never meant to be on his face.
A glare that would haunt her to her grave.
Brown eyes that held a glint of fear and that emotion more than anything had made her throat go tight.
It was a strange and abnormal experience to be guilty of something Stratt did not regret.
She did not regret it, for godsakes how could she? Because of her decision to get him on that godforsaken ship one way or another humanity was saved. The world was recovering. The sun was shining, and the next generation will live on and then the next generation after that and the next generation after that and soon people will be complaining about the heat again instead of the cold.
Stratt did not regret it. She would pull the lever of the trolley problem again if she could.
She would do it even if Grace was writhing in his ropes. Kicking, flailing, crying, attempting anything to get off the track while the metal barrels towards him. She would brace herself on the steering wheel and feel as two sickening bumps jostle her, signifying the act of two sets of razor sharp wheels slicing through flesh and bone, cracking, crushing, and cutting.
She would make herself listen to his bloody sobs as his life leaves him.
She would tie him to the altar and plunge the knife. Feel as his blood coated her hands and watch as he gurgles on scarlet.
She would do it, she would stab him over and over and over again if it meant humanity would survive.
No matter how fervently he begged.
Stratt humorlessly huffed at her admittably gruesome thoughts.
If it came down to that at least she would have known how he died. Could’ve made it so that he at least would not have died alone.
Grace said he was coming back, him and the Eridian (Grace made a life-long friendship with the first intelligent alien the world has ever seen and proceeded to name him ‘Rocky’ because of course he did) were going to part ways with their respective Taumobea but not before he was give enough astrophage to get home with some spare. But he isn’t back. The mathematical time in which he should have made it home has long since passed.
The Hail Mary was nowhere in sight. People speculate maybe the hull breached and he was sucked out into the void, a very likely conclusion since the ship was never made to last for a trip back. Maybe the water reclaimed broke and he died of dehydration and no one was around to correct a glitch that changed the course.
Perhaps the engines deteriorated and he lost all his astrophage. Left to be floating in an unknown corner of space.
If that was the case she wonders what he did.
He couldn’t science his way out of that one, for all his determination and desire to live Grace knew when he’s been beat.
Even when the French DGSE members had entered the room Stratt heard him beg and plead but he never tried to make a run for it.
He knew it wouldn’t work.
But there was no begging or pleading, no tearful “no, please don’t do this”s to the cold vacuum of space.
A human? Sure you could try (and Grace sure did try) but space was unforgiving and cruel. And decidedly not sentient.
So no options, no chance of survival. Maybe he was stubborn enough for some sliver of hope that he stuck it out and died of hunger.
Maybe he tried to do that but then the starvation became too much and he found Yáo’s gun. According to his logs all the nitrogen was mostly used up in the Taumeoba sanitization so he couldn’t go with Dubois’s method. And for the uncomprehendendly stressful situation the man was in, Stratt just couldn’t see Grace of all people getting himself to consume all that heroin.
Maybe he walked towards the airlock with the knees of a newborn baby deer, shaking and terrified.
There were enough bedsheets and overall fabric to make a noose. With what he would tie it too? Stratt didn’t know, but that was the point wasn’t it?
She didn’t know and probably never will.
She knew in her heart he cried. He cried and heaved and gasped for breath while shaking harder than fragile dishware in the middle of an earthquake. His bones rattled against the Hail Mary’s floor.
He did it alone.
Alone with no one to comfort him.
Stratt thinks if it was his choice and not by the cruelties of space he would have ultimately chosen Yáo’s gun. And knowing him Grace would have spent days or weeks working up the courage to pull the trigger only to realize the safety wasn’t off. And then another couple of days before successfully blowing his brains out.
Still alone though. Crying.
Only Ryland Grace could make her feel like saving the world was a Pyrrhic victory in the face of his tears.
A small, tiny, illogical part of her, but a part nonetheless.
Unlike popular opinion, Stratt was not completely heartless. Yes, she had logical and cold reasons for keeping Grace around but after so long they had understood each other.
He may have had to do the heavy lifting in terms of emotional needs or miscommunications that Stratt never had time for or gave a shit about but she remembers his eyes flash in understanding when she gave him his perfect coffee order. And then immediate confusion when he realized he never actually told her the order but that’s his fault for not being observant.
He was her right-hand man and she would begrudgingly admit that she had considered him a friend as he had considered her.
Or used to anyway.
The white pupils of the marble stared into her very soul. It wouldn’t move. It wouldn’t budge and drop its frustrated gaze in acquiescence.
It refused to yield.
His affectionate gaze dared her. ‘Remember the last time you forced me to obey orders? Go ahead, do it again. Make me.’
The statue was veiled in thin shadows, softening the sun's rays. The trees held the space of the entrance in a cozy light.
Grace stared at her.
And she blinked.
Eva Stratt resolutely squared her shoulders and turned her back to the statue.
Calmly walking away.
An all business purposeful gait to the average eye but those who knew her could tell something was wrong. Ryland would have known something was wrong, for he had only seen Stratt walk like this exactly once in his life.
When there was a gun pointed at her back.
Only this time, the crimson sniper light was in the form of kind stone eyes.