Corroded, Fragmentary Dreams - Season 1, "Goodnight"

7-14-4763
21:17 Universal Standard Time (UST)
Ebon Chasm Area #5, Sutania [Corroded Fragmentary Dreams]

The stars are gone.

The lights on the plate that serves as a sky far above their heads are all out. Which makes it impossible to count them as they come on to soothe her little sister to sleep – that peaceful realm where hunger doesn’t dog their steps and smoke and smog don’t slither into their lungs in a grotesque parody of air. Looking up, all she can see is thick and choking smoke – swallowing up every scrap of comfort that Stick is used to finding in the plate. Maybe that’s the main thing that helps stall her out, because she’d been so focused on getting back home in time for bedtime routine that the increase in the amount of smoke in their air hadn’t seemed like anything worth paying attention to. Just normal variations – things that are expected down here on the ground.

In the house, the air is nicer, like everything feels like from that nest of safety.

But that thought leads Stick to look in front of her again.

It’s not just that the stars are gone. The whole of bedtime routine is fucked, actually, considering the charred frame of what was their home is all flayed out like a desiccated rib cage stripped bare of everything that made it more than mere bones. Twisted beams reach out into a strangled sky, like bony fingers begging for a semblance of sympathy from the platies and topsiders. Gnarled metal is all that remains of the air purifier that their father had nearly worked himself to death for, and even still the machine is trying to chug away – choking down smoke and belching out even thicker smoke. The fact that it’s still trying despite the damage is more of a wounding realization than Stick is ready for, and her gaze drops from the wreckage of their home to her little sister.

Leaf hasn’t quite noticed yet – or if she has, she’s doing a damn good job of not letting it show. She’s still counting the shards of stained glass that Stick told her to count when she realized that tonight was going to be what their father often called A Night. He’d say those words in a stern tone, then hold one finger up to his mouth and grin and laugh and declare that the most important thing for them to do that day was focus on caring for one another. Those are always the nights where they stay inside no matter what. It’s part of the games, just like counting shards of stained glass. Leaf’s grip on Stick’s hand is tighter than it was ten minutes ago, not that she even blames her little sister for grasping for even this small measure of comfort.

Stick doesn’t… what is she supposed to do? What… what was the emergency routine? Because the plumes of smoke are still rising from the ruins of their home and the only thing Stick can think to do in this exact moment is keep on holding Leaf’s hand and pray to a collection of gods that have never offered them the barest of sympathy, let alone succor, that the first adult they find will be their father. He always knows what to do no matter how strange or overwhelming the situation gets. And the situation is overwhelming enough that Stick’s mind has scattered all of those long memorized routines into nothing but ash on the wind.

Like their home.

Her stomach twists as her mind circles back to it, over and over and over as she stands before the wreckage. Leaf is still counting, but Stick knows she’s running out of shards to count and Stick has to do something. Standing here staring isn’t what she should be doing but it’s like her feet are glued to the ground and gravity has stitched her boots and the crumbling cobblestones together. No matter how hard she mentally urges herself to move, it seems impossible to do so even as Leaf starts to ask where she should look next. She has to… she has to do something. Leaf needs her to.

They spent all of that time working on emergency routines! They had a plan, as a family, for what to do if anything like this ever happened!

And yet Stick is stuck, and desperate grasping for the routines just turns up empty files. Memories that fuzz out into static. Her stomach twists again, and it sinks in that dinner probably isn’t happening either. Despair yawns up out of the abyss, and still… still… Stick is stuck.

Wait.

Isn’t that…?

Half buried under a collapsed beam, Stick can see the still smouldering pile of stuffed toys that had turned the hard wood the siblings slept on into an oasis of a bed. Most of them are charred and melting, glops of plastic and synthetic fur running together into a river of loss. But there’s… there’s at least one that looks like it’s survived.

It’s not the emergency routine, or any of the other things Stick practiced over and over until she swore she had them memorized… but this course of action doesn’t freeze up her legs.

“Hey Leaf, where we’re gonna go next doesn’t have any glass to count but I want you to do me a different favor okay?” Stick glances over at her sister as she speaks, hoping her voice sounds so much more steady than she feels even as she starts walking. “Put your free hand over your eyes for right now, okay?” There’s a fear gnawing at Stick’s jugular, armed with the not so little details that she’s noticing now and glitch it all but Stick’s willing to pull one of the moons from the sky if it means that she can protect Leaf from having to see any of this. Leaf doesn’t need to see the detached arm that’s sticking out from under some of the rubble at an odd angle. Doesn’t need to recognize the markings and fur patterns enough to know that the limb belongs to one of the other kids in the area. Doesn’t need to see the blood still dripping from where it was formerly attached to a shoulder. Doesn’t need to see the corpses that mean there was a surprise visit planned, guests over for dinner. Guests that won’t need plates. Not now.

Not anymore.

It’s such a good thing that Stick’s little sister trusts her so much, because the younger sibling doesn’t question it at all. She nods and puts her hand over her eyes. This is a familiar game, so it’s automatic that Leaf starts listing off colors. She always starts with the same color, and this time is no different. “Pink!”

“The little bow on your Tara plush.” Stick says immediately, continuing to pick a path towards the plush in question. It looks like the way they always stack the plush hoard has spared little Tara the most. The white cat plush just has soot on her, and even then it’s only on the little pink bow and near her eyes and ears. As for the plus directly above Tara, organized in the same protective posture as always – the scrunkly little black cat plush named Sleepy (after the sleepy expression the uneven eyes gave it)… one ear is still actively smouldering, while the cheap plastic of one eye has melted and dripped into equally cheap fur. The threadbare nose is also sagging from the heat of the flames. Taking a breath and mentally apologizing to Sleepy, Stick carefully extracts Tara from the pile. Stick rubs the soot off on her shirt, running her thumb over the soft fur and double checking.

Alright, so there is a little damage – to the end of Tara’s tail. Leaf quashes the fire between her fingers, and checks Tara over one more time. The plush is safe. Good. But now she pauses again, because like this… in these shapes. Stick and Leaf only have two arms, and the inconvenience of it rears up here and now. Their real forms are scary though – Leaf hates them and Stick doesn’t blame her. It stalls Stick out again, and despair sinks claws into her ankles.

“…Can we go get Tara?” Leaf asks, instead of listing another color. She’s still keeping her hand up in front of her eyes, though the curve of her shoulders gives away that this distraction isn’t working as well as Stick has been hoping it would.

But… but there’s an override that Stick can use, now. Oh it’s still not the emergency plan – that doesn’t seem to be coming back any time soon – but anything at all is better than nothing. “I’ve got Tara right here. Keep those eyes closed and let me put Tara right in that hand, okay?” As Leaf nods, Stick flicks a longing glance at poor Sleepy. No… no it’s not worth the time as she tucks Tara into Leaf’s hand. They have to get to their father, have to get away from here.

Besides… Sleepy was the cheaper toy. Made here on the ground, Sleepy is easy to replace. Not like Tara, who Stick risked a trip up to the fifth plate in order to buy. So getting Tara and getting moving, to keep their lives as well… that’s the most important thing. But when Stick starts to move, Leaf’s dug in her heels so much so that Stick finds herself unable to pull her along.

“Is something wrong, Leaf?” Stick asks, voice so soft that she fears the wreckage of the air purifier will turn it into yet more smog.

Leaf shuffles a little, burying her face against Tara’s soft plush flank. “Didja grab Sleepy too? Tara doesn’t like goin’ anywhere without Sleepy!”

Stick tells herself that the pricking at her eyes is because of the smoke, not because of emotions. The way her bottom lip wobbles too. Still – she reaches out and grabs Sleepy carefully, tucking the scrunkly little black cat into the neckline of her shirt. “I grabbed Sleepy too.” She says, now that it won’t be a lie, and the relieved laugh that Leaf lets out is like soft butterflies. It’s a gentle thing, and when Stick starts walking now, Leaf walks with her.

Sleepy’s texture is all wrong. It rubs weirdly against Stick, but now Leaf is humming a happy little tune and that’s more important than the rising tide of discomfort. It’s going to be okay. It is, especially because there are adults there! Up ahead!

It’s like a scene out of one of the stories their father tells them both when he has time to help them with bedtime routine – the form of their father coming into detail out of all of the smoke and the smog, looming out like a hero in the midst of disaster. A hero that embodies the warmth of the suns none of them have ever seen. He’s directing other adults and children to safety, and his face lights up when he sees Stick and Leaf. The smile that splits his lips makes his scars and beard look funny, but there’s relief in the lines of it, in the way his eyes soften like they do every time he sees his kids.

Stick giggles, feeling a weight lift off of her shoulders.

Everything’s going to be okay now!

Maybe, just maybe, the gods do have a little bit of sympathy.

There are flames consuming the buildings on either side. Hungry fire reaching out and caressing the street with tongues of heat – outlining rubble and bodies and sending massive plumes of smoke up into the sky. But the grounders are sticking together, like always, rallying around one another and working together.

This is how they survive in a world without sunlight.

Leaf is lowering her hand from her face, and Stick doesn’t stop her – their father is smiling even as he rushes and directs the chaos, and seeing his smiling face will do Leaf good. It does do Leaf good – she smiles and starts to let go of Stick’s hand.

It’s just like those scenes – but not the happy ending.

Because looming out of the smog now are platies and topsiders, and they’re angry. There’s shouting, and Stick steps back on reflex. She doesn’t like shouting – it’s loud and she has a hard enough time focusing on what others are saying with the whispers and voices she hears to begin with, much less when adults are shouting. Inadvertently, she drags Leaf a few steps back with her.

Not far enough.

The first blow that hits their father comes with a wet smack, and he’s shouting at the grounders to go. Leave. Take this chance and get out of there, and maybe the platies and topsiders will be satisfied with simply beating him. Dawn isn’t far off, and this array of the Preying Moons means they’ll have to stop as soon as dawn hits.

Stick whimpers, and the noise draws the attention of their father. He looks to the sisters, then to someone else – shouting an order for someone to take them. Away. Safety. They don’t need to see this. Leaf starts crying and rage replaces the despair in Stick’s stance. Haven’t they lost enough tonight? What sort of sympathy from the gods is this?!

(They’re going to kill him.)

(If she acts, she can save him can’t she? Isn’t she good enough for that?)

(Or is the stick still stuck?)

It’s the chittering that catches the attention of one of the topsiders first. That’s the one thing about Stick’s temper – when she loses it, she loses her grasp on her humanoid guise as well. Which means Leaf will get scared, and Stick will also get scared if she sees her reflection, but the mandibles are out now and Stick’s spine is already beginning to ache.

“Leave our father alone!” Stick screams the words, but it’s not her that lunges. Her feet are stuck again, even with how many of them there are now. No, it’s Leaf that’s screaming the words and lunging and it’s already too late.

Their father is looking at them with fear in his eyes when the light goes out of him.

Seconds later, there are other grounder parents there – someone snarling that it’s dawn and the topsiders have to go, others trying to protect Leaf and Stick. Preventing now either of them from getting to the corpse of their father.

The press of people is too much, too much, and Stick can’t make her form go back. The whine flutters at the edges of her mandibles as she backs away, trips over her own length, and then scuttles – only a few feet away from the crowd, and with Leaf right on her tail. Leaf lunges for her, small arms wrapping around Stick’s torso, and the siblings cry together, clinging so tightly that Tara and Sleepy get mashed a little together, both plush toys sagging a little in the pressure of the cling.

Stick wraps her long lower body around her sister protectively, and tries to pretend that she can’t still see their father’s dead face staring at them.

Or that the whispers aren’t getting vicious. The stick got stuck. Again.

And now their father is dead because of it.