Chapter Text
You haven’t even taken a sip of your coffee.
You need the caffeine– cryosleep couldn’t cover an era’s absence of true rest, after all, but anxious energy is already prickling underneath your skin; you figure a stimulant will only worsen the encroaching headache. As a result, the mug remains a decorative piece in your hand as you move to join Mark by the window.
At the glass, you pause, just for a moment, to admire the soon-to-be-colonized planet, soon-to-be- home , that orbits below. The swirling clouds and cerulean oceans make you ache with nostalgia of Earth, although the presence of three moons quickly helps you refocus. You take in a breath and, with oxygen flowing and life-support sustaining, with the steady chatter of working crewmates, with Mark standing solidly by your side, you dare to hope that this is the last time the ship makes its first planet-side landing.
Absently, you brush your thumb across the gloved palm of your left hand. The sensation of the crystal resting there still lingers, despite it all. You try to let it reassure you, to act as an anchor to reality, a reminder that the loop had finally broken. Instead, the phantom weight sends a sharp pang of unease down your gut. Instead, it reminds you that the malice your friend held in his eyes was only moments ago. Instead, it reminds you that despite his following remorse, the anger was still wholly deserved.
Turning your gaze away from the window, you glance back over to Mark. Even though his beret is slipping and his stance is slouched, his eyes crinkle as he smiles. He takes another sip from his own mug before breaking the silence, rambling on about today’s plans.
You set your own mug down on the control panel and let Mark’s words wash over you. You offer your own smile in return.
It does not reach your eyes.
—
It has been a few hours since then, although you didn’t know for certain until you had checked the time on your tablet. The watch on your wrist is as out of sync as your internal clock. Which, in other words, means it’s absolutely broken. You’re not sure if you’ll ever have a normal sense of time again after all that anyways. Nevertheless, you feel rather confident that the crew is making steady progress towards the landing.
You tell Mark as such once you see him yawning on the floor of the ADS room and you nudge him to go to sleep.
“C’mon, Cap, you know how much trouble these fuckers had caused or, err… could cause. Lemme check ‘em over, just in case?”
Mark’s reasoning is sound and his tone light, there’s no logical reason to disagree, and yet… You notice the darkening bags underneath his eyes and you can’t shake the feeling that it was you who had put them there. You can hardly count the number of lives in which you sacrificed your head engineer, of how long he must have spent alone on a desolate ship, of how much he’d gone through. You vow to yourself that Mark won’t suffer through those same fates again.
(He didn’t deserve it, unlike you)
“Get some rest,” you sign. “I’ll check it over myself if it helps.”
Mark pouts, crossing his arms in an exaggerated manner. The movement is so familiar that you almost laugh. Instead, you raise one eyebrow in response and continue to stare him down. By the stars, you will drag him to bed if need be.
With a groan, Mark places his ratchet on the floor. “Fine. I’ll go if you’re gonna look over this anyway. It should be a-okay, though.”
You nod in return and nudge him towards the door. Once you’re sure he’s heading to bed, you turn towards the system’s monitors and let the lines of code occupy your mind. The task is slightly menial –you’ve had many timelines to get familiar with how ADS works, after all– but it’s just enough to distract you from the persistent ache of guilt, guilt, guilt .
—
Eventually, you have to admit to yourself that ADS is fine. It’s running at 110%, which is rather standard for the ship, and you’re running out of excuses to check it over once more. Besides, your eyes are strained after staring at the screen for so long and your legs ache from standing all day. So, you walk slowly back to your temporary bed, your footsteps echoing in the halls.
As the Captain, you have your own quarters on the ship, similar to the other crew leads, and it’ll remain that way until permanent lodging can be set up planet-side. Initially, you thought the room would act as a welcome reprieve from the daily chaos, that it would give you a chance to catch your breath in peaceful silence. Now, the quiet just accentuates your isolation.
As you prepare for bed you can’t help but wonder if the crew even remembers anything at all. You witnessed a few moments of deja-vu earlier today yet nothing more to indicate a solid understanding. You have a feeling that for the majority (with Mark, the crew leads, and a few others being the notable exceptions) the wispy recollections of the wormhole were dismissed as mere aftereffects of cryosleep. You’re jealous of their innocence; you’re even more grateful for it. You’re grateful that they don’t have to live with the same burden, that they’ve somehow been spared.
(You’re also relieved that they cannot recall your most selfish mistakes.)
On the other hand, the crew wouldn’t understand your exhaustion. To them, the mission has just begun. To them, this is still a daring adventure, an honorable achievement. As their leader it’s important you maintain such optimism. If the colonist’s confidence starts to slip away at the sign of your weariness, well… That won’t happen. It couldn’t. The colonists deserve a happy life, Mark deserves a happy life. You can save face for that, at least. After all, it’s the corpses of your failures that litter the multiverse.
Your skin prickles at the reminder. Suddenly, the bed sheets feel scratchy, the room slightly too warm. You have to suppress the urge to get up and pace. Instead, you take a deep breath instead. Just focus on the breathing, you think to yourself. You force your mind to drift elsewhere as you close your eyes.
—
It works for a while. At least, once again, that’s what your tablet’s clock tells you. Instead, it feels like you merely blinked yet, somehow, the time jumped from midnight to 4:30 am, UTC. Your limbs still feel heavy, cheated out of proper rest, but your mind is already whirling. You know you’ll never slow your racing thoughts down enough to drift off again. It’s best to simply get ready for the day, you conclude. Maybe with your spare time, you can start preparing the scout shuttles.
You put on your black gloves as you go through the automated door, trying to ignore how the same itchy energy from yesterday still lingers in your muscles. Similarity, the weight of the wormhole generator still seems to sit on your hand. In your drowsy state, it’s especially easier to believe that it’s still there. And the ship is so quiet too, just like the times you’ve woken up alone on the ship, spending years-
You pause in your steps, physically shaking your head in an attempt to clear your thoughts as if your brain is an etch-a-sketch. You force your hands to relax at your side, realizing that, while zoning out, you had made a fist with your right hand and moved it in a circular motion over your chest. Sorry, sorry, sorry, you were signing into an empty hallway. You sigh.
Instead of heading straight towards the control center, you decide to make a detour to the cafeteria first. Once through the door, you make a beeline towards the self-serve wall. Today, the fear of worsening your anxiety doesn’t prevent you from turning on the espresso machine and downing the first cup in a few gulps.
It’s going to be a long day.