Wil

and his speech has taken on eridian habits from years of only really communicating in eridian: he drops and raises octaves to show emotion, he's speaks melodically and with a rythmn that pings as music when you first hear it. his creaky old man voice is that of somebody who has spent their whole life singing, somebody who speaks for a living, because he's both of those things. his syntax is strange and his sentences are structured oddly. he looks around at everything with the delight and wonder of somebody who thought he'd never see any of this again.

he watches a sunset. he watches the rain fall. he watches a spider spin a web. he watches a waterfall. he smells and tastes and feels and sees and hears all of the things he left behind. he misses his home on erid. he's never been happier to be anywhere in his life. it's strange. rocky, it's strange. this isn't home, anymore. but it's still part of me. rocky, it's strange.

there's a statue of him in every major city he visits. he stands in front of the school he used to teach at, which was named after a dead president when he was here. now it's called ryland grace memorial middle school. it was named for him as the sun got brighter and the earth mourned his sacrifice yet again, but praised him for saving them. the lab he used to teach in, on the days he got to lead practical experiments, is named after rocky. rocky, it's for you! they love you, too! rocky, this sign is for you, it says your name!

eva stratt is an old woman, now. she was pardoned, in the end, in the wave of relief that followed the beatles' arrival with the taumeba. she's lived out the rest of her life quietly, ambition tamped down in the wake of it all. she's still sharp. harsh. she greets grace with an, "I told you so," but even after so many years, grace can see that she's glad to see him. glad he survived. glad he doesn't seem angry with her.

and it's not that grace has forgive her. he explains this to her over a cup of strong, black coffee. rocky explores the forest to give them time to speak. it's not that he forgives her. what she did, the decision she made for him, it wasn't right. it wasn't good. it saved the world, yes, but it wasn't fair. but. but, he says. i have a good life. i have friends. i have a classroom. i know now that you were wrong about me, back then. i am not a coward, and i am not selfish. i was afraid. i was terrified. i was lost. and now i am none of those things. i do not forgive you, but i am not angry with you, either. it is what it is. rocky and i, we saved two worlds. i can live with that, even if i don't forgive you. and eva stratt nods and understands. and they finish their coffee.

a handful of grace's students, the last class he taught before being wrapped up in the end of the world, they ask to see him. not all of them. some of them didn't make it through the disasters that came with the years long dimming. some of them never really believed that grace was the one who saved the world, falling into the rhetoric of those who say the whole thing was a hoax, and the weather patterns fixing themselves is just proof of it. but the ones who do come are surprised when grace remembers each of their names. remembers where they sat in his classroom, and the jokes they thought were funny and the jokes they thought were lame. they talk to him and he remembers throwing them beanbags in the end of the world and trying to make them laugh. when grace laughs at something rocky sings into the world, he's laughing through more than a few tears. he tells his students, the kids he saved the world for, that they've just been called leaky blobs by the other savior of the world.

when his students leave, grace sits in the setting sun, strong and warm, and looks out over the ocean. rocky, isn't it beautiful? rocky, don't you see? we made this possible, rocky. we saved them. we saved this. rocky, we did it.