Fics Written in the Stars

What the hell did I eat last night? they think, heart going rabbit-quick with adrenaline. There was some dream they had, something about aliens...

Black doesn't have time for this. They get out from the covers and swipe their collar off the bedstand.

Work is the same as ever, even when it's the day before a month-long space haul: too many tests, too little equipment, and no appreciation for scientific rigor. Orange is breathing down their neck for the Ore+ quality approval. Cyan is as spacey as always, absorbed in some bogus tarot reading for the day, ore and minerals scattered around them like candy.

"Black, look!" they say with a little gasp at some point, and Black has to glance up from their combustion tests with a groan; they've been using a stopwatch and estimating because, again, there's no fucking equipment, and Cyan's interruption means starting over since they've lost count. The card they wave in Black's face is, in Black's perspective, the same as all the other cards Cyan bandies about, and Black waves it off irritably.

"What, Cyan?" they say, annoyed. "I was in the middle of something," and they can see Cyan falter, but Black doesn't care: they've met Cyan for all of three days in the prelaunch spaceflight training and it had only taken an hour for Black to wish they hadn't.

"Well--it's the Chariot," Cyan says, and smiles, hesitant. "It reminds me of you! So when it showed up in the reading today, I knew the universe was telling me it wanted you to know--"

"How about you save it for after the launch," Black says, flat, and goes back to their stopwatch.

(They wish, later, they had listened to Cyan, opened up to them more, but it doesn't matter. The ore, the eggs, the goo--none of it matters now, as the vent beneath them jumps with each reverberating, powerful clang, force denting the metal, rattling the bolts, and then--)

#

The second time it happens, Black sits up and pants, shivering, unsettled. Their room is still dark; the posters they've plastered against the wall undulate in the corner of their vision, shadows stretching across the tiny bedroom.

Slowly memory filters through, dreamlike: the slow dwindling sensation of being hunted down, one by one. A bone, gleaming, in freshly spilt blood. And then pressure, so much pressure--

Dragging themselves from their bed is significantly harder.

Eyeliner. Collar. Wallet. Keys. Black goes to work.

It's an exercise in deja vu, except work always feels like deja vu to begin with. It's the day before their first long-term space flight, and even then it's all the same: testing, crate-moving, shortened lunch time. Orange is annoying. Cyan is useless.

"Black, look!"

Black sighs. "What," they say dully, and watch as Cyan visibly brightens at the first sign of encouragement Black has given them the entire week. They wave a card in the air, one of many identical artsy, stylized--

No. Black squints. They recognize that card.

"The universe is listening today, Black," Cyan says. "It likes you! You should make a wish, like I did!"

Just like that, the moment's over.

"I wish we had more funding," Black says, monotonous. Cyan carefully repeats their words in a whisper to a lighted candle, as if the universe really is listening from little sticks of wax. "And that I'd get some help on the combustion tests," Black adds, watching Cyan jump, guiltily, and rush to grab a clipboard.

"Sorry! The tarot reading ran late--"

"None of its real," Black snaps, unable to help themselves. "What does it matter?"

Cyan goes quiet.

"You made a wish," they say.

Black scoffs, turns back to their stopwatch. "Yeah, and you really think just because of a couple cards we're going to magically get a grant headed our way?"

A brief pause, and then Cyan says, small: "I made a wish. I wanted..."

They trail off, hunching.

Black sighs. "It's not real," they repeat, and then the two of them finish the rest of the testing in silence.

("We did it," Black says softly, laying a hand over a book. There's--an inkling of deja vu, the ache of something that could have been averted. A sour taste alongside the satisfaction. They don't grab their glowsticks.

They wish they'd known Cyan more, they think, with a sense of vague familiarity. They wish they'd listened.

A shadow emerges over them. Black tenses, recognition spiking deep in their nerves, even though they've never been fazed by the dark. They turn--)

#

Black wakes up and dry heaves over side of the bed.

A mass of flesh and teeth, the wet suction of lungs collapsing. The clammy touch of a limp, dead hand, poking out beneath a sheet. Cyan was--the aliens were--

Breathe. Goddamnit Black, breathe. It's not real. It's not real--

They forgo the eyeliner and run for the loading area.

Cyan is there already, laying out their little crystal collection a good forty-five minutes before work. Black didn't know Cyan showed up that early. But what did Black know about Cyan to begin with? They'd been avoiding them the entire time.

They slam the door shut behind them, ignore the way Cyan startles and knocks over an unlit candle.

"Black?" Cyan says. "Is something wrong?"

"What was your wish?" Black says, after a moment of aching, deep breaths, just to feel their lungs expand and contrast, alive alive alive. Cyan is frowning in a thoughtful way, curious but open, and Black remembers that the sun hasn't even risen, Cyan hasn't wished anything yet. Yet? Ever? It's a dream, all of it had been a dream, but--

"I haven't wished for anything."

Of course. It was a stupid question. Black nods, and then Cyan adds, shyly: "But I was thinking of one, in case I could!" They pause, watching Black, but Black doesn't say anything.

"I'd wish for all of us to be friends," Cyan says, a little quieter, fiddling with their necklace. "That's what the wish would have been."

Black can still taste the rot on the back of their tongue, the gurgle in their throat as they failed to breathe in nothing but blood.

It's impossible, of course. Science disallows it.

But science, at its core, is a bunch of tests. And Black has plenty of ideas.

Alright.

"Cyan," they say, taking a seat. "I need your help. Can you show me what you're doing?"

Later, Black will try to explain whatever the hell has been happening, try to put it into words. Later, the two of them can debate over what to do, figure out a solid plan of action, nail down the slippery remnants of Black's dreams into something more solid.