Deathless
Coconut was everything she wasn't—snarky, spunky, perfectly rational.
It should've been Aloe that died, not her! It would've been fine if she died, because Coconut wouldn't go so far as to imprison her in silver shackles and experiment on her without explanation. Coconut would've buried her, and mourned, but finally she'd have moved on.Â
But that wasn't good enough! She promised, and of course that promise had to become her fate, one she hurtled toward without pausing to think. All those hours wasted perfecting this steely shell, carefully weaving together magic and machinery to recreate the Cookie that once was... all of it in service of a destiny she should've abandoned. She wasn't stupid—she'd seen the signs. She'd known it wouldn't be perfect.
And yet, even now, Aloe wants to blame Cyborg. How selfish of her. When they blink wrong, when they say the wrong thing, Aloe wants... Aloe wants to claw her eyes out, turn back time, look them in the eyes and scream: that isn't what you're supposed to do! I came all this way, and you're still not you! You're a pale imitation, an ill-fitting copy, a ghost haunting this cold laboratory! Go away! Leave me be! Just stop!
But Coconut is dead. There is no turning back time. All Aloe can do is live with her mistakes, and give them as much grace as she can.
Today, Cyborg waters the plants. Even now she could name every one of them if she wanted to, but she doesn't, so she stays silent. They are doing it wrong—Coconut wouldn't tip the watering can like that, Coconut wouldn't curse under her breath that way—
Aloe swallows down her resentment and smiles, painfully wistful.
Cyborg is not Coconut. This is far too easy a fact to forget.
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