#emptyspaces

. . . According to Karabin’s vague understanding of lunar poisoning care, the pilot’s bandages didn’t strictly need to be changed nightly. Lincoln still chose to.

Fours sat cross-legged atop the bed, white strips already covering her feet and calves up to where they disappeared into her nightclothes. Her shirt lay discarded on the blanket beside, left arm extended forwards as the Division Head delicately swaddled each of her lesions, blisters, and synchburns. It was a slow, tedious ritual, but one that the pilot had grown to find comfort in. Even if she couldn’t see the woman sitting across from her very clearly, the warm white color of Lincoln’s long hair and the gentle pressure of fingers against her skin were all she needed to know she was in safe company.

“You’re looking better. I’ve got some new lotion from Yaro waiting for us at the next port, it’s supposed to help with the pain. And it smells like meilfluer.”

“You are… from Yaro, too.”

“I am. I told you that… what, last week, right? Surprised you remembered.”

The pilot couldn’t help but smile at the praise. Linc was mindful to inflict her tone upwards, but her cheeks were far from risen.

“Is that where… dogs live…?”

“Oh, no no, real yre pas are from the Earths. They can’t live on planets out here.”

“That’s sad.”

“It isn’t sad, they just aren’t made for space. Besides, they live nice happy lives in the cities on the Earths, with nice happy people who take care of them. No walkers, no war.”

“No walkers… no war…? That's sad, too…”

Lincoln shook her head in silence, turning the pilot’s palm over as she pinned the final gauze strip into place. The pilot couldn’t imagine a life without warfare; what in the world did people do all day, if they weren’t wrestling three-story mechs to the ground or dodging installation rocketfire? What was the purpose of life, if not to fight?

“It’s not as strange as it sounds. One day, I’ll take you to see a real city.” Lincoln let go of the pilot’s hand, and began to return the various tools she was using to the aid kit. “For now, shirt on, it’s bedtime.”

“What about…its face…?”

“The air will help it heal faster. Just be careful when you lie down, you don’t want to rub it wrong while you sleep.”

Fours gingerly reached up to touch her own face. It had been weeks since it wasn’t covered in bandages, even longer since it had been exposed to the cool recycled ship air for any meaningful amount of time. In truth, she didn’t even know what it looked like; her vision had always been poor, and the general wear and tear of being a lunar conduit had only worsened her sense. Tape-wrapped fingertips against the raw flesh felt novel: uncomfortable and new at the same time, some mix of painful and welcoming. But, how did it compare to…?

“What is…its face…like?” Fours slowly managed, turning her sightless eyes towards the driver captain sitting across from her. Lincoln paused, one finger halfway through extracting a contact lens, contemplating how exactly to answer that question. The initial link had taken many different things from many different batteries over the years, but Fours was the first to lose her sight so aggressively to the machine—for once, this was a question she hadn’t had a dozen previous chances to answer, but she’d yet to let such a hurdle crack her improv before. After a brief pause to think, Lincoln turned her body, and scooted closer to the waiting pilot. 

Fours could only see the vague, indistinct blob of Karabin’s hand move to rest atop her own, cupping her hand tenderly. The Division Head took her pilot’s other hand and raised it up to her own face, placing Fours’ fingers against the curve of her cheek.

“Your cheeks are higher than mine. And your jaw is more narrow.”

The pilot felt frozen in time, her senses keenly attuned to her hands, comparing and contrasting the sensations. Lincoln moved Fours’ hand across the front of her face, tracing the bottom of the eye towards the bridge of the nose. She felt her left index finger glide across Lincoln’s vital, warm skin, while her right was guided delicately over her own raw, tingling flesh.

“Your eyes are bigger, and gray. My eyes are smaller, and brown.”

Fours blinked, silent. She had some idea of what Lincoln looked like, between catching crystal-clear glimpses while connected to the walker sensory suite and her memories of seeing the Division Head when she’d first been woken up in Sandfog’s care. Still, never in all her life had she possessed a better mental image than this moment. 

Lincoln lifted their hands upwards in tandem, curving the pilot’s fingers forward gingerly to allow them to comb across their scalps. Fours could immediately feel the difference: Lincoln’s was thick and straight, still damp from their shower, while her scalp was tender and hair thin and slightly tangled.

“My hair is white and long. Your hair is short and black. Before I bleached it, my hair used to be brown.”

Fours nodded slowly, transfixed by the sensations. Never before had she felt such comparison, two things the same and yet so different cascading between her fingertips, guided by Lincoln’s hands. Slowly, her eyes drifted shut, the pilot more than happy to lose herself in her tactile sense for the time being.

“Your nose is smaller than my nose. A little more narrow, too.”

Lincoln pulled the Fours’ hands down gently, past her mouth and chin, letting them rest against the pilot’s lap, before cupping Fours’ cheeks tenderly. The battery had barely opened her eyes when the warm blur of Lincoln’s face subsumed her vision. So close, she could make out some of the larger details for herself, but her vision was just poor enough to protect the pale hesitation plastered across the Division Head’s expression. The heat of Lincoln's breath overwhelmed the stale, dry room air. If it weren't for the hands holding her cheeks, the clone wanted to lean closer to it.

Karabin lingered inches from Fours’ face long enough for her racing heart to catch up to her brain, then let her hands fall from the clone pilot’s face. The human among them couldn’t will herself to push the envelope any further. No matter how badly she felt like she needed to pretend otherwise, she was alone in this room.

“Our mouths are different.” Her voice was low, hasty.

Just beneath Fours’ eye was a barcode string: tiny text printed into the skin, and a seemingly endless series of numbers. This sight, the human commander found, was much more grounding than immersing herself in the animus of the… thing sitting across from her.