#leeloo

The Hail Mary was a ship built for desperate people and a cure for their dying suns, but as Ryland Grace stared into the shimmering depths of the stasis pod he’d recovered from the unidentified drifting craft, he realized he was looking at something that defied both.

He had spent his life studying the building blocks of existence, the messy, chaotic sprawl of evolution. But what lay beneath the reinforced glass wasn’t messy. It wasn't chaotic. It was, to put it simply, an architectural magnum opus of flesh and bone.

"Rocky," Ryland whispered, his voice cracking in the dry air of the lab. "Do you see this?"

On the other side of the divider, Rocky pressed his carapace against the glass, his 'vision' taking in the heat signatures and vibrations of the pod. "New-Friend is very symmetrical, statement. High-quality construction. No leaks. Very solid."

"Solid? Rocky, they're... they're incredible," Ryland muttered, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses.

You were vibrant in a way that felt illegal in the vacuum of space. Your hair was the mixed color of a dying star—brilliant, fiery orange—and [your natural h/c], your skin had a luminescent quality that made the ship’s florescent lighting look muddy. Every stroke of your face, from the curve of your cheekbones to the delicate slope of your nose, looked like it had been designed by a celestial engineer with an obsession for golden ratios.

When the pod finally hissed open, venting a cloud of shimmering, sweet-smelling vapor, Ryland practically tripped over his own feet rushing to catch you. As you tumbled forward, your weight was surprising—dense and lithe.

"I’ve got you, I’ve got you," he stammered, his hands hovering awkwardly before finally settling on your shoulders to steady you.

Your eyes snapped open. They weren't just one color; they were a kaleidoscope of amber and gold, shifting as they adjusted to the light. You looked at him—not with fear, but with a piercing, analytical intensity that made Ryland feel like he was being scanned by a high-resolution 2500x microscope.

"Who..." you started, your voice a melodic hum that resonated in his very bones. "Where... is... here?"

"I'm Ryland! You're on a ship! We're in space! Everything is fine, mostly!" He was rambling. He knew he was rambling. He was a scientist, a man who had faced the end of the world with a dry quip and a slide rule, but looking at you made his brain feel like it had been replaced with nothing but static.

~

Weeks had passed since that first breath, and the 'leelo-like' characteristic of yours, as Ryland secretly called them, had become the highlight of his day. You didn't just exist; you experienced the world at a frequency Ryland couldn't even harmonize into.

You sat on the lab table now, swinging your legs. You wore a spare jumpsuit Ryland had modified for you, though on you, the drab gray fabric looked like high fashion. You were currently staring at a single drop of water on the tip of your finger, watching the way it refracted the light.

"Ryland," you said, your English now nearly perfect, though your cadence remained rhythmic and strange. "Why is your skin so... porous? It leaks salt and water when you are stressed. It is inefficient."

Ryland, who was currently trying to calibrate a spectrometer, paused and felt a bead of sweat immediately roll down his temple. "It’s called perspiration, more known as sweat. It’s how humans cool down. We’re basically walking coolers."

You hopped off the table with a grace that made Ryland’s heart do a nervous little somersault. You moved toward him, stopping well within his personal bubble—a space Ryland usually guarded like a fortress. You reached out, your fingers—long, elegant, and steady—tracing the line of his jaw.

"You are a very fragile creature," you mused. Your face was inches from his. Ryland could see the tiny, perfect flecks of gold in your irises. "Your DNA is full of junk. Your bones break under slight pressure. Your eyes only see a tiny sliet of the spectrum."

"Yeah, well, we try our best," Ryland squeaked, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled your hair.

"And yet," you continued, your thumb brushing over his cheek, "you are the most beautiful thing I have seen in this sector."

Ryland choked on his own breath. "I—what? Me? No. I’m... I’m a middle-aged science teacher with a receding hairline and a caffeine dependency. You’re... you’re you. You’re literally perfect. I’ve run the scans, [name]. Your cellular regeneration is flawless. Your muscle density is triple mine. You’re a masterpiece."

You tilted your head, a stray lock of orange hair falling over your eye. Ryland instinctively reached out to tuck it back, his fingers trembling slightly.

"Perfection is a closed loop, Ry," you said softly. "It is a full circle. It does not grow. It does not change. You... you are a jagged line. You are full of errors and brave choices. That is better."

"Question!" Rocky’s voice rang out, the chords of his speech sounding particularly jaunty. "Is Grace and New-Friend doing 'mating dance' now? Grace heart rate is 110 beats per minute. Very leaky. Very excited."

"We are not doing a mating dance, Rocky!" Ryland shouted toward the divider, though he didn't move away from you.

"I like the dance," you whispered, a playful, dangerous light dancing in your eyes. "It is... interesting."

~

To Ryland’s constant bafflement, your "learning" was less like studying and more like a vacuum cleaner. You had long since moved past the picture books he’d tried to use.

One afternoon, Ryland was hunched over his laptop, swearing under his breath at a particularly stubborn set of equations regarding the Astrophage’s migratory patterns. He felt a presence behind him—not as a heavy footfall, but an adjustment in the air.

Before he could react, you reached over his shoulders. Your hands moved with a blur of speed, your fingers dancing across the keys in a rhythm that sounded like a drum solo.

"Hey! Wait, that’s—"

You didn't listen. You clicked, scrolled, and opened folders at a speed the processor could barely keep up with. You weren't reading; you were absorbing. You bypassed his security passwords like they were mild suggestions.

"[name], stop, you’re going to crash the—"

You suddenly stopped on a file. It was a collection of high-resolution images of Earth’s art galleries—The Louvre, the Met, the Uffizi. You began to scroll through the paintings. Botticelli’s Venus, Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, the statues of ancient Greece.

You looked at the screen, then looked back at Ryland. You pointed to a statue of a marble goddess.

"They spent centuries trying to carve this," you said. "They were looking for me."

Ryland stared at the screen, then at you. The resemblance was haunting. Not in the features, perhaps, but in the intent. The humans who had carved that stone thousands of years ago were reaching for the very thing that was currently standing in his lab, wearing a baggy jumpsuit and eating a tube of protein paste.

"I think they were," Ryland admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "But they didn't have the technology to find you. Or the luck."

You turned away from the computer, your attention suddenly shifting with that characteristic abruptness. You grabbed a stray screwdriver from the workbench and began to twirl it between your fingers, a blur of silver metal.

"Ryland?"

"Yeah?"

"In the 'movies' on your computer... the humans often touch mouths when they are happy. It is a transfer of bacteria. Why do they do this?"

Ryland felt his soul leave the ship for a second. "It’s... uh. It’s called a kiss. It’s not about the bacteria. Well, it is, biologically, but for us, it’s about... connection. Affection. Showing someone they’re important."

You stepped closer again, the screwdriver still spinning in your other hand. The juxtaposition of your lethal grace and your innocent curiosity was enough to make Ryland’s head spin.

"I am important?" you asked.

"[name]," Ryland said, his voice finally steadying as he looked at you. "You’re the most important thing in the universe. Not because you’re perfect. But because you’re here."

You dropped the screwdriver. It clattered on the floor, the only sound in the room besides the hum of the ship. You reached up, grabbing the lapels of his jumpsuit, and pulled him down. You didn't kiss him—not yet—but you pressed your forehead against his, your eyes closed.

"Ryland Grace," you murmured. "You are very slow. But I will wait for you."

From the other side of the glass, Rocky tapped a slow, rhythmic beat. "Good music," he chirped. "Very good music."

Ryland didn't care about the physics, the mission, or the dying sun for a moment. He just closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of starlight and orange hair, wondering how a man so prone to errors had managed to find the only perfect thing in the cosmos.