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Chapter Text

“This one,” says her mother, kneeling beside the trail to gingerly cup a large, brown-gray mass pushing through the leaves in her hands, “is a giant puffball mushroom. Calvatia gigantica. Good for a lot of things… you can pack it into a wound to stop the bleeding, if you get hurt out here. And you can eat it, if it’s still white; peel the skin, cook it up… they’re pretty good, if you don’t wash ‘em. This one’s too far gone to be any good, though. Too ripe. You poke this too hard, it’ll throw up a cloud’a spores and choke ya real good.”

Releasing the mushroom and carefully dusting her hands on her overalls, she turns to give her daughter a hopeful smile, brow raised invitingly.

“You want a closer look, Bitsy?”

On any other day, Elisabet would have nodded eagerly. Would have scrambled to both examine the lumpy thing, and to deliberately jab at the crumbly exterior and release the promised cloud of spores; it’s the sort of information that her mother has… admittedly learned to omit, most of the time, lest her indefatigable sense of curiosity cause inadvertent disaster.

But today, she keeps her eyes down, squishing the toes of her boots in the early spring mud drowning the trail, and shaking her head miserably. She doesn’t need to look up to picture the look on Mama’s face; she’s seen it enough times in her short life for it to have been imprinted firmly in her mind. The way her brows rise at the center into a jagged mountain range of concern, wrinkling her forehead above the peaks and turning her lips into a tight, thin line.

“Ok… well… if you don’t, that’s… all right, I guess. Let’s move on?”

Elisabet waits until she hears her mother’s boots slap into the muck of the trail again before she shuffles off after her, turning her face quickly away as Mama glances back over her shoulder. The heavy sigh that follows twists her guts with guilt, and she sinks her teeth into her lip, struggling to hold back the tears. 

She hadn’t meant to cause trouble. She never did. Not really. 

But the need to know… to know if she could , and if things would work , had drawn her, as it usually did when presented with something new. And the circuit kit, fascinating as it was, had only held her attention for so long, with its weakly-glowing LED, flickering like a moth’s wings, even at the highest power setting.

Hmm, she’d thought to herself, unclipping the leads from the little battery that the kit had included and glancing around the heaps of junk that her mother could never seem to get rid of, stacked haphazardly in the corner of the yard, I could add more power to it. I wonder what it would do, then?

Well. As it turned out… the answer had been make fire . And the hose she’d frantically pulled from the fence to turn on the grass hadn’t helped much when the flames had leaped into the branches of the big tree.

As bad as the whole, terrifying experience had been, as much as the charred corpses of the tree’s tiny inhabitants had made her knees tremble, her mother’s anger and disappointment had been worse. She’d lashed out in her embarrassment and shame, shouting at her, spine rigid, face flushed with emotion.

She’d expected Mama’s temper to stir at that. Expected her to shout back. Maybe even to punish her.

But, her quiet response… the words she’d spoken, looking Elisabet in the eye with intense sincerity…

That was what had finally broken her. They’d cleaned up the mess together in silence, guilt overtaking anger, quashing embarrassment. It stuck, like a ball of tar, just below her ribs, weighing her insides down.

Three days later, she still can’t bring herself to meet her mother’s eye.

Up ahead, Mama comes to a stop just in front of a tree by the side of the path, running her hand fondly up the trunk and brushing crumbs of bark from her hands.

“This guy is a lodgepole pine. Pinus contorta. But… you’re… pretty familiar with this one, aren’t you, Bits?”

It’s a gentle joke. One that her mother has clearly intended to break the tension between them. But instead, it’s the straw that breaks her back. The corners of her eyes well up beyond her control. Spill over down her cheeks. 

And then, she’s across the space between them, wrapping her arms around her mother’s legs and giving in to the eruption of pressure that her chest has suddenly become too small to contain.

“I’m s-s-sorr-“ she manages to choke out, burying her face against her mother’s stomach, “I d-d-do care, I do… I d-din’t mean to-“

Dropping to her knees, Mama opens her arms, gathering her up in a comforting embrace. One hand rises to stroke at the back of her hair.

“Oh, Bitsy… I know, sweetheart. I know. It was a mistake . You weren’t trying to hurt anyone.”

Murmuring soothing little nothings into her ears and keeping up her rhythmic stroking, her mother holds her tightly, letting her release the grief into the flannel shoulder of her jacket. As the tears begin to taper off, and the sobs vanish into little hiccupy noises of spent grief, Mama holds her out at an arm’s length, gently, peering into her eyes with renewed intensity. 

“But you did. And you have to take responsibility for things when you hurt them. Right?”

This time, Elisabet finds that meeting her mother’s gaze isn’t so hard. Wiping her nose on her sleeve with a heavy sniffle, she nods, miserably.

“Yeah…”

She still feels horrible about the tree… about fire-scarred eggs, and burned little bodies, scattered on the grass. But the load is a little lighter, now. The guilt a little easier to bear.

Her mother’s work-roughened hand gives her a gentle pat on the shoulder.

“Life’s all about learning, Bits… now you know that you have to look out for others before you leap; you can’t just do things as you please, or you may end up hurting someone you’re trying to help. You can take that lesson and get wiser. Can do more good in the world with the notch it puts in your belt.”

Sniffling again, Elisabet takes a shuddering breath, steeling herself. And, as she does, she finds that it’s easier and easier to do so with each passing moment. 

Resolve, it seems, is the antidote to guilt.

“I will, Mama. I want to… I want to do good things. I want to help. An’ I’m going to help. Everyone .”

Some of the tension eases out of her mother’s face at that, and she heaves a long-suffering sigh, smiling fondly.

“I know you will. God knows once you set your mind on something, you don’t let go of it. Stubborn little weed that you are.”

She reaches out to tap the end of Elisabet’s nose before rising to her feet and offering her a hand.

“Now. Should we finish our walk? Or would you rather go back home?”

Giving her mother a slowly-brightening smile, Elisabet reaches up to take the hand.

“Finish. I want to see that puff mushroom again.”

Chapter Text

The fluorescent lights overhead need to be changed; the harsh buzz emanating from the bulbs rattles Elisabet’s already jangled nerves harder and harder with each passing second, and the tense jump of her leg beneath the desk ramps up another notch.

Is it hot in here? Or am I just… nervous?

Swallowing hard, she resists the urge to wipe her face on her sleeve.

“I… I’m sorry,” she says with an appeasing smile, “what was the question, again?”

Pausing in the midst of shuffling the stack of papers between her fingers back into shape, the interviewer gives her a piercing look over the tops of her cat’s eye glasses, and Elisabet suppresses the urge to quail under the gaze.

Logically, she shouldn’t be so scared. The woman facing her across the expanse of oak is hardly the most threatening creature in the world, in her turtleneck and camelhair blazer. 

But logic has found no home in her, today, and the mousy HR rep is simply too intimidating to consider looking directly in the face. 

Instead, clutching her portfolio closer as the woman finishes her shuffling and begins leafing through the ream of papers, she lets her eyes wander to the desktop. To the calendar blotter perched on its top, neatly labeled with dates and events in precise, small handwriting. To the cobwebs clinging to the buzzing lights above.

…and yet again, to the poor flowers perched on the filing cabinet behind the desk. The pitiful remains of a few purple-toned petals cling to the ends of withered pedicels, and the leaves, with their brown, withered tips, are beginning to lose their leathery sheen. 

That species looks familiar… yeah. African violet , she thinks, eyeing the discolored stems and wilting leaves with pity, not a good plant for an indoor office. Why’d she pick this one? Does she know how to take care of it?

“Dr. Sobeck.”

Jolting at the sound of the voice, she wheels back toward the desk, blinking owlishly. The woman is giving her a look over the rims of her glasses that could peel the skin off an apple.

“Am I keeping you from something? If you’re not going to take this interview seriously, then we can end it right here. I’m sure we’re both very busy.”

The barb lands, and this time, she can’t hold back a wince. Clearing her throat again, she takes a deep breath, curling her toes anxiously inside her loafers.

“S-sorry, I’m sorry, it’s… just…”

Shuffling the portfolio into her other arm, she points toward the pot. The interviewer twists to follow the direction she’s indicated, one brow rising into view over the rim of her glasses.

“Your violet, there… it’s been overwatered. They need just enough to keep the soil damp. Once every seven, eight days, maybe? And umm… they need a lot of sun. It’s not… not really a good plant to keep in here. It’ll do better in an east-facing window, at home. You might want to try a peace lily, instead, if you’re after… a flowering…”

She trails off as the interviewer pins her to the seat with an intent gaze. This time, the glasses obscure enough of the woman’s expression to make it unreadable. The direct attention makes Elisabet want to squirm, but she holds herself absolutely still, barely daring to breathe too hard, lest she break the spell.

“Dr. Sobeck. Let me ask you this; why do you want to work here at Faro Automated Solutions?”

The intensity of the woman’s voice raises the hairs on the back of Elisabet’s neck. It’s a standard interview question, to be sure. One that she’s gone over and over with her mother, while preparing for the next step in her journey. But this…

This is critical. She can feel it in her bones.

Gripping the portfolio hard enough to crinkle the draft paper inside, she clears her throat.

“FAS is… you’re pushing things. You’re…”

The words escape her for a moment, and she stumbles to a halt.

Calm yourself, Lis. You’re not making sense.

Taking a deep breath as she loosens her grip on the folder, she pushes on.

“I mean, the @lfie alone, that made life better for so many people. But the Focus? You changed the world with the Focus. And…”

The portfolio slides off of her lap as she leans forward, but she lets it go, bringing her hands up to emphasize her point, and scooting forward onto the edge of her seat.

“And that’s the sort of institution I want to join. To work with. To make the world better with. I have so many ideas… so many things I want to share. So many ways I want to help. And I think that FAS is the best place to do it. The best possible partner I could have, when it comes to changing the world.

For a moment longer, the HR rep studies her, face remaining in its unreadable configuration.

Then…

“…I see. Well. Thank you for your time, Doctor. We’ll give you a call.”

Just like that, Elisabet’s hope pops like a soap bubble in the sun. 

Murmuring her thanks as she gathers up her scattered papers, she makes a hasty exit, keeping her head down to hide the flush in her cheeks as she hooks right, into the hall.

We’ll give you a call.  

It’s as good as a no, writ large in glaring, neon letters. She’s seen it again and again, in her hunt for a place to put down her roots, and begin to bloom.  

We’ll give you a call.

So, it comes as a complete surprise when they actually do.

Chapter Text

Three months into the project, and the hike through the rainforest has ceased to be a problem. Even with Stubby strapped to the back of her pack, Elisabet finds herself scrambling over tall roots and ducking low-hanging branches with practiced ease.

Up ahead, Raul Pinho blazes a path through the brush, knocking fronds and branches aside with his ever-present walking stick. As he pauses for a moment to get his bearings, the ecologist turns back to grin lazily over his shoulder at her, quirking an eyebrow sardonically.

“Not nearly as red in the face today as you were at the beginning, Doctor.”

Elisabet returns the grin, laughing softly through her nose.

“Yeah. I’m getting used to the weather. I’m a desert creature, this humidity...”

Waving off a questing insect as it buzzes past her cheek, she continues the gesture, sweeping an arm out to indicate the surrounding environment. 

Bending into a mock bow, hand making an exaggerated flourish over his breastbone, Pinho reaches out with the stick, holding aside the last of the underbrush to clear her passage.

“Well. You’ve adapted beautifully.”

The praise brings a little flush of warmth to her eartips. Giving him a nod of thanks, she pushes past, into the clearing. 

How did I ever dislike this guy?

Because, little as she likes to admit it now, she had disliked him at first; he’d given her the impression of a man who held himself above her, always second-guessing and pointing out flaws in her work. Offering sarcastic barbs when she placed a foot wrong and stumbled over a root or plunged her boot into a little streamlet, snaking across the path. Oh, how she’d burned every time he opened his mouth, during the early days of the project.

But as time had worn on and they’d spent more and more days working together under the canopy, and more nights at remote field camps, trading stories in the glow of a solar lantern, she’d come to realize that her initial impression hadn’t been the case at all. Despite his wickedly sharp sense of humor and habit of twisting the conversation in challenging directions, Dr. Pinho’s barbs were utterly impersonal and not confined solely to her, unlike the twisted mouths and sidelong glances of Faro’s senior engineers. 

When she’d begun to push back, dismissing some points and returning the challenge of others, he’d been delighted. And they’d begun to form a rapport. Had even come to enjoy one another’s company, and the answers they’d pushed and shoved into shape between their hard heads in the process of knocking them together.

Whatever he had been at the beginning of the project, Raul was certainly an ally, now. Maybe even a friend. As it turned out, she’d only needed to adapt to him , too. 

And now that she has , she knows his weak points.

“I did have the foremost ecologist in the region helping me out. And all while bringing the trees back from the brink of death, too.”

Instantly, all of Raul’s swagger vanishes. The leaves slip from his hold, slapping wetly across the backs of her knees as he stammers.

“It… it was a team effort. Sure, I know this place intimately… know how it ticks, how it’s supposed to look, and the ways we broke it into pieces. But you’re the one who looked at those broken pieces and saw a solution.”

As she swings her pack off of her shoulders, Elisabet hides a smirk in the crook of her arm.

Man can’t take a compliment without getting flustered… heh. Point to me. 

Loosening Stubby’s straps, Elisabet lowers him carefully onto the starting line, snapping the connected data meter from the holding slot on his belly.

“Well! Should we stop patting each other on the back and get started?”

With a visible measure of relief, Raul crouches beside her, choking up on his walking stick.

“Please.”

Stubby rises onto his rubbery legs as she thumbs the start button, tapping each of them to the soil in turn and letting out a musical chirp. The port on his bottom spirals open and shut, open and shut, as he runs through his boot-up sequence and self-test.

Drumming her fingers nervously against the data meter, Elisabet sinks her teeth into her bottom lip.

Come on, little guy…

With an electric hum, the little robot starts forward, legs rippling like a jungle millipede as he marches down the first row. The tiny plow at his front moves the soil deftly aside as the port begins to deposit its cargo of açaizeiro seeds, the matching hoe at his back end burying them as he passes.

Raul leans in over her shoulder to study the screen, and she runs a finger along the line of blinking indicators at the meter’s top.

“All lights green. Solar panels are working just fine, too. And…”

And now comes the real test; Stubby has reached the end of the row. 

The churn of the little machine’s legs comes to a halt, and he pauses, as if uncertain, motor purring quietly. For a moment, both of them hold their breath, not daring to hope.

Then, his little legs pivot on the swivels attached to his underside, and he swings about, slowly chugging around the bend and into the next row. 

It takes all of her self-control not to toss the data meter as she whoops, throwing her hands into the air.

“Made the turn!!!!”

Raul lets out an equally enthused cheer, tossing the stick aside and giving her a light punch in the shoulder.

“I can’t believe it worked. You’re crazy , Doctor. Crazy and brilliant .”

Setting the data meter down and Elisabet runs her fingers through her hair to ruffle out the strain.

“To be honest, I had my doubts. And there will most likely be kinks in the future that will need to be worked out, but…”

He catches on instantly, face lighting up with an ecstatic grin.

“But we might hold onto the Amazon yet.”

Unreservedly, she returns his smile.

“Yeah. We just might.”

Chapter Text

Everything is far too loud.

The cacophony jangles at Elisabet’s frayed nerves like fingers plucking a guitar string, bringing them closer and closer to snapping with each strum.

The buzz of the overhead lights, the quiet chime of an incoming call, the squeak of shoes on the freshly waxed floors… all of it would fade into the background on any other day, unable to pierce the veil of her concentration.

Now, every sound is its own torture. Not to mention the creaks and shifts of the cheap waiting room furniture close at hand. The muffled coughs and tense swish of magazine pages from her fellow occupants of this liminal circle of hell.

Heeling forward in her chair, she cradles her head in her hands, teeth locked tight against the overwhelming crush of it all.

Perhaps the worst of it is the orange pot perched cheerily in the high window, soaking up the meager amount of sunlight it can get through the wavery glass panels. For once, she can’t identify the species; her mind processes it as a vague collection of stems and leaves, striped with meaningless patterns, more insult than plant.

Whoever put such a brazenly green, vibrant thing in a place where we’re all tiptoeing around Death’s coattails , she thinks, tasting the bitterness of the sentiment on her tongue , ought to be fired . 

An eternity, or maybe only a few moments later, the door hisses open silently on its well-oiled hinge, and the death-knell bell of her family name is called. Swallowing her feelings in one final, anguished gulp, she rises from her seat, and turns to face the music. 

She knows what the answer is the moment she lays eyes on the surgeon’s face. Even before the “I’m so sorry” leaves his lips, the world has turned gray and muffled. Blood roars around in circles in her head, pulsing through her ears and further cutting the extent of his explanation to a few scattershot phrases.

Damage was too extensive-

-long way from the Ranch to the hospital, and-

-dangers of working with horses, especially-

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. 

Dizzily, she nods along, stumbling through the process of receiving the paperwork, and of being instructed on how and where to file it (the information goes through one ear and right out the other with record speed.) Of collecting her mother’s sturdy work boots, the only thing left untouched by the mishap, their sides still spattered with barnyard mud.

Don’t crack. Don’t let it show. Keep yourself together. You owe her that much. You owe her this one last thing.

It’s not until she’s well away from the hospital, splitting her gaze between the road ahead and the battered boots in the passenger seat, that she finally breaks.

Reality hits with the force of a tidal wave, and she swerves the car into the berm, slamming on the brakes and shoving the shift into Park through sheer muscle memory; it’s already getting too hard to make out the indicator lights on the dash as it is.

Groping for the boots with one hand and fumbling the door open with the other, she slithers bonelessly out of the driver’s seat and into the long grass, clutching the muddied shoes close to her chest, burying her face against them and breathing in the last whiffs she’ll ever get of Home. Her other hand rips at the earth, bringing away crumpled stems and clods of dirt with each anguished fistful. Even here, in solitude, with the waving strands of red fescue shielding her from the world, she can only bring herself to mourn around a layer of iron welded to her outside, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears and keening through a clenched jaw.

For the first time in her life… 

She feels well and truly alone.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t take long to get her life packed up and ready to go.

The tiny campus apartment belongs, from the floorboards to the furnishings lock stock and barrel, to Faro Automated Solutions, and it makes her job all the easier to accomplish. She has most of the work done within a few hours of sending her resignation email, wrapping and packing knick-knacks and kitchenware, collapsing her workstation into its travel case, and filling her suitcases and a battered duffle bag with clothes and toiletries.

Even the few framed prints and light aluminum sculptures she’s decorated the walls with are zipped into a carrying case without too much trouble. All that remains now…

…is the staghorn fern.

Standing before the hulking plant, growing blithely from its wooden frame on the wall above, Elisabet lets out a terse groan.

 I really let this guy go… I don’t know what I thought was going to happen, here. 

It had been so small and cute when she’d first brought it home, on the day she’d moved into the efficient little suite; mounted to a shield-shaped board in an imitation of a hunting trophy, its “antlers” reaching for the ceiling. But as the years had passed, it had grown and grown, and she’d been forced to build down and around the drooping structure to support it. Now, it has become a monster, taking up the entire space between the living room’s two picture windows, and reaching out to cover the top panes with its hand-like fronds.

Reaching up to grasp one and give it a playful “handshake,” she clicks her tongue thoughtfully.

“Ok. Let’s see what I can do for you, big guy.”

The stepladder comes out from its space beside the fridge, and she flicks it open, studying the untidy frame she’s slapped around the plant over the years and figuring out the best places to wrap her hands around it. 

Three bracing, solid tugs up and down, two rattling shakes from side to side, and one attempt to pull it out and away from the wall later, she gives up, stepping back down the ladder and examining the unrepentant fern with annoyance.

Damn. It’s not going anywhere. I guess… I could leave it here…

But she dismisses the thought as soon as it occurs. As much as it would simplify things, both on this end of the journey and the other, she’s too leery of the way that the campus staff might dispose of it. Visions of the poor thing being shoveled unceremoniously into an incinerator tug insistently on the back of her skull.

And, spitefully , she doesn’t want Ted’s people to have it, in any way, shape or form. Ashes or not.

She’s beginning to consider rigging a pulley to the ceiling just to get the damn thing down when a tentative sound scatters the geometries growing like tree branches in her mind. She has to listen again just to place it as a knock at the door.

For a moment, she toys with the idea of not answering. She can’t think of a single person she wants to see right now…

…a sentiment which quickly dies when she ultimately throws back the bolt and opens the door on her favorite of the interns assigned to her department. 

“Margo?”

The poor girl looks as wrung out as Elisabet feels. Her eyes are puffy with anxious tears, and her hands are white-knuckling the strap of her duffel bag, nearly popping the buttons pinned up and down its length loose.

“I’m sorry,” she begins, drawing in hiccupping little breaths around the lump in her throat, “I… I can’t… s-s-stay here with… with the announcement of the Chariot… I quit this m-morning. P-p-please don’t be mad- “

The rest of the explanation is squished out of her as Elisabet draws her into a tight hug. For a moment, Margo stiffens, stunned by the sudden movement. Then, she relaxes, letting out a shuddering sigh, all of the pent-up emotion escaping at once as she returns the embrace.

“It’s ok,” Elisabet murmurs on the other side of her shoulder, “I just resigned, too. And I’m not the only one; we’ve had a groupchat going about it since the press conference. It’s a mass exodus at this point. So you’re not alone in this. Don’t feel bad about it.”

She lets a hand linger briefly on the girl’s shoulder as she breaks the embrace.

“Do you have a place to stay?”

The relief that’s beginning to blossom on Margo’s face drains, and she redoubles her grip on the bag’s strap.

“No. I can’t go… I-I mean, I could find-”

Cutting her off again for the second time in as many minutes, Elisabet shakes her head.

“There’s plenty of room where I’m heading. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need to. On one condition.” 

Wiping her nose on her sleeve, Margo gives her a watery little smile.

“Sure. Anything.”

Elisabet jerks a thumb over her shoulder toward the staghorn, still hanging blithely in its frame.

“Help me get this damn thing off the wall.”

Chapter Text

As little as she wants to admit it to herself, the restlessness of the past nine months has been unbearable . 

The litany of useless and waste of space and so much work to be done, and here you are, adding to the burden instead of lightening it has rattled ceaselessly around in her skull during her time at the ranch, turning her search for the next step, whether outward or upward, into a special form of torture. One that she’s found hard to articulate to the few who have listened.

I’m here to make the world a better place. Mom said so. And if I’m not doing it…

Leaning on the future, pouring herself into designs and plans and when-I’m-finished s has sustained her through the agonizing period of idleness, thus far. But…

But this is the first step that can actually fail. And with it, can, bring the possibility of more soul-crushing worthlessness.

It’s all she can do to keep her feet still on the soft green rug, and to contain her nervous fidgeting to her hands, twisting and untwisting the hem of her jacket under the edge of the desk and out of sight.

The lull in the conversation is not making things any easier. The holographic workstation has been programmed to imitate the gentle swish of pages as its occupant thumbs through her proposal again, nodding along as he reads. Ostensibly, it’s soothing. Gives the office an air of coziness. Of home. 

For Elisabet, it’s intolerable , scraping on already frayed nerves. 

She focuses her attention on the plant stand perched between the armchair settled on the office’s edge instead, sprouting in a patch of sunlight beside the window, concealed partially behind the worn upholstery. The visible tiers stretch out like the limbs of some nefarious alien waiter, a rounded platform housing a riot of oddly-shaped blossoms perched on the round trays at their ends. 

I’ve seen these before , she thinks, studying the bulbous bottoms and round umbrella-top petals, but where? When? …ah! Actually, I think-

“Dr. Sobeck?"

The question is gentle. Unaccusatory. But it still makes her jump, fumbling for both the hem of the jacket and an explanation.

“Ah! I’m sorry, I just-”

Peter Tshivhumbe takes the interruption in stride. His kind smile doesn’t waver as he follows her gaze to the plant stand, and its riot of blossoms.

“Admiring my little friends over there?”

Relief unknots some of the muscles in her neck, and finds herself able to nod.

“Yes… they’re lady-slipper orchids, aren’t they?”

Tshivhumbe beams, nodding eagerly, and even more of the tension drains, loosening her shoulders.

“Good eye! Yes, they are. I’ve had them for a few years now. I’m quite fond of orchids.”

For a moment, Elisabet hesitates, the rules of human interaction escaping her utterly.

Is it safe to compliment him from my position? Would it be… could it be seen as trying to flatter him? 

Ultimately, she decides to go for it.

“You must be quite the gardener, then. Lady-slippers can be fussy. Hard to care for. They all look magnificent.”

Tshivhumbe chuckles, giving her a little mock half-bow in his seat.

“It’s a bit of a funny choice for an office plant, I admit-”

Elisabet cuts him off without thinking, raising a hand and waving the modesty away.

“No, no, it’s…”

Stumbling to a halt, she glances back toward the plants, taking a moment to organize her thoughts.

“I like it. Lady-slippers have character. Not flawless beauties, with those bumpy stems, but… that’s almost better. And the care that’s gone into them makes them even nicer. Or… at least, I think so.”

Leaning back in his chair, Tshivhumbe gives her an appraising look, and she feels her face begin to heat with anxiety and premature shame.

Did I say the wrong thing?

But… three agonizing heartbeats later, the look dissolves into a warm smile.

“Well. Your reputation precedes you, of course, and your mission statement was immaculate; right up my alley, as you’re no doubt aware. But I wanted to meet with you here, in person, before I made the call. And I’ve reached my final decision.”

Gripping the edges of the display, he spins it up and around, displaying a copy of her original proposal. At the top… a large, green stamp image has been applied to the Request for Approval field.

“Zelany Capital is honored to offer our support as your first investor.”

All of the air leaves her lungs in a breathy sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. 

Finally… finally , I’m moving forward again.

The relief is almost dizzying .

Reaching forward across the table to offer her hand, she grins, still flush with victory and reprieve.

“Thank you, Mr. Tshivhumbe. You won’t regret it I promise it.”

Accepting it and enclosing it in both of his own, Tshivhumbe gives it a firm shake, her grin mirrored on his own face, before spinning the display back around and calling up a matching keyboard.

“I’m certain I won’t; and congratulations. Now… business formalities before we celebrate. Do you have a name in mind for the paperwork?”

She does. She most certainly does.

It’s the one thing she’s been sure of since the idea of striking out on her own first occurred to her during the Gray Period between FAS and today.

Dropping her hands back into her lap and interlacing the fingers loosely this time, she nods, the grin softening into a fond, lopsided half-smile.

“Yes. Put it down as… Miriam Technologies.”

Chapter Text

The door swings shut behind her and at last, at last , she’s alone again.

Pushing her suitcase aside and putting her back to the door, Elisabet lets herself slide to the floor, leaning her head back against the cool metal. Closing her eyes, and drinking in the quiet and stillness.

I am… so damn tired. These conferences just take it out of me every time I attend.

It’s always worthwhile; keeping up with the latest cutting-edge research, listening to her colleagues’ talks, and exchanging ideas, fixes, and suggestions gluts her endless curiosity like nothing else can. 

And, admittedly, her conversation with the information broker this time around had certainly been interesting .

But at the end of the day, these events still leave her feeling like a squeezed-out dishrag. The constant onslaught of noise and attention and the inability to escape from the eyes and ears surrounding her are utterly draining. She always leaves with the certainty that she’s done something wrong. Said something wrong. Stirred up some form of trouble that will, inevitably, eventually, come back to bite her in the end.

People, much as they’re fascinating and worthy from a distance, much as she wants them to survive, to thrive and create and take care of each other, make her head spin . It’s as if there’s a rulebook for Being Human that she has somehow missed a copy of. There are so many ways to say the same thing, and so many double meanings and veiled insults that fly right over her head… so many invisible lines that she’s not aware of until she’s crossed them.

It's all far too much. It’s exhausting.  

Giving her head a little thump against the door, Elisabet does her best to banish the weariness from her mind.

Well… enough of that for now. Let’s get to recharging those batteries.

Leaving the suitcase where it is for now and kicking off her shoes, she crosses the entryway to the balcony doors, sliding them open and stepping out into the evening air.

The little container garden is much the same as she left it. Vibrant green leaves spill over the edges of the beds, and tightly-closed blossoms nod in the sea breeze. Her partner-in-greenery is perched on his charging stand, idle for now, his daytime tasks done. Elisabet gives the battered dome of the little drone’s head a fond pat, flicking at one of the googly eyes glued to the front and smiling as it rattles around crazily.

“Hello, Nigel. You did a great job, as always. Take a break. I’ve got it from here.”

Rolling up the hems of her pants, pushing up her sleeves, and kneeling beside the first of the beds, she plunges her hands into the soil, deftly plucking weeds and clearing away fallen leaves and stems. The more unruly branches, she trims back, setting them aside for the compost bin, before starting in on the dried, dead leaves, searching the little garden for signs of disease, or pest activity.

As the sun dips below the edge of the world, and the moon begins to rise, the night garden comes alive. The rarefied scents of night-blooming jasmine and night phlox mix with the scent of fresh-cut greenery and damp earth in an intoxicating perfume. Evening primrose blossoms fold open, followed by the spidery blooms of a night-blooming cereus… a gift from Peter, after their first successful year of partnership. 

Moonflower vines, and night gladiolus. Four o’clocks and evening stock and casa blanca lilies…

Here, with her hands in the earth, and the bloom of life all around her, she takes solace in green and growing things. And bit by bit, the tension melts away, leaving nothing but the gentle nod of blossoms in its wake.

Chapter Text

Travel to Europe for installation work is nothing short of a pain ; packing up all of the equipment required, arranging for shipment and customs, and wrangling transport there and back again takes weeks in and of itself. For a short three days of work, it’s maddening.

The one upside is that she finally, finally has an evening to spend with her girlfriend. And on her home turf, no less. 

Granted, the bar that Tilda has chosen as their meeting place is a little bit loud, and Elisabet’s attention keeps wandering to the two young women seated at the table to their left. They’re involved in a halting, unsteady lurch to third base that seems to center around one inviting the other back to her place to “see the new litter of rescue kittens I just picked up, they’re just a bunch of little cuties-“ and the equally awkward double-pronged interest from her compatriot.

As the pair gets up to leave, Tilda leans in over her martini glass, shooting her a conspiratorial look.

“I guarantee you those rescue kittens aren’t the only type of cat getting stroked at that house tonight.”

She’s in mid-swallow as the innuendo hits, and abruptly, two ounces of bitters and bourbon whiskey are burning their way out her nose and into a puddle on the table. Elisabet splutters. Coughs. Tries to snort the sting out of her sinuses, eyes watering fiercely. Finally, she manages to find her voice among the pain, croaky and strained.

“ Tilda!”

Studying her perfectly manicured nails for imperfections, Tilda widens her eyes, the very picture of innocence.

“Yes, darling?”

For a moment longer, Elisabet sputters, struggling to find the right reprimand.

“You… that… you knew I was… 

Finally, she settles on an indignant “that hurt! ”

Dropping the act, Tilda leans forward over the table, raising an eyebrow and fixing her with a challenging smirk. 

“Would you like me to kiss it better?”

The flush that creeps to the tips of her ears is mortifying , and she ducks her head.

Damn.

“…fine.”

The first kiss lands between nose and cheek, and the second trails lower, toward her lips. It takes four before Elisabet finally snaps back to reality, the gift she’s stashed under her feet leaping to the forefront of her mind.

“Oh! Wait, hold on. I, umm…”

Reaching under the table, she fumbles for the handles of the carryall, finally snagging them on the third pass and lifting the bag onto the table.

“I brought you something. Thought… your place could use a little more life in it.”

Carefully rolling the sides down, she reaches into the bag, withdrawing the little plant with its striated leaves, and setting it, riotously colorful pot and all, on the table between them. 

“It’s a snake plant. Sansevieria trifasciata. Easy to care for, umm… likes a lot of sunlight, and with all of your windows, I thought it would be a good choice. It um… rarely flowers, but they’re great when it does; tall and elegant, just like… mmm. The pot…”

The pot. Ah, the pot. The less said about it, the better; it’s still embarrassing, even now.

“I made the pot. I tried to paint it after that piece you liked so much at the modern art exhibit last month, but…”

Laughing off the mortification as she reaches up to run her fingers through her hair, she rolls her eyes with a sheepish smile.

“There’s a reason I’m not an artist. I hope it’s alright.”

Tilda lifts the pot carefully, as though the thick, uneven clay will crumble in her hands, turning it this way and that.

“It’s… an interesting plant. Thank you.”

Her diplomatic tone punctures Elisabet’s optimism like a pin to a balloon.

Shit. I thought this one would be good. A nice combination of our respective… I… guess not.

Letting out her disappointment in a discreet sigh through the nose, she stumbles on, the need to justify the choice overpowering.

“Admittedly, it’s… kind of an apology for the wait between get-togethers… I’ve been so busy, and it’s just-”

Raising an eyebrow, Tilda cuts her off, inclining her head across the table.

“Shoulder hurting?”

It takes her a moment to realize what Tilda is talking about; her hand has risen to rub at the old injury, fingers pressed into the surgical scars covering the repairs, without her realizing it. 

“Yeah.”

Her girlfriend studies her critically over the tops of their drinks, fingers steepled.

“Did you get into another crash on the hoverbike? I’ve told you to just hire a car, for the record. Seems like it would be better for your health.”

Even though Tilda’s tone is playful, Elisabet feels herself genuinely bristling at the barb.

“I know what I’m doing,” she growls, lip curling, before she manages to wrestle her emotions back into a more manageable shape, running her fingers through her hair with a terse sigh to ease the tension.

“No. That’s the one I broke rock climbing back in ’46. It’s been aching a lot more lately. Going to make the install work at the Hauge hell, but-“

Rising to her feet, Tilda glides around the table to stand behind her. Slender, clever fingers press into the knots at the base of Elisabet’s neck and rubbing in gentle, firm circles.

“You’re always working so hard… couldn’t you get one of your people to do it? Spend the time here, instead?”

Her touch is a relief, smoothing out tension in the muscle and tight flesh and massaging away the majority of her anger. But… not quite enough of a relief to distract her from the request.

And not quite enough to quash all of her irritation.

“Come on, Til. You know by now that I always do the final install myself.”

Tilda heaves an exaggerated sigh of defeat, fingers still working at the scar.

“The perils of being the boss. Well, Madame President. Let me take the lead tonight. I’ll handle… everything .”

Leaning in, she presses a kiss to the junction of ear and neck, and Elisabet feels gooseflesh prickle up her arms and spine at the touch. Involuntarily, she shudders out the remaining ire.

God, how does she keep doing that? All it takes is one little push and I’m coming apart at the seams.

It’s so damn attractive , the way she takes charge of things. And it’s such a relief to allow it. To shed the responsibility of decision-making and let herself be the one receiving direction for once, even if just for a little while.

It’s such a turn on.

But… much as she can admit that to herself…

Raising a hand, Elisabet plants two fingers gently against her girlfriend’s lips, pushing back against the incoming kiss. 

“Not in public, Til. Show me where I should put the Sansevieria . And… then I’ll be happy to… pick up your contract.” 

When she returns to Amsterdam and the apartment three days later, the plant is gone. 

But the lumpy pot remains, filled with paintbrushes and placed toward the back of the art table set beside the easel, behind the more respectable vessels.

Chapter Text

To Elisabet, Las Vegas is a raging paradox. As little as she likes the crowds, the crush of noise and light and fast-paced entertainment, and the views from the skyscraper boardrooms that make her stomach launch itself into orbit and her head swim with fear, the city is beautiful.

Though best viewed from a distance, she thinks. Ideally, from the safety of her office, where she is now, viewing the city through a haze of purple light.

This particular spot, situated on one of the canals that snakes past the Luxor Hotel and onward through the heart of the Strip, is especially lovely, the water dotted with purplish-blue blossoms and the bank planted with nodding reeds.

Leaning on the edge of her desk, the holo-call pulled up in front of her on a life-like scale, Elisabet studies the final result of the months of design work that has passed between them, nodding her satisfaction.

“So. We’re a week out from the install. How are things running?”

On the other end of the call, Stanley Chen flashes her a grin as dazzling as the lights of his beloved city.

“As smooth as glass. Your technicians are just finishing up training ours, and the drones are operating as expected.”

Satisfaction warms her ribs at his assessment, and she inclines her head toward the reeds.

“Good. And, you were right; the papyrus looks great. The blue lotus will do wonders for hiding the Winnows while they work, too.”

Something about that seems to amuse him. Raising a brow, he sweeps a hand over the edge of the bridge, from bank to bank of the artificial stretch of the Nile.

“Why would you want to hide these marvelous things? They’re beautiful! In fact…”

There’s a moment of blurred motion as the camera is shifted away from his face, and pointed toward the canal below.

“Here she comes… I call this one Jester. She’s my favorite… those colors are to die for.”

Out from beneath the lily pads and their dangling roots sweeps the Winnow drone, its stately green wings flapping lazily at the water, whipping up the unseen microplastics and drawing them into the gaping capture unit on its front. Its passage stirs the lavender-colored turbines dotting its back like spots, churning its cargo into the proper storage units, and adding bits and bursts of power to its battery as it goes. As the long tail-like antenna sweeps out of the shot, Chen rotates the camera back around to display his whole-face smile.

“I think they add to the ambiance; the unique water plants in each section of the canals, and the colorful machines gliding about like creatures from a dream… it’s enchanting .”

The childlike enthusiasm in his voice is infectious, and she finds herself smiling along with him.

“I’m glad it’s turned out well. Mr. Chen. Never hesitate to drop me a line if you need anything adjusted.”

“I most certainly will. And please , call me Stanley. Are you sure you can’t spare the time to join your technicians down here and participate in the celebrations? You’d be more than welcome.”

The invitation is not unexpected, and despite already knowing what her answer will be, she does feel a pang of guilt as she shakes her head.

“Sorry, no. I’ve got another meeting in an hour. And… Vegas isn’t exactly my natural habitat. But, give everyone my congratulations. And… try not to send my colleagues home too drunk and penniless, please.”

Part of her cringes at the joke the minute it passes her teeth; was that all right? Was that too insulting? 

But, judging by the way Stanley laughs, it lands exactly as she intended it to.

“You have my sworn promise. Thank you again for everything, Lis. It’s been a pleasure.”

“Same on my end, Mis- Stanley. Please don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything in the future.”

The call terminates, and for just a moment, Elisabet allows herself to flop back into her chair and put her feet up on the desk, head falling back as she lets out an explosive sigh through a lopsided smile. One of her toes catches the face shield of her helmet, spinning it off of the desk and sending it bouncing across the floor, but she can hardly bring herself to care.

Another project squared away. We’ll have to see what the numbers look like this time next month, but… I’m going to chalk it up as a win, for now.

It’s here, in the glowing aftermath of a job well done, that she feels most herself. Her purpose, her life’s work, rolling along smoothly, and the world following in its wake, moving toward a better, more healthy state, one day and one contract at a time.

She lets the sensation linger for a minute. Five. Ten. Then, rocking the chair forward and using the spring of it to jolt to her feet, she calls up the holo display, thumbing open the next file in her queue, and bringing the proposal up on the screen.

Well. That’s enough self-congratulation. Onward and upward. We’ve still got so many wounds to heal, and only so much time to do it in. Let’s see what’s next on the agenda.

Chapter Text

It’s been raining for ages now.

Not that she minds. Or can really bring herself to care. She’s barely moved from her place on the couch in the past three days, watching the downpour listlessly, curled around the glob of pain that burns in the bottom corners of her soul.

It hurts. Everything hurts. 

And I deserve it , she thinks, viciously, wrapping her arms around herself and winding her body into an ever-tighter knot. I deserve to feel this after what I did. I brought this on myself. Brought this on both of us. I deserve to hurt. 

But…

Irritated by the itchy little doubt worming its way around through the cracks in her misery, she flips herself over, pressing her face into the couch cushions, trying her best to squash it out.

The little spark of rage won’t be tamed so easily, though. It prickles across the back of her neck and down the base of her throat into her belly, teasing the slow, smoldering coals that have been fighting her gray paralysis since the door had slammed in the wake of Tilda’s departure. 

Her seemingly permanent departure , the little embers remind her, after you tried to leave a bridge between you. A bridge that she torched as soon as it was offered. 

It’s at least enough to convince her to spin herself back onto her side and face the rain-spattered windows again.

“I’ll always be here for you, if you need me”, she’d said, pressing her hands around Tilda’s in the same dripping living room, three days ago when she’d broken the news about her decision. How couldn’t she, after all? Even if she wasn’t capable of giving Tilda what she wanted… what she needed in a lover, the past several years hadn’t been meaningless to Elisabet. Quite the opposite, really.

Tilda hadn’t seemed to feel the same, judging by the way she’d snatched her hand back, covering the flash of pain on her face with a cold snarl. Her terse growl of “forget it. If we’re done, we’re done. Far be it from me to keep you from your true love behind that desk of yours.”

It had stung fiercely, and Elisabet had flinched, both at the words, and at the angry slap of the closing door. 

I still care about you , she’d wanted to scream, I still want you to stay a part of my life, even if it’s not in the same way that we’ve been doing things… the way that we know doesn’t work. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep hurting like this. Can’t give you what you need in a relationship, and I can’t stay knowing that I’m holding you back… I just… want to keep loving you the only way I can . 

But the scathing blow of it had paralyzed her, rooting her feet to the spot. 

And now…

Now here she was, wrapped up in gray, with an insistent little fire burning in her gut.

Drawing in a shuddering breath and squeezing her eyes shut against the heat in her face, she lets it out, slowly. 

I hurt her… and I deserve to hurt for it, too. But…

The embers flutter feverishly as she turns the collapse over again in her mind.

…did I actually mean so little to you that you were willing to throw everything away when I didn’t fit into your plan exactly the way you wanted me to? 

She’s been wrapped up in the loss of the good times, until this moment. But… now, the memory of the bad ones come to the surface, too. There had been plenty of fights and bruised egos between them. Testing of boundaries, and indignantly ruffled feathers when she’d refused to budge, had bared her teeth and snarled in response. There had been blatant lies that she’d uncovered, and then been lied to about it again , in turn.

Dragging herself upright into a sitting position, fists clenching and unclenching, she swallows hard, staring at the table’s battered surface with detached agitation.

Did your affection really only extend as far as I could serve your needs? 

Is that… really all I’m good for?

Each breath burns. Takes too much energy to suck down in controlled measure around the bitter lump in her throat.

She’s long suspected it. Cradled the acidic inner voice close and hidden, away from the eyes of those who might see its barbs hooked into her soul and seize the opportunity to jam them in deeper.

People only bother with you because you can be of use to them. Because you’re useful. And she knew it, too. Without helping, without serving…

…you’re worth nothing to anyone. You’re worth nothing at all.

It’s all too much.

In a jerky motion, she surges abruptly to her feet, hooking the underside of the coffee table with her fingers and upending it viciously. A book of nature photography and a wooden tray stacked with a haphazard collection of coasters go crashing to the floor with a graceless thud.

It feels… good. Cathartic. A flash of lighting rage, breaking through the gray, splitting her apathy in two.

And the thunder…

Breath hitching, she turns to the side table, giving the lamp a hard shove, reveling in the sound of ceramic shattering on the floor. Stalks across the room to the kitchen counter and sweeps an arm across it, sending mugs and dishes flying with a primal scream of rage and agony.

 The console table behind the couch is the next to face her wrath. She turns to the rough-hewn stretch of it, snatching up the nearest object and preparing to hurl it at the wall…

…and comes to an abrupt halt as she gets a good look at the object; a lacquered planter, clutched in her hand, a carefully manicured bonsai tree sunk into its mossy soil, bulbous at the bottom, and sprouting a set of reddish blossoms at its top.

Adenium obesum . Desert rose.  

A nickname, purred into her ear during intimate moments, and whispered down her throat in between vicious, needy kisses on more than one night over the years. 

As quickly as it came on, the rage ebbs, and she sinks to her knees, clutching the little tree to her chest, tears beginning to drip down her chin and water the soil in the ceramic pot.

It had to be done. For both their sake. She knows it with the certainty of stone.

For the time being, at least... she’ll just have to live with the ache. 

Chapter Text

It grows slowly, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

The Chariot Line itself is, of course, nightmarish. Every feature had been a punch in the gut when she'd first learned about them, back when she was still formally attached to FAS. But seeing the technical specifications, the mechanics, laid out for her to read and understand…

It's downright horrifying . 

"It's worse than that," Ted had said earlier, shrinking back in his desk chair as though he were hoping it would swallow him whole.

Elisabet is beginning to suspect that he's right. It's looking pretty damn bad, as it is.

The sun has vanished behind the Wasatch range when she finally ties up the last line of her inquiry and starts the script running, pushing back from the table and rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands.

It's been a long damn day, and she's ready to get the hell out of here. The familiar surroundings have been dredging up distracting memories, both good and bad. But all draining. With any luck, she'll be able to wrap things up in a couple of hours, and then get some sleep before presenting her findings to Ted.

The final estimates roll out. She glances over at the display, eyes flicking over the output almost haphazardly…

For a moment, her heart stops. She forgets how to breathe. And then, she's breathing too fast, knocking the chair over in her haste to get closer to the numbers flickering on the screen. 

That can't be right... it can't! 

With shaking hands, she runs the script again. And again. And the answer comes up the same, a second time. And then a third.

Abruptly, she's on her hands and knees, gasping into the carpet. Some detached part of her insists on outrage over the pattern of swirling leaves and blossoms (Bay laurel? Really? The irony of it is so on the nose, it’s practically insulting ) but the raging tide threatening to swallow her up drowns it quickly. 

It all points to one awful, inevitable conclusion.

Elisabet runs through every calming exercise that every therapist she's ever seen has taught her. Counts her breaths, alternates as many movements as she can bring herself to make, recites mantras, affirmations…

None of it works. The panic, the desperate despair of it, drags her under with the same inevitability of her conclusions.

She doesn't know how long it takes for the trembling to stop, or what thought it is that finally helps her turn the corner and claw her way back to a place where she can think again. 

But she's exhausted when she pries her face off of the laurel-chased carpet, and shuffles back to the table, leaning her shoulders against it and reaching out to pull the display around to face her.

This time, when she looks over the results of the analysis, she doesn't feel much of anything. She doesn't have the energy to.

Global extinction. It's the end result of every scenario she runs. Every parameter she tweaks. Every possible course of action that she plots. 

This is something that she can't fix with a clever design and a handful of machined parts. 

This is something that she can't fix at all .

She takes a few moments to gather herself, righting the chair and drawing it back to the table, running through another breathing exercise, before thumbing open her Focus and pulling up Ted's long-unused contact panel.

He has to know. Right now. 

The call rings three times before he picks it up, and she doesn't wait for an introduction or greeting.

"Where are you?"

He sounds dazed when he answers, sleep still clinging to the edges of his voice.

"It's... Lis, do you have any idea what time it is?"

She doesn't bother dignifying him with an answer, pressing the heels of her hands into the edge of the table as though it's the last solid thing in the universe.

"We need. To talk. Now ."

The seething emotion in her tone penetrates somewhere, because he falters, stammers.

"A-ah, I'll..."

There are a few beats of silence, and she's just drawing in a breath to demand that he get his ass over here, right now, Ted , when he answers, appropriately subdued.

"All right. I'll be there in half an hour."

He hangs up the call without further comment, and the rest of her scraped-together strength drains. She flops heavily into the chair, and buries her face in her hands.

Fifteen months until the world ends. And there's no way to stop it.

Three deep, calming breaths in and out. In and out. In and out. And then she rises again, and returns to the task at hand.

Let's see what our options are.

Chapter Text

The simulation finishes loading with a soft chime as she’s in the middle of scrubbing the exhaustion out of her eyes. Hastily pulling the heel of her hand from her face, she squints at the numbers critically before logging a few final commands, and then turns to the hologram generator built into the workstation at her side.

“All right, GAIA. Let’s begin.”

The generator hums as it powers up, and GAIA’s chosen avatar winks to life in miniature, kept on a scale that puts her level with Elisabet’s head above the workbench.

“Query: Now? This moment? Are you… certain, Elisabet?”

The AI’s hesitancy is unexpected, and Elisabet feels a frown begin to gather between her brows.

“Yes. We’ve gone over the primary succession data with Naoto long enough. It’s time to put it into practice. I’m handing control of the simulation over to you; go ahead and choose which plants you want to insert into it over a rolling period of time. To start, try to take it from bare rock to shade-intolerant forest.”

GAIA nods hastily along with her explanation, raising a hand to her chin in a gesture that Elisabet herself has made many times during their long hours in the lab together.

“Yes, the mechanical aspects of the simulation make perfect sense.”

There’s an unspoken exception in the statement that even Elisabet can pick up on. Keeping her voice gentle, yet expectantly firm, she raises a brow.

“But…?”

GAIA hesitates a moment longer at the pointed question, glancing between her face and the simulation screen. 

“I simply… do not wish to hurt them, should I fail.”

The fierceness of the affection that floods her at the admission catches her off guard; she has certainly been ecstatic with GAIA’s emotional development to this point… proud , even, in a way that she can’t define. 

And… it mingles with guilt , too, in a familiar all-too-easy to define refrain. 

I’m so sorry, darling, to have brought you into existence with such a big job to do, and so little time to learn who you are along the way.

Guilt is an old friend. Doubly so here, at the end of the world. The drastic measures they’d been forced to take, coupled with the rising death toll of Operation Enduring Victory, had pierced like a knife during the beginning stages of the project. Now, months into the collapse, the pain has dulled to a numb ache, as the ever-climbing casualty numbers chew their caterpillar trails through her soul and the impossible task of preparing for the end spools out ahead of her.

Taking a deep breath, holding it to a count of three, and letting it out, Elisabet swallows the choking knot of feelings, turning her eyes back to the console. She’s become an expert at swallowing the feelings, now.

It’ll all be for nothing if you don’t finish things here. Get your head back where it belongs. Work .

“You won’t. They’ll come back as many times as you need them to, and they’ll grow even stronger as you learn. Now…”

Moving the display to the front of the console so that it faces both of them, Elisabet sweeps a hand toward it with an encouraging little half-smile.

“…give it a try.” 

GAIA steadies herself. Concentrates. In the digital stonescape, lichens bloom across the rocks. Begin to thrive, and spread. Then, as the first few stalks of green begin to poke out of the newly-enriched soil, the screen flashes a bright red “WARNING” message and, quicker than Elisabet can track, the simulation cascades back to zero.

The dismay on GAIA’s face as she turns to Elisabet for comfort would break a statue’s heart.

“That was good. Remember,” she soothes, leaning instinctively forward before she realizes that she can’t, in fact, lay a reassuring hand on GAIA’s light-and-mist shoulder, “it’s going to take time to master the process. Keep trying. Keep experimenting. You’ll get the hang of it. I know you will.”

The AI ponders her words for a moment, rolling the troubled look back and forth across her face, before raising a hand to the screen and starting the program up again.

Attempt Two. The pioneer lichens give way successfully to a small smattering of annual plants, and then herbaceous growth and a handful of grasses before something goes wrong, and the digital ecosystem collapses again. This time, it takes GAIA only a moment; her shoulders sag for the briefest of instants (and again, Elisabet finds that she wants nothing more than to reach out and comfort her), before she draws herself back up, and dives back into the simulation, face creased with focus.

Three attempts. Four. Five. Lichens to annuals. Annuals to grass. Six. Seven. Eight. Grasses to shrubs, small trees, and to larger ones. As the binary stems sprout, so does GAIA’s confidence. Her frown of concentration smooths as she seeds her digital world, drawing redwoods from the soil and raising their trunks into the sky. As the branches burst with bristling leaves and tiny cones, she lets out an exultant laugh, eyes shining as she turns a dazzling smile in Elisabet’s direction, reveling in the virtual growth.

The smile warms her weary heart to the cockles, and, unexpectedly, she feels tears prick at the corners of her eyes as she smiles back.

With you holding the world, my brilliant, brave, beautiful girl…

We might just have a chance.

Chapter Text

She reels against the gate with a harsh clang, grasping at the rust-spattered top and peering up through the smoky air at the familiar sign dangling from the archway above. Acid rain has eaten several patches through the thin metal surface, but for the most part, it’s still readable.

S O B  K  R N C H

Heaving herself off of the fence with a groan of exertion, Elisabet wobbles under the arch, and staggers into the yard one last time.

Home. At last. And… just in time, too. Took me… long enough to get here.

But her annoyance at her unsteady legs and slow pace evaporates as quickly as it comes; the journey would have been long and trying even for a person at the peak of health. And after a year of pushing herself to her limits for the sake of the project… at the peak of health, she is not .

The porch steps seem far too daunting as she stumbles toward them, and she elects not to climb them in the end, collapsing onto the stone bench in the center of the drive. She lets out a groan of relief, wasting precious air. A hand trails over the edge of the stone, stroking at the charred remains of the old pine stump, concealed beneath it.

The selfsame pine stump that had taught a little girl about the value of the life that she shared her home with, all those many years ago. Had marked the beginning of a journey that had brought her, at last, full circle.

Her chapped lips curl into a smile at the thought.

Funny… how I… started right here. And… how ‘s going… t’ end here, too.

The ranch arrayed around her is devoid of that life, now, withered grass and the prickly shapes of denuded shrubs dotting the yard in patches where the earth hasn’t been rendered barren already. The trees, too, have long since died in the toxic atmosphere. Their skeletal branches reach into the muddy sky above, as though grasping for a way out. 

The gaunt silhouettes are almost painful to look at, and she regards them with a detached sort of pity for a moment, before turning her gaze back toward the house.

All these… …ghosts , she thinks, hazily , just… waiting f’r th’ Swarm to come ‘n… pick th’ bones clean. Glad I won’t… have t’ see that , ‘t least.

In fact, just the thought of it makes her indescribably tired. Relaxing into the cool stone, she lets her head loll against the back of the bench, closing her eyes. With thick-fingered clumsiness, she grasps for the chain wrapped around her right wrist, tracing down its length to the pendant at the end, and tilting it into her palm. Even through the thick glove, curling her fingers around it, feeling the weight of it in her hand, brings a sense of peace.

Mom… won’r what…  you would’ve made ‘f… all this. Of… evrythn’. Of… her .

There’s a connection there, she thinks, that she’s entirely too weary to grasp. Her mother. GAIA. Herself, in between them. Her mother. GAIA… 

…GAIA is all grown up now, and her hands are on the reins. The machinery is in place, buried, dreaming, and waiting for the day when it will open its petals to a world that needs it. And her team is safe, sealed away from the Swarm behind a door that will now keep them out, for good. Maybe…

Maybe she can afford to rest now. To dream about the future, like the buried pieces of Zero Dawn. To dream about green .

She hopes , with every remaining beat of her heart, that it’s a dream that will come true.

Chapter Text

With gentle footsteps, the Charger passes beneath the dilapidated arch, and onto hallowed ground.

Swinging a leg over its side as she guides the machine to a stop, Aloy drops deftly to the packed dirt of the front drive. She gives the area a cursory scan for danger (though nothing much ever seems to be happening here, whether by chance or by GAIA’s design,) before reaching up to give Beta a hand down, catching her by the waist as she pushes herself off of their mount’s back, and guiding her feet to the earth.

“Here we are.”

Beta turns slowly on her heel, taking in the riot of life surrounding the ruins. The dappled sunlight streaming through the branches above falls on an expression of delight and wonder and… just a tinge of reluctant fear.

“It… almost doesn’t feel real.”

It’s a sentiment that Aloy is all too familiar with, herself. After so many flickering holograms and secondhand accounts, finding herself here, running her fingers over the sun-warmed metal covering the actual, tangible body of her ancestor had been… an almost disorienting experience. A final tether to a truth that, if she’d chosen to believe just a little bit less, could have very well been misconstrued for fiction.

“Yeah. But…you’ll see for yourself. It’s real. She’s real. Come on.”

Wrapping a hand gently around her sister’s wrist, Aloy guides her past the trees and around the edge of the bench, taking care to avoid trampling the geometric pattern of pinkish-purple blossoms that has sprung up around their shared parent’s final resting place. Pausing on the outskirts of the triangle, Beta kneels, cupping the blossoms in a gentle hand.

“Yarrow,” she muses, “a healer’s herb. Did you plant these, GAIA?”

At this distance from the Base, the AI’s voice comes through the Focus with tinny distortion. 

“Yes. I felt that it was a fitting tribute to her memory.”

Beta plays with the blossoms for a moment longer, smiling shyly at the pinkish clusters as they slide over her fingertips.

“It is; they’re beautiful.”

If GAIA is pleased by her assessment, she keeps it to herself.

Gathering her strength with one last, deep breath, Beta rises and steps over the ring, reaching a hesitant hand toward the corpse sprawled across the bench.

“Hello, Elisabet.”

Aloy turns aside as Beta moves in, stepping back over the ring of flowers and wandering toward the ruins of the house. She vaults through the raised lip of the front door with an easy hop. With her left hand, she thumbs open the pouch lashed to her belt, toying with the little object concealed within.

I think it’s best if I give her some privacy. I can wait for my turn. Besides… I don’t think I’ve ever been in here.

The walls have mostly crumbled away by now, their jagged edges reaching upward, as if to gently cup at the sky above. Aloy pokes her head through the remaining doorways. Stands in the outlines of rooms. Tries to imagine what it had looked like before, when people… when family had still lived here. Tries to imagine what living here herself might have felt like.

Through the cracks in the walls and the remnants of windows, the view is always the same: a tapestry of colors. An explosion of living things. Stately trees shading the bones of the ranch, and colorful flowers, nodding in the wake of the insects that visit them.

“Was it always so beautiful here,” Aloy asks, pausing to admire a particularly nice view of the mountains sprouting in the distance, “even before the Faro Plague?”

GAIA’s voice buzzes in her ear.

“Yes. Elisabet shared some images with me, during our time together. I have kept them within my personal storage matrix for many years now. I can display them for you when you return, if you’d like.”

Nodding to no one in particular, Aloy turns from the view with no small measure of reluctance.

“I’d like that.”

Beta is stepping back into the ring of yarrow as she reemerges into the yard, a small collection of wildflowers clutched in her hands. As Aloy joins her in the center, she lays the little bouquet gingerly in Elisabet’s lap.

“I’m… glad she made it home.”

Snaking an arm around Beta’s shoulders, Aloy nods.

“Yeah. Me too.”

The question that’s been chewing at her since she first found the ruins of their ancestral home rises again, insistently, to the forefront of her mind. Surprisingly, she finds herself reluctant to bring it up. Especially with the sun dappling the ground with lacy leaf-shadows and songbirds calling in the trees above.

But if anyone knows the answer, it’ll be Beta.

Clearing her throat, Aloy fidgets, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

“Do you… do you think she suffered? At the end?”

To her relief, Beta shakes her head, studying the body thoughtfully.

“No. Inert gas asphyxiation wouldn’t produce distress, like suffocating or drowning would. At worst, a headache, nausea or dizziness but… no. She would have just… faded. Lost consciousness before…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t need to.

Aloy lets out a breath that she doesn’t remember holding. Her inhale is heavy, weighted down by the price at which her world’s air had been bought.

“Good… good .”

It’s the answer she’d been hoping for: that at least one of her adopted parents hadn’t been snatched violently from life, in fire and pain.

A datapoint from the teetering ruins of GAIA Prime springs to mind unbidden.

But the last humans, we went out... not with a whimper but... a whisper.

For a long moment, the three of them stand (and sprawl) in silence, surrounded by the cathedral of nature, listening to the hymns of birdsong, sighing wind, and the buzz of gossamer insect wings.

Beta is the one to speak first, hesitantly, as if reluctant to break the spell. 

“Have you ever thought about…”

Seemingly losing the right words, she pulls away, gesturing beyond the ring to the verdant ranch yard beyond.

“…burial? A grave?”

Aloy has to stifle a little laugh at that; burial. A grave. Has she considered it?

Oh, has she. 

Nodding slowly, she reaches for the flap of her pouch again, plunging her hand underneath and feeling about in the dark interior.

“I’ve thought about it, yes… about digging one here, or somewhere back in the Sacred Lands. I’ll have to go back sometime. Still owe Rost a second marker next to his family’s cairn. But…”

Her fingers finally brush against what she’s been looking for, and she brings out  her own gift. The little wooden model of the planet Earth, whittled carefully and polished to a high sheen with fire kiln root oil, rolls briefly in the cup of her hand.

“But I think she’d be happier here, with the life she fought so hard to save all around her.”

Aloy runs her thumb over the carving one last time, before she nestles it into the withered palm that once held the little globe-shaped pendant.

As she steps back, Beta reaches for her hand, intertwining their fingers cautiously.

“At rest among green and growing things... I think you’re right.”

“I think she’d like that a lot.”