The next three months pass in a blur of healing, of adjustment, of trying to find some semblance of normalcy in the chaos. My burns heal, the pain lessening day by day, the scars fading to a dull, pinkish-white. My lungs, too, recover, the coughing fits becoming less frequent, the tightness in my chest easing. I'm not the same, I don't think I'll ever be the same, but I'm alive. I'm functional. I'm getting stronger.
Arden, too, is improving. He's up and about, moving with the aid of crutches, his movements slow but steady. He's... different, though. More subdued, quieter. The loss of his leg and his close brush with death have changed him, in ways I'm still trying to understand. But he's determined, stubborn, refusing to let it keep him down. Maren is working on a prosthetic, something to help him regain more of his mobility, but it's a slow process. The materials we have are limited, the technology rudimentary at best.
The station has become our home, our sanctuary. The threat of the tide surge has passed, at least for now. We've been diligent, keeping the hatches locked, monitoring the water levels, watching for signs of the next surge, and keeping strict track of the days between each. We lost ten people to the creatures that first time, ten lives snuffed out in an instant. It's a heavy toll, a grim reminder of the dangers we face. But we're still here. We're surviving.
The supplies we brought back from the desert are running low, the rations dwindling. The crops we've managed to cultivate are growing, but they're not ready for harvest yet. It's a precarious balance, a race against time. We need more supplies, but we don't know where else to look. The other depots are too far, too dangerous to reach without more resources, more planning.
It's a problem that weighs heavily on my mind, a constant source of stress and anxiety. I know Arden feels it too, the pressure of keeping everyone fed, of ensuring our survival. It's an unfair burden. He should be focused on staying alive, on healing, not on leading, on making impossible decisions.
I'm sitting on the balcony, the one where Alistair and I had that strange, tense moment, my legs dangling over the edge. The sea is calm today, the moons high in the sky, their light reflecting off the water. It's a beautiful sight, but it does little to soothe the turmoil in my mind.
I need to do something. I need to find a solution, a way out of this mess. But I don't know where to start. I'm hardly the person qualified to make this decision, but I know... that we're all thinking. Trying to figure something out. I can't just quietly wait for someone else to think of something and do nothing myself. I just don't know what to do. Where to even start.
My fingers trace the edge of the scar on my shoulder. It's high up, and much better than it once was. I don't know if it'll ever go away though, and it's... not pleasant to look at. Pocked, ridged, almost like those yellow-orange aliens reached out and marked me, gave me their bumpy skin in one spot.
"I guess...no strapless swimsuits for me." I mutter to myself, trying to find some humor in the situation. I try, anyway, but instead of laughter, tears well up in my eyes and run down my face, as my hand trembles against the scar.
I hate this. I hate everything about this. I hate the aliens, I hate this planet, I hate the scars they've left on my body, on my soul. I hate the fear... I - I hate...
"I think you'd look hot in one." Alistair's voice cuts through my thoughts, startling me. I turn to see him leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable.
I wipe at my eyes, trying to hide the tears, but it's too late. He's already seen them. "I didn't hear you come up." I say, my voice rough.
He doesn't immediately answer. Instead, he moves to sit next to me, legs through the railings next to mine. He reaches for my sleeve. "Let me see..."
"No-"
He gently slaps away the hand that was hiding the scar and pulls the sleeve up, exposing the chemical burn - the worst of the damage left from when I leaped into the water to save Arden. I don't know why, but I let him do it. I don't fight him, don't pull away. I just sit there, my gaze fixed on the sea, as his fingers trace the scarred skin.
"It's pretty fucked up." He says, his tone flat, emotionless.
"Thanks." I respond dryly. I try to take my arm back, but he holds on, turning it this way and that as if inspecting it.
His fingers are warm, his touch gentle. I try not to think about it, about the way it makes my skin tingle, about the memories it stirs of that first kiss. "Yeah." He agrees, after a moment. "I think it's hot."
I sputter, my face heating. "You-!"
His lips quirk up into a half-smile, his eyes glinting with amusement. "What? Can't a guy have a thing for scars?"
I glare at him, but there's no real heat in it. I'm too flustered, too off-balance. "This. Isn't the cool kind of scar, it's..."
He leans in close, suddenly. It's not aggressive, exactly. It's not even angry. It's just... assertive. Enough to cut off what I'm trying to say. "I think it's fucking hot, and I don't give a shit what you think about it." His eyes find mine. His face is. So close. I think...he's going to kiss me. And I want him to. But instead, he lets go of my arm and leans back, staring out at the sea.
"As far as I'm concerned it proof you came back. When I was sure..." His jaw tightens, and he shakes his head, looking away. "You're. A fucking. Idiot." The words are harsh, but the tone is almost... fond. "But you're. My idiot. Okay?"
My... idiot...? I-
He stands up abruptly. "I just. Wanted to say that." Then he starts to walk away. He stops only a few feet from me and turns back. "I." I hear him curse under his breath, pausing for a moment. "Just. Wanted. You to know. I planted a flag. That's it."
"I- wha- so-!?"
He's gone before I can even begin to get a proper response out. And all I can do is stare after him, my mouth hanging open, my mind reeling.
What... What the hell was that?!
I sit there for a long time, trying to process what just happened. My heart is pounding, my face flushed, my thoughts a jumbled mess. I don't understand him, don't understand what he's trying to say. But I think... I think I might like it. The... the possessiveness, the intensity. It's... It's not something I'm used to. Not something I ever thought I'd experience. But... I like it. I think...
I really do.
I swallow and roll my sleeve down. Now I'm absolutely not going to get any thinking done because of that jerk. But I can't complain to him, because he's not here. So I take a deep breath, and stand up.
I need to... just get back to work. I can think about that...walking land mine of a boy later.
Back in my room, I strip off my shirt, the fabric sticking to my sweaty skin. I need a change of clothes, something cooler, more comfortable. I root through the small pile of clothes I have, gathered by the survivors raiding old supplies and then rationing them out to the rest of us. I wish I had something of my own, something from Earth. But all of that was lost. They took that from me...almost two years ago now.
I swallow.
Is it really...? I shouldn't be... three years is nothing compared to Lena. But I can't help it. I'm not her. I'm not built like her. I pull on a new shirt, something loose and light, and as I do, something falls out of the fabric.
I blink, bending down to pick it up. It's... I squint at it, turning it over in my hands, until I realize what I'm staring at with a cold shock. It's the alien branding pen, the one I took from the supply depot. The one I'd completely forgotten about. The... thing they use to mark their 'complete' slaves. It feels wrong, heavy in my hand. A reminder of what we're fighting against, of what was done to me.
And then I hear him. I hear the sharp intake of breath, the low, angry growl. I look up to see Alistair standing in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the branding pen, his expression dark, dangerous.
"Where the fuck did you get that?" He spits out the words, his voice low, full of venom.
I'm taken aback by his anger, by the intensity of it. He's an intense man, and anger isn't new from him. But it's still... It feels like a whiplash from him just a few minutes ago. I open my mouth to respond, to tell him I'd taken it from the depot by accident, but before I can, he's moving. He snatches the pen from my hand, his grip tight, his knuckles white.
"This...." He hisses. There's an ugly hatred in his eyes as he stares down at it. His jaw clenches, and I can see the way his arm trembles. Is he...scared of it...?
"What's wrong?" I ask, my voice soft. I've never seen him like this. I've seen him angry, seen him hurt, but never... this. Never this raw, this pained.
He doesn't answer, just turns away, stalking towards the balcony. I follow him, my bare feet silent on the cold floor. I watch as he stands at the railing, the pen still clutched in his hand, his body rigid with tension. He stares out at the sea, his expression unreadable.
"Alistair..."
He whirls around suddenly, the pen still in his hand. He flings it to the ground. It bounces, and then rolls under a cot. "Don't know why the hell you brought that with us." He snarls.
"It was an accident." I protest, holding up my hands defensively. "I forgot I had it, I swear. I wouldn't keep it on purpose."
He's breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He runs a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed on the spot where the pen disappeared. "You should get rid of it." He says, his voice rough. "Burn it. It's... it's poison."
I hesitate, not sure what to say. I understand the shape of his reaction, I do. It's disgusting. A ghoulish object. But... I don't know why he seems so shaken. He's a man who is ready to throw himself into death on a whim. Why would a pen do this?
I move closer, my hand reaching out to touch his arm. He flinches, but he doesn't pull away. "Alistair... are you okay?"
He lets out a short, bitter laugh. "Do I look okay to you?"
I bite my lip, my hand dropping back to my side. "No. You don't."
He grips his hands in fists. "Shit - I... I don't mean to take it out on you." He shakes his head, as if trying to clear it. "I just. Hah. Hate that thing."
I swallow. "I don't like it either."
He nods, his gaze still fixed on the floor. "I know."
I frown, looking up at him. "Alistair-"
"Come on. Arden wants you." He cuts me off, turning away from me. "Let's go."
"Alistair...!"
"I'm not fucking talking about it!" He snaps, his voice harsh, his shoulders stiff. A moment later, they sag, and he whispers, voice raspy and low. "Please. Sarah." Then, louder, "Just. Not. Not right now. Okay?"
I stare at his back. I know what he's saying. I know he's not ready, that he needs time. But it hurts, the way he shuts me out, the way he pushes me away. I thought...
I don't know what I thought.
"Yeah..." I murmur, finally. "Sure."