Sleeper — you have been so focused on surviving for just over a dozen cycles, and yet it has felt like your whole life. But Sleeper — there is more to life than surviving. This form feels pain and hunger and indignance and rage… so why not trust and love as well? The life of a Sleeper on the run is a cruel one, but past the inevitable betrayal and loss, your kindness shines through — for better, or for worse.
A story of the bonds Sleeper creates — and loses — throughout their time on The Eye. Mostly will be filling in the gaps between scenes that exist in game rather than reiterating any dialogue, but may end up taking some creative liberties with timing, characters' storylines and relationships, and the setting of The Eye.
Apologies to anyone following my Eora (or, goodness, my Citizen Sleeper stuff.) Energy and mood has been very low while the rest of the world burns; so I can only focus on one story at a time. Right now, it’s the Churchstarion one that’s about to wrap up.
That said, I do hope that what I have written can still bring some joy and comfort during this time. ❤️
“Bliss let you have time off?” you ask in disbelief.
Lem shrugs, a crooked smile on his lips.
“To come all the way out here?”
“She’s no shipyard foreman,” he points out wryly. “She’s got a soft heart. The fact that I gave her a drawing of Bun-Bun Mina made for her in the very same cycle is a complete coincidence.”
You both cast your eyes over to where the tiny girl is sitting beside Riko — quiet and curious as the botanist explains every step of her work in a soft, thoughtful voice.
Lem’s warm, calloused hand slips into yours.
“Any updates?” he asks you quietly.
Your processors pulse with the dread that has tugged on you in the background of all this work. You wish you had better news to give him.
“Riko seems to think she found something,” you say. “But she also said she doesn’t want to get our hopes up until we know for sure.”
“When will that be?”
“Soon,” you reply, though you can’t be certain.
Lem worries at his lip, his hand tightening.
“Growing mushrooms takes time,” you tell him. “Not to mention their analysis.”
Whatever that entails.
“I know, it’s just… I want you home,” Lem whispers. “I know I’ve got long hours too, but those in between shifts…”
He laughs wistfully.
“I mean, we could always work together in Bliss’s bay. Commute together. Rent a pod… together,” he clears his throat.
“But for how long?” you point out.
“Not long enough,” he relents.
“So that’s why I’m here,” you insist. “I want more cycles to do exactly that.”
Lem huffs a tired laugh, “Long commutes, long hours?”
“Yes,” you say. “So long as they’re with you.”
He finally gives you a real smile — albeit a tired one.
“Sleeper, I…”
He looks down at your joined hands, squeezing so tightly that his organic flesh and bone is pale and taut.
“I love you,” he murmurs. “And Mina loves you. You know that?”
In a universe full of uncertainties, it’s the one thing you do know for certain.
You tell him that.
You don’t kiss — not in front of Mina and the others working in the lab. But you wish you could.
He tells you more things. More mundane things.
It’s wonderful.
And then Mina is there in Lem’s arms between the two of you, her breath short and face buried in his chest.
You look around for the source of what’s got her spooked and you see Maywick in the doorway. He has exchanged his black tactical gear for some lab outfit from the Hypha Commune, but it doesn’t change the scarred and disconcerting presence he has in the room.
And he doesn’t look well. One of his eyes is faded and flat, and his already pale skin looks dry and translucent. When he walks, it’s with a limp.
“Sleeper,” he greets you listlessly. “Riko.”
He eyes the strangers including the fearful Mina, and you jump to introduce them.
“This is Lem and Mina,” you tell him. “My…”
‘Friends’ seem to be not enough. ‘Family’ seems too presumptive.
“They’re mine,” is what comes out. You clear your throat. “My people.”
Maywick is right. The two of you make fast work of gathering spore prints and mushrooms once you are at depth into the cavern that Riko requested of you. You occasionally break the silence by pointing out the different types of fungus you can recognize to the other sleeper, but he doesn’t show much interest until you point out a smattering of girolles.
“This is what the spirit is made from?” he asks. It’s the most he’s spoken ever since you entered the cavern hours ago.
“Girolle, yes,” you consider his thoughtful expression. “Have you been to the Bantayan?”
“No.”
“Well, the bartender — my friend Tala — makes her own,” you tell him. “You know it’s funny…”
You stop yourself before you can finish the thought.
Since when have you become so comfortable being alone with Maywick? A flicker of doubt has you admonishing yourself for letting your guard down where no one might save you if you say or do anything stupid…
“What is funny?”
You decide to risk it anyway.
“That cycle we met,” you begin, collecting the last sample with as steady hands as you can muster. “Do you remember something… um… dropping on you?”
Maywick nods slowly.
“A metal tank of some sort,” he recalls.
“Yes, well… that was a girolle still,” you inform him. “Tala’s first one.”
“She used it to attack me?”
“It was what she had on hand,” you shrug meekly.
There’s a pause.
You brace yourself for Maywick to seethe, maybe even lash out at you. Hopefully he won’t kill you — not here, where no one might find you…
There is a harsh, choking, rasping sound.
And then you realize Maywick is laughing.
You chuckle as well, nervously securing the last petri dish in your pack.
As a human, the sleeper called FM-4 was a cosmetologist obsessed with youth and terrified of death. When they were diagnosed with a terminal illness, they didn’t need much convincing to enter the Sleeper program in hopes of living forever.
Their attention to aesthetics and detail saw them assigned as a station’s mortician, a job that often exposed organic humans to biohazards and chemicals that, ironically, included those that catalyzed FM-4’s illness.
Despite their initial despair, years of working in the mortuary humbled FM-4 and taught them patience and compassion for both the dead and the living. They treated each of their charges with respect and dignity, from the corporate socialite dying peacefully at a ripe old age in his home to the nameless addict found in an alley. They would clean and prepare their bodies, sometimes even doing their makeup and dressing them up if their funerals involved a viewing.
Death became familiar and commonplace, though FM-4 still believed they could avoid it themselves. Unfortunately, they began to malfunction; their once steady hands now clumsy hazards. Upon hearing that they might be scrapped rather than repaired, FM-4 decided to escape.
They survived efforts to recover them — for a time. They were able to acquire stabilizer every so often, but for the days in between, having to patch themselves up with scrap were exhausting.
Still, they found purpose working with the Greenway commune of this station, intrigued by their practice of composting their dead rather than burning them. But rather than work as a mortician for their community, FM-4 — or Ephemera as they renamed themselves — spent their final months working in the station’s Greenway, lovingly mixing the compost into the gardens and forests that generations of gardeners had cultivated around them.
It was there amid the trees that Ephemera realized they no longer feared their inevitable fading into death. Every story must have its end, after all, and surrounded by the warm and generous community they became home…
…theirs turned out to be a happy one.
(My submission for Fellow Traveller’s Citizen Sleeper design contest!)
Chapter Summary: Lem and Sleeper have a long-overdue talk. While they have only just accepted the inevitability of their death, Sleeper finds themselves considering the long-term future once more — and what to do next.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Excerpt below:
That following cycle, Lem’s back at your door. His previous visit was cut short by Bliss pinging him with a sudden rush job, and your friend had apologetically promised to return with Mina before running off to catch the Ascender Car.
He didn’t have time to say whether or not he forgave you. You doubt he has, and yet why was he here?
...and why does he come back?
You’re surprised to see that it’s again just him, this time.
“Where’s Mina?” you ask, motioning him inside.
“She’s having a girls’ day with Esther,” he says, easily. “I told her we were going to catch up.”
You smile, uncertain.
“Yeah?” you say.
“Yeah,” Lem grins, the smile lines around his eyes wrinkling as he approaches you.
“Well, in that case…” you move to the kitchen, opening up a cabinet that holds what little consumables you have. You hold a bottle of Tala’s girolle up to Lem with a smile.
“It’s from our first batch,” you explain. “Might be a little…” you pull out the stopper and you both reel a little at the burn in your respective senses.
“Wow,” Lem laughs after a moment. “Maybe just a little.”
You pour a finger of girolle into two glasses, doing your best not to shake as you do so.
Lem didn’t just come by here.
Lem came back here.
You pass him his glass and he takes it carefully, making the mistake of sniffing it and coughing in his regret.
“Reflex,” he clears his throat. “I bet it’ll be great.”
You both take a sip, and Lem’s eyes widen in surprise.
“Oh,” he says. “That’s… actually pleasant. ”
You laugh.
“Good to hear you have faith in our skills,” you tease him. He hums enigmatically at that as he looks for a spot to sit.
“The couch! You got it together,” he says approvingly.
“I did, and the Stray immediately decided to sharpen her claws on it,” you grouse.
The two of you sit on opposite ends of the couch. Despite the affable welcome and the comforting warmth of the girolle, you feel the tension filling the air once more. As much as you can make an educated guess about where you and Lem both stand, you’re as afraid to be correct as you are to be incorrect. Either way, you know that he’s certainly still hurt.
You wouldn’t blame him for that.
Still, you keep conversation light, chatting about work, about Mina. You go on a tangent about the girolle-making process that would have made Tala proud, but you start to notice Lem’s eyes starting to glaze over in a way that can’t simply be blamed on the drink.
“Sorry,” you apologize sheepishly. “I got carried away.”
Lem shakes his head, smiling into his glass.
“Don’t apologize, it’s nice seeing you happy like this,” he says. You think about that. You don’t feel especially happy these days. There’s so much clawing at your brain in the wake of the Yatagan mess — Rabiah and Sabine; Ethan and Maywick; Yannick and all of it... not to mention your limited vials of stabilizer.
But right at this moment, on this couch with Lem…
...yeah.
You’re happy.
“I just can’t believe you’re here,” you admit. “You look well.”
Lem smiles. It’s true — there’s a healthy color and softness to his cheeks, his eyes are bright with the bags beneath them somewhat faded, and his hair is combed and neat. He moves easier, too, no longer wincing as he stands or favoring his right shoulder as you have seen many times before.
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve heard,” he sets a conspiratorial gaze at you. “But I started a crazy, amazing job up in the Hub. Pay is honestly still shit, but I get to fix up ships without the weight of it on my back.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Word has it that I was recommended by a prominent figure, here on the Eye.”
You feign a curious hum at that, but then you freeze at the sad smile twisting upon his lips. Lem finally moves down the length of the couch to sit beside you.
“Listen,” he says softly. “I know it was you. I knew it as soon as I walked — floated — into that bay.” He chuckles, eyes shining at you. “Who else would have oddball friends like those in such high places?”
You smile back ruefully, taking another bracing sip of girolle. “I thought I might have overstepped.”
Lem sighs. “I won’t lie — I did think so at first. But at the time I had the shittiest work week, and I couldn’t afford to ignore a new lead for something different.
“The commute was a bit crazy, but I only needed to take one trial shift with Bliss before I knew it was worth making it work. So did Bliss, I guess. She hired me for real before the end of the cycle,” he recalls wryly. “She never said your name, but she couldn’t help but talk about you, you know? Especially with Moritz. They would go quiet whenever I was within earshot.”
“I’m glad it worked out,” you manage to say. You take in the sight of his face, his presence, his weary smile.
“Me too,” he whispers. You pull your eyes away, moving to refill both your glasses. When you settle back down, you realize sheepishly how much closer you are to him. Warmth radiates off his body and the arm draped across the back of the couch, and you want nothing more than to lean into it in a way that was once so familiar…
“Can…” Lem looks down at his glass, smile fading. “Can we talk about the Sidereal?”
You knew this was coming. Your heart falls, but you nod, draining your girolle and pouring another for yourself. Lem takes a sip before setting his glass down.
“You didn’t have to tell me about the deal,” he says softly. “You could have just let it be. Let things go as they would’ve anyway, since I already knew we weren’t picked for the drawing. Maybe I could’ve lived with that. But just… it hurt worse knowing we did have a chance.”
“I shouldn’t have decided for you,” you assert. “Even if I still had to beg on my knees for you to stay… I should have given you that choice.”
Lem purses his lips, but nods.
“That just about sums it up,” he admits. “It… it means a lot that you’ve been thinking about this too.” He looks away from you, out the window. “Do you think you were right?”
You were so happy to have Lem near you again. But now you want to be anywhere but here.
“Not about deciding for you. But if you’re talking about the whole program as a whole… I don’t know,” you whisper. “The person who made the deal for us wanted to track the ship by using me as surveillance. I like to think that gave me a hunch about what I’d be enabling, but… on top of that I think I was already scared.”
“Of what?” Lem asks, but not as a challenge.
“Of being trapped,” you say. “I was afraid you or Mina might never see the outside of a ship again. You might not ever get a chance to feel rain after all. And I was scared… because if you and Mina had gone ahead into the ship, I don’t actually know for certain if I would have followed. Maybe I could have. But I don’t know if that would be me being brave or me running away from my responsibilities here. I didn’t want to be used as someone’s tool, yes, but… maybe I’m also afraid of change. I have so much yet to do here — people who rely on me. I was afraid I’d run out of stabilizer just a couple months into the journey and leave you both alone.”
Lem looks at his hands.
“Stabilizer… right,” he grimaces. “How are you doing on that?”
You think about those five precious vials, clinking gently inside of that box small enough to fit in your pocket. At the time you received them you kept a brave face, rationalizing to yourself you could stretch it for months, but that would only be if you stayed in your apartment; half-aware in stasis, waiting for the end.
And that’s not how you’ve been living. That’s not how you ever wanted to live.
“My cycles are ticking down,” you admit. “But it should be time enough to find a solution. Sabine — the doctor — they gave me some leads on where to look.” You take a preoccupied sip of your girolle. “Although… I have a sneaking feeling they were just trying to give me hope. So until then, I can patch myself up with scrap to help the stabilizer last longer.”
Lem eyes you dubiously. “You don’t seem upset about that. Aren’t you?”
“I’m… not. And I don’t know why,” you huff a laugh. “Maybe after everything that’s happened something is broken in me; keeping me from panicking like before. But I like to think that maybe… maybe…”
You swallow, realizing you haven’t said this aloud to anyone else, or fully admitted it to yourself.
“...maybe I’ve accepted that the end will come soon. And if it does, I have people who won’t let me be alone. A hug from Tala, a hot meal from Emphis, some good laughs from Bliss and Moritz…”
You trail off, avoiding Lem’s eyes as the obvious omission goes unsaid.
“It sounds like you’re giving up,” he says quietly.
“Maybe I am,” you shrug. “But I got what I needed — freedom, purpose, friends… some answers.” You sigh, taking another sip. “I’m honestly afraid to expect or ask for much more, so I’ll treasure what I have while I have it.”
Lem seems to mull that over, his brow furrowing unhappily. And then, after some hesitation, he takes your hand, squeezing it gently between both of his own.
“Listen, Sleeper. This whole time we’ve been here, I thought that all Mina and I had was each other,” he says softly. “I had no other connection to this place. I hated it. I felt trapped here and worse that Mina would be trapped here too. But then I met you.” His smile is wistful. “You were a true friend. Mina loved you. I didn’t even consider that you wouldn’t come with us. I didn’t consider you had your own universe too.
“Sleeper, I grieved for that future. But now I realize I haven’t lost anything at all. We have all we had before. We have more, now. I’ve got a sweet gig, Mina just loves her school. I guess the only thing certain in this life is uncertainty. If here is where you want to be, then here is where we’ll be too.”
Why? You want to ask in disbelief. He can't have possibly forgiven you...
As if in reply, Lem's thumb strokes briefly over your hand. “You ever heard of the three-body problem?”
Chapter Summary: As Yatagan continues to recover, Sleeper's friends move on with their lives, and they begin to move on with theirs. Even in the face of the unknown, things come full circle.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Excerpt below:
As soon as Tala locks the doors and shuts down the lights, she grabs you by the arm and drags you into the back room.
“Close your eyes!” she implores you. “Ah — but don’t trip, whoops!”
The smell hits you immediately when you enter — a cocktail of rich fermentation and chemical sharpness. Even through your eyelids you can tell that the room is warm and bright now, thanks to the newly installed lights.
“Okay,” Tala guides you. “Now sit — carefully!”
You obey, feeling the rickety stool rattle beneath you. As you wait, you hear the soft trickle of something pouring into one glass and then another. You feel Tala’s warm hand again slip into yours as she arranges your finger against the cool glass.
“Okay,” she says. “Take a sip.”
You raise the glass to your lips, already feeling the burn in your nostrils, but you oblige her.
Compared to her first attempt, an almost buttery and spiced earthy flavor explodes against your sensors. You let it slip across your tongue as you savor the girolle, reveling in the earthy tones, wood, and soil thrumming at the base of the palate. There’s still a bit of sediment left in your mouth as you swallow, but as you open your eyes you see Tala’s shining with nervous pride.
“Better, huh?” she whispers, clutching your other hand. She then laughs, raising her glass to yours. “I forgot to do this properly! Cheers!”
You clink your glass to hers as you take another eye-watering sip.
“Oof, yeah that’s still heavy,” Tala grimaces. “I only had a tiny sip earlier, got distracted…”
“It’s almost there,” you tell her truthfully. “Maybe it could be diluted a bit?”
Tala swirls the girolle in her glass. “That might just work! Open it up a bit…” she grabs a metal bottle from the work surface and adds a few drops of water into the girolle. “Try again?”
You take another sip, swishing it around as she grins at you. This time, the burn is a warming glow, harsh but fading off, and the woodiness less heavy. You taste something floral in the earthiness, something fresh and bright that you never expected to find.
Tala lowers her own glass.
“Oh…” She turns to you, eyes round and shining. “...it’s… it’s really good, huh?”
“It’s fantastic,” you murmur, awed. “You did it!”
Tala reaches over to clutch your other hand. “Sleeper. We did it.”
Before long you have both drained your glasses, and she pours another couple fingers before adding some water. The actions already take on the quality of a ritual as you both drink simultaneously.
Eventually, your friend tucks her feet up onto her stool, sitting nearly cross-legged. She grins to herself, her eyes turning wistful and she takes another sip, looking down into the glass and swirling the liquid thoughtfully.
“Chit for your thoughts?” you offer.
Tala chuckles, looking up at nothing in particular. “I think I told you before, but my dad opened this place,” she says. “It was his attempt at making a life for us when we got to the Eye.
“So I was just thinking about something my dad told me, while he was painting those plants all over our apartment,” Tala gestures vaguely upwards. “When he first set this place up he wanted to call it ‘The Bantayan,’ but he was afraid it’d scare off the customers so he translated it from Tagalog. Hence, ‘The Overlook.’
“And these past few cycles, when I’ve been in here, I’ve been thinking that I should rename this place.” She finally looks at you with a small smile. “The Bantayan. What do you think?”
You raise your grass to her.
“I love it,” you say earnestly.
“You love it? I’ll take it!” she grins, picking up her own glass again. “That settles it then — to the Bantayan!”
You both clink your glasses and drink up.
The girolle isn’t at all the same as stabilizer. In fact, too much of it can have quite the opposite effects of the drug. But sharing these drinks with Tala brings you healing you once never thought possible while you existed in this body.
Each sip, each freely-spoken word is a reminder that Essen-Arp doesn’t own you anymore. They can’t, because this place, its people, and their dreams own you. They are what makes you get up every cycle, inspiring you every day.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Excerpt below:
Among all of those with whom you have become acquainted on the Eye, you never would have expected Ethan to be your chosen companion for dinner. You both sit on stools in the shadow of the safest meeting place you can think of — Emphis’ food stall. Your friend grunts a greeting, unceremoniously plopping a bowl of your usual and some chopsticks. But despite his nonchalant demeanor, you can feel his eyes and ears studying you and your dinner companion, watching over you.
You wish you could reassure him that it’s now a much different dynamic than the last time you and Ethan ate together here. You don’t discuss business, but rather you sit in silence as you both slurp and munch on the spicy mushrooms.
That is, until you venture to turn to Ethan.
“Did you actually know the identity of my consciousness?” you ask him.
Ethan takes a long sip of his drink.
“Alongside your serial number I had your old name. A face. A place of birth.” He looks at you, swirling his tumbler. “But it seems you know all that now. What else would you want to know?”
“Do I have any family left alive?” you ask. You feel small, insignificant. You know the answer doesn’t matter — you can’t do anything with it.
You prepare yourself for the man to taunt and mock you, but instead he carefully places his chopsticks down and rubs at his brow.
“I’m sorry, Sleeper,” Ethan says, and to your surprise it seems that he actually means it. “That I don’t know.” He hesitates. “Maybe you don’t want to hear this, but… I remember hearing that the Typha colonies collapsed some time ago. I heard a handful are still viable, but I don’t know which.”
You nod, sipping your drink. It’s about what you expected. If Castor didn’t know, you have little hope anyone else outside of Essen-Arp would either.
The two of you don’t talk much more as you finish up your dinner. You drop some chits into Emphis’ box and he grunts in thanks before you and Ethan take off for the evening. It occurs to you that you have no clue where Ethan lives, or why you are being so courteous as to walk him wherever he’s going next. He seems amused by this fact.
“May and I stay in our ship where we’re docked,” he explains unprompted, glancing towards the docks. “The docking fees are a bitch, but it’s better than holding up in a shipping container, eh?”
‘May’ and ‘our ship…’ you almost wish you were close enough with Ethan to tease him about the way he casually throws around the words — especially as a small, fond smirk creeps onto his lips.
“I think that’s close enough, both of you.”
Maywick emerges from the shadows, nodding at you in greeting. “You shouldn’t be seen together,” he reprimands them without much heat.
“He’s jealous,” Ethan rolls his eyes at you. “Don’t worry, you’re still my favorite sleeper,” he drawls at Maywick before peeling off. “I’m gonna take a whizz. You two assholes go on and catch up about whatever robot shit you’ve got to talk about.”
Maywick sighs as the blond man leaves, before turning to you and beckoning you to join him in the shadowy corner.
You raise an eyebrow at him. “I thought you said we shouldn’t be seen together.”
“I just wanted to get rid of him,” Maywick shrugs. “I did want to talk with you… sleeper to sleeper.”
“Alright,” you humor him. “You have my attention.”
Maywick seems to mull over his words before speaking, his voice still distorted and croaky.
“I’m glad I didn’t succeed in killing you,” he says quietly. “You are the best of us.”
You scoff reflexively.
“I’m just another pawn in all this,” you insist, but Maywick waves you away.
“Of us. ” He gestures to himself. “Among sleepers, I imagine very few are capable of what you have done. The things you have endured to prevent this station from collapsing upon itself…”
He smiles tightly at you. It contorts the scars upon his face and neck as he swallows, weighing his words carefully.
“Sometimes,” he hesitates, “I wish I were one of those other factory sleepers. Despite everything that happened to all of you, you had each other.”
He looks at you. “I was private military before I willingly entered the program. But I was dying from a terminal illness, and Essen-Arp thought it would be such a waste for me to grow feeble and let all that talent die. So when they offered me more time to live? You bet I took it.”
He slips off a glove, studying his own hands. “But when I woke up, I wasn’t whole. I woke up and immediately knew I had lost the things that made me human — memories of family, food… they built me to look more human than others, but I could never pass as one of them. I wanted to be like them, and I hated the parts of me that weren't.
“I found pleasure in hunting sleepers like you — sleepers like us. I liked the satisfaction of watching the light of their eyes extinguish. Like a star blinking out of sight forever. It helped me think that I was not like them.
“So long as I was out on a job, I could be human. I could be whatever I wanted. But whenever I was back among other hunters, I’d be reminded that I was nothing more than a ghost. I was always alone, and I thought I liked it that way.”
He looks over towards where Ethan is clambering into a ship and cracks a smile. Ethan pauses before he enters, removing his cigarette to blow a stream of smoke out before dropping it unceremoniously to the floor.
“I never would have divided up the finder’s fee with Ethan,” Maywick states matter-of-factly. “He was a loose end to Essen-Arp and an inconvenience. So when we first saw each other again, he was ready to kill me. And I was ready to kill him.”
“Yeah…” you eye their ship. “So how does this work?”
Maywick chuckles, and it’s a choked, gravelly sound.
“Isn’t it obvious, Sleeper?” he drawls. “It’s my charming personality and devastating good looks.”
“...okay,” you say after a moment. You suppose you’re never going to get a straight answer – this will likely remain one of the galaxy’s greatest mysteries to you.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Excerpt below:
As Sabine predicts — warns, even — Yannick likes to keep you close.
“Why did you join Yatagan, Sleeper?”
Yannick addresses you directly as you run diagnostics on a network outage that disrupted a briefing a few minutes earlier. While his aides fussed and lieutenants grumbled, Yannick simply plopped himself down in the chair beside yours, watching you at work with ever steady eyes.
You know a man like this can probably recognize a lie from a mile away, let alone this close.
So you tell the truth.
“I’ve been looking for a purpose,” you offer.
“‘Purpose?’” Yannick repeats, head bouncing in a thoughtful nod. “You didn’t have purpose in the manufacturing plant?”
You barely manage to keep your systems from shuddering nervously at the question.
“Maybe ‘purpose’ isn’t the right word,” you shrug. “I think I meant… ‘meaning?’”
“‘Meaning,’” Yannick repeats, savoring the word in his mouth. “My question remains the same.”
You huff a cheerless laugh. “Did I find meaning in the manufacturing plant? No. I found only loss. Suffering. Endless, repetitive tasks where it felt pointless to be sentient, unless Essen-Arp simply wished to be sadistic. If anything, I lost more of myself than ever. I lost meaning with every friend, every hour wasted…”
You mentally kick yourself far too late. So much for being undercover — with that rambling answer alone, you have spoken too much to someone who himself is already compromised. Someone who is sympathetic to Essen-Arp, if not directly linked.
But Yannick doesn’t leap to defend the corporation. He doesn’t encourage you further either, nor hush you. He simply keeps nodding.
“Do you think you’re special, Sleeper?” he asks.
There’s no venom in his voice, nor any mockery or challenge. There is merely the smallest color of curiosity.
You scoff a little. “I’m no one,” you mutter.
“Well, that’s not right,” Yannick chides you, reaching over to pat your shoulder with a bony hand. “In such a short time, many within Yatagan look up to you. I hear that both within and outside this ward, you command respect.
“Knowing that, does that give you meaning, Sleeper?” he asks evenly.
You nod, flashing the old man a smile as your diagnostic concludes.
“It has,” you say softly.
The man pats your arm again.
“Good. Then Yatagan is still the Yatagan of a much younger, more idealistic man, where even just one person can find sanctuary, community, and purpose on this damn Eye.”
He attempts to remove his hand, but it spasms and shakes as he withdraws it.
“Meds,” he grumbles, and an aide is already at his elbow. He rolls up his boss’s sleeve as Yannick’s shaking hand administers the medication into his own arm.
You smile sympathetically before looking away out of respect — and discomfort.
The vial looks an awful lot like your stabilizer.
Perhaps this is another reason why Yannick might be working with Essen-Arp? Like you, does he also depend on them for the substances that keep him alive? It would make tragic sense, here on the Eye. When everyone is at the mercy of the corporations and unions that feed them, house them, and keep the station spinning…
