Hereâs a teaser for a collab between @sharmat-dreams and myself. I hope you enjoy~
The first time had been entirely unintentional on Cynthiaâs part. Her fingers had brushed against his during a game of ShĆgi, and despite how brief, how fleeting the touch had been, she had shivered from how cold they had been. From their first meeting, she had been wondering whether Alan Kiddâs face did indeed feel like the marble it appeared to be carved from, whether it was truly devoid of life and warmth, yet even after having touched his hand, her question had not been answered, for it wasnât uncommon for a personâs hands and feet to be colder than the rest of their body, and, acting on the part of her that would always be a researcherâs daughter, Cynthia rose from her chair and walked around the captainâs table.
âMay I touch your face?â she asked, only realizing the full implications of her words when it was already too late for her to retract them, and to her surprise, he responded with a slow nod and lowered his hands into his lap as to grant her better access.
Hesitantly, Cynthia reached out, placing her hands on the sides of his face as though handling a precious artifact, and she noticed that his skin was, in fact, as smooth as it looked, and that, while his skin wasnât cold to the touch, his body temperature appeared to be slightly lower than that of the people she had touched before as well as her own. Before she could stop herself, she was already caressing his prominent cheekbones, and nothing could have prepared her for the sigh that escaped his parted lips, long and wistful and speaking of vulnerabilities she would have never suspected him of possessing.
Logically, Cynthia knew that she should be using this reaction to her advantage, regard it as the first step of finding a way to make him utterly dependent on her, yet instead, her chest ached with a deep sadness as one particular thought occurred to her: Alan Kidd had to be freezing, and even though he may not have been aware of it, the cold was close to extinguishing the small flame of his life.
It was an act of cruelty she wasnât yet capable of.
The following evening, Cynthia entered the captainâs cabin with a clear goal in mind: She wanted to learn more about the Shipmaster as to ensure that he would be willing to die for her along with the rest of the crew, for against all odds, she needed to survive in a world that no longer changed in accordance with her will. Â
Their game of ShĆgi proved to be more difficult than their previous matches, for the captain was improving rapidly and Cynthiaâs mind was racing with possibilities and their respective risks and dangers. More than anything, she couldnât allow her heart of steel to soften, couldnât allow it to take pity on the man who had become what she was afraid of becoming.
No man could live without a purpose; he could only survive â or vegetate.
It was of no surprise to her that she lost that day for the very first time.
âWhat a splendid match,â she said with a smile that simulated friendliness, though the admiration in her voice was genuine.
Underneath the table and concealed from the captainâs view, her hands clenched and unclenched as she was bracing herself to make another bold request without betraying her nervousness that she rationalized away as a young womanâs natural bashfulness in the presence of a handsome man.
âMay I touch you again?â she asked, determined not to avert her gaze. âThere is something I would like to confirm.â
Once again, the captain nodded, and as they stood face to face, Cynthia couldnât help but marvel at the courage he displayed â as though he did not fear an outcome similar to the previous time she had touched him, and her intuition told her that he had predicted that this time, she didnât intend to touch his face, for indeed, when her hand reached out this time, she placed it on the center of his chest, feeling for his heartbeat. As she had expected, it was slow and steady, almost unnaturally so, and her touch didnât appear to affect him in the slightest.
âThe captainâs more of a machine than a human being,â she remembered Daisy saying. âPity nobodyâs managed to operate him properly.â
âMay I touch you as well?â the captain suddenly asked, effectively pulling her out of her thoughts. âYour pulse alone would suffice.â
âOf course,â Cynthia said softly. âHowever, it would be quite unfair of me to not allow you to touch me in⊠the same place.â
Giving him no time to object, she reached for his hand and guided it to the center of her chest. She was proven right in her assumption that he would refrain from touching her in an inappropriate fashion, for underneath her hand, his hand lay perfectly still, and Cynthia wondered whether he was picking up on the way her heartbeat and her breathing had accelerated, whether he took notice of the blush that must have crept its way onto her cheeks.
â
With his head resting on Cynthiaâs chest and his eyes closed, Alan all but resembled the man he was supposed to be, for his handsome features were relaxed and his expression was peaceful and vulnerable, almost, as he let himself fall into Cynthiaâs embrace, and he sighed contentedly when she began to stroke his soft hair.
Whenever they were like this, he displayed no interest in hearing one of Cynthiaâs stories; the sound of her quickening heartbeat, the rise and fall of her chest, and her caresses appeared to be enough for him, and when he raised his head to press a tender kiss above her heart, she realized with no small amount of sadness that she no longer wanted him to die, but to live for her.
Indeed, Cynthia harbored no delusions about the fact that it wasnât her Alan coveted, but life itself.
What does it mean to be born on an island? On a finite scrap of land which doesnât curve round the edges into a semblance of infinity? On a tiny, frail piece of land which doesnât jut into the sea - the sea which, in turn, crashes into another mass of land, over and over, until everything is connected and interconnected in mysterious and amazing ways? No, there is just the island, and itâs suspended in the sky all by itself, surrounded by a vast, grey emptiness that connects nothing. Itâs a lie that the sky is blue; itâs only blue and vibrant for those who live far below. They look at it, throwing their heads back, and hope. No, for the islanders somewhere in the middle of this new, isolated world, the sky is grey.Â
What does it mean to live on an island? To find out early that there is a limit for the new and exciting discovery, that everything ends with an abrupt step over the edge, and the edge is outlined, defined, etched into the forefront of their minds - and itâs maddening. Or it was, once, for a child who brimmed with curiosity, who had memorized every curve, every inch of his island, who had found and explored even the deepest of caverns where roots and soft soil met the sprawling brass of the machine.Â
Itâs not the same anymore. These days even the food tastes stale. Â
The first time it happens the Shipmaster calls the cook to his cabin - a lovely young lady by the name of Daisy - and reprimands her harshly for spoiling his dinner. She is indignant and tearful, but he refuses to listen to her excuses. âIâll find a different cook if your duties bore you so much that youâve begun to neglect them,â he says and turns to the window which tells the only comforting truth: the sky is endless and grey.Â
âMachines saved us,â echoes a familiar voice deep down in the recesses of his memory. âWhen the magic destroyed our world, machines offered us a way to survive, to put our world back together.â That man - the head instructor at the academy - spoke as though the machines were alive, but the Shipmasterâs only salvation is to know that it is the most dangerous of all illusions.  Â
These days Alan Kidd barely eats at all.
