Chapter Text
You’ve been working at Mira HQ three months now and nothing’s changed. Your job is a stalemate of boredom meets bills, where financial gain motivates you to continue the laborious tasks across the high-fly research hub. Every day is a routine you follow obediently: rise, shower, dress in the magenta-hued suit assigned by a nameless higher-up, and report to Obsidian or Cyan for tasks.
Often, you will find Obsidian neck-deep in another droning office holo-call, or settling a feud between the ever ambitious Scarlet and Gold. As with all your fellow nauts, you must abide by the company rules and regulations regarding names: identify each other using the color of your suits, with variations substituting repeated colors on any given site. It is how you came to be Magenta, because you are not the first Pink to walk this station, nor are you the last.
You are one of two Pinks on the soaring facility. The other is a woman dubbed Fuchsia, and she may be the most clueless individual you have ever met.
Fuchsia joins three days after your arrival. She comes with a small, hovering spacecraft in her wake, one she explains as a service aid to intervene in certain medical circumstances. You accept this without pause; service aids are the grade-a standard for disabled and chronically ill nauts working under Mira’s directive.
Naturally, Cyan delegates the role of tour guide to you, and both you Pinks begin a leisurely stroll through the vibrant, bustling research facility.
“…We have a brand-new medical lab with state-of-the-art technology and holo-scanning to ensure the health of all crewmates,” You force yourself to talk louder than normal due to your helmet muffling your voice. With a wave of your hand, you usher Fuchsia beyond the open doors to the medical wings. “It’s typical for all new crewmates to be holo-scanned after your quarantine expires. I reckon Obsidian will have you under watch for twenty-four, hmm, maybe forty-eight hours?”
“Holo-scan…” Her voice is dreamy. More than once you find yourself looking over your shoulder and back at the fuchsia-suited woman, who often pauses mid-step to examine something on the wall or check on her robot assistant.
“Don’t be nervous.” You blurt out as you wait for her to jog up to you. “—It’s bright but not scary. The lights are the worst thing; just close your eyes.”
“Will it hurt?” Fuchsia touches your arm when she stops next to you.
You wonder what her eyes are like, briefly, before you shrug. “Don’t look at the light. Rest might tickle, but there’s no pain—Unless you stare at the light. Again,” your words drop in volume. “—Don’t stare at it. It’ll hurt your eyes.”
“I won’t. I won’t!” Fuchsia repeats to herself, stumbling over words until she finally nods and the two of you walk again.
Part of you wonders what runs through her head; your questions are set aside for a rainy day. You help Fuchsia to her room and offer a quick goodbye. By the time you return to Cyan, any thoughts of Fuchsia dissipate.
If it isn’t bad enough you have cleaning duty, the responsibilities of teaching Fuchsia each task in the station falls to you.
You don’t need to take it but Cyan’s stares, even through his helmet, is enough to tell you what they’re thinking. You accept under the condition they make Gold stop hogging the hot water every morning.
“I promise nothing.” Cyan quips and waves you away.
You find Fuchsia at the same spot she’s been the past two weeks: back-right table, tucked into a corner, with her very pink spacesuit a sore thumb against the shadows of the cafeteria room. Her helmet is on, food pushed aside, and her faithful spaceship aid floats quietly on the side. She notices you immediately on approach and straightens upright in a tizzy. Her voice is calm but surprised, “Magenta!”
“That’s me.” You tilt your head to one side. “Fuchsia.”
“Magenta.”
“Got a spare seat?” You ask, though you plan to sit down anyways.
To your bemusement, Fuchsia instructs her robot companion to move to the floor. It does so, and a second later you sit next to the woman. You roll your head and stifle a yawn inside your spacesuit. The gesture causes Fuchsia to let out a soft, huh?
“Nothing.” You quickly remark. “You have a moment?”
“Of course! I do—I mean—Yes!” Fuchsia nods quickly.
“Good, good…”
You begin the speech you’ve accumulated in your head, quickly covering the basis of tasks before breaking down the complex jobs and how to handle them.
Halfway through, you realize the woman’s scooted an inch closer to your side. Two-thirds into the joys of watering flowers and cleaning oxygen filters, your thigh bumps into Fuchsia’s and she looks up at you. For a moment, you catch sight of pristine, dark eyes, darker than anything you’ve ever seen. Your heart skips a beat, but you clear your throat and face forward. “How was the holo-scan? I heard you had some problems with the machine working?”
“I couldn’t figure out how to turn it on.” Fuchsia bows her head and sighs loud enough for your suit communicator to pick up. “Indigo didn’t know what was wrong with it! So, I had to wait for Gray and… And… It was a mess. It got sorted out eventually, but by then we were all sick of the scanner. Gray volunteered to watch my scan so Indigo could take a break.”
“Ah.” You nod once, mind perplexed by the rambles of this clueless naut. “Normally, we have two crewmates watch each scan, but Gray is trustworthy. Been here the longest aside from Obsidian.”
“Everyone goes by their suit color, then?” Fuchsia changes the topic and looks at you. “Are you Pink?”
“No—No! I mean—I wish I was, but… I’m not Pink. There was already a Pink at this station when I arrived, so I got Magenta,” If your helmet was off you might have ruffled your own hair, abash at the tomfoolery of color-coded suit names. “That’s why you aren’t Pink, actually. Pink and Magenta were taken, so you got Fuchsia.”
“Fuchsia... I’m Fuchsia…” Fuchsia repeats the word, the name, the identification, as if it is brand new information.
You can’t help but shake your head at her antics. How she was accepted to become a naut, much less part of a Mira research facility, is beyond you.
At the same time, it is undeniably endearing in a hapless kind of way. You can tell she means well. Even if her knowledge isn’t top of the naut academy, she must possess some form of naut skills to be here. You feel a ping of remorse inside; judging a naut by first impressions isn’t wise. Assuming another’s skills makes an ass out of you and her!
“Magenta?” Her hand shifts to your own and your mind blanks on the contact. The sensors in your suit indicate her touch is gentle but firm. You meet the strange, dark eyes laying beyond her helmet; you nod at her question. She pauses. “—What happened to the actual Pink? The first Pink.”
A nauseous sensation ripples through your gut. You pull your hand back and look to the side. “That…”
“Is it okay to talk about? Will you get in trouble if I ask? I—I don’t want to get you in trouble—” Fuchsia puts her hands up meekly. “I’m sorry if I…”
“No, no. We can talk about Pink. It’s just… It’s not a subject any of us enjoy remembering.” The memories of that day return and bring a melancholy shroud with them. You plop your hands on your lap and look down at the table. “Pink was… He was a good guy. Solid crewmate. Vocal about his optimism and hope for the future of this facility. Always… Offering pick-me-ups when we needed one. At least, that’s what Obsidian and the others say about him. Truthfully, I didn’t know him that well. He was murdered by an Impostor five days after I arrived. I wasn’t done with my quarantine, but I met him when I took my first step into the station; he gave me the usual run-down on how things operate and then showed me to my quarantine room. Indigo found his body in the hallway outside the medical lab.”
“Oh.” Fuchsia’s shoulders slump. Her helmet angles away from you. “That’s…”
“Yeah. It was a mess. I was cleared by the crewmates, they confirmed by security footage I didn’t leave my room. But the others… It devolved into a nasty fight. Nauts suspected each other, threw names, brought up things you’d never think were relevant to being a naut… Paranoia does a number on others,” you shake your head. “I’m lucky I wasn’t part of it. They voted to eject a naut called Beige afterward. Haven’t been any murders since, so—I want to think—I hope—”
“They got the right one? The… This Impostor?” Fuchsia asks.
You nod. “I hope.”
“Me too.” Fuchsia scoots a little closer to you. She looks at the table. “I get scared easily—I—I don’t… I’m not sure I could do anything if everyone ganged up on me. I think I would rather be a flower at that point—”
She balks at your sudden gusto of laughter. You can’t help holding your sides as the chortles spewing out at the sudden thought. Fuchsia nudges you and huffs. You sigh and straighten upright, but your amused mood remains, “Sorry, sorry—That was—It was a little random—”
“Should I be less random?” She doesn’t sound angry. In fact, her sudden concern over randomness is endearing in its own way.
“No. Just be you.” You put a hand on her shoulder, then wince and draw back. “—Sorry, sorry! Force of habit. I’m friends with a lot of nauts, so, they kind of trust me since the Beige and Pink fiasco…”
Fuchsia laughs this time. It is delightful to hear, like a sound you never knew you needed in your life. Your mood lifts; you laugh with her. Though Scarlet makes a chiding remark about the childishness of some crewmates from a table over, you ignore her and keep your focus on the pink-suited figure at your side.
Not Pink. You remind yourself. Fuchsia.
Fuchsia never gets better at her tasks, but it gives you a daily excuse to stick with her. The two of you are inseparable after your lunch together. Whenever Fuchsia has a question, she finds you. Whenever you need someone to vent to after a long day of labor, the woman is there. You grow closer over the weeks, until the weeks are not weeks but months, and the months become long and strenuous from an increased workload issued by corporate higher-ups.
“Sometimes I see Obsidian giving Gray little looks! Do you think Obsidian suspects her? Or—Maybe—” Fuchsia is on a new tangent of mismatched thoughts, legs dangling off her bed as you finish changing the lightbulbs in her ceiling fixture. You huff and climbs down the ladder, then pull your helmet off and breathe in clean air. Fuchsia’s helmet tilts to look at you. “—Maybe—Maybe Obsidian—likes her?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me, honestly,” You shrug. “Gray is third-in-command here, right after Cyan. She’s… She does spend a lot of time with Obsidian. But—But that isn’t any of our business!”
“I guess not,” Fuchsia agrees, albeit reluctantly. “I hope if Obsidian does like her—Things work out! It’s nice when things work out—”
“It is,” you interject, but not quick enough.
“—like with you and me! Things worked out between us, right? We’re best of friends! I like you so, so much. I’m so happy we spend time together, Magenta!” Fuchsia’s innocent rambles make you freeze in revelation.
Heat razes your face; you bashfully pull your helmet on before Fuchsia can get a glimpse of your brazen blush and identify the cause responsible. Your hands fumble locking the helmet into place. Inside it, the air is stuffy and warm, but it provides a moment respite from the very real thumps of your heart in your ears. Best of… Best of… Friends…
“Magenta, do you want help putting away the ladder?” Fuchsia continues speaking as if nothing is wrong. You instinctively doubt your own ears; perhaps you heard what you wanted to hear and not what she said.
“—Sure,” You accept the offer. “Uh, Fuchsia—”
“Mm?” She pushes herself off her bed and folds her hands behind her back. “Yeah?”
“Nevermind.” You turn away, cheeks burning once more.
Fuchsia's tiny spacecraft aid beeps loudly; it stops when you glare at it.
“—Thank you for rising early to make this meeting, crewmates.” Obsidian’s voice is firm and strong, like a powerful threshold encompassing the nauts.
You can’t help feeling safe with Obsidian; something about your leader’s presence is soothing. Perhaps it is the consistency shown in Obsidian’s actions since you arrived. Aside from the trial where Beige was ejected from the high-fly station, you’ve never seen anything but fairness and consideration from your leader. Obsidian’s suit is exactly as the name suggests a pure, pitch black, with a seemingly violet hue in places that remind you distinctly of the old igneous rock created by volcanic activity back on the Homeworld.
Now, in front of you and over a dozen fellow crewmates, Obsidian stands prim and proper. Your leader’s visor reflects little light, but you occasionally catch a glimpse of the naut eyes beyond the suit. Obsidian stares at each naut before continuing the speech, “As you know, six months ago we experienced a catastrophic breach in security. An Impostor bypassed the security measures we put in place, located a crewmate, and murdered him in cold blood. The resulting trial ended with the ejection of the naut Beige, who, given the lack of murders or incidents since then, we believe to have been an Impostor…”
“But there ain’t no proof of it. Could be one of those long-cons, hear what I’m saying?” The voice comes from none other than Gold, whose suit embodies the once valuable metal of the Homeworld. It gleams under the lights of the cafeteria, like a star out of orbit and on land versus the sky.
“It’s possible,” Gray cuts in before Obsidian has the chance to answer. “But—If an Impostor did play us all like a fiddle—If Beige was innocent—They would take advantage of the increased level of paranoia, no? Impostors are characterized by their insatiable need to play on manipulation of other lifeforms; they feed on our emotions. We are pawns to them: tools, if you will, meant to elicit certain chemical responses in the brain through the chaos which descends following a murder. It is imperative we do not give in to the whims of our emotions but take a more… logical approach.”
“If yer logical approach gits nauts killed, then it’s a load of bull—” Gold cuts off mid-sentence after Scarlet hisses at the naut from across Gold’s table. “Fine, fine! Pretend there ain’t no Impostor. I’m not missin’ ya when you go missing.”
“I won’t go missing.” Gray growls. “I believe in the technology provided to us by Mira, and the leadership shown by Obsidian—”
“There it is,” Fuchsia whispers to you, nudging you ever-so-lightly.
You roll your eyes when you see the subtle shift in how Obsidian’s helmet faces, with the helmet turning toward Gray. “C’mon.”
“But it’s so obvious!! Look how Obsidian longingly turns and stares at Gray! The longing, the twisted desires, the need to abide by company regulations in the face of true love—I bet Obsidian loves Gray so, so much, Magenta! I bet Gray loves Obsidian back!” The squeaks from the woman at your side is enough to make you snort.
“Something to share, Magenta? Fuchsia?” Obsidian calls out from across the cafeteria.
You stiffen; Fuchsia freezes. The two of you mumble a humble nope and shut up.
“—I would like to point out,” Indigo, who has remained reserved until now, speaks with a nuanced tone, “We do not know what, exactly, these Impostors are, what they want, or what they are drawn to. Any research conducted on the Impostors is purely hypothetical. Eyewitness accounts point to them being shapeshifting in nature, with no set forms but a tendency to take after nauts in stature and behavior. Do not take unverified reports as fact, Gray.”
“No, you’re correct—Forgive me,” Gray bows her head. She sighs, loud enough to be heard through her helmet. “I am being hasty again with the information gathered from other station accounts. I can’t speak like I know everything.”
“—It was with good intentions, Gray.” Obsidian volunteers, and Fuchsia jabs you in the side.
You glare at her, but your anger melts at the flash of dark eyes behind her helmet visor. Her eyes are full of joy, and it warms you enough to smile weakly in return.
“But,” Obsidian turns to face the group of nauts. “It leads me to the nature of this meeting! Pink’s murder prompted our corporate higher-ups to issue inspections of the facilities, along with new scans of lifeforms present. Unfortunately, current resources prohibit the construction of a full-fledged station scanner, but—A rudimentary version was implemented—And the report is in. There are Impostors among us.”
“What?”
“Told ya so, Scarlet!”
“Shut up, Gold!”
“More than one? How many?” Gray is already on her feet, hands balled into fists. “How many, Obsidian?”
“The reports indicate two Impostors onboard the station.” Obsidian’s head bows. The naut tenses. “It is… Unbecoming for us to reach this point… But circumstances dictate the need for a curfew and patrols. The loss of one crewmate is one too many! We will begin putting together groups and discussing shift schedules for night patrols of the station. The curfew will go into effect immediately; no nauts are to be outside of their quarters past seven o’clock unless they are on patrol. Anyone caught outside their quarters will be reprimanded severely the first time and ejected the second.”
“That’s…” Gold begins, but shuts up when Obsidian taps a foot expectantly.
“Dismissed. Keep an eye out for suspicious behavior among your fellow crewmates, and notify Cyan, Gray, or myself should you suspect something.” Obsidian turns and walks away. Gray trots after him, followed by Cyan.
“A curfew. Fun.” You remark, sarcasm biting at the words.
“Is it actually fun?” Fuchsia grabs your arm. “Magenta?”
“Err…” Your face fills with heat. You look to the side. “No. We—We won’t have as much time together, unless we are on the same night shift.”
“Oh.” Fuchsia’s head lowers. Her grip on the sleeve of your spacesuit tightens. “I don’t like that very much. I don’t—I don’t like it at all!”
“Me neither.” You agree.
From behind, you hear Gold snicker and comment on you both.
Your face burns. You ignore Gold and nudge Fuchsia. “Let’s get started on our tasks, Fuchsia.”
The first week passes peacefully. No bodies are found, nauts are accounted for, and the curfew is adjusted to begin at nine o’clock.
It is a long, hard, grueling night when you get off your shift and clock out for the evening. You barely have time to enter the code to your door and slip inside before you begin tearing off your spacesuit. Your thermal underlayer of clothing clings to your skin; the thin garment acts as sleepwear for your tired self. You begrudgingly bite into station issued toothbrush and hold it in place while tiny micro-brushes work away at your teeth. Afterward, you put together your uniform for tomorrow and return to your bed.
Your eyes shut when you hit the material: a strange, wobbly substance vaguely reminiscent of Homeworld gelatin. It feels cool and sticky, but your body’s density doesn’t puncture the surface. You don’t have blankets to go over: simply a thin sheet of material which feels like sleek plastic on your skin. The personal quarters are strange that way; you’ve never gotten used to the otherworldly qualities of the features of your cabin. It reminds you this planet is not actually home. This research facility is not your permanent residence.
One day, after you serve your required time as a naut for Mira, you will earn the right to return to the Homeworld.
One day. Your mind feels sluggish. Maybe I can take Fuchsia with me…
The warmth dusts your cheeks. You know why, and in the comfort of your own room, alone, you do not shy from the shaky smile which tugs at your heartstrings. The pink-suited woman is a good friend in many ways. You toss and turn on your bed, under the paper-thin sheet, while your mind scours happy memories and thoughts of the woman’s giddy optimism, her innocent nature, and the deep, dark eyes which occasionally meet your own beyond her suit’s visor.
I wonder what she looks like without her helmet. You contemplate. She’s… She must be cute. No matter what she looks like. Because—She’s Fuchsia. And Fuchsia is… Cute.
You are, in many ways, a hopeless naut caught up on feelings you cannot act on. Corporate higher-ups dissuade interpersonal relationships for the sake of reducing drama and avoiding unnecessary conflict. Your feelings on the pink-suited woman and her cheery demeanor remain under lock and key.
Until they don’t—
The crash in your bathroom shoots through your head. Your eyes snap open and you bolt upright. Nervous sweat drips down your forehead and the nape of your neck as you stare at where your bathroom door lays ajar. You left the light off, but you swear you see shadows shifting beyond. Cautiously, you throw your plastic-like sheet off and tiptoe from your bed. You find your suit helmet and lift it high in the air as you approach your bathroom door.
Just as you throw it open, the figure beyond stands up. You bring your helmet down but stop an inch from the intruder’s round and shiny head. You immediately recognize it as a pink helmet. Fuchsia’s pink helmet.
“Hi Magenta!” She waves at you, voice cheerful and bright.
“What are you doing?” You balk. “How did you—What—”
“I’m sorry,” Fuchsia bows her head. “I saw the grate in my bathroom and thought it could lead to somewhere fun…”
Typical. It’s hard to remain irate or annoyed or even suspicious when this is exactly what you expect of your friend. Your lips quirk to a smile before you can stop yourself. You offer your hand and she accepts. You pull her upright and she thanks you for the help. When neither of you let go, you drop her hand and clear your throat. You tuck your helmet under one arm and step back. “Well. Can’t say I’ve heard of crawling through the air ducts before. You could get in big trouble if Obsidian catches you—"
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m really good at being sneaky!” Fuchsia bounces on her feet.
It’s a little disconcerting to see a fully suited naut so energetic and lively, but you welcome the new atmosphere. It’s way better than the weary, dreary no nonsense mood of your patrols. You always get stuck with Cyan, and Cyan never makes jokes when on patrol, not even when Mint is present.
“Well, uh.” It dawns on you she is outfitted for a task run while you are still in your sleepwear. You move to put your helmet away and gesture at the rest of your room. “Not much fun here, honestly. My quarters are the same as everyone elses. I was trying to sleep when you fell in…”
“You were trying to sleep?” Fuchsia sounds amazed by the concept. She is upon you in a moment; the woman begins firing off questions which give you a headache.
You huff and wave her away. “Okay, now’s not the time for an interrogation. What are you planning to do? Shouldn’t you get back to your room?”
“I mean—Should I go?” Fuchsia sounds confused. “Do you want me to go?”
“No—” The words are out before you can stop them. You turn away from her while your face lights up deep, vibrant shades of red. Inside, you chide yourself, Really, Magenta? You couldn’t keep your mouth shut for one minute?
“Oh.” The woman doesn’t say anything else.
Both of you stand in silence a minute, with neither speaking nor moving away. You eventually calm your beating heart and face your friend. “Look—It’s just—You know, there’s not much to do. I don’t… I don’t want to be a bore. I don’t want to bore you.”
“You never bore me,” Fuchsia speaks sincerely, honestly, like a breath of fresh air, and it warms you from the tips of your toes to the end of your nose. The woman reaches for your hand and you allow her to take it into both of hers. Her spacesuit’s gloves feel strange against your palm; it isn’t an unwelcome feeling, but it feels strange.
You shut your eyes and mutter, “—If you were around me all the time—You wouldn’t say that.”
“I would! I like to be with you.” The words make your grip on her hands grow tighter.
“I don’t know what to say to that.” You confess, ignoring the returning swell of heat in your cheeks. “You are a really strange naut, Fuchsia.”
“I am?” Fuchsia asks, confusion returning.
“Yeah. Like—” You let go of her hands and lift both of yours to her helmet. Your fingers shake as you gently touch the visor. “You’ve never taken off your helmet around me. I eat all the time in the cafeteria and you just… You sit there. You talk. But always with your helmet on, y’know? Always with…” The words trail off. You find yourself longing to know what lays beneath.
You want to see the dark eyes you know exist beneath the visor.
“I can take it off. I just—I like it on more. It makes me feel safe.” Fuchsia’s hands lift to the helmet.
You freeze in place. You stare as her gloved fingers struggle with the lock mechanism sealing her helmet to her suit. “What—What are you doing?”
“It makes me feel safe,” the woman answers you matter-of-factly. “But so do you—”
Air hisses through the crack in the seal when she unlocks her helmet. Fuchsia pries it off and, with a soft sigh escaping your lips, you stare at a face more beautiful than anything you could’ve imagined.
She has soft features. Her skin is a hue you remain uncertain of, because it is not a known skin tone from the Homeworld, but it is something so beyond that, beyond your expectations, that all you can do is stare in awe. The flustered heat in your body captures you anew; you feel your heart race furiously in your chest. You don’t know how she is how she is. You don’t know how you could've ever spoken to such a gorgeous woman, much less her speak to you. All your insecurities return in the realization she is everything you are not, and she is everything most strive to be. She is Fuchsia, and she is your friend, and you do not know how you are still standing when your head is light and mind disoriented from the overwhelming sight of your friend.
When the woman’s dark, shining eyes meet your own, you exhale sharper than before. Fuchsia lowers her helmet to her side and frowns. “Am I still strange to you?”
“Far from it,” you whisper. “Fuchsia—”
“I’m no good at making friends,” she confesses, her dark eyes flitting to the side. “I don’t… It doesn’t make sense to me how you… All of you… You talk, right? You bond! And you… You build trust. I’m not sure how to do that. At least—I wasn’t, not until I met you.”
“You aren’t strange,” you blurt out. “Fuchsia. You’re…”
“Magenta?” She reaches for your cheek. The glove of her spacesuit still feels strange—feels off—but it is so welcoming and pure you do not shy from leaning into her touch.
“You’re not—Not strange. You’re—You’re Fuchsia. I thought you were strange but that’s on me, not because—Not because of you,” you babble through the words, absentmindedly keeping your hands on her shoulders. You two are roughly the same height out of your spacesuit. You hesitantly lower your hands to her arms and offer a, “I shouldn’t have said you were strange—I’m sorry. I… That was wrong of me. To not trust you. To judge you—"
“I forgive you—You’re my best friend, Magenta,” Fuchsia’s dark eyes soften. They, like the rest of her, are an enigmatic reminder of space: dark and swirling, to the point you swear you see stars in her irises.
You want to see more. More, and more, and more; like the pull of a celestial body in orbit, you cannot tear yourself away when you begin leaning in. Fuchsia pauses and the two of you stare at the other like star-crossed fools before you lean forward and slowly, carefully, and with every ounce of adoration and affection for the woman in front of you, you brush your lips against hers.
Then you kiss her again, less shy and more bold.
And again.
And again.
And she kisses you back.
The two of you can’t stop smiling at the other. In your dizziness, in the warmth bubbling through your body, you mumble a soft, “—you’re beautiful.”
The night visits become more common. You look forward to her unconventional arrival: always through the air filtration shaft, always crashing into your floor in a full suit of equipment, always taking your hand to pick her up and then taking off her helmet so you can kiss her hello. The corporate higher-ups would have a field day with the regulations you two break, but there is nothing in you that wants to stop. Each visit is as sweet and warm as the last: the two of you wind up in each other’s arms, on your bed, talking about the days and the new developments between soft kisses and lots of laughter.
Until Violet’s body is found in her quarters.
The meeting is called immediately after, with crewmates half-dressed and groggy from the sudden interruption in sleep. Fuchsia narrowly avoids being caught climbing back through the air filtration shaft on the way back to her room. You hear about it later, when the lot of you are whispering and making small talk in the cafeteria, with you and Fuchsia once more plopped on the bench to a back table. She sits snug against your side, with her helmet occasionally bumping your shoulder from where she rests it.
You’re nervous. She isn’t. Her hand squeezes yours softly when your breathing hitches in terror upon hearing the condition of the body. Violet’s death is not an incident of a crewmate passing away; Indigo describes the condition of the body as less than satisfactory and too damaged to process. Given the efficiency of the machines used for mortician services in the facility, multiple crewmates jump on the idea Violet has been cut into pieces.
“We cannot reach any conclusions due to a lack of evidence!” Obsidian criticizes the nauts present. “I’m asking each of you to keep calm and continue working. Indigo, Gray, Cyan, and myself will be on top of the investigation going forward—”
“Why am I part of this?” Gray suddenly pipes up, sitting up in her seat. “Obsidian—”
“I trust you.” Obsidian swears on it, more serious than anything else said that day.
Gray is quiet. She eventually sighs and shrugs. “Fine, fine, I’ll help—”
“Thank you.” Obsidian states.
“—Don’t let it go to your head. I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing this for Violet. She was a sweet lady who never hurt a fly! Didn’t deserve this at all.” Gray crosses her arms. Several crewmates nod in agreement.
“I advise we reinstate the curfew to an earlier time. Double the patrols. I don’t know an Impostor got into Violet’s room, but…” Cyan trails off, shaking his head. Without his helmet he is a handsome man, but your eyes belong to someone else.
Fuchsia’s hand brushes your own. You nudge your head against her and smile to yourself.
“—I have a theory.” Indigo announces suddenly, standing and looking at Obsidian before turning to face the other nauts. Obsidian pauses before sitting down and gesturing for Indigo to take the leader’s position as speaker. “I reviewed the reports of past expeditions… Multiple crewmates spoke of a trend occuring whenever an Impostor was discovered on the ship or facility. The Impostor would begin finding questionable ways to transport itself from location to location. A way to be unseen—”
“Git on with it!” Gold shouts, impatient as always.
“—The vents on a ship, or the air ducts in a facility,” Indigo’s words make your blood run cold. You freeze in place; color drains from your face and you stare as Indigo continues. “Impostors can manipulate their bodies to fit into places us crewmates cannot. I believe this is how the Impostor got into Violet’s bathroom, where it proceeded to enter her personal quarters and attack her while she slept. Again, it is only a theory, but…”
The words become incoherent noises. You feel Fuchsia’s hand grip yours underneath the table. When you look at her, you see her eyes through the visor: bright, happy, innocent. It’s not possible. It’s not… It’s not… It can’t be…
“That’s impossible.” Obsidian announces to the cafeteria, arms behind the naut’s back when the leader stands. “The air ducts are locked by a mechanism only the top three ranked nauts of a station can access. These nauts are Cyan, Gray, and I. Unless you mean to imply one of us is an Impostor—”
“It is only a theory,” Indigo remarks. “Not fact, Obsidian.”
“We need substantial evidence, not theories. But per Cyan's advice—The curfew is reinstated. No one outside patrols is to be beyond their quarters. Keep an eye on the air ducts leading to your bathroom. Keep doors locked. Anyone found in a place they are unauthorized to be will be ejected.” Obsidian decides on the new security protocol with a huff.
When the crewmates disperse and return to their quarters, you see Fuchsia to hers.
Right before her door shuts, you lean forward and whisper softly, “—Tonight—We need to talk.”