Inherently Innocent

With Bright Hopeful Eyes

Ro Marull dropped her bags inside the cave. Her arms were sore after days of building up and tearing down her tent. The radio she carried wasn't even of transporting size, so she had to use a full hand to carry it every day, leaving her back and right hand clumsier at the end of each day. The gun at her side made for an interesting fidgeting tool whenever there was a call.

The Mars Station called every day. Every single day for the two months Ro had stayed on Earth that far. They were intrigued to say the least. Ro recognized the voice of her superiors, unmistakably stressed at the new discovery. Way too often, they asked Trix, the so-called "ishine", to answer instead of Ro. The human forbade her friend from speaking too much, already fearing what Mars was speaking whenever their microphone was off.

"Will more of your kind come?" Trix asked when Ro turned off the radio. The ishine had a tendency to put their hands on their petals whenever Rocio stopped speaking with the humans.

"Probably. The plan was to start a migratory trip the moment I landed and proved the planet was safe. In about six years, they must be landing where I did. I need to build homes and defenses for them. At least as much as a one-woman mission can do. But maybe the fact you're here is making them change plans. I guess they're counting on your species to help. I suppose we can work together for at least a year." Ro leaned sideways, as if she was offering a time and day for a date.

"A year?" Trix asked, holding up the zip of the tent, intensely looking at it with curiosity.

"A Trestrial year. A Martian year might be until the second wave, we don't know." Ro slid the last stick of the tent into its respective socket. She placed her hands on her hips, satisfied at her work.

She looked at Trix for approval, but the ishine was far too concerned at the concept of time to speak. They were expecting an explanation.

"A year is the time it takes the planet to spin around the sun. Humans use it to measure time. Like projects, or trips, or age."

"Age?" Trix asked, dropping to their knees to slide into the tent.

"I'm almost eight. I think that turns to about fourteen or fifteen terrestrial years. That means the Earth has taken fourteen or fifteen turns around the sun since I was born. Do you know how many you took?"

Trix took a moment to answer, "Something tells me what you're using are numbers. But I have no clue how to use them."

Ro sat inside the tent and scratched her back as she started to feel her skin peel. She used a sleeveless shirt because of the heat, but the sun didn't have mercy on such an outfit.

"Is that young for your species?" Trix asked.

"I suppose. Around this age we barely overcome puberty, and we're a long way away from maturity," Ro chuckled, "But my family has a history of having to grow fast. And famine doesn't need a specific age to kill you. I had to be sent on this mission now. My kind couldn't wait four more years."

She turned to grab her radio and report another rest, but stopped when she noticed Trix's hands had changed colour. From the green they had been using since the two met, it now resembled Ro's brown skin closer. It was about halfway there. As if they had tanned from green to pale brown. Like an ageing little tree.

"How did you do that?" She asked, taking the ishine's hands into her own.

"I don't know. I just wanted it to happen," Trix smiled. "Have you ever heard of a chameleon?"

Ro enjoyed it when they smiled. Their soft features turned wrinkled at their cheeks. Or forehead whenever they were surprised. Sometimes even their eyes, if she got to explain a joke in a way they understood.