Six Years Later. Space Station Yellowbeak.
When you're a kid, if you're insanely lucky, you don't usually notice the cracks in the walls. You see the world through a rose-colored window, knowing that no matter what, you'll be safe. The heroes always protect you from the monsters, with a sword and shield in hand. You always have a place to go home to -- dinner, always on the table. Never mind the creatures lurking outside -- it's all normal.
The screams of citizens, dodging the teeth of monsters.
Normal.
Concerned talk amongst construction workers. The waitress at Dorothea's, teary-eyed as she takes our order. None of us knowing if our homes had been destroyed, too -- if the walls were even stable -- and Mrs. O'Leary, once again wiping the blood off of her old gun with a grimy old towel --
Normal.
Just what did that even mean, anyways?
At some point in my life — maybe twelve or thirteen — I began to notice. The houses on our block were flimsily built — giant blocks made of cheap metal, which glinted under the light of an artificial sun. One time, I'd climbed the roof of my school, stretching my arm as far as it could reach -- I'd strained until I felt like my hands would fall off, squinting, trying to see if I could touch that cursed sky.
It was an insult. Whoever had designed Yellowbeak all those years ago wanted it to seem like a normal Earth neighborhood -- suburbs, they used to call them -- but instead our home lived and breathed as a grim reminder.
We had no planet to return to. Whatever was left of it had been destroyed by our ancestors all those years ago.
Lottie's warnings from when I was a child, once lighthearted and playful, turned out to be true. My face soon became spotted with heavy acne -- picking at it too much now permanently scarred my features. My hair, short. Choppy. Stringy. I wasn't beautiful, I knew this -- it didn't matter. I wasn't looking for anyone to impress.
Nobody but myself.
- - - - - - -
The sound of an engine revving up. The scent of fuel in the air. This was where I belonged, under the dim lighting of a local alleyway. The streetlights flickered occasionally -- weak as ever. I'd learned over time that the station's power generator could only take so much; a blessing and a curse, in its own right.
Block 3 was a long-abandoned part of Yellowbeak, one of the parts Dad had forbidden me to enter. And it was no wonder -- the place was a dump. I'd once roamed it upon Isma's request, searching for spare parts, but all I found was burnt to a crisp.
Now, it was the perfect location for a race.
Isma was sitting on a twisted mailbox, their tongue stuck between their teeth as they toyed with some old cubelike mechanism. In our six years of growing up together, their hair had grown long -- unruly curls stuck out from all ends, just past their shoulders, barely contained by a rubber band. And, just like always, they were swearing like a damn sailor.
"Boo." I flicked them on the back of the head — Isma didn't flinch, distracted by the machine.
"One mo'."
Ugh — they'd made me come all this way, and I'd gotten a "one mo'"? Typical Isma.
"Bam!"
YOU ARE READING
Cosmic Jellyfish
Science Fiction" We were just as much of an anomaly as those cosmic jellyfish - born from Earth, despite never even seeing such a planet. Floating, endlessly, in waters that weren't our own - not knowing that, despite us once having a home, we could never go back...
