Their Souls Were The Same

One

Marcy shines her penlight in Philip's eyes. His pupils are reactive, proving it's been several hours since his last dose of heroin. He looks a little worse for wear, but she is starting to see real improvements in his recovery.

She clicks the light off and shoves it into a side pocket of her medical bag. She opens the main compartment and starts unloading clean syringes, needles, and antiseptic into a set of drawers. In some ways, she's reminded of David, spending his days checking in on clients struggling with all kinds of problems, ranging from the drug addicted, the homeless, and of course, people with varying mental capabilities, just like her host. She bites her lip, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. David's work was important to him, and she wasn't going to have that taken away from him. Still, in her short time in the 21st, aside from her teammates, David was the only person she knew who made her want to keep trying to save the world, even when she knew she couldn't save herself. He made the rest humanity worth saving.

Leaving was hard, but she knew it was for the best. Still, the thought made her sad, so she tried to pour herself into her work, ignoring the entire world except for the person in front of her. "How was group therapy this week?"

Philip ran his fingers across the bedspread. He was always eerily shocked by the feel of the fabric. The same tried-and-true cotton blend would still be used 431 years from now to make clothing. He was yet to find anything here that brought him back to the 25th like that cotton touch – except maybe the pair of blue eyes staring back at him.

"Did you know your eyes now are the exact same as your eyes in the future?" Philip blurts out.

Marcy heaves her bag down by the door and joins Philip on the edge of the bed, clearly exhausted with his antics. "You know the rules. Protoc-"

"It's just us," he begs. "No one else. Please. If I don't release some of this steam, I'm afraid I'll slip up." His eyes dart to the golden tin on his dresser containing a small bag of powdered euphoria. He couldn't escape his head – it'd been modified against his will to contain all the knowledge of a small computer – but he could unburden the weight of the small things, the things he found joy in remembering, and it just might be enough.

Marcy sucks in her bottom lip, wincing. "Fine," she concedes. "But my eyes weren't blue."

"No," Philip muses, leaning back against the wall. He soaks in the way the sunlight from the dirty window illuminates her silhouette from behind, giving her the illusion of glowing. Her hair glints golden and her eyes look more ocean than sky. "They were brown, just like your hair." He remembers the first person who'd ever caught his eye. They would shovel information into him until his brain felt like it'd explode, but there was always more room for memories of her.

The air was congested. 3326 had never known anything but. They were in the middle of nuclear winter; the conditions outside were more than the human body could withstand, so getting fresh air was not an option, but he could occasionally be granted a break from the tiny, windowless room he trained in. When such an occasion arose, he always knew exactly where he wanted to go.

Her long, silky dark hair was pulled back into a low ponytail as she sat in front of a cadaver, a Traveler's body whose soul had already vacated it and left for the 21st century. Her fingers moved deftly as she stitched together bullet wounds in the body's chest. He loved to watch her work. She had a focus and dedication for the Traveler program he wished so badly he had. But she'd volunteered, and he'd been selected. He'd never had a choice. He was born to be a historian, a Traveler.

"It's hard to imagine her with such a fair complexion, isn't it?" 0115 rounded the corner of the Medic's wing of Shelter 1, looking through the observatory window with 3326.