Our Assigned Fate: a Ninjago Jaya AU ✔️

Epilogue

"Hey Nya," Ed says when I renter the church. I found this on open on Jay's laptop. I thought you'd like to read it."

Ed pulls a neatly folded piece of paper from his pocket before handing it to me. I gently take it from him and smile, or at least I think I smile, up at him.

"Thank you."

He nods before walking away from me. I twirl the paper between my fingers. Why would Jay want me to read this?

***
"Hey sis," Kai turns to me the moment we get inside, "what did Mr Walker give you?"

"I...I'm not sure, but he wanted me to read it."

I pull the paper out of my pocket, unfold it and clear my throat.

Hickman,

I'm a good person but a shitty writer. You're a shitty person but a good writer. We'd make a good team. I don't want to ask you any favours, but if you have time – and from what I saw, you have plenty – I was wondering if you could write a eulogy for Nya. I've got notes and everything, but if you could just make it into a coherent whole or whatever? Or even just tell me what I should say differently.

Here's the thing about Nya: Almost everyone is obsessed with leaving a mark upon the world. Bequeathing a legacy. Outlasting death. We all want to be remembered. I do, too. That's what bothers me most, is being another unremembered casualty in the ancient and inglorious war against disease.

I want to leave a mark.

But Hickman: The marks humans leave are too often scars. You build a hideous minimall or start a coup or try to become a rock star and you think, "They'll remember me now," but (a) they don't remember you, and (b) all you leave behind are more scars. Your coup becomes a dictatorship. Your minimall becomes a lesion.

(Okay, maybe I'm not such a shitty writer. But I can't pull my ideas together, Hickman. My thoughts are stars I can't fathom into constellations.)

We are like a bunch of dogs squirting on fire hydrants. We poison the groundwater with our toxic piss, marking everything MINE in a ridiculous attempt to survive our deaths. I can't stop pissing on fire hydrants. I know it's silly and useless – epically useless in my current state – but I am an animal like any other.

Nya is different. She walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the earth. Nya knows the truth: We're as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we're not likely to do either.

People will say it's sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. But it's not sad, Hickman. It's triumphant. It's heroic. Isn't that the real heroism? Like the doctors say: First, not harm.

The real heroes anyway aren't the people doing things; the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention. The guy who invented the smallpox vaccine didn't invent anything. He just noticed that people with cowpox didn't get smallpox.

After my PET scan lit up, I snuck into the ICU and saw her while she was unconscious. I just walked in behind a nurse with a badge and I got to sit next to her for like ten minutes before I got caught. I thought she was going to die, too. It was brutal: the incessant mechanized haranguing of intensive care. She had this dark cancer water dripping out of her chest. Eyes closed. Intubated. But her hand was still her hand, still warm and the nails painted this almost black dark blue and I just held her hand and tried to imagine the world without us and for about one second I was a good enough person to hope she died so she would never know that I was going, too. But then I wanted more time so we could fall in love. I got my wish, I suppose. I left my scar.

A nurse guy came in and told me I had to leave, that visitors weren't allowed, and I asked if she was doing okay, and the guy said, "She's still taking on water." A desert blessing, an ocean curse.

What else? She is so beautiful. You don't get tired of looking at her. You never worry if she is smarter than you: You know she is. She is funny without ever being mean. I love her. I am so lucky to love her, Hickman. You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world, old man, but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices. I hope she likes hers.

Once I've finished reading, my legs feel almost weak. I lean against Kai and clutch his arm tightly. Kai pulls me into his chest and rubs circles on my back with his other hand. I jolt and pull my head out of Kai's chest when I feel two hands fall onto my shoulders. Looking up, I spot Mom and dad stood behind me.

"I'm so sorry sweetheart," mom murmurs, rubbing my shoulder.

"We're all here for you."

"I promise," they say together, all of them pulling me into a hug.

And for the first time in nearly two weeks, I allow a smile to creep onto my face.