"Connie!"

In the haze of her monitor she flinched, earbud still in hand. "Hey, Steven. Hang on; I think there's a sound limiter on here somewhere." Steven laced his fingers beneath his chin and listened to the faint click of her mouse.

"Connie," he whispered, "I got your thing!"

"My thing?" She blinked at the camera, then smiled. "Oh! Wow, that was fast."

Steven raised a manila envelope to view; empty, blazoned with his all-three names in meticulous block letters. "Jamie brought it right up to the door! He said he knew a manuscript when he felt one, and he didn't want me to miss a potentially life-changing opportunity."

"Well, I don't know about life-changing," Connie blushed. "When you told me about that mission I just got carried away, wishing I could have been there with you. What if it had been us, Stevonnie, in our secret identity? Fighting Gem monsters, protecting Beach City." The spirit had caught her, and carried her gaze to the middle distance. "Maybe claiming one last waffle from that food stand, before it became yet another casualty of the uncaring ravages of time."

"You spun it a good memorial." Steven scratched his chin. "The decor was a little off, and your canned history papered over some of its more unsavory episodes, but this whole story is so good! You should get it published!"

Connie scowled. "Well, it's a first draft. I worked with what I had."

"Oh, yeah." Steven reached for a stack of crisp white letter paper, interspersed with green. "I saw all the blanks you left. I filled in the first couple, thinking it was like a Weird Word game, but then it made less sense than before."

"I left in some spaces, because I didn't want to presume." Connie's eyes shone with determination. "Steven, we still have so much to decide, about who we are, how we look."

"What our catch phrase will be." He splayed his hands in an impression of a shrug, in the process spinning his phone's view to the ceiling, then ceding it to gravity, with a clatter. "Whup!" With a kick Steven chased the phone across his loft, then grasped beneath the bed, his ears tuned all the while to its sole under-powered speaker.

"Exactly!" Connie continued undaunted. "So, I've got some notes here."

"Wow, notes?" With two fingertips Steven reclaimed the phone, and swung himself back into frame. "You're so organized."

"Well, you'd think so." Connie bent to fumble at her feet. "Where did—ah!" With a fist she wielded a blue-and-white pen, crested with tabs of many hues.

"Whoa." Steven was genuinely impressed. "How many colors is that?"

"Today," she turned it sideways to check, "we're sketchin' with four."

"Four?!" He covered his mouth, aware of his volume. "All in one pen?!"

"Well, yeah." Connie raised her brows. "It's what I use for social studies. I don't want to mix my theories with the dictation. But it works out, because of our four character themes." She raised a tablet, its lined page split into quadrants. "You," she aimed her click-buttons at the webcam, "were hoping for something cool, or something pretty."

Steven blinked in affirmation. "Or preferably both. Like a pink trench coat."

"Hang on." She lifted a finger. "Let me record this."

"Record?" Steven lit up. "So you can watch me later?"

"Well—no. I mean..." Connie clicked her pen, and lifted the corner of the pad.

"Oh." The smile evaporated.

Connie giggled. "This is my dad's computer. I don't want to leave any files around. Anyway," she squinted at the tablet on her knee, "this is much more efficient." Steven watched as she drew her nose to within an inch of the paper. Through a smear of digital grain, he could just make out the sway of her shoulders.

"Um, you could always type your notes?" He ventured. "And then, er, email them?"

"Too loud." She was off-microphone. As she muttered, Steven tried to feel out the shapes of the words, fill in the meaning where he could. "Also, my dad's in security. I don't know what kind of key-tracking he has installed."

Key-tracking? Steven scowled. "Oh. Well, can you see?"

"No." Connie grunted through her hair. "All right, I guess I'll have to risk it. Where's—" Steven heard a rustle, as she bent even lower. "My bag is—ugh. Okay, so—" The warmth of a book light snapped Connie into frame, displacing the screen's sepulcher rime with the summer slopes and valleys of her face. A deep summer eve, to be sure—but for Steven, a cozy one. Just days ago she'd not have risked the display. But now there was the fire, written on her face. "Cos-tume;" she spoke as she amended the chart.

"So." She cleared her throat. "You're Pretty/Cool."

"Thank you." Steven bowed, theatrically.

"I—" Connie twirled the pen to her chin, launching it briefly from her grip before she caught it with a jolt, "said any outfit had to be practical in battle, and..." She shrugged. "I—I felt it should have some history."

"To fill in our secret origin!" Steven whispered with glee.

"That's right! Yes. In part. And it, also, I—" She paused. "Well, it might help us, them, Stevonnie. To feel, you know, connected. To something. Besides, just, us."

"Stevonnie is their own person," He agreed through protruding lips. "In a manner of speaking."

Connie opened her mouth, then shut it again, mostly. "Yeah, it's—I just..."

A long silence crept into the room. "Um, Connie?"

"What? Oh." She blinked with a start, and searched the rims of her eye for mislaid thoughts. "Sorry. What was—"

"You okay?" Steven frowned.

She nodded, absently. "Of course." The heel of a palm took to battle with the side of her nose. "Ugh, sinuses. Gets worse when I'm tired." She sucked in a breath. "Hey, do you ever—" She shook the notion out through her teeth. "Sorry. Anyway, I tried a bunch of things. I—"

"Connie?"

Her cheek weighed on a wrist, and was still. Connie bit her lip. "Steven, do you ever think—I mean, if we did, it would be kind of like this, right?"

"If we did what?"

"It's," she sighed, "all these things we're planning, it's not just about us. It's not just what we want, right? Stevonnie is—I mean, I'm not just my mom or my dad. I'm me, right? And I don't know all their plans, but—"

Steven furrowed his brow. "Their plans? For... Stevonnie?"

"What? No, Steven, for me. I'm saying—I'm talking about us. About our plans. Stevonnie is half of each of us, but—"

A fuse popped in Steven's brain. "Wait, wai-wait. Are you saying, I'm Stevonnie's mom?"

Connie dropped her arm and stared. "I—no. Steven, I'm—no." She shook her head. "No."

He shrugged. "I guess you lost me, then." While Connie groaned through the desk, he scoured the rafters in thought. "If I was, would that make Stevonnie their own grandma? Kind of?"

With a sniff, Connie raised her head again. "It's—having a real kid is different. You give up a piece of you, but you keep on going, and you don't get to say who they are or what their life will be like. No matter how hard you try."

"Oh. Yeah." A palm found its way to his gem. "So, um, how do they figure it all out?"

"I guess by living? Having their own experiences? I—" Back to rubbing her sinus. A bit harder than it needed. "I mean, you give them everything you have. Tell them what you can. Try to push them where you hope they'll go. But, then they meet other people. Have ideas you never thought of. And, I guess," her eyes lost focus, "they grow up?"

"So that's what real kids do, huh?" His hand clutched tighter. "They grow up."

"Well, yeah." Connie leaned back. "And that's the thing. Stevonnie's already—well, we look grown-up. I suppose they're no older than us. But, Steven, if my birthday were just 76 days earlier, I'd be in high school this fall. And you're older than me! Then after high school, it's college! Unless we dream up a fresh new paradigm to disrupt an untapped billion-dollar industry."

"Wow. Um. Well..." Steven scratched his head. "Maybe I'll find a way to turn a pork chop into perfect hot dogs?"

Connie frowned. "Wouldn't that be a meat grinder?"

"Maybe for Grandpa Universe." Steven raised his palms to the camera. "I predict, the future of hot dogs will be hands-free." The appendages slid apart, and out of view.

A giggle. "I miss having you in my head. It feels like I can't quite think straight on my own."

"I know. It, it keeps getting harder." Steven rubbed his feet together. "But, you know what's good about all this?" He gestured at space between him and the camera.

"The subterfuge?" Connie's eye glinted in the murk.

"Subter-whoge? Oh. No. Well, yes. I was gonna say, it's just us. Just Connie, and Steven. And I get to see you..." He squinted at the screen. "Kind of. And, hear your voice! And it's not this thing where I wonder, 'wait, who thought that?'"

Connie laid her head on her hands, and grinned.

Steven lowered his eyebrows. "I love being Stevonnie with you, and it's hard not to think about it, but that's only because I'm with you. And I'm with you now!" He squinted. "Kind of. And it sucks I can't... see you that well, or sit next to you or put popcorn in your hair. But this is us, right here. We're not making Stevonnie; we're just making us. And... I like us."

Connie sat upright. She blinked a few times, removed her single earbud, and pushed herself to her feet. Steven watched closely as she quit the frame to the right, leaving a trace of armrests to flicker in the gloom. For a beat his eyes strained to catch any hint of motion.

Then, with a yelp he buried his face deep in his antecubital fossa as his phone screamed a brilliant white. Steven swiped down and tapped his back-light till the circle was empty. He swiped the controls up again, and—bleary as it all now felt—there she was. For real, this time. With the glow of the universe behind her. "Any better?" She asked.

"Whoa." In all the LED glare, he hadn't noticed the blue frame to her eyes. She really was tired. "Hey, aren't you—"

"Huh?" The earbuds found their way home; both of them. As did her backside, to the chair.

"This is great!" He cooed. "I can see your ears! But, aren't you worried they'll notice? I mean, not just your ears?"

A hand reached to sweep her hair forward, then—conscious of the motion—tugged the lock back in place. "A little, but." She grimaced. "Sometimes you have to live in the moment, you know?"

"Yeah! I'm—" Steven swiveled his head, though he knew what he'd find. "Um, the best I can do here is the desk lamp, and that's already on."

"No, it's good." Connie leaned up to her father's screen, filling the camera with her forehead. "It's sort of artistic."

"Well, you-a know a-me!" Steven's gestures were scarce more clear than his dialect. "Steven is, a-how you say, ze con-sum-mate artiste!" The chef's kiss that followed is what brought on her snort, and the bang thereby on the desk. "Connie? You okay there?"

"Ow! No. Yes." Connie held her nose in pain as she chuckled. "Ow!" She snorted again. "Don't look at me."

Steven laughed nervously. "You kind of made that hard now." Her shoulders began to heave. "Er, I mean. With the light." That didn't help at all. The rare breath she managed served only to snort off another round of strange convulsions. "Wow," he mused, "you do sound pretty congested." After a long moment, teeth clenched in what he hoped was a grin, Steven began to drum his fingers. "Hey, um, you been sleeping okay?"

"Huh?" The back of Connie's hand dug at her eye as she raised her head to view. "Oh. Yeah, I—" She pursed her lips, hard. "Steven. Since we've been, you know..." Even with the overhead light, the monitor cast its sickly glow. He watched her grasp for words, lose them, and double back from another angle. "I've been having, dreams."

"Dreams?" He studied her eyes, rimmed with shadow.

Connie scowled, down and away. "Yeah, every night. They're really," she hesitated, "vivid."

"Vivid?" Steven remembered his visions of sky taxis and unworldly suns. "How vivid is vivid?"

"The city, it's so clean, and the trees are all ancient, like something out of a fantasy. And as I—we walk around, I realize we're right here. Or, there, I mean, in Beach City."

Steven felt his lips curl back. "These dreams," he ventured, "there wouldn't happen to be any moving sidewalks, would there?"

The pad and pen took flight as Connie leapt to the desk. "Steven! Were—you were there?!"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Um, yeah, possibly?" His breath caught. "I'm—I think I know what this is. I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? Steven—"

He shook his head. "Sometimes I, I go into people's dreams? Or even, sometimes when they're awake." His shoulders drooped with a sigh. "I did it to Lars, and Kiki. And now that I think of it, I find it curious of all people I haven't entered yours until now. But I don't have a whole lot of control, and I didn't ask your permission, so I'm sorry."

"No, don't worry!" Connie pleaded. "Steven, that's just, that's just what we do. And—and now I know what's going on."

Steven's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure that I do. This was different from before. I mean, it's always different, but I didn't see you at all. And I didn't see me either."

"That's just it," she insisted. "Don't you see? It wasn't just our dream, yours and mine. It was Stevonnie's."

"We fused," they said together.

"In our dreams," Connie continued. "So. We can do that now?"

"I guess it kind of makes sense?" Steven spoke slowly, weighing each word as a question. "I must have a lot of Connie on the mind lately. Literally." He forced a laugh. "Are you sure you don't mind? Or not—" He scratched his head. "Mind my mind in your—"

Connie hooked the chair with a foot and pulled it under her. "Steven, we're practically one person."

"And sometimes literally," he offered.

"Exactly!" She giggled. "Which is what we're here for, right?"

"Yes!" Steven laughed in return. "I mean. We're here to brainstorm our alter ego. I guess I just got a head start with that. With, storming your brain." He cleared his throat, as his hand found Connie's print-out. "But, this is great! Buck is always on the lookout for new contributors to his independent literary journal. The last few issues have all been found-word poetry, which has put a big dent in his circulation. It's gotten bad enough he's been thinking of selling the mimeograph."

Connie marveled. "You really think he'd look at an unsolicited submission?"

"Don't worry. I'll have a word with him." Steven made a show of rubbing his thumb and forefinger. "In this business it's all who you know."

"That gesture," Connie asked, "what are you saying exactly?"

Steven shrugged. "I dunno! But I bet he'll print it, if we can finish it off. And then we can dream up some more adventures, together!"

"Wow." Connie placed her pad on the desk and clicked the green ink on her pen. "Then I guess we've got some work to do."

For days they ping-ponged costume ideas, to no real conclusion. Steven had seen her taking minutes, but hadn't expected the follow-up bundle. It was thick; full of lush sketches, loose leaves, and colored sticky notes. Her second draft was mostly blue, with a few pink sheets. Inspired by some avant-garde novels she figured Buck would have read, Connie had reformatted the story in the style of a news wire article, attributed to a certain Veronica Cucamonga. Descriptions of their hero remained vague, due to ongoing discussion.

There was too much to process before their next call; Steven hardly knew where to start. He spun the phone to the papers strewn across his bed. "There's so much stuff! Help walk me through it. These pictures are amazing!"

"Thank you! I'm, they're just some ideas I worked out in class. That's why they're so unfinished." She scratched her cheek. "They kind of got me in trouble, actually. I just, I keep drifting off lately. Every time I look up, I think, we're still talking about this? Seriously?"

Steven grinned. He had no context. "School sounds pretty boring sometimes."

"It can be." Connie shrugged. "Not always, but—well. Coming up on finals, it's mostly review. So while I was sitting—"

"This dress is amazing!" Steven cut her off.

"Oh, that?" She shuffled through her own copies for reference. Floor-length; teal, with gold trim. Sleeveless gold top, with a star cutaway. See-through shawl like a cape. "It's a skirt suit, actually. A ghagra choli."

"Congratul-, whuh?" Steven's eyebrows didn't believe his mouth.

Connie giggled. "GOG-rah, CHO-lee," she over-pronounced. "I saw some pictures of my Nanni, and I thought, I don't know any Indian superheroes. Then I added the star, for your family. I tried to," she giggled, "fuse two of our paths. We had four targets, right? So that one was, 'pretty history.'"

"Whoa." Steven leaned on both elbows. "That sounds great. But can we fight in it?"

"Yes." She nodded. "That's why I split it down the sides. But, that did concern me. It's, well. It's just one idea."

"You've got a lot of them!" Steven laughed.

"I... may have overcompensated." She gnawed her lip. "I just wanted to be thorough."

Steven sighed. "A knight would have been historical. We've already got the sword and shield." He weighed the imaginary tools in his hands. "All we'd need is some pretty Gem armor. It would be so cool! And practical."

Connie grunted. "We've already spoken about the Crusades, Steven."

He scratched his hand, recalling her history lesson. "I-I know. I know not all knights were good. And I get why the name could be a problem. With everything my mom fought against, that's not what I want either. I just," he implored the camera, "I really like the concept of armor?"

Connie was prepared for this. "Ah! Well, take a look at page, what was it? Thirteen?" She scanned backward through her pad.

"Um, wait." Steven dropped the phone on his comforter, whirling Connie's view into free-fall. "Whoops. Again. Uh. This one?" In his hand, a sketch of a long-haired figure in biker, maybe motocross, gear. In the corner, a well-defined page number, circled in red.

"Right, yes!" Connie clenched her fist. "My point being, there are other kinds of armor, and other kinds of knights to consider."

"This is really cool." Steven pondered. Then, with a laugh, "and you know how I like chaaaaaps!"

Connie smirked. She knew she was onto something. "It is cool. And it's practical. And, I even worked in a little history." She closed her eyes, and folded her hands on the desk before her. "Many years ago, before he met the love of his life, my father, Doug Maheswaran, had another love affair."

"Really?" Steven was entranced.

She nodded. "Her name was Margot. She had two wheels and a 30-horsepower engine."

"Your father... was in love with a robot?"

Connie frowned. "It was a motorcycle, Steven."

"Oh."

"That motorcycle was everything to my dad. He used to ride it every day, to school and back. And even now," Connie leaned forward dramatically, "Margot lies still, beneath a tarpaulin in the back of our garage."

"Whoa." Steven hugged himself. "Really?"

She nodded. "At the start of every spring, he tells me, one of these days he's going to pull her out again and ride all the way across the country."

Steven clutched his cheeks. "I had no idea your dad was so awesome!"

"My dad's full of surprises. I don't think Mom will ever let him," Connie shrugged, "but I've seen the old pictures."

Steven waggled his brow. "Sounds like Stevonnie has a little bit of rebel on both sides of the family."

"Point being," she continued, "all these clothes we think of as cool," she held out a thumb, "a lot of it started off as practical." Out went her forefinger. "Jeans, leather jackets, this was armor, to protect bikers like my dad." Her middle finger made three.

Steven saw where this was going. "Does it... come in pretty colors?"

"Presumably!" Connie beamed. "We might have to special order a few specific articles, but that's not so bad."

"Okay." Steven breathed. "Okay, okay. It's all coming together." He further scrutinized the image on page thirteen. "Those bikers sure do wear big boots."

"Yeah..." Connie drew out the word to a taper. Clearly that had been bugging her too. "I don't know how we'd move. But we have to protect our feet, right?"

"And our hands," Steven agreed. "Oh, wait!" From Stevonnie's wardrobe he manifested a pair of toed running shoes. "What about something like this?"

"Five-fingered shoes," Connie mused.

"And fingerless gloves?" He added.

"That is cool," she agreed. Connie rubbed her chin in thought. "I still feel like we're missing something. What about our head?" She clenched her hand, and drove it into the opposite palm "I know! How about an eyepatch?"

"What's with you and eyepatches?" Steven asked.

"I, um." Connie blushed. "I just—Well, something else, then. A mask?"

"Hmm." Steven pondered the prospect. "So tell me about this legendary mask."

"How about a domino? That's a classic. It's like your eyes are swathed in permanent shadow. Anyone who sees us, they can't help but ask, 'Who was that masked Gem?'" Connie raised her palms; undulated her fingers at the camera.

Steven cupped his mouth and gasped. "It can't be! Is that..."

"... the Crystal Crusader?!" They chuckled together.

"Yes! But, I was thinking—" He stroked his chin. "Remember when I healed your eyes, and you kept wearing your glasses anyway?"

"Um. Yeah?" Her smile froze.

"I'm, I'm just—" Steven held up his hands. "That was kind of like a mask. But, you don't wear them anymore. So—um..." He rubbed his neck. "What if Stevonnie had... glasses?"

"Hmm." Connie scrunched her nose. "You mean like Garnet's visor?"

"Oh." He pouted. "I guess that kinda is her thing, huh."

"Or—ooh, goggles?!" Connie looped her thumbs and forefingers around her eyes.

"It's perfect," Steven whispered.

"Or, maybe—" She flipped her wrists, so the fingers curled past her cheekbones. "Up or down?"

"Up, definitely! You look like an owl!"

"Hoo, me?" Connie waggled her fingers.

"Yes, you! I love the goggles. That's way more practical than an eyepatch."

"Yeah." Connie spoke in a monotone. "Well, I think we've got enough to finish this up now. Did Buck clarify his deadline for submission?"

"Oh, whenever he gets around to printing," Steven shrugged. "He usually waits until he has enough to fill an issue. Though he did hand out a few quarter-pages once. I guess it saved on materials, anyway."

"Well," Connie pressed her palms against the desk, "I shall endeavor to deliver a final draft within the week."

"I can't wait to see the first issue!" Steven squealed. "I just know it'll cause a literary riot!"

"Yeah, maybe!" Connie grinned. "Then we can get busy dreaming up our next big adventure. It'll only get crazier from here!"

"Um, Connie?" Steven laced his fingers tightly. "I'm really glad this is working out, you and me, and all of this. I mean, I... I really miss you, but, I guess I'll take what I can get, you know?"

"Yeah. I..." Her face fell, then a corner crept up into something like a smirk. "But, tell you what. Give me time to pee, but then... meet you in a few minutes? In my brain?"

Steven laughed. "Make sure you close any doors you need before I get there."

"Steven, we both know," her eyes began to twinkle, "between you and me, there are no closed doors."